#craft ramsay

[craftramsay]

Craft Ramsay: Monk of Ala Mhigo

#ffxiv oc #craft ramsay #ffxiv rp #ffxiv marilith rp #fist of rhalgr #hyur highlander

[phoebe-of-ivalice]

👊 PUNCH - are they quick to violence?

Honestly its situational. Her job allows for little else once she has marked her target. Outside of work, she doesn’t crave being violent every moment. She will often look for a logical solution to a problem before jumping to violence outright.

As far as fighting, she does enjoy the adrenaline of crossing blades with someone. She like to participate in a friendly/rivalry spar now and then, keeping her skills sharp is important to prevent slip ups. Plus she is a sucker for placing bets on fights, and they usually end in everyone enjoying a drink after.

@craftramsay my favorite highlander!!! Thank you for sending in your ask 🥰

#oc emoji asks #oc: phoebe venatrix #craft ramsay #thank you for the asks!

[foodgate]

#the recipe that will save your dinner guests #do it yourself #diy activities #useful things #5-minute crafts #diy projects #tasty #how to cook #gordon ramsay #crafts #lifehacks #dinner recipes #easy recipes #chef ramsay #life hacks #handcraft #dinner #trucos de belliza #5 minute craft #5 minutes craft #recipe #recipes #easy dinner recipes #indian dinner recipes for guest #healthy dinner recipes #veg dinner recipes #healthy dinner recipes vegetarian #keto dinner recipes #food #art

[memories-of-ancients]

Watch crafted by David Ramsay of Scotland, circa 1610

from The Ashmolean Museum

#history #antiquities #art #jewelry #jewellery #17th century

[scuderiasundays]

dancing queen

summary: post-breakup reeling, a lizzy mcalpine cover, and flashbacks to slow dancing in the kitchen 💌

words: 618

a/n: this idea popped into my head on my commute and i just had to write it! tagging @vamossainz55, @sainzcaleruega, @monzabee, @ssainzz, and @diorleclerc just because. feedback appreciated as always. hugs and kisses 🫶🏼

When fatigue set in after a long day, the kitchen was your retreat. Although your body longed to collapse onto the couch the minute you walked through the door, the 2-for-1 avocados in the shop window had caught your eye. Your tense shoulders relaxed as you began to sauté some onions to go along with the avocados and some leftover salmon. The very act of cooking had fascinated you since childhood, the way the ingredients could start off one way and completely metamorphose at your hand.

As summer slowly ebbed towards its end, you found yourself reflecting on the year's pace – swift in its early months and achingly slow as of late. You turned to Siri, your trusty confidante, hoping to dial down the lights and prevent yourself from spiraling. She clearly didn’t get the memo as you began to hear the faint strumming of a guitar.

The truth is your world had been on mute since the breakup. Those who knew you well enough understood just how deeply you connected with music. In fact, your love for it was so profound that your girlfriends would frequently enlist your expertise when crafting playlists for various occasions, be it a night out on the town or navigating the rough waters of a midlife crisis.

The smallest smile crept onto your lips as you marveled at the irony of fate. Out of all the songs in the world Siri could have chosen, it just had to be the one you least desired to hear. In an instant, you found yourself transported to a memory of a night spent cooking alongside Carlos. Ever the optimist, it was he who had come up with the idea of making fresh pasta from scratch. The tasks were evenly divided between you two; you were in charge of prep and crafting the pasta, while Carlos was committed to whipping up his signature carbonara and doing the dishes.

"Are you absolutely sure you can't get a head start on the sauce?" you'd playfully inquired while Carlos settled onto a barstool opposite you.

"I quite enjoy watching you work your magic. I feel like Gordon Ramsay," he chuckled, inching closer. He reached for two slices of focaccia from the kitchen counter and placed them on either side of your head.

"What are you?" he quizzed, reenacting an iconic scene from one of the British chef's shows.

Without hesitation, you replied, "An idiot sandwich." Carlos burst into laughter. "That you are, mi amor, but you're my idiot sandwich."

The night wouldn't have been complete without a soundtrack, as the speakers hummed to life. "This one's my absolute favorite," you declared as a Lizzy McAlpine cover of "Dancing Queen" filled the air.

Carlos chimed in, "This is that ABBA song, no?" You nodded in agreement. The tempo was just right, and he extended his hand, a devilish smile gracing his lips.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, and just like that, he was spinning you around the kitchen, all while completely butchering the lyrics.

In his warm embrace, you couldn't help but let the dreamlike feeling wash over you. How could any of this be real? The fact that he had chosen you, that everything between you two felt so blissfully effortless—it was almost too good to be true.

A few months later, you were faced with the unsparing truth that your whirlwind romance had been nothing more than a fleeting, beautiful illusion. The worst part was he hadn't given you enough time or reason to truly fall out of love. The sting lingered, and as you crumbled to the kitchen floor, you could only hold onto the hope that time might one day dull the ache.

#carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz #carlos sainz fic #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fic #carlos sainz one shot #carlos sainz angst

[rhaenin-time]

No, House Targaryen is not inherently "doomed" by the very same flaws (and themes) that doomed the civilization that they left.

No, they're not fated to succumb to the Doom that they survived specifically because of the foresight that set them apart from everyone else who perished. Not only would it be terrible, simplistic writing, it would also endorse a terrible, simplistic worldview.

People choosing to make House Targaryen a representation of and thematic successor to not just the civilization that they differentiated themselves from, but the power structure that they chose to leave, literally divested from, and actively worked to prevent from rising again in another form... really rubs me the wrong way.

Why isn't this projection and generalization done for any of the families that come from the cultures that are not coded as other? Why is it only the family that's been separated from their cultural context? Why do the other families each get to be unique, complex manifestations not just of different aspects of their cultures, but of their own specific histories?

Why is the foreign degenerate family both a representation of everything wrong with the culture they come from, and a scapegoat for everything wrong with the system they assimilated into? How is it they represent everything bad about what they left behind, and also everything bad about the land they came to? Even though all those flaws are not only shared by the system as a whole, but are flaws that predate their arrival, that they were punished for resisting, and that they are demonstrated to be incompatible with. Why is it always both?

It just rings so familiar to the way so many people view the other in real life. Because the Targaryens are overtly, and intentionally written as the other. It's the reason so many people identify with them, and it's the very same reason that other people vilify them. They're not just the in-universe other to the 'default' culture established in the text, but they're also given characteristics that we, the reader and audience, can recognize as other and even sometimes anathema to Western Christian culture.

Perhaps the old tales were true, and Dragonstone was built with the stones of hell

A Storm of Swords, Chapter 25, Davos III

I want you to ask yourself: Why is the idea of "fire and brimstone" evil?

To paraphrase the annoying people that love to cite Ramsay when they feel like it: If you look at a morally complex family surrounded by other morally complex families in a morally complex world in a story that's famed for seeking to challenge your underlying assumptions, and think that their association with fire and brimstone is meant to signify their singular satanic evilness, rather than say... challenge that very Eurocentric assumption, you haven't been paying attention.

This vilification mindset where the Targaryens are the singular evil of Westeros is so common to people who seem to want to consume ASoIaF without engaging with the criticisms of the Eurocentric worldview of history at the heart of it. And they end up using the convenient “others” to project all the wrongs of that world onto so they don't need to examine it any deeper.

This is the part where I so often get crucified!

This is the take that so often gets me crucified for "trivializing real world bigotry" in an attempt to "moralize interpretations of fiction" by an onslaught of people with troubling ideologies who then ironically steer the onslaught to moralizing their interpretations of fiction in a way that seeks to either mask or justify their troubling ideologies.

The worldbuilding of ASoIaF is an almost unparalleled projection of the Eurocentric worldview. That's what makes the world feel so rich. That's why GRRM and even the readers and audience are able to craft so many details that feel intuitive. But that also means that how you choose to interpret that world is often driven by underlying biases and ideologies that relate to that worldview — especially if you're not willing to challenge them the way George RR Martin does and encourages you to do.

It means that certain potential biases and ideologies people might balk at outwardly expressing in the real world are recontextualized in a way that feels more comfortable to indulge in.

