#fires of the north

[precambrianhottopic]

Fires of the North

CHAPTER 1: FELL BOUND

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The newspapers began reporting on the construction of the great refinery long before even the switchblade-quick men of almighty business could swoop down like vultures from penthouses and corner offices and tear the land apart. No, when news broke on the front page of the Borean Dawn- OIL FIELDS FOUND IN FROZEN NORTH- what would go on to be the most contested piece of land in the Arctic Circle was still just snow and ice, one hundred miles from the nearest major civilization. And yet, the moment those hunters struck oil, journalists hacked out stories and printing presses churned out copy after copy hailing the construction of the most magnificent new oil refinery in the world, a veritable palace of industry, the vital turning point that would finally bring Hyperborea to the world’s attention, under the assumption that the magnate with the sharpest teeth would have broken ground before they could get another issue out. 

This is not what would eventually become of the oil field.

There would be no palace of industry, no global eyes on long-overlooked Hyperborea, and no winner to the rat race that would go on to stain the snowfields for the next several years. Seventy-four starry-eyed men and women from every place conceivable, surnames from every dialect and tongue, would set out northward with teams of shovel-wielding laborers and vast pools of gold at their command. By the end of the first winter, only three would remain.

To understand the depth and depravity of the events that would play out there, one must first understand the depth and depravity of Hyperborea herself. None can match her beauty, and none can match her wrath. Poets wax and dream of her frozen shores, of rivers cutting through endless glittering fields of snow, of secrets untouched by time within the beating heart of shining glaciers- and yet the reality of fair Hyperborea, the Frozen North, Hell on Ice, Glacale, the Last Rise before the Abyss, is a cold and cruel one. The country, and the vanishingly few brave souls who live in it, seem balanced on a knife-edge. Every death and birth, every successful hunt, every chunk of coal burnt to ashes, every grain taken from food stores in the unfathomable depths of winter, is kept in perfect, metered record. Because the truth of a land like Hyperborea, so much further North than anyone should have gone, is that it will snatch everything that is good and warm from you, force its frostbitten fingers into every crack in your plans, your shelter, your safety, and tear it from you like freeze-thaw through a boulder, and leave you, hypothermic and broken, upon the burning snow. There are nights that last days. There are blizzards that last months. There are villages that disappear into the snow and are never seen again.

Perhaps this provides some clarity, then, as to why so many were gripped with such an acute madness when the news broke- perhaps this elucidates even further why so few of them would live or remain to see it through. For whichever upstart could reach out and grab it first, there was liquid gold beneath the ice- the question remained, however, if he could still hold onto it as the impossible North began to eat away at everything he held dear.

They came, in desperate masses, to the city of Fell. Fell was not the largest city in Hyperborea, it was not the most important, and it was not the capital- but it was further northward, pressing deeper into the ever-darkening cold, than any other city in the world. The blistering, maddening hostility of Fell cannot be understated. She stood teetering on the edge of the world, in stark defiance of her limits, a monument to both the deep hubris and undying determination of her people. A wrought-iron giant, magnificent and blazing, clinging to the white tundra like a stubborn grease stain; Fell was a young city, aching for industry, half a million people thronging through her streets, fighting against the elements. Smog pours from chimneys, forges run hot deep beneath the city, and fires blaze all along the streets, keeping intransient Fell smoldering, staving off the great freeze, sealing cracks as the ice splinters through them, just barely grasping her existence from the jaws of the North. 

Through the center of Fell, along the high streets where black facades rise stories-high, a river cuts the city in two. This is the Corione, a paradoxical beast flowing inland from the Ocean, which joins with the Stoll and the Sea to the West, and races screaming up from the South, where the waters are calm and blue and beautiful, through jungle, woodland, plains, and steppe, before tumbling over the cliffs into the tundra and slicing through Fell like a jack-knife. Its frigid waters arrive bearing gifts- dead fish, ships with metal faces, and news of warmer lands. Three dozen miles to the North, the Corione reaches its terminus, an impossibly deep and desolate lake. Within the walls and streets of Fell, it is bludgeoned by the streets into the rough shape of a canal, and is constantly at war with itself in much the same way that Fell is constantly at war with Hyperborea. The casualties of this war are the shattered ice sheets it carries with it; as each one crystallizes, it is rent asunder by the ceaseless currents, or the ice-breaking boats, or the streetlamps and hearths burning alongside it. The waters of the South, against the cold of the North, against the fires of the city- the Corione can never rest. The city of Fell can never rest.

And so, in droves, up the Corione and the Stoll and along the vast frozen plains, the big-city oil magnates, sleazy news-hawks, and leaden-shovel laborers came to Fell. The truly inconceivable seclusion of the promised bounty must be emphasized here- Fell, by all accounts is an incredibly remote city. The next major hub is almost two hundred miles to the South; some say her sheer septentrionality is bordering on blasphemous. And yet, any man hoping to sink his talons into the treasure trove waiting out there in the snow would have to journey one hundred miles deeper into perilous Hyperborea, into the far reaches of the world where lakes hide beneath kilometers of ice and your breath freezes in your lungs. 