There are countless examples from countless parts of the narrative. Honestly, you could fill books on the matter. But the one I'll point to right now is how the vilification I pointed out earlier is so emblematic of how the Eurocentric worldview often seeks to project their own flaws onto the other or choose scapegoats for systemic issues.

It comes from the same place with how someone pointed out that the baffling bastardphobia that would have medieval peasants giving the side eye is so often people jumping at the chance to “cosplay” as bigots who base their arguments in misogyny and bio-essentialism. Because it's an acceptable channel to indulge in that mindset in a way that they'd often otherwise question, or at least hold back from expressing out of caution.

And there I go again. "Moralizing fandom" for pointing out that fandom is so often used as a 'safe space' to build communities that share and spread troubling ideologies that you're not allowed to criticize because those ideologies have been 'appropriately' decontextualized from their real-world parallels, even though those parallels are still very much there.

But the problem is that it's impossible to simply 'channel' bigotry and leave it in an 'acceptable' space, because bigotry doesn't work like that. It's not a static object you can carry around in your pocket to play with when you think it's safe to do so. It's a blight. A living poison that feeds and grows and spreads. And if you give it a 'safe space' and continue to feed it with 'acceptable' fuel, it will always find its way out.

#oh my god this rant took so many turns #but how poetic would it be to get 'crucified' over this take #this was just supposed to be me slowly working towards my long essay about why people love to call targaryens “nazis” #but god i could fill a book with how fandom is an incubator for bad real-world politics #and then i was like - fuck - i got cancelled on twitter so often for any take like this and it's actually aggravating #asoiaf fandom #asoiaf #hotd #fire and blood #house targaryen #daenerys targeryan #hotd critical #because you KNOW some of those writers have been indulging in this interpretation #don't get me started on the 'eastern decadence' themes that also pop up around the targaryens #and how it relates to their 'eastern aesthetic' that would take all day

[bivht]

Astrology Observations Part 4

👛Leo mercury in the mercury persona chart is the expert at making people feel comfortable and included in social interactions. They collect the introverts/reserved people. In fact, it’s very common to see Leos with fem signs esp. virgo, cap, pisces and cancer, because these signs tend to be more reserved or shy.

👛Same with Leo mercury in the moon persona chart.

👛Jupiter in Aries often have a presence that can’t be ignored. They’re like the centre in a group of models.

👛Aquarius moons are the definition of persuasion only by using words you don’t understand.

👛Capricorn venuses are the lovers that will smile when meeting you, ask for frequent cuddle sessions, stay up late binging your favourite show or go on late night drives and carry you to bed when you fall asleep, engage in casual affection like fiddling with your hands and hair while making conversation. Not just lovers, my most affectionate, loyal friends are cappie venuses🥰🥰.

👛Sagittarius venuses are open people. They like to share their stories with everyone. They’re the friends who will be screaming their favourite song in a car with you at 3am.

👛Taurus mercuries got an attractive tone of voice. No one is doing R&B style like them.

👛People with virgo placements are recognized as extremely clean, detailed and perfectionist. Not as a person but their skills. For example, if they cook, they might be ‘perfect’ at cooking i.e. clean cutting skills, if they dance, they’ll be recognized for their clean and detailed moves, if they sing they may have a clean singing voice etc. They’re a perfectionist in whatever skill they have mastered. Obvious example would be Gordon Ramsay lol.

👛That being said, this could be said about all the earth signs because they are known for stability. Meaning that they are stable in mastering their craft. They deserve respect in that aspect.

👛Aquarius jupiters are the low-key humanitarian placement.

👛I vote Pisces/Neptune/12th and Cancer/Moon/4th as most likely to like mint chocolate flavour or not mind it.

👛Neptunians and their massive sweet tooths.

👛People with the same sun signs DO have things in common but it’s so unlike the stereotypes like libra suns are not peaceful mf and virgos are crazy af. Aries is surprisingly chill.

#astrology observations #astrology notes #astrology community #astro notes

[adorablegorilla]

Just realized something.

Czerny is:

-Extremely passionate about his craft

-Has no patience for those who act arrogant but is forgiving of beginners

-Harshly honest with his criticisms

-Really loud and shouty when he's mad

-And actually a very kind and selfless person even though the above points can sometimes make him come off like a mean angry git

In other words, he's musician Gordon Ramsay

#arknights #arknights czerny #I made that meme in two minutes on my phone using a generator it looks awful and I do not care #gordon ramsay except a moose man musician

[boneinator]

Hope this doesn’t bother you a lot, but can we get some headcanons of the teachers? I was curios about ur vision for them

Dw it doesn't bother me !! I love getting asks ^^

Anyway it's going under read more bc this feels like a long one

Sketch

• she/they enby, omnisexual (<- me when I'm projecting)

• mentor figure for the newer teachers

• gives drawings and crafts as gifts, might or might not have various voodoo dolls

• uses Colin as a monitor for digital art

Tony

• he/him, bisexual

• you CANNOT tell me he doesn't drink tea 24/7. Most British mf I have ever seen

• weird hearing, very sensitive to loud sounds but can barely hear normal talking tones. Applies to his own voice too so that's why he screams a lot

• kind of an inferiority complex for the decaying use of clocks over technology lol

Shrignold

• gay and homophobic idgaf

• aware of the harm he's doing but genuinely loves his cult- "family" a lot

• likes telenovelas, granny type of beat

Colin

• he/it Libramasc, pansexual (here I am, projecting once again)

• has haphephobia but is working on it (this one might as well be canon idk)

• everyone has a computer day, so even if you see him every day you only get screentime once a year

• autism 🫵

• his tail is retractable

• has SO MANY viruses, that's why he glitches and talks slow

Healthy band

• doing them all together bc how can you think of them alone :[ don't separate them

• common fanon of them being a family ykn the drill

• their "birthday" (or date of release lol) is actually fridge and steaks anniversary

• depending on the day they either make the most rancid bizarre food or a 5 stars, Gordon Ramsay approved meal

• running on the same luck, fridge can either be filled with normal groceries, nothing (you have to buy groceries) or gore. Like those are his guts leave him alone

• everyone hiding inside fridge is apparently a normal bonding experience

• bread boy is transfem !! (Should we start calling her something different?)

• spinach is also a she/they enby, nobody in here isn't lgbtq

Lamp

• he/him but doesn't really care, pansexual

• has been trying to be sober but he's already very fucked up, that's why he's like That™ in the TV show

• the other teachers we see in his episode are his party friends

• absolutely watches the others dreams, likes to bother them about what they mean

★ ok now the TV show ones

Briefcase

• has an absurd amount of skills, barbie kind of ridiculous

• lives with his brother and sustains them both

• workaholic

• was mr.petersons before red guy

• actually not that bad he's just really fast paced, genuinely just lost the trio on the fabric

Coffin

• he/him goth gf <3

• doesn't like music AT ALL. And is very mean about it

• besties with the tissue box !!

• originally only used his hush tone for work but it slowly morphed into his normal voice

• pretty bad PTSD

• very kind with kids and people in general tbh, it might be something useful for his job but it's just how he is really

Lily and Todney

• I don't think about them a lot sorry

• they know what they are doing and that their whole family dynamic is pretty fucked but they genuinely just really want a mom tho ,,,

Warren the wo-Eagle

• genuinely just hate him so I don't think about him a lot either lol

• had no power over the trio because he was fired and not technically a teacher anymore

• his whole Thing (ykn) comes from bullying and a feeling of inferiority. He still sucks tho

Mr.Transport

• well. I guess I just don't think a lot about the newer teachers

• was actually a really nice teacher before still going to work at 120 years old

• nobody really liked him but he was the other's only way of going outside the house so they endured him

• there was a fight over his will. People died

Electracey

• she/they enby n°3, lesbian

• really scared to touch her batteries now, has caused her to get cranky but still refuse to change them until forced

• puts up light shows for her friends

• huge sci-fi and videogames in general fan

• Colin's cousin. Actually all electronics are related

• wanted to be a music teacher but her biology said no

★ this is more of a general one but all of them are somewhere in the aroace spectrum !! I think it comes with the object nature. I have not defined where all of them fall tho

That's it I think. This is so long I am so sorry I just enjoy them a lot so I have a lot of thoughts

#dhmis #dont hug me im scared #headcanons #rambles #dang I have to tag them all?? #sketchbook dhmis #sketch dhmis #paige dhmis #tony the talking clock #shrignold the butterfly #colin the computer #healthy band dhmis #larry the lamp #dhmis briefcase #coffin dhmis #lily and todney dhmis #warren the eagle #warren the worm #mr.transport #choo choo man #electracey the meter #long post

[craftramsay]

Overlooking Thavnair

#ffxiv oc #craft ramsay #ffxiv marilith rp #fist of rhalgr #ffxiv rp

[yandere-toons]

A Fool's Mistake 3: Taking the Black | Platonic Scenario

Yandere!Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, Ramsay Bolton

WARNING: abuse of power, morally ambiguous reader, reality warping, strong and bloody violence, mentions of physical torture.

WORD COUNT: 7.825

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (You are here)

The silhouettes of free folk dashed between trees and rocks in the silverish light of the full moon. They were clothed in the skins of woodland animals, and they wielded with much dexterity a combination of bows, axes and spears crafted from the forest.

Droves of the free folk had begun to scale the Wall at yesterday's sunset and, from midnight to daybreak, had reached the point where falling meant certain death. Despite enough time passing for the sun to peek over the mountaintop, the space that surrounded the free folk remained dark as night.

The sky was black but held no stars as if drapes had been thrown over the earth. The top of the Wall, a summit that appeared taller than the clouds, was covered in impenetrable darkness. Glimmers of sunlight skirted the darkness, and the scarce light traced the shape of a bubble around the free folk who dared to rise.

The ground was no longer visible to those who looked down in the hope of descending the Wall and testing the climb another day. The ice wall in front of them and the makeshift tools used to hook it was all that met their eyes beyond the shadows.

Whispers seeped into the ears of the free folk, whispers that resembled the faint voices of the people climbing with them. The voices asked for the location of the other free folk, asked after their health and encouraged them to resume the climb.

Once the first ragged antler and stake impaled the ice at the top of the Wall, the free folk realised that their vision had been dulling. In the final moments of heaving oneself onto the Wall, each member of the expedition noted themselves to be the only living thing there.

The sight that greeted them flashed back and forth between the bodies of their fellow free folk and an empty stretch of ice. The shadows warped their eye and seemed to drill into their heads before the darkness took them to the ground far below.

When no birds sang and the air became colder than the depths of a northern pond, you watched for creatures with blue eyes and ghostly skin.

Except for the occasional lash of shadows at the base of snowy trees, the woods lay motionless and free of dark magic on this hour. The current flowing from the distant Bay of Seals was tumultuous and churned as if locked in a storm, but it carried nothing more than the rare howl and rush of icy breath.

* * *

With his wrists bound to the back of a chair and his ankles tied to the wood legs, the sole mercenary to survive the recent battle at the Dreadfort sat in his own sweat. A mob of Bolton soldiers encircled him with their swords raised and their eyes locked on whichever part of him they were most inclined to cut.

The large door to the dining hall creaked open in an outward swing of metal and bending joints. Ramsay Bolton stormed into the room, his fingers playing with a gore-drenched knife.

After a moment of examining the mercenary, the immediate wrath flaring on his face waned and evolved into morbid curiosity. “I remember you.” Ramsay tilted his head and scanned the man's visible wounds and foul odour to confirm his suspicion.

It was then that the mercenary's stomach dropped to bottomless depths, and he began to whisper prayers for the mercy of the Mother.

Unlike the frantic turns and agitated stomps of earlier, Ramsay's next movements were slower and dominated by quiet steps that struck a greater panic in the heart of the mercenary each time. “You took a long look at them.”

From his pocket came the glint of a knife, prompting the mercenary to squirm against the ropes and expel a whimper. Ramsay twirled the weapon in his right hand and conveyed a taste of future pain with unrepentant eye contact. “Just before you tried to kill them.”

Before the tip of the steel could blind the mercenary, the harsh voice of Roose Bolton echoed in the dining hall and overpowered any wails spilling out of the mercenary. “Ramsay!”

The sound was little more than a growl, and Ramsay paused with his knife hovering just in front of the mercenary's eyeball.

The violent shake gripping his arm did not cease, spreading to his lips and upper body as he stared into the mercenary's terror with bubbling insanity that flailed against the bridle he was compelled to put on it. Ramsay vented slivers of his untapped rage through the tremulous breaths whipping past his bared teeth.

While the soldiers beside him kept a tight hold on their swords, Roose did not allow his voice to waver: “We need this one alive.”

The blade was so close that the mercenary's eyelashes brushed it every time he blinked. It quivered with the threat of twitching too far and impaling his skull before he could release a full scream, but Ramsay seemed to find enough delight in his father's command that he turned his head away.

“Oh, he'll live.”

Just as the knife reeled back and then plunged forward, a booming announcement sounded from Roose. “We're going on a diplomatic mission to White Harbor.”

Ramsay listened to his father with a distracted mind plagued by runaway thoughts and bits of emotion he could not manage, his eyes flitting between Roose and the nearest objects while his fingers twitched with ideas of what pain to inflict on the captured mercenary. “When will you return?”

Roose looked upon his struggle with amusement and indifference. “You should know. You're coming with me.”

As if Roose had revoked his legitimacy as the heir, Ramsay raised his head and widened his eyes. The tension clenching his shoulders and jaw shifted to confused glances, and his lips moved to search for the appropriate response that changed with each surge of dissatisfaction and the sense of a goal stepping out of his reach.

“My place is here. I have rallied the men.”

Roose began to approach the main entrance to the fortress and did not slow his stride. “Your place is where I say it is.”

Ramsay stopped walking, but Roose ignored the vicious stare drilling into the back of his head. “Father,” murmured Ramsay, and his next words were spoken through gritted teeth. “I need to find them.”

Roose took a final, definitive step forward and turned, the bottom of his cloak gliding across the floor. “There will be a time for that. Right now, what you need to do is mount a horse and ride with me to White Harbor.”

* * *

The chambers of Tyrion Lannister stank of wine on most nights, but the scent was especially potent on this night. An empty flagon sat at the foot of a luxurious chair, which Tyrion used to rest his legs while he put his mouth to the work of downing every glass he could fill.

With his knuckles pressed underneath his chin, Tyrion observed the half-full goblet with a curious glint in his eye. He laid his hand over the top of it and waited in silence for many a second.

When he retracted his hand and peeked into the cup, a foolish part of him hoped that it would be full again. A layer of wine at the bottom was all that greeted him. Tyrion hurled the goblet at the wall, and a thick wave of blackberry wine exploded onto the stone.

The glass clattered to the floor and rolled into the leg of a chair, streaks of reddish-purple cascading down the rock and draining into the crevices. Droplets continued to seep from the rim of the cup as trails of the dark liquor mixed with the red of a Lannister banner and fell behind a dresser.

As the door slammed behind him, Tyrion stamped past the duo of guards protecting his chambers and snapped his fingers. “With me.”

The guards lifted their shields from the floor and hurried to follow.

Tyrion marched down the corridor with a palace guard on his left and his right. Flanked by the men, he rounded a corner and leaned forward to place his hands upon an ornate set of double doors.

He pushed open the door to Cersei's chambers and found her sitting at the table beside the balcony, a glass in her hand and red wine on her lips. The rattles of the guards' swords and armour must have been loud in the silent halls, for she was facing the entrance without a lick of surprise.

She lowered the glass and eyed him as if he were an insect that had crawled into her bedroom from a hole in the wall. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Tyrion widened his eyes and removed his hands from the door, allowing it to shut at his back. “I was concerned,” he lied, feigning fear in an exaggerated, deliberately obvious manner. “Just the other day, a man had his throat slit for sleeping.”

Cersei kept her voice low as though others were in danger of listening. “I believe that to be the work of our mutual friend.” She placed distinct acrimony on the word “friend,” her lip curling.