This nightmare did not trouble the minds of the fools in their boats and chariots as they pressed Northward, the promise of oil money so lucrative and all-consuming it struck any inkling of concern or forethought from their minds. No, there would be no time for consideration, no time to pause and think how quickly and thoroughly Hyperborea was going to flay the cashmere greatcoats and fine lambskin gloves from their flesh- only gold glistens behind the eyelids of the wealthy businessman as thundering black stallions carry him upward, to the wonderland of infinite profit and shining snow that he dreams of.  At the end of the road or the river, icy damnation waits hungrily for him with open arms. 

There was oil, and soon there would be blood.

[northgazaupdates]

Heartbreaking news out of north Gaza today

We write to inform you that renowned journalist Ismail Al-Ghoul and cameraman Ramy El-Rifi of Al-Jazeera were murdered just a few hours ago by the occupation. They were going out to document the scene of another bombing attack, when they were deliberately targeted by the occupation. Footage provided by journalist Osama Al-Ashi in the immediate aftermath of the attack shows that Ismail and Ramy were murdered with targeted precision weaponry, meaning the occupation watched them, waited for them, and executed them in cold blood (warning: graphic footage).

Ismail and Ramy have been documenting the genocide at immense personal cost since the 7th of October 2023. They were previously kidnapped and tortured by the occupation, but survived and continued to remain in north Gaza and document crimes against humanity. They have had many narrow escapes, and today, the occupation was finally successful in its illegal goal of assassinating these prominent journalists.

When western journalists hand-wave their suppression of the IOF’s atrocities in Gaza by claiming no journalists are “allowed” in to report, remember these men. Remind them of these men. These men who lost friends and loved ones, who suffered immensely, and yet chose to remain and continue documenting the genocide against their people. They join the ranks of more than 150 Gazan journalists who were murdered by the occupation to hide its crimes and retaliate for speaking the truth.

حسبنا الله و نعم الوكيل

أنا لله و أنا اليه رجعون

God suffices us and he is the best disposer of affairs. We belong to God and to Him we shall return.

Keep fighting for Gaza. Don’t stop talking about north Gaza.

[agentmilayawithshield]

The category is: A boy who has all of the makings of a great king, forced upon a war to save his scattered family, that dies before seeing them together again:

(they also have great hair, face cards that never decline, and daddy issues)

[grandkhan221b]

I've been slowly obsessing more and more about asoiaf fashion in the past 6 month, and really developing in details how it would look in different regions, classes, etc (the North being the one I have the most complete picture on). And I wanted to put some of this to paper instead of endlessly turning it in my head before I go to sleep. Usually when I costume design it is confined to a specific character, I've never done like worldbuilding fashion design, but idk asoiaf really gets me going.

So here's the North ! I could have kept going and added more stuff, but if I try to spew all the shit that's in my head I'm never gonna finish this x) So I focused mostly on great houses/nobles fashion for this. Maybe I'll do a sheet for smallfolk or practical clothing like battle armour after I'm done with all the kindoms. I already have to continue the anti AI quest...

[demaparbat-hp]

Golden Boy (and Silver Girl) for the Kintsugi AU.

[myladysapphire]

Duty

Robb Stark had kept his oath to house Frey and married you as a result allowing him to win the north’s independence however he now has to live with the sacrifices of duty and must find out if duty is truly the death of love.

word count: 3,992

CW: MDI 18+, slight smut, p in v, angst, arranged marriage, infidelity, childbirth, unhealthy dynamic, toxic relationship? open ending, pregancy, not proofread!

Robb Stark x Frey!Reader

Masterlist | part two

dividers by @zaldritzosrose

Duty.

The word rang in your head as you stared at your husband.

He was yours; you were his but as his eyes wandered across the hall you knew he was not entirely yours.

A mere hour into your marriage and you already felt the strain of an unfaithful husband.

The longing looks he gave her form across the room were the looks you had wished to feel.

You were the youngest daughter of Walder Frey and his sixth wife, Bethany Rosby, and though your older sister Roslin was often called beautiful, you were considered beautiful. It was the one-word Robb stark had said when he saw you, the only word he had said to you beside your wedding vows.

He hadn’t even spared you a glance since the ceremony, most of your conversations had been with his mother, Catelyn. She had been kind, having been the one that choose you as his bride. But you knew it was not your beauty that she chose you for, it helped of course, pleasing Robb if only by a little. You were neither smart, cunning or wise. You were simple normal, with no special skills to sway the eyes of suitors or to persuade your husband. She choose you, the often forgotten daughter, with no influence or means to gain any, for that reason alone.