As her gaze drifted off to the cityscape outside her balcony, Tyrion wondered if the bitterness came from her belief that the word was untrue or the implication that the two of them could ever share a companion. “Don't tell that to the king. He was quite upset at having his prized day interrupted.”

The hand that held onto the wine glass began to shake, and Cersei refrained from looking at her brother. “Joffrey won't see me.” A heaviness existed in her words, a quiet misery that she was attempting to drown in wine.

Tyrion kept his frown level. “Oh, yes. Not since you promised the sorcerer would find their own way back to him, a promise that has yet to be fulfilled.” He tilted his head upon saying the second bit.

Cersei shut her eyes and clenched her teeth slightly, refusing to let the posh smile on her lips fall. She opened her eyes and glanced in his direction when the soft thuds of footsteps came near the table.

A chair squealed as it was pulled from under the table, and Tyrion plopped on it with his hands resting close to Cersei's. “If I say it, I would be branded an enemy of the crown and lose my head within the hour. Perhaps Jaime?”

She turned farther away and fixed her eye on the open doors to the balcony. “Joffrey's working him like a dog.”

A slight sigh rolled out of him, and Tyrion closed his eyes for a pensive instant before opening them with a degree of sympathy. “If Jaime could be here with you, he would be.” He unfurled his arms, turned his palms to the ceiling, and gestured to the bedroom.

Lifting the glass, Cersei took another sip. “I'm not so sure.”

* * *

The courtyard of the Red Keep smelt of pollen as a medley of berry bushes and wildflowers bloomed in the light of day. The leafy grass was green as the coat of arms from House Tyrell of Highgarden, and it swayed in a cool breeze that was welcomed by the lords and ladies dilly-dallying in the sun.

From the generous lengths of the surrounding corridors, Varys and Petyr Baelish strolled into the small garden. Each one moved in tandem with the other just enough to keep up the illusion of leisure and signify that the interaction would not end until one of them deviated from the path.

“The Boltons are a minute settlement thousands of miles away in the North with one fiefdom no larger than my biggest brothel,” said Petyr.

A slight nod of the head came from Varys. “Yes, but some of my little birds have flown north for the summer.”

“And what songs do they sing?” asked Petyr, his lips casting the shadow of a smile as he walked past a servant girl consorting with a visiting lord.

Varys spotted similar goings-on in a corner of the garden ahead, and he cast his gaze in the direction of the man beside him. “They sing that the Bolton's youngest is unbalanced yet terribly ambitious. Certainly one to watch.”

Petyr slowed to a stop and turned on the heels of his boots. He blinked slowly and released a modest sigh, his eyes flickering to his surroundings while his voice quieted. “He's one man with neither the stomach nor the mind for the South.”

Varys looked askance, tilted his head, and raised his shoulders a bit as if considering Petyr's words. “One man nearly toppled the realm not so long ago,” he replied.

The subtlest chuckle—no more than an audible exhale—slipped out of Petyr. His neck bent towards the ground slightly, and his attention remained on the cobblestone patterns flowing beneath him for a contemplative instant. “Indeed,” he conceded. “I have to go.”

Varys bowed his head. “Ah, very well.” He lifted his eyes to catch sight of Petyr slinking to the edge of the garden. “Perhaps we can speak again soon, Lord Baelish.”

As the shadow cast by the arch of the Red Keep fell over him, Petyr turned and offered a glib smile. “Perhaps we can, Lord Varys.”

* * *

Every man atop the Wall was struck by an unearthly coldness that night.

No matter how thick the coats around their shoulders were, the wind sliced their face and nipped any exposed skin with its frosty claws. The cold dove into their bones and seemed to chill them from the inside out.

Despite being rekindled every other minute, the light of the torches was dimmer here. The fog of the night was murkier than the bottom of a bog. The fires were short-lived, swept away into simmering embers by sudden and isolated gusts.

The same light that would have illuminated your body was extinguished by the wind. The brother in charge of relighting it swore under his breath. When he peered at you in wonderment of your apparent resistance to the frigid weather, a shiver ran through him as if he had been stuck with a frost-tipped spear.

It killed the words on his tongue.

The dark around you seemed deeper and more foreboding than any cave, unaffected by light even as the moon beamed down upon it. The brother saw the outline of you hidden in the darkness, and it was all he needed to see to decide that the remainder of his watch was someone else's responsibility for the night.

In the ensuing calm, your head surveyed one end of the forest below to the other.

No figures had crept out of the woods yet.

The clanks and grinds of the lift rising to the top of the Wall sounded from behind, and Samwell Tarly stepped off it into the snow. The soft, pearly white material was crushed under his heavy boots. After a brief pause, his footsteps approached you and stopped at your side.

Your head slowly turned, which allowed you to catch Sam peeking in your direction. He glanced downwards and released a bashful chuckle upon being caught, but a look of childish excitement soon washed over his full face. “Jon says you're a wizard!”

The snow crunched as Sam shuffled his feet, his gaze darting from his shoes to you. “I've never seen a real wizard before!” He shifted again and failed to restrain the huge grin breaking out across his lips. “Only read about them in books,” he added, somewhat lowering his voice.

Sam leaned forward and looked up and down at your iron mask and dark robes. “Do you all dress like that?” He outstretched his arms to push his cloak back and looked at his own black coat and armour. “Maybe we're more alike than I thought!” What escaped him next was a quick, “Ha!”

He turned his head back to you and kept his mouth open slightly as if expecting you to agree, but your continued silence prompted his smile to falter.

As his eyes searched the snowy darkness that lay in front of him, Sam shook his head. “My father detests wizards. Thinks magic's for nellies who don't want to fight.” There was a layer of distaste and pain to his words as though repeating his father's opinion had poisoned his tongue and caused a bad memory to churn within his mind.

“Not me,” he blurted, his head bouncing towards you before moving back again. Sam leaned over and patted his chest with both hands once. “Big fan.”

As Sam marvelled at his proximity to a real magic user, the lift descended into the bowels of Castle Black and then rose to the top of the Wall after a few minutes of rasping. The dark-haired Jon Snow emerged from the fiery light of the lift with a torch in hand.

“Sam,” was all he said, and Sam fell silent.

Jon nodded at him with a tiny smile when Sam turned and offered a happy, “Hello, Jon!” Sam stepped back to allow Jon room to walk forward and stand diagonal to him.

Although he was addressing more than one person, Jon kept his eyes focused on your mask. “If it's all right with you, I'd like to speak with Brother Black alone.”

Sam lost his smile for a moment, but it returned with a shrug of his shoulders and another shift of his feet. “Of course! Of course!” He distanced himself from where he had been standing and motioned for you to go with Jon. “I'll just be here.”

Jon bid him farewell before marching farther down the Wall, the light of the torch undulating in the icy wind.

As the orange glow started to vanish from sight, Sam looked away and faced the edge of the Wall. “I ought to be checking on Gilly.” Fond memories of the woman softened his voice and provided some warmth against the cold. “Sweet Gilly.”

No one answered but the howl of the wind.

Sam inhaled through his nose and allowed the silence to live for a couple of seconds before he sighed: “Boy, it's cold up here.”

The journey ended after roughly ten minutes of walking, and Jon turned to give you a cursory scan. In his eyes were suspicion, curiosity and more than a token of discomfort. His breath was visible in the cold, flowing upward as he turned to overlook the cliff.

“The other brothers don't feel safe around you. They need to know they can trust the man standing next to them.” A flash of uncertainty overtook him in a sweep of cold wind, and Jon turned his head to look at you as if for the first time. “You are a man, right?”

There was a carefulness to his words as though you might shed your veil of humanity and lunge at him before he took another breath, his legs shifting with a rattle of his heavy armour and his hand confirming its place on the pommel of his sword.

A gust of air wafted from the lower slit in your mask and floated into the night sky.

Holding the silence as the grey cloud dispersed into the darkness looming above the castle, Jon chose not to pursue such thoughts and gave a single nod. “Right.”

* * *

The flaps of wings preceded the caws of a raven, and the bird landed its coat of snow-dappled feathers on the stone frame of the window. It raised its left leg as if it were limp and turned its black eyes to Jon, revealing a scroll tied to its lean body.

Jon approached the raven as it continued to caw and move its head in sudden, jerky motions.

“I haven't sent for any wandering crows,” mumbled Alliser Thorne, who waved at Jon to receive the letter when he paused at his comment.

The bird twitched and hopped whilst the scroll was taken from its leg, and once the gloved hand released it, the raven flew into the white skies with a string of caws.

As Jon brushed his thumb across the reddish-pink seal, the emblem of an upside-down flayed man sent a wave of apprehension over his body. The impulsive part of him said to toss the letter into the fire and never wonder about its contents, but the impatient gaze of Alliser demanded that he push his misgivings aside.

“Well?” came the older man's disgruntled voice.

“It's the sigil of House Bolton, ser.” Jon glanced between the Lord Commander and the scroll, struggling to void all of his concerns but stepping forward with dutiful haste.

Alliser nodded his head and quirked his eyebrows as if coaching a child. “I can see that. Would you care to read it?”

Inspecting the seal one last time, Jon broke it with a snap and unfolded the parchment. “Dear the men of the Night's Watch, it has come to my attention that you recently brought a sorcerer into your ranks.”

His volume tapered after every few words as if seeking to lessen the blow of an expected threat, but as the inky texture of the crooked and misplaced lines stretched and fell before his eyes, he realised it was a continuous promise of danger:

“Their allegiance belongs to House Bolton. If you do not return them to me, I shall flay you living and make you watch as I tear your brother's still-beating heart from his chest and feed it to my hounds.”

Jon lost much of his interest in reading the message and looked askance at Alliser for the sake of averting his eyes from the letter. When the Lord Commander returned his gaze with stunned silence and a minor shift in his position, Jon proceeded to the end.

“Two fortnights it will take for me to march on your pathetic excuse for a castle, so two fortnights you shall have to act.”

Despite the reluctance plaguing his hold on the scroll as if touching it would transmit a disease, Jon took only a second to recuperate and finished with a weary drop in his tone. “Signed Ramsay Bolton, Acting Lord of the Dreadfort.”

He tucked the parchment and lowered his arms to his side, casting a pensive look over the glow of the fire before turning his eyes to the Lord Commander.

“Inane ramblings from a madman,” spat Alliser with a sharp turn of his head. The man tugged a quill out of the inkpot on his desk and slammed a piece of blank paper onto its surface.

Jon watched the quivers of his hand and the words they wrote becoming clearer as the ink dried, but the scratches of the quill marking the parchment were overshadowed by a quick step forward. “Ser, the Boltons are a ruthless people. We shouldn't take anything they say to be idle threats.”

The Lord Commander refused to look away from his writing or slow the motions of his hand. “Roose Bolton is a few steps short of a wildling in lord's clothing. As for his son, I've never met him.” He finished the letter with a flourish. “And I'd like to keep it that way.”

The thud of a seal echoed in the room before it was replaced by the creak of a chair sliding across the floor, and Jon clutched the letter that was pushed into his hand.

“Give this to Maester Aemon. Tell him to send it immediately. When it's done, have a brother ride to Mole's Town.”

As Alliser marched out the door to his chambers, Jon followed and overheard his yells to the congregation of Night's Watchmen standing below. “Increase the patrols! I want a fresh man at those gates for every hour!”

The group lifted their swords and scattered throughout the courtyard, while Jon hastened his walk to the library. Orders were shouted into the wind, and the collective rattle of armour and thump of boots faded into the background.

Jon entered the library a bit louder than he intended. The door slammed behind him when a strong wind pulled it forward, causing both he and Maester Aemon to jump.

A mumble slipped out of Maester Aemon as he ran his fingers across the Braille in the book of dragons he had been delighting in reading. The table at which he was seated was strewn with a variety of books. It stood in the centre of the room, and it was bordered by tall bookcases full of centuries of knowledge.

Stepping forward, Jon extended the scroll and approached the table. “Maester Aemon, I have an urgent scroll from the Lord Commander.”

Maester Aemon took the sealed scroll from him, running his fingertips along the seal and parchment. “Oh,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. He turned back to the books in front of him and heaved himself from the rickety chair.

As soon as he had started to drag himself forward, a chill washed down his spine as if dunked in ice water. He slowly turned his head and fixed his blind eyes on the farthest corner of the library.

There existed a deep shadow, swirling and spreading like tar. It seemed to emanate from the wall itself, and Maester Aemon took notice of whispers filling the back of his mind. They spoke in ancient tongues with otherworldly inflections that echoed in every part of the library.

His chapped lips struggled to find his brittle voice. “Who are you?”

Jon stilled and followed his gaze, but he saw nothing more than ordinary darkness. “Maester Aemon?”

A few mumbles crept out of Maester Aemon, each one disjointed and confused. He turned his head back and forth between the stone floor, the nearest bookshelf and Jon. His eyes were lost and searching for something unknown to Jon.

“Oh, never mind,” he said softly, for the whispers had ceased.

Tucked away behind a wood column, on the corner of a table set against the wall, was a rectangular coop. Tufts of hay and wheat laid on the bottom and provided the footing for the assortment of ravens scuttling inside.

Maester Aemon shambled to the coop and peeled open its small door. With both hands, he lifted a raven from the enclosure. The bird went limp in his hold, its head facing downward and its legs sticking out.

He equipped the raven with a leather cylinder on its left leg into which he inserted the scroll. Once the latch on the cylinder was pinched shut, Maester Aemon retreated to allow for the raven to take flight with a flutter of wings.

Jon watched as it glided through the short window at the base of the ceiling, and he wondered why a raven was necessary if a brother was riding to the town. His first thought was the scroll contained additional information that the brother was not privy to learn.

The answer came when he caught sight of the raven flying southeast instead of towards Mole's Town.

Before he could question the destination, Samwell Tarly burst into the library. Sam doubled over and placed a hand over his palpitating heart, breathing as a runner would after a race. “Jon!” he panted, “We're needed at the King's Tower!”

Two pairs of footsteps rushed to the walkway outside the library.

Jon collided with the guardrail and grasped the top of it, leaning forward to get a closer look at the discord unfolding in the courtyard.

Night's Watchmen streamed into the corridors overlooking the main entrance, a group of five rangers rode astride on horses, and the brassy call of a horn sounded over the din of brothers hauling weapons and scaling sentry towers.

As the rangers poured into the stables, Jon looked farther and noticed a circle of brothers marching in tandem with you to the opening doors.

* * *

The chairs of Merman's Court were cushioned with the finest silk. They complemented the long table stretching from the foyer to the throne, which lay decorated with a nautical tablecloth and various plates of pork pies, roasted eels and fried lampreys.

The food, warmed still by the steam of the fires, smelt of spice and gravy. The dead and cooked fish swam in the sauce and drank mouthfuls in a vile parody of life, a life that the oceanic paintings lining the walls and ceiling illustrated in vivid colour.

The guards who watched over the feast resembled the type of warriors one expected to see in a submarine kingdom, for the weapons clutched in their hands were tridents.

Lord Manderly sat in a velvet chair similar to his throne, which he had joked about bringing to the table more than once. The Boltons were seated opposite him, and sitting beside them were Lord Cerwyn and his son Cley.

While Roose met the eyes of each lord, Ramsay turned his gaze downwards and divvied his attention between the various items of food covering his plate. Roose glanced in his direction when Ramsay's hand found its way to the knife.

“Forgive my son's lethargy. He is weary from our travels.”

Lord Manderly drew his eyebrows to his receding hairline and stretched his lips in a royal imitation of surprise. “Is he an old man?” Lord Cerwyn joined his chuckles with bountiful enthusiasm, neither lord acknowledging how Ramsay slowly lifted his head.

Malice radiated from the young Bolton like foul breath from a dog's jaws, but, sensing the gaze of his father, he mustered a polite smile.

Roose waited for the laughter to fade into a pregnant silence before he seized control of the discussion. “Our merchants are reporting that they've been turned away from the gates of White Harbor, some at swordpoint.”