It was clear to anyone the marriage and alliance was an unwanted one. Especially to your husband and the woman he loved.

He did not dance with you once, offering no words beside the necessary pleasantries, the kindest act he seemed to do was forbade the bedding ceremony. Though there was little bedding done that night, though the act was done, he neither spoke a word to her or stayed the night. And from the whispers she heard the next day it seemed he had gone to her swiftly after.

He had left after that, though he did not say goodbye, or offer to write to you. You were simply left with his mother, set to journey to the Winterfell.

The journey as not long, taking less than two weeks before you saw the peak of Winterfell’s towers. It was a wonderful sight, having never left the twins, and rarely being allowed outside. Seeing the castle of Winterfell was a freeing experience. There seemed to be endless halls, some bare and empty allowing the privacy you had never once had in the twins. The god’s woods was even more magnificent than you had expected, it expanded for acres, with endless trees and countless springs waring both the gods woods and the castle. You felt some peace here, but you had also never felt more alone.

You were looked at as an outsider, talked to as one, and it was clear you were unwanted.

As the moons passed, you felt even more alone, you only heard about Robbs victory through his mother, the one person who didn’t talk to you with resentment.

Then you realised you had yet to bleed since your wedding.

And the word duty once again rang in your head.

You were pregnant, a fact that made you seemed more welcome, people were kinder to you. And yet you felt more alone, suddenly surrounded by people who only cared for you know you cared the heir.

The heir to a man you did not know, the heir to a man who scorned you on the day of your wedding for another woman. He didn’t even have the respect to at least act like a loyal husband.

You had done your duty, but he had not.

For it seemed she was also pregnant.

You were far along in your pregnancy, near eight moons when you heard the news. The news that was accompanied by your husband’s victory. And the norths independence. Yet you felt little joy only envy at the news of her pregnancy. Envy that she gets to know him and he never once tried to let you know him, even in the fleeting hours they did have together.

The next month was lively, the keep full of servants and lords from all over the north preparing for their kings arrival. The planning of feasts and several other northern events to be held. And you did not know what to think, you had long craved to know your husband, but he seemed to want to forget you even existed, and even more so when he arrived, with her on his arm and a babe in hers.

You bowed your head, clutching your belly protectively as if their presence would harm the babe somehow, and greeted him “husband.” You spoke plainly, not in joy, nor as a move of possessiveness towards her.

He nodded his head, going to greet you in the same fashion but stopping himself at the sight of your belly. “wife” he said in shock, as if the very idea of you being pregnant or here for that matter was shocking.

You smiled, a forced smile and spoke softly, “come, husband we have much to discuss”

She had stayed put, looking lost among the faces of Winterfell.

Though you had started out a stranger those first few months, after your pregnancy was announced, though you had at first received false pleasantries to win your favour, a time that made you feel even more alone. Now you felt rather comforted by the halls and the people with in it.

You took your time to win over the people inside the walls, though you never felt that you could truly be yourself ,as you did not know entirely who you were anymore, but none the less, you no longer felt like a stranger, even Catelin had even started to heavily involve you into the running of Winterfell, and her kindness became truer to you, even more so when news of your husbands bastard spread.

Your basic and natural kind behaviour had one the loyalty of many of the people of the north as they sneered at her, shunning her away as they welcomed the victors back from war.

And from the kind smiles you received as you walked the halls to your chambers, chambers the lord and lady of Winterfell had traditionally shared. It had not crossed your mind about were you would know sleep. Never having shared the bed with another, not knowing what it is to share a bed, let alone with a man. It was also your belongings that filled the room, your tapestries and art, your nicknacks and clothes. His had either gone with him or remained in his old chambers, but know she supposed he was fully with in his rights to move in and perhaps even throw her out.

She did not know if he weas cruel enough to do so, or kind enough to let her stay. You only knew of him through the view of others, mainly his mother. An opinion you held   with restraint, seeing as what mother would not love her son.

He stared at you awkwardly once you entered the room, the realisation of never once talking alone coming to light for you both.

“your with child?” he asked after a moment.

You snorted “of course” you said “though I doubt you care much, seeing as you already have a babe”

“i…” he looked down ashamed, “I do care, though….though we barley know one another… I am your husband”

You snorted again, “really? And where exactly has my husband been? Not once have you acted like one, the only husbandly act you had done was to take my maidenhead!” you were mad, for so long you had been nice and kind, acting as if you cared not for his actions and now months of anger was finally spilling out of you.

He coughed awkwardly, clearly not expecting you to say something like that, especially as one of the first things you had said to him.

“i…I you are right?” he said, clearly unsure of what exactly to say, “I should have said something to you, told you of Talisa”

Talisa.

So that was her name.

“or at least have waited until after we were- “

“until it wasn’t our wedding day?

“yes” he looked down, “though I… I will admit I do not regret loving her”

Loving her.

Hearing it hurt, though you supposed you had to right to feel hurt.

You huffed, your eyes downcast, “must you admit it so freely? I understand we do not know each other, that you did not want this marriage, but it is our duty, and I…” you took a deep breath, looking up at him “I want respect, I want to be treated like a wife, and not” you couldn’t bring her self to say it, you were a woman scorned, scorned by your husband and yet he was a stranger, and in his eyes you hadn’t earns the respect you deserved. “…not like-“ you didn’t say it, he did.

“Like a duty?” He looked at you, “because that’s all that you are, a duty” he seemed to sneer “I once desired a marriage of love and then I was told I would have to marry a Frey” he hissed the name, ‘at first I hoped to find love with my wife, a wife I would not little say in, then I met her” you knew he didn’t mean you, how could he? “Talisa” he whispered “I love her more than I thought possible, and then I met you.” He shook his head “ you are beautiful, more so than she I will admit that, but I do not love you, and I very much doubt I ever will.”

“Why?” You asked, stopping him before he could saying anything more.

He swallowed “how can i? I do not know you-“

“Then get to know me!” You interrupted, moving closer to him, “we are to have a child of our own soon, do you not want to know its mother?”

He shook his head, “let me finish.” He spoke sternly, causing you to step back again.”I do not know if I want to know you, I have her and she for months was all I needed…” he stopped talking then, looking at you, as if hoping you would interrupt despite his words.

“And now i… she had a babe, our babe, a girl. And perhaps some part of me feels And perhaps some part of me the guilt of loving her, despite my duty to you.”

You shook your head, “I am your wife, you should feel more-“ you clutched your belly in pain, as a contraction hit.

 “are you alright?” He asked moving to you.

“I have been having them all day, it is nothing to worry about” you said as you shook it off only to be hit with another contraction.

“Are they meant to come that close together?” He asked worry clear in his voice.

You sneered “I don’t know you’re the one with a bastard, weren’t you there went she gave birth?”

“I… no we haven’t been together since the wedding”

You laughed “oh Im so sorry our marriage was such a inconvenience for your mistress”

He said nothing at that, leading you to believe that perhaps he wanted to continue his relationship with her and she was the one to stop it.

“I’ll fetch the midwives” he spoke suddenly, leaving before you could say anything.

Soon you were on your bed, a midwife between your legs telling you to push.

It was just you and them, woman you had never met, wishing you had met your mother so that she could be here for you and not strangers.

And it seemed the gods were cruel as they sent her in, she walked in saying she was a healer and was simply there to help, and by the worried looks the midwives gave her it seemed you needed it.

She went to touch you, and you flinched back.

“No” you whispered.

“The babe is breached” she said hoping to sway you, but the constant shaking of your head caused her to bite her lip a concerned look filling her face “I have experienced with breached briths, I can help you” she insisted.

“No” you simply said again, but this time she ignored your pleas, moving to sit on the bed and take your hand in hers.

You tried to pull your hand back but she only held on tighter, and leaned in.

“Please let me help you” she begged “neither of us want to be in this situation and I am only trying to help you”

“What so the gods aren’t cruel on you as they have been on me?”

She laughed “sort of I suppose, but also because I have caused you enough pain and wish to mend it.”

You looked at her, she was sincere, it seemed she too hated the situation they were both in, trapped feeling like the other woman, “fine” you gritted out.

She nodded “I need to move the babe” she said placing her hand on your belly and started to turn the babe.

The pain was terrible, the want to push and being unable to and the feeling of you babe moving inside of you, and then finally she said you could push, after that is was swift, and before you knew it cries filled the room, and your baby was placed in your arms, a boy, an heir.

“Congratulations” Talisa breathed, “he looks just like you” she said softly, you smiled nodding you head. He did, he lacked all the Tully features Robb ware, though it was clear the stark genes that skipped him wen to the babe, as he had a tuft of Black hair, and a part of you hoped for the grey eyes most Starks bore. But other than that he was every bit yours, your eyes and nose, he was all you.

“Should we fetch the king?” A midwife asked, and you shook you head,

“no, he knows I am here, let him come to me.” You said, as Talisa went to stand, “thank you,” you whispered.

She smiled “just because we are tied in the same way does not mean we must hate one another” she said, looking at you kindly, and you hoped she was right, because you hated the envy you felt towards her.

“We shall speak on this soon, but for now I shall rest” you said, focusing your attention back on your son.

“Of course,” she nodded. Leaving the room.

Robb did not visit you for ten days. No one did really.

It was just you and your son, Cregan. A stark name, though not a common one, you may know little history but the little you did know was about the dance of the dragons, and about Cregan stark. He was your honourable and loyal, traits you would raise your son with.

“Hello” you heard suddenly, as you Cregan was placed in your arms.

It was robb.

“Finally come to meet your child?” You sneered.