Lord Manderly tore a chunk of bread from the strudel and ate it at a comfortable speed, peering across the feast rather than at Roose. “Aye, you'll have to find somewhere else to dump your subpar goods.”

A screech resounded in the dining hall as Ramsay yanked the blade of his knife a short distance across the wood, and he looked at Lord Manderly without raising his head. “Watch your tongue.”

Lord Manderly stopped chewing and faced the young Bolton's desire to maim him with a combination of surprise and umbrage.

At the stern look of Roose, Ramsay lowered his gaze and resumed carving a furrow into the table.

Lord Cerwyn shared an unsettled glance with his son, turning his eye to Roose when Roose looked away from Ramsay and spoke with far more elegance. “The Boltons have traded with the other Northern houses for years, and I haven't had complaints from House Cerwyn or House Umber.”

The weathered face of Lord Manderly acquired a sombre quality. “Ah, Umber. I heard what happened to Gareth's fifth-born. A right tragedy, that.”

A stillness came over Ramsay, his hand pausing and his eyes refusing to look anywhere but at the plate.

There was no visible change in Roose's demeanour, but he offered no words of sympathy.

Lord Cerwyn picked his tankard off the table and turned to Lord Manderly. “One less Umber. That's a start.” The two men descended into a hearty roar of joy and bumped their cups together, while the Boltons watched in quiet amusement.

When the lords joked and drank without a care for the original discussion, Roose spoke with enough strength to regain their attention but not appear demanding. “As Warden of the North, our trade is essential to Northern commerce.”

Lord Cerwyn, who had been gulping alcohol like a direwolf gorging itself on meat, lowered his cup to the table. With an eye roll, he muttered, “Oh, great. More Bolton furs and flayed skin. Just what this city needs.”

The hiss of a blade rang in the ears of every lord when Ramsay jumped from his seat and slammed the knife through Lord Cerwyn's finger. The bone was just barely visible, peeking out of the skin's edge as blood gushed from the exposed tendon in spurts.

A howl of agony bellowed from Lord Cerwyn, and he clutched his injured hand while reeling in his chair. His legs began to kick the stone floor, distress growing louder and more wild with each surge of pain that lashed his mind and dragged shrieks from him as if his finger were aflame.

As Cley started to shiver and seemed on the verge of tears, he stood with a sharp creak of wood on rock and rushed to help his father.

The corners of Ramsay's mouth twitched in a small release of tension, his pupils dilating at the screams and his hand squeezing the utensil. He did not blink once to sever his view of the desperate eyes and paling skin of Lord Cerwyn.

It was not until he turned to his father with a jerk of his head that he allowed his enthusiasm to wither, for Roose was looking at him with the unforgiving coldness of someone who regretted his son's birth.

Smile dropping, Ramsay attempted to win back his favour. “Father—”

Roose interrupted him with a frigid scowl. “Leave.”

Ramsay faced his father's tranquil rage in momentary shock, as though the man had ordered him to leave the realm instead of the room, his fingers tapping the knife before curling about it. He glanced at various spots on the walls and the table without focusing on any.

Hatred of the glare Roose was sending him and his own failure to meet the man's wishes quickened his breaths, and the young Bolton tore the blade out of the wooden surface.

A thin crater became visible on the table next to the disembodied finger, with jagged chips of wood rising to decorate there.

Ramsay took fervent and aggressive strides to the door and shoved it open. Gales of Northern wind swept into the hall like ice water, lifting his cloak as he stormed outside.

The slam of the door behind him cut the chilling breeze like a sword to the head of a great beast, and the return of the torches' warmth redirected the spotlight to the weakening cries of Lord Cerwyn.

“My wedding finger,” groaned Lord Cerwyn, his neck drooping and his eyes fluttering. “He took my wedding finger!”

The limb sitting on the table was adorned with a gold ring that glittered under the candlelight of the chandelier. Only droplets of blood still leaked from his knuckle, dripping onto the plate and tablecloth.

Cley guided him to his feet and positioned himself under his father's left arm, while Lord Cerwyn scrambled to retrieve his finger and cradled it in his other hand.

Lord Manderly tossed his napkin onto the fresh bloodstain infecting his tablecloth and peered at the man with an irritated side-eye. “Pipe down, Medger. It's not like you were using it for much.”

Lord Cerwyn squirmed in his son's grasp, continuing to whimper and holler as he was hurried to the door. Another gust of wind followed their exit, and Roose shifted to a more comfortable position on his chair and clasped his hands together. “So, the trade routes are to be reopened?”

Lord Manderly cocked his head and seemed to repress a scoff. “The chopped-off finger of a twat won't buy our obedience. Do you expect House Manderly to cower in fear?”

Roose presented a look of callous certainty. “I know you're going to lose more than fingers if another Bolton caravan returns empty-handed.”

This sparked a burst of resentment to twist the mouth of Lord Manderly. “You'd threaten a man in his own home? Need I remind you whose wine you're drinking?”

Crumbs from a pork pie tumbled down his fat chin as he took a greedy bite of one, and Roose eyed the meat pie sitting on Lord Manderly's plate. “Need I remind you who hunted the pigs you're eating, Wyman?”

Lord Manderly stopped his chewing. There was a threatening sort of emphasis placed on his first name, like someone dangling a steak over a hungry dog. The remaining chunk of pork pie hovered in front of his mouth, untouched.

A battle of eye contact came and went between the two lords before Lord Manderly dropped the chunk on his plate.

With a subdued sigh, he looked down and pushed his fork away from his dish. “Aye, you're a tough old codger, Roose.” Roose offered a slight smile at this, and Lord Manderly reclined on his chair. “I'm only doing it 'cause of pressure from the Lannisters.”

The mask of composure slipped from Roose's face for just a moment. “I see.” His eyes widened a bit before narrowing in discontent, looking over the feast once more. “It's a shame that the crown feels such a powerful need to meddle in our friendship.”

A laugh bellowed from Lord Manderly as if he had just been informed that the Dothraki had laid down their arms and become a peace-seeking civilisation.

Roose swung his cloak over his shoulder and left his chair with his mind far away in the depths of planning, but he remembered enough pleasantries to nod at the lord. “Be seeing you.”

When the senior Bolton pushed the door open, the sight of an agitated Ramsay fiddling with the bloody silverware eliminated any satisfaction he had gained from learning a piece of the truth.

The soldiers were all standing at a considerable distance from Ramsay, their eyes darting between him and the snowy land to avoid being noticed.

At the sound of boots crunching snow, Ramsay whirled about with a shudder. “Father, I—”

He was struggling to meet Roose's gaze, but his father walked past him. “Be quiet, Ramsay. Mount your horse.”

Hoofprints littered the snow from where Lord Cerwyn and his son had fled to obtain the services of a maester, their tracks disappearing into the blizzard in the northwestern direction of Castle Cerwyn.

Roose lifted himself onto his steed with minimal difficulty and turned his attention to the frosty water of the White Knife babbling nearby rather than grant his son a second of acknowledgement. “We're going home.”

Ramsay was slow to heed this command, his eyes drifting across the snow and clenching the knife so that it would have snapped if made of anything weaker than metal.

When he curled his lips in a question of whether to speak and squinted to deflect the rays of sunshine peeking over the rolling hills, the clop of hooves leaving the entrance to New Castle broke his concentration.

Roose had spurred his horse to trot in the opposite direction, and Ramsay clambered onto a horse of his own to follow.

The journey back to the Dreadfort was far longer and more tedious than last. The path meandered over hills and winded round rivers like a serpent slithering in the grass, with the overcast sky looking bleakly at the snow-covered ground below.

When Roose dismounted and allowed his horse to be spirited away to the stables, he said nothing. He did not grant Ramsay the briefest glance or quietest mutter, nor did he wait to see him return safely and dismount his own horse.

Listening to the footsteps tailing him grow louder and more erratic, Roose relented and turned with a dreary, if not vaguely sarcastic, frown. “The fault is mine. I thought you could better control yourself.”

Ramsay stopped to look at his father in an inability to process the discomfort preventing his mind from resting, his breaths slowing to allow for clearer thinking.