“I apologise” he whispered, coming towards you and looking down at your child. “I had matters to deal with”

“of course” you nodded not that you could see how he had not once found the time to visit you and your child.

“I here you named him Cregan” he spoke, softly smiling down at your son.

“yes, I thought it to be a good stark name.”

He nodded, caressing the babes head. “I had hoped to name him Eddard, or Ned…. After my father” he said softly.

“Was that what you were going to name your daughter had she been a boy?” You asked, though your tone was neither dripped with envy or anger, you had said it so nonchalantly, as if you cared not for the answer.

Both the question and your behaviour confused him, he did not know what to make of you, your personality, or how to even start a marriage with you. Or even if he wanted to have one with you. “Yes” he mumbled, “though we ended up naming her Minisa, after my mothers mother” he spoke with such a tenderness, and you realised you could never compete with her, no matter how kind she was, you hated her.

Hated that she was the only reason you could never know your husband, who he was and what he liked. How he looked when you woke up beside him or how it felt for him to hold you lovingly. Your heart broke at the future you would never have.

“Leave” you demanded, pulling Cregan away from Robb. As if Robb being close to him would hurt him the same way Robb being apart from you, had hurt you.

“What?” He asked in alarm.

“I can’t do this” you said, “I can’t, every moment of our marriage has been shadowed by here, I am your wife, not her”

“gods, I know that, and I hate it” he angry spoke back, “we both know neither of us had a choice in who we marry!”

“but you have a choice in who you love, why not try and love me!”

“Because you’ll never be her” He pulled back completely, “I do not want to know you, I only ever wanted her and I will only ever choose her.”

“then leave!” you spoke as tears fell down your face, “I will move out and into one of your over holdings as soon as I am able, and we will not have to put up with this farce any longer”

“good.”

And just like that any hope for a marriage was lost, your son would only know your face and not his fathers for years to come.

As the years passed your rarely saw your husband. With Cregan now five, all hopes of giving him another sibling had disappeared, as you and Robb could scarcely spend longer than a few minutes in a room together.

And though Cregan got along well enough with his siter, Minisa, a part of you resented her. Resented how she was Robbs whole world and Cregan wasn’t.

perhaps it was because you had pushed him away so thoroughly.

That your relation to his heir caused him to resent your son in turn.

And perhaps he hated you more now that Talisa had passed.

The birth of their second child had killed both mother and babe.

Robb had raged.

For months he seemed to only act in anger.

And then it all stopped.

He seemed to return to normal, expect he know insisted he do his duty to you.

Duty.

You hated the word.

Especially as you lay now on the bed, his cock thrusting in and out of you and your moans filling the room.

There was no emotion but hate in the way he fucked you. As if you were the very reason for her death.

As if you were the guilty one in the marriage, when all you had ever done was your duty. As if you existing had caused her death, as if you had killed her and not the winter sickness.

He seemed to fuck you as if you had killed her, pounding into you at a relentless pace.

There was no part about it that could make it seem like he was making love to you.

Not as he bent you over a desk, or pushed you to the floor and hicked up your dress.

Or as he barged into your room as your maids were preparing you for bed, dismissed them and instantly started fucking you.

You hated it. But you also loved it.

Hated how gave you every opportunity to top him, and not once had you.

You happily let him fuck you.

Enjoying the touch of your husband.

The pleasure of sex.                     

“fuck” he groaned as he came, releasing you from his vice like grip.

He rested his head against yours, catching his breath.

It was rare he fucked you on your back, often choosing you to face away from him as he fucked you.

You pulled back from him awkwardly, waiting for what always happened next.

Him leaving.

But this time he didn’t leave.

Perhaps it was because it had been over a year since her death, over a year since her name was mentioned.

Perhaps he had somehow forgiven you for whatever crime you had committed against him in his head.

He had been more…pleasant?

He had been able to spend time in your company without shouting or yelling at you for no reason.

He had had spent more time with his son, though perhaps that had been because you had taken his daughter under your care.

It hurt almost to care for her but apart of you loved her. Having always wanted a daughter for yourself, and for so long believing you would only ever have your son, Cregan. She was the image of her father, with little trace or her mother on her features. She was quite and shy though she liked you. Perhaps it was because Talisa had always been kind to you, at least to your face.

“the maester tells me you are pregnant” he spoke, as he moved to lie beside you.

“what?” you asked in shock. You had only just found out for yourself this morning.

He sighed, turning to look at you, “he said you were pregnant, about three moons” he said as he moved to make himself comfortable in your bed. “i..yes I am…I only just found out this morning”

“as did I”

It was awkward, neither of you knew how to talk to the other. Neither of you had cared to try until now.

you too moved to make yourself comfortable, tucking your self into bed, and turning your back to him. He sighed before moving towards you, blowing out the candle and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“what are you doing?” you asked.

“sleeping with my wife” he said as if it was obvious. You had never shared a bed with a man, and feeling him pressed against you felt strange. It wasn’t comforting, nor was it uncomfortable.