“You've embarrassed our house and disgraced our family name.” Roose watched as the last shard of restraint broke within his son, and he gave no chance for an apology or protest to grace his ears. Instead, he walked down the hall until his footsteps had quieted into nothing.

Abandoned to brood, Ramsay was no longer comfortable in his skin and found himself overtaken by a restless and inflamed energy.

The guard who stood at the door to the kitchens nearly yelped when a gloved hand clutched his throat and yanked him downwards. The noise was silenced by the pressure constricting his windpipe, and it took all of his training and discipline not to attack or look away from the wild eyes glaring into his own.

“Gather the men.” The order slipped through Ramsay's clenched teeth as a whisper. “Tell them we march tonight.”

He released the guard, only to shove him a moment after the man failed to sprint out of arm's length. “Go!” Ramsay turned in the direction his father had gone as the rapid thuds of steel boots echoed against the stone floors.

* * *

A rush of cold wind burst into the Lord Commander's chambers as the door swung open. The thud of leather boots on wood marked the entry of a panting Night's Watchman, his forehead slick with a layer of snow and a hand resting on his abdomen.

“News from Mole's Town, ser.”

The focus of Alliser's squinting eyes crumpled with dismay, and the Night's Watchman stepped further into the chamber. “Three armed strangers arrived last night—” he took a breath “—together.”

Alliser let his gaze fall upon the scrolls littering his desk, searching for a reason not to assume the worst. “Were they bearing any sigils?”

Despite his limited understanding of the situation, the brother saw his commander's desperate hope and shook his head as if fearing the implications of his answer. “No, ser.”

Alliser was unsure of whether to be relieved or troubled by that fact. The possibility that the strangers were merely bandits or deserters with impeccable timing was one he clung to like a monkey to the last branch, but the paranoia creeping up his spine drove him to rise from his seat. “'Two fortnights', he said. Not forty-eight hours!”

The Night's Watchman looked between Alliser and the door, his feet shifting to the exit and his hand twitching closer to his sword.

A tense silence of unspoken orders and obscenities reigned as Alliser swerved his head back and forth across his desk. “The Boltons have shat on their promise,” he finally declared. “Not that I expected anything less.”

After a moment of deliberation, Alliser waved the brother away. “Ride to the Shadow Tower. Request an audience with Denys Mallister, and tell him we need as many men as he can spare.”

A brisk “yes, ser” flew out the Night's Watchman's mouth. A gust as cold as ice blew his cloak into the air when he opened the door once again, his boots thumping away from the chambers and then descending the stairs.

Another pair of footsteps replaced his and thundered to the door with haste. Alliser jerked his head up in preparation for scolding what he assumed to be the same brother returning in confusion.

The man who greeted him was Jon Snow, and Jon hurried to the desk while looking upon him in a frenzy of bewilderment. “You're having Brother Black escorted from the castle?”

Alliser narrowed his eyes at the name, his lips pressing together and parting into a straight line. “I am.” He gave a swift nod. “They're a fugitive from justice.” The chair squeaked as he rose and collected a scroll lying on the desk, unfolded with a broken red seal.

“Ser,” said Jon, his tone disbelieving. He looked behind himself for a brief moment and then put forward his hand. “Brother Black—”

Alliser spun towards him and yelled, “They're not a brother, Jon! They never trained! They never took the oath.” A moment of silence passed before he began again at a slightly more controlled volume, “They're a runaway scratching at our door.”

Jon took a few seconds to collect his thoughts, and when he pointed a gloved finger at the Wall, Alliser knew his words before Jon uttered them: “They've killed more wildlings in a week than most of these men have in years.”

With a heavy sigh, Alliser shook his head. “The crown issued a royal decree for their return. Would you have me branded a traitor?” He turned back to the desk with an upward swing of his hand, and his voice lowered to a frustrated mutter. “Now we have Bolton spies skittering about in the dark like rats.”

At this, Jon opened his mouth and glanced round the room. “The Bolton army can't march on Castle Black.” He stretched an arm towards the open window as if the army were marching forth at that very moment. “The lords have no jurisdiction here. It's neutral territory!”

Alliser looked over his shoulder to bob his head at Jon. “Tell that to them when they're peeling the skin off your bones.”

* * *

Far outside the Lord Commander's Tower walked a group of four Night's Watchmen, each of whom exchanged a cautious glance with the man beside him. All carried a sheathed blade on their hip as well as a torch to chase the shadows of tall trees away.

The shadow that dragged across the ground at your feet, however, did not fade, no matter how many sources of light were waved over it.

The forest ahead was devoid of singing birds and howling wolves, and the giant trees partially blocked the golden and pinkish rays of midday. Every man slowed his pace and watched the tree line, some expecting to see a Bolton sigil flying and others fearing that a bear was likely to hurl itself at the nearest man.

From behind a thicket hopped a rabbit. The appearance of the small animal elicited a hushed chuckle from the brother on your right. “That'd make a nice feed,” he whispered, nodding his head and waving his torch at it.

The brother on your left turned to him and talked without a care for his volume. “Don't bet your supper on it.”

Long ears twitching and flattening at the noise, the rabbit scurried away into the bushes.

The man who had spoken first cocked his eye at him, and the brother on your left continued: “I caught me one of them hares down in Dorne. Ate the whole thing before the guards came and said it was some lord's pet.” The brother put his hands together, then spread them apart to visualise his meal.

He shrugged as if he could still taste the hare and knew it to be worth the punishment, a slight smile forming on his lips. “Now here I am.” This sliver of a smile fell to a frown, and he shook his head. “It's too bad. I hear Dorne's nice this time of year.”

You peered beyond your shoulder to spy the wooden doors of Castle Black, which were comprised of hefty logs that reached thrice above your line of sight. Somewhere warm, you thought, was an apt place to hide from those who lived in the cold.

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

#Yandere #Yandere x You #Yandere x Reader #Yandere x Y/N #Yandere Imagines #Yandere Scenarios #Yandere Oneshot #Yandere Game of Thrones #GoT x Reader #Game of Thrones Imagine #Game of Thrones x Reader #Cersei Lannister #Jaime Lannister #Tyrion Lannister #Joffrey Baratheon #Ramsay Bolton #Game of Thrones #GoT #A Song of Ice and Fire #ASoIaF #Imagines #Reader Insert #Fanfiction #X Reader #Yandere Writing #Platonic Yandere #Yandere Poly #Gender Neutral Reader

[ilikethisacompletelynormalamount]

This morning, the British Independent Film Awards (BIFA) nominations were revealed by star hosts Susan Wokoma and Morfydd Clark at the announcement event at One Hundred Shoreditch, London. Casting a spotlight on the incredible talent working in the British film industry, this year’s list once again includes exceptional debuts from the UK’s brightest new talent alongside previous BIFA nominees such as Tilda Swinton, Paul Mescal, Jamie Bell and Amir El-Masry.

BIFA veteran Andrew Haigh returns with All of Us Strangers, a beautifully unsettling tale of a writer drawn back to his past and towards a mysterious new relationship, which receives 14 nominations including Best Director, Best Screenplay for Haigh and Best British Independent Film.

In the performance categories Andrew Scott picks up a Best Lead Performance nomination, and Jamie Bell, Claire Foy and Paul Mescal grab a Best Supporting Performance nod each. Seven craft nominations round out the All of Us Strangers haul.