“oh”

“oh?” he mimicked.

“why?”

“well…we are husband and wife it is time we started acting as such”

You huffed, “ we have been husband and wife for nearly six years now and not once have you slept in my bed.

“well that’s going to change” he said, and before you knew it you were both fast asleep.

The next few months had been so different from the previous years.

Though you had not stopped your previous duties as lady of Winterfell. It seemed now with Robb instant on being a dotting husband you had more duties.

He had moved into your chambers, though you supposed they were rightfully his.

He insisted on taking all your meals together, walking in the gods woods every day together.

He had become kind, and for those few moons you thought perhaps you could grow to tolerate his misgivings and be husband and wife.

Then he called you, “Talisa”

He had said it in passing, not even noticing it at first. And then he saw how your froze and realised his mistake.

He had sighed your name in apology.

But you had ignored him. And realised that perhaps it would be better, not to have hope that you were more than a duty to Robb.

That to him you would never be her. Never be the wife he wanted, only his duty.

It didn’t matter how much he liked to play pretend. Giving you flowers and sweet kisses on your cheek. Deep down you knew you could never forgive him, never find the love and happiness you had long craved, that you deserved.

That you would be a wife of duty, and love was always the death of duty, and duty is the death of love.

And he would never stop loving her.

authors note: this took me 3 weeks to write because i couldn’t figure out to make it have a happy ending. it was far to angsty and i couldn’t justify her forgiving him.

taglist

@now-i-have-a-new-obsession @apollonshootafar @flrboyd @theanxietyqueen17 @dark-night-sky-99 @zillahvathek @leavesmealobe @winter-soldier-101 @bunbunbl0gs @ka1afbr @tesha-i-guess @aemondwhoresworld RAYNETARGARYEN2 @littlebirdgot @eddieslut69 @beebeechaos

to be added to taglist

[mkstrigidae]

Backgrounds? *puts on sunglasses* I don't know her.

My favorite girl Sansa, here to eat lemon cakes and take names.

[thewatcher0nthewall]

"Dance with me then"

[illustratus]

Campfire Scene by Norton Bush

[ilreleonewikiart]

Ned and Cat wedding lineart for @salialenart dtiys challenge

[precambrianhottopic]

Fires of the North

CHAPTER 3: NORTHWARD

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Lazare Doromos, far and away the most famous person to ever arrive in the elusive city of Fell, had been in hiding for six weeks. He had arrived just prior to the Gossamer and the Company, with no great fanfare- on an utterly silent and starless night, the least magnificent of all the Doromos’ carriages slipped in through a lesser-used gate, unnoticed by all but a lone gatekeeper and the policemen keeping the night’s watch, and from there had seemingly disappeared entirely. This was, for a creature who stuck out like a tiger lily in the tundra, no small feat. Undoubtedly, any ordinary man who carried himself with the flamboyance and vividity of Lazare Doromos wouldn’t have lasted a day in the cold, mechanical city of Fell- fortunately for him, Lazare was no ordinary man.

There are a strange sort of folk, far to the South, who are not so bound to the physical laws of material reality as much as they are vaguely influenced by the circumstances of their existence. Where the sun burns warm no matter the season and the mangrove trees grow tall, there are men who may be parrots at noon and stags by sundown, women who dance ethereal through the myriad shapes of the world, and folk of all kinds who waver pleasantly through in-betweens and gray areas. They are the chimera, the many-faced, the shapeshifters, and legends of their existence pulse from North to South like a great web of color and light. The loftiest of all these legends had just arrived in technicolor glory on the doorstep of Fell, thousands of miles from where it began. It was with all the great bluster of myth at his heels that Lazare Doromos, Prince of the Many-Faced, disappeared without a word into the leaden streets. For six weeks, the city’s keenest eyes spotted an odd white hare here, a piebald raven there, or a stranger of some impossible description stumbling into a tavern and asking bright-eyed for a glass of whatever the barkeep liked best. None of them thought to connect these incidents to the man now standing out in the snow in an ensemble of at least four different colors of velvet, although they were all undoubtedly his own. At last now, he stood in broad daylight as though he were as solid and stark as the city itself, and broke into a grin.

Doromos stands, entirely by choice, just shy of six feet. If he so pleases, his chestnut curls fall just at his chin but are swept back from his startlingly blue eyes, his ears draw up to a small point, and his mandibular canines protrude ever so slightly, a delightfully paradoxical combination of features that appears on no worldly creatures but Doromos himself. This frivolous form is grounded within eight or nine layers of clothing, each of a different material and color, he carries himself like a peacock with tail at rest, surely waiting for some future Spring to disregard his outer layers and become truly ethereal. He approaches a stunned Marshall with a ridiculous, waltzing gait that walked the line between elegance and parody in the manner that only a well-trained nobleman can. Indeed, Lazare was from wealth, vast and unimaginable quantities that had been in his family for longer than the city of Fell had stood against the North. Perhaps one of his distant ancestors had been some prototypic businessman, who’d made his fortune selling the wheel shortly after its invention, and that from that catalyst family Doromos had gone on to become great and prosperous. His greatest of grandfathers was credited almost entirely with the creation of Brink, capital of the land of the Shapeshifters, and each one of his forefathers in turn had upheld that legacy until finally, Lazare Doromos was struck by a flight of fancy and left it all behind. 