Best Cinematography: JAMIE D. RAMSAY - All of Us Strangers

Best Editing: JONATHAN ALBERTS - All of Us Strangers

Best Production Design: SARAH FINLAY - All of Us Strangers

Best Sound: Stevie Haywood/Joakim Sundstrom/Per Bostrom - All of Us Strangers

Complete list of nominations here

#all of us strangers #andrew scott #paul mescal #andrew haigh #jamie bell #claire foy #jamie ramsay #jonathan alberts #sarah finlay #bifa #british independent film awards #it's happening

[darklordazalin]

Azalin reviews: Darklord Blake Ramsay

Darklord: Dr. Blake Ramsay Domain: The Isle Domain Formation: 658 BC Power Level: 💀💀 ⚫⚫⚫ (2/5 skulls) Source: House on the Edge of Midnight (Dungeon Magazine 76; 2e)

Dr. Blake Ramsay once resided in the small seaside town of Mordentshire located in the Domain of Mordent. Blake had a particular fondness for performing unnecessary and experimental surgeries on his patients, all without the aid of anesthesia. It is commendable to devote such foresight into the art of medicine, for how else would one be able to determine a threshold of pain with the use of anesthesia? The people of Mordentshire, however, saw his methods as a form of inhumane madness than genius. Thus, Blake fled Mordent with his wife Helen and his daughter Liza. Together, they sailed the Sea of Sorrows until they reached an uncharted island, known simply as “The Isle”.

The Isle is surrounded by large, steep cliffs along its northwestern half and the rest of the island is a dense forest of deciduous trees and sloping lowlands.  Blake saw this island, and it’s lack of any formal settlements, as the perfect location for him to conduct his medical experiments in peace. He built a home, complete with an expansive laboratory, and continued his experiments on those native to the island and unfortunates who found themselves shipwrecked there.

In time, Helen bore two more children. The first was Gregory and the second Blake Jr. Blake was severely disappointed in both of his sons. Gregory had been born with oozing sores all over his body and a hunched back; Blake determined Gregory would not be able to perform medicine and thereby could not carry on his experiments after he passed. Blake Jr. had had a feeble mind and could not comprehend the intricacies of his father’s work. However, Liza, his eldest child and only daughter, was of sound mind and body. Shunning the rest of his family, Blake named Liza the heir to his research and focused on grooming her to carry on his work upon his death.

Now, this is completely understandable. One must ensure one’s heir is properly suited for ruling after one perishes. Ahem, I mean…ensure one’s research is continued and in the right hands. Perhaps Liza was not as bright as Dr. Ramsay believed her to be or mayhaps she was caught in a sudden storm. Either way, at age 12, she fell to her death from the cliffs that surrounded the Ramsay Estate after a strong wind threw her from their great heights.

Blake saw her fall and flew to her in a panic. He found her at the base of the cliffs, her limbs torn and smashed. In desperation, he carried her into his laboratory and spent fourteen days trying to revive her. Nothing he attempted saved her, which leads me to conclude that his experimentation is certainly nothing that required an heir to uphold.

The Doctor decided the best course of action was to utilized his useless family members to restore his daughter to life. He murdered them all, taking their organs and limbs to craft Liza new ones. Giving new life, true life, to dead flesh is nearly impossible in these lands except when our tormentors decide to interfere for their own amusement. The Dark Powers granted Liza her new life at exactly 1 minute before midnight. The clocks of the estate froze at this time and…so, it seems, did time for Dr. Blake. He believed he restored his daughter himself, but she was not as he had envisioned.

Liza was remade as a flesh golem and her eyes, once bright blue in color, were a putrid green. Blake, seeing this as a deformity that would prevent others from seeing her true intelligence, attempted to restore her eyes. He used his wife’s eyes and his sons, but each time her replaced her eyes they changed to that inhumane green. Frustrated, he burnt the rest of his family’s remains and his wife and two sons rose as spirits who haunt him, reminding him constantly of what he had done to them.

Some part of Blake might have realized that the inhuman appearance of Liza’s eyes was an indication that she was not truly alive and only a mere semblance of what she once was. Or perhaps not. For the Doctor continues to attempt to replace her eyes, using any that are suitable for his needs. This is a rather difficult task for the Darklord, for Blake cannot leave his own manor. Even if he is forcefully removed from his home, he fades and reappears within.

Blake, as most Darklords do, has his own unique set of powers. He can cast the spell “shadow door” at will, which allows him to vanish into one shadow and emerge from another. Considering he is not much of a combatant, this allows him a way to escape potential hostiles. However, he is also nearly immortal. Any wound he suffers, he heals almost immediately and the only way to kill him is to engulf his entire family in fire at the same time. I suggest sending a group of wizards and a few fireball scrolls to his estate and be done with it. 

#darklordreviews #ravenloft #azalin rex #Dr. Blake Ramsay #The Isle #A strange take on Mordenheim really #the eyes are windows to the soul...or in this case lack there of

[seaa-lavenderr]

Okay. Recently I had this strange idea about AvA, but I'm not at home right now and I don't have things where I can draw my thoughts. I have my phone, but drawing in apps... Not really comfortable.

Yesterday I started reviewing some Gordon Ramsay's video when a thought struck me as a thunder on the sunny day. What if all the events that took place in AvA, all the conflicts would be conflicts between restaurants. I will try to explain more clearly and in detail, because my English sucks.

The Second Coming, The Dark Lord, The Chosen One and Mango Tango are the chefs here, the heads of their restaurants. Each of them has their own restaurant with a high rating, their own cuisine and features (except for The Dark Lord and The Chosen One, they run their business together).

All of them are masters of culinary craft, connoisseurs of high-quality food, The Second Coming is no exception. He has little experience in managing, but his establishment is already in the same level with other similar restaurants, and their heads/chefs are not particularly happy with the new competitors that have appeared in sight. Entering the culinary arena, taking the fight with other restaurants, TSC and the cooks of his cuisine Blue, Red, Yellow and Green must prove that they are worthy of the title of one of the best establishments and take their place on a par with the restaurants of Mango Tango, The Dark Lord and The Chosen One.

I hope this makes sense. I have even more thoughts on this, but I really need my computer or sketchbook. What do you think about this AU?

#animator vs animation #alan becker #animation vs animator #animation vs minecraft #ava #CookingAU #I really like this idea and I hope I didn't create some sort of cringe #Help me I am scared of condemnation

[babysitter-zad]

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[leonaluv]

vishakha -spilt dark or light

Vishakha nakshatra( Men) Sun in libra position. Leonardo DiCaprio,Ahn pan seok director, Jimmy Kimmel, & Gordon Ramsay. Moon in Libra men in this nak is taking less seriously for their spiritual side. In terms of sports, they excel and later retire to an entertainer.

Sun in Libra is debilitated- Love involving others in on their plans. Even when the person doesn't exactly volunteer to participate. love talking about poetry and the spiritual side of life. Ryan Gosling in this sketch partner has the exact same placement.

Albert Camus- French philosopher, author, and journalist. He is the second youngest person to win the noble prize 4 lit. His story is def of rags to riches and was look down on because of his roots. He did have many affairs and his stance on politics made him a big target.

Later in the clip, it mentions how he was different than other writers that he was a heartthrob. Also, he mentions why life should be endured.https://youtube.com/watch?v=jQOfbObFOCw&has_verified=1… Ethan hawk-actor mentions how it is important to play the "fool" role and allow yourself to be in that creative

SONG JOONG-KI - know for his divorce role. lol

Brian Weiss-is an American psychiatrist, hypnotherapist, and author who specializes in past life regression. He some short spiritual videos on youtube. Xqcwas into snowboarding and skating. Later he got into video games in competitive shooting.

Moon in libra -Shaquille O'Neal famous basketball star who later became an mc(host). He got a divorce because of cheating. He mentions he felt he had too many options and he shouldn't have done it.

SEO Jang hoon is a famous basketball star. He also became a variety star.Know fordivorce character and being rich. Compare the story to Indra the deity of this nakshatra who is the king of heaven. Who wanted a bigger kingdom and had some affairs. He was later humbled by being told he was the same as anyone. It led him to go into the forest.

Will Smith in Collateral Beauty ceo in the beg made this inspiring speech mainly about being different from society & going against the norm being more a family company. Later he lost his daughter and it led to him isolating himself from everyone. The company was going under.

Reminded me again of Indra who after isolated himself. His kingdom was under attack and Devas needed a new king. Smith's friends in the story who works with him hire actors to make him seem crazy. They acted out time, love, and death. Indra's wife was able to bring him back.

Depending on the Mahadasa period the person can exp good results excelling in arts, sports, and math(etc). Just depends on the house, sign, and other planets with this sign. They become their own teachers later in life can become masters of their own craft. A devoted family man

#astrology #libra #venus