Three opulent decades of luxury had left Lazare with a remarkable temperament. Having experienced almost no worldly hardships, he was largely unaware of the challenges of modern life, and floated through each day with a capricious vivaciousness that charmed and confounded everyone who met him. He had gone through life untarnished by the bitter horrors of capital, stumbling blissfully into adulthood by following whatever captured his attention at the moment. Lazare was entirely unskilled in most trades and industries, but through sheer luck and a genuinely willingness to learn he muddled his way through impulse after impulse. Above all, Lazare’s naivety had forged at his most fundamental level a deep, unfailing kindness. His golden heart fluttered desperately against the harsh winds of Fell now- whether or not the brutal North could claw apart his altruism is still yet to be seen. 

Like a brightly colored child’s doll dropped idly in the snow, Doromos offers a ridiculous little laugh and says, with a melodic lilt to his voice, “Sincerest apologies, my friend- did I startle you? I thought that I might admire these- well, these beautiful horses. Might I ask- are they yours?” His manner of speaking was rambling and winding, such that it took at least twice as long as necessary to get anywhere, leaving the listener in a pleasant stupor all the while.

Marshall seemed to snap back to some awareness, away from the gaudy stranger and toward what he knew to be true: “Yes, sir. They’re mine. Raised ‘em all myself, from foals.”

Lazare’s eyes lit up. “Oh, how delightful! They are truly glorious, good sir. Could I perhaps inquire as to what your name might be? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Marshall, sir. Jack Marshall. Assistant to Harkannon Hull, if you’re lookin’ to know.”

“Harkannon Hull! Now that’s a name I’ve heard before. He’s become quite the talk of the town, hasn’t he? Although I’m afraid, Marshall, my friend, that I may end up butting heads with him in due course- I believe we both have our eyes on that lovely little oil field. Of course, you seem like a fine fellow, and I wouldn’t want to besmirch you, but I do believe I could do something truly great if I do win this little race already taking shape, and I do apologize sincerely if what could very well be a great friendship winds up tarnished by our respective businesses.”

Jack stared calculatingly at Lazare, utterly dumbfounded. The flowery and wandering language he was being presented with meshed poorly with the simple boundaries of his mind, and he stood there for a while, struggling to comprehend what this odd man was trying to tell him, before giving up wholeheartedly and nodding in simple agreement. “Um- yes. Sir.” 

“Now, the horses!” Lazare continued, offering a comforting smile to Marshall to bring him gently back into the loop. “This one, here, he is just glorious.” He approached the furthest horse to the left, entirely black and entirely glorious, and placed a gentle hand on its nose- the animal swung its head away and pinned its ears to his neck. “Could you tell me about him?”

“That’s Kismet, sir.”

“Kismet! What a name!”

“Thank you, sir. He’s a good horse- young and on the shy side, but good. Strong” Jack had been closely watching Lazare’s truly poor handling of Kismet, and finally decided to intervene. At his slightest touch, the horse calmed, and Lazare smiled with wonder.

“He is perhaps the finest stallion I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.” Marshall thought about interjecting to add that Kismet was in fact a gelding, and that he was a far sight from the finest in this stable alone, but thought better of it just in time for Lazare to suggest- “I’d love to buy him, if you’re selling. How much?”

Marshall was knocked back by this. “Buy him? Are you sure?” Hesitantly, he amended, “Are you sure you know your way around a horse?”

“Quite sure, good fellow! See, my lovely wife and I traveled to this delightful town several weeks ago, in a chariot drawn by eight black horses just like your Kismet here. Tragically, though, only seven of them made it through the gates- sweet Sugar Belle was attacked while we rested one night and by morning the scene was so ghastly we had no choice but to go on without her. I’d love so dearly to have a full team for the journey home- and you seem like such a fine fellow, Mr. Marshall, you ought to have a bit of money in your pocket. Name any price at all, and I’ll take him.”

“That- that’s very kind of you, sir. I appreciate your offer, honest, I just need to think on it for a while, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course! Please, take all the time you need- I wouldn’t want to rush you. In all honesty, Jackie my boy, the matter of your Kismet is far from why I came out here in the first place.” Lazare smiled blithely at his own impulsivity. “Tell me, what would a man like myself have to do to find himself a place on this survey trip I hear you’re taking?

And so it was that the surveyors, rather delayed, set out from Fell into the open jaws of Hyperborea. There were six of them in all- Jack Marshall, a rather frigid older man named Albert who would book his passage home shortly after returning, two guides from the city of Fell that had made the trek twice before, a supplemental Fell native from the city council with the sole objective of record-keeping, and Lazare, having taken the shape of the albatross to glide high above his companions. For four days, they pressed Northward, watching the vanishingly small window of sunlight wane further still and the temperatures plunge lethally far below zero. To the Southerners, conditions bordered on apocalyptic; to the Northerners, it was routine. On the very first night they made camp, Albert begged his guides to take him back to Fell, that surely none of them would survive the night, that they would freeze to death in their sleep or find a far worse fate further up the trail- the Fell-folk responded, simply, that he could not hope for better weather this deep into the year, and, if he so truly wanted to stop pressing North, he could put a bullet through his head right here to lighten their burdens- Albert quieted down after this, and spent the remainder of the journey in frightened silence. 

As the party pressed on into the ice fields, the North slavered and hungered for the warmth of the ignorant. On the third day, the frosty exoskeleton over the snow shattered under Marshall’s feet and he slid waist deep into freezing death, pulled back out by his companions just short of half his body becoming frostbitten beyond the point of salvage. On the fourth day, Lazare was struck clean from the sky by gale force winds and spent seven hours resetting broken bones before he could take flight again. Regardless, they pressed onward. The guides would no longer let them sleep at night for more than an hour at a time, for fear of freezing to death- the nights had already become so long they were beginning to swallow the precious few hours of sunlight remaining. On the fourth day, bitter and frozen, the travelers and scouts arrived in the promised land, and before their eyes beheld glorious nothingness. The patch of snow looked no different from every horizon they’d seen for the past four days, although a guide promised that all of their fortunes roiled beneath the surface. As the surveyor grasped a small lead pencil in her thick gloves and took out her ledger, patrolling the edges of the field with a calculating eye, Albert snapped at one of the guides.

“You’ve led us nowhere! I- I could’ve died, and for what? Some snow? I’ve seen nothing but snow for four blasted days!”

The guide, whose name was Nils, replied simply, “You ask to be brought, and we bring you. Promised nothing.”

Jack and Lazare watched on as Albert huffed and paced around restlessly against the blizzard. Lazare turned his gaze outward to the oil field and shook his head with an open-mouthed smile. “It is beautiful, wouldn’t you say? In its own way, of course.”

Marshall hummed. “I s’pose.”

“You can almost feel it. Well, leastways I can- the incredible promise of opportunity just beneath our feet, almost bubbling to the surface.” He clapped Jack Marshall on his shoulder. “Yes, my good sir, something great is going to happen here. Whether the credit ends up on my shoulders or with your Company, or- or perhaps someone else entirely- only the Stars know now, but I can say with utter conviction that this, this ground will be hallowed.” Lazare seemed overcome with the grandeur of it all, perhaps morose for the first time in his life- certainly, as he looked out at the endless blanket of white he found himself overwhelmed by something, out there in the snow. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon like a hare just caught in the sights of a wolf. 

Jack said nothing. He just watched, and wondered, and waited for the journey home.

[northgazaupdates]

Graphic design artist Moataz Abu Sakran/ @moatazart has provided extensive documentation of the genocide against Gaza. His photos and videos have been used—often without credit—by major media outlets, and his posts are featured on this blog regularly.

Moataz and his wife and baby girl are trapped in the vicinity of Al-Shifa Hospital complex. The area has was under complete siege for 13 days, and made life even more difficult and dangerous than before. In addition to the physical violence of the siege, the occupation’s famine has made food extremely scarce—Moataz and Mariam can no longer find milk and nutritious food for baby Maria.

They were able to raise enough funds to begin the paperwork involved in evacuating to Egypt, but exorbitant processing fees have totally depleted the money they had reserved to find a place to stay in Egypt. They need funds to procure food and shelter while they rebuild their lives in Egypt (God willing), otherwise they will be homeless and destitute.

There was an increase in donations after we initially shared the link on this blog. We are hoping that will happen again. Please support Moataz’s family via this link so that they can reach safety. Even just a few dollars will help. If you can’t donate, please share the link on all your social media accounts.

This is the primary link to donate and share. You can copy and paste it onto other posts and social media sites.

If the primary link does not work, try this link

[fangrurin]

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[grandkhan221b]

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(from top left : random northern woman just to draw that headwear -my boy robb - sansa - sansa and jeyne gossiping - bran watching jon brood)

[sihtryggr]

Thank you for your service, Cregan Stark.

See you at the end of next season, probably.

[tonyloom]

Arya Stark of Winterfell, Daughter of the north, Queen of Winter, The night wolf, The ghost of Harrenhal, Witch queen, Bloodwitch, Wolf witch, water dancer, The She-wolf, a bitch from the seventh hell.