#the riverlands; sun wheels

[dctyandhonor]

who: @naelysvelaryon where: during the release of the sun wheels in the riverlands

Her hands delicately held the finely crafted sun wheel, flowers interwoven beautifully with an assortment of twigs. The little slip of parchment Ginevra had written on, was nestled securely and safely in-between. It had taken her longer than she would like to admit; to find something to either let go of or to wish for. Her insides had been chaos as of late. Too much she knew she wanted, too much she knew she did not want. And secrets? Those secrets had no place written down.

Ginny had settled on something eventually, but she could not help but think it superficial. She would have to see if it helped, to release her words down the river and watch them disappear. Would have to see if there was a lessening on her shoulders, her soul.

The crowd eventually departed to walk toward the river and the orange glow of the lanterns posted alongside the stream to light the way. In the faint glow, Ginevra could spot a familiar head of dark hair just a little up ahead. Her steps quickened and Ginny called out to slow Naelys' steps. "Come on," she beamed, "We can release them together, what do you think?"

[visenyaism]

Sorry if you’ve been asked this but what do you think of all the rot in asoiaf? Obv some of it is related to the problems with monarchy but I feel like a lot of it isn’t and it just leaves me curious. Like cold hands or people killed by the others idk what that symbolizes there. Jon is in a land in which rot is in stasis from the cold and it’s creepy as shit. And then there’s stuff that could have multiple interpretations like dany by proxy of selmy experiencing bio warfare with the corpses like I know some people see it as the fall of old ghis but I wondered if maybe it was a sign to dany about breaking the wheel and doing as her ancestors did. Idk I know it’s a nasty series and sometimes grrm is just doing stuff so that it’s gross but I feel like rot comes up SO much and I people are usually talking online about like Tywin when it comes to rot.

Oh one of my favorite things about the asoiaf series is how heavy-handed george rr martin is with the rot symbolism. and (at the risk of sounding like an mfa vomited on my keyboard) the way that the political, pestilential, societal, and climatological aspects of the rot symbolism all interconnect.

In a society founded on so many feudal evils that has perpetuated for centuries, something has to give. It is a recurring theme in these books that violations of human decency under feudalism cause cataclysmic societal collapse represented through literal and metaphorical pestilence.

There’s the sociopolitical collapse in the riverlands caused by war of human decency and norms like guest right and prohibitions on kinslaying or cannibalism just dedicating away as times get hard. broken men. bodies left to rot in the sun for the crows to feast on. There’s the fermenting wildfire under every major street in Kings Landing. There’s the familial/relational decay of incest especially the targaryens and the lannisters. The people who hold power and that society rot, despite everyone’s best efforts at keeping up appearances: Robert Baratheon the “war hero” dies of a very nasty festering stomach wound he got in a drunken hunting accident, Tywin gets shot on the privy and his corpse putefies in the sept.

The climate stuff is also very salient. The series starts during late summer and as things get worse and worse in the world declines into the autumn where the summer fruit and all of the abundance is literally rotting through the hands of the characters. (see: renly’s peach vs doran’s blood oranges!) The cold up at the wall keeps the rot at bay for a while, but it does not entirely stop it. Coldhands’ hands are still blackening. Things are still unraveling at the hinges of the world. that’s pretty representative of the way that the violence of the border wall and the penal colony stationed there to patrol it are not sustainable. The decline of the night’s watch from a once proud order to a penal colony full of cruel and often impoverished convicts dropped off there by circumstance is a symptom of the society that sends people up there. But something still has to give. The wall will fall down and the existential crisis will come, it’s just slowed.

Critically, there is also the forgotten parable of Old Valyria: a society founded on extreme cruelty and slavery which eventually experiences cataclysm coming up from the very tunnels they send the enslaved into to die for the empire. A lot of what Daenerys experiences in Essos is an extension of that commentary on slave societies to me. Like. as the slavers try and reconquer places dany has liberated, people fleeing the violence, bring disease like the bloody flux with them. The rot creeps back. (important: disease and rot in the series is not always something people get for being morally bad. it often happens to people who just have no choice but to live in these places.)

But that’s why I think the way Volantis is described really ties a lot of those elements of the rot symbolism together. This is a society that has founded itself up from out of the corpse of old valyria. The city maintains some veneer of old glory, but the fountains are dry and the paint is chipping. The people there eat food that is so sweet it literally causes your teeth to rot out if you were to consume it every day. In terms of climate, I think it’s relevant that it is described as extremely, almost disgustingly, humid, and everything is excessively perfumed to cover up a tangible smell of decay.The air is quite literally cloying and difficult to breathe. You feel dirty after walking through it. The evil of slavery is rotting the city to its core in the same way that the evil of feudalism and the wars for the iron throne is affecting the city of king’s landing.

To wrap allllll this up. Rot is a signal that obviously societal collapse is coming, but it’s also transitional: the empire of old ghis brought about its downfall, and then valyria found itself on the same principles which brought about its own downfall, and then the Targaryen went to westeros and engineered their collapse in Kings Landing while the freehold did the same essos. I think the climatological and disease aspects of it are really heavy-handed symbolism that something has to give in the societies and we’re at the point in the series where that’s about to happen.

I think the ultimate arc of the series ends in some form of significant societal collapse, but instead of building upon a rotten foundation again people are going to have try and hope for something new and gather the courage to build that.,quite literally dreaming of the spring.

[alistairtheyrin]

the bard of riverbrook farm, pt. i

la belle dame sans merci, frank bernard dicksee

aemond targaryen x lowborn!reader

masterlist | ao3

summary | the people of the riverlands begin to find peace once more as the land recovers from the dance of the dragons. in an unremarkable village, a musician draws the attention of a peculiar stranger

tags | secret identity, soft romance, bard!reader, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, discussions of trauma related to war, gender-neutral pronouns

wordcount | 3k

likes, reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated 💞 please let me know if this is something you'd like to read more of!

Days like this rarely fell on the Riverlands.

Days when the sun shone, the brook that babbled through your village took on a glimmer, and there was an air of ease about. The green of the leaves on the trees seemed richeron a day like this, branches growing heavy with fruit. The cobblers and tool sharpeners who wandered from village to village plying their trade only had to reach their arms overhead to pluck a golden apple to go with their lunch. Sometimes, they’d even pull down a spare apple to pass to a beseeching child, not because the child needed food but because they wanted it.

That was the best thing about days like this, times like this - the children weren’t hungry, not anymore. Only years ago - when you’d been but a child on the cusp of adulthood - these lands had burned. Your people and your fields had been fodder for dragons and great men playing at war. But then the dragons - and the men in armour - vanished. Travelling bards told stories of Good Queen Rhaenyra putting down her brother’s rebellion and striking a triumphant peace with the Dowager Queen Alicent, her late father’s wife. It had taken time for the Riverlands to recover - time when your stomach had felt hollow, and your father would have gladly sold the farm for a crust of mouldy bread - but aid had come when a peace was brokered. Food and seed from the Reach, timber from the North, builders from the Westerlands. It had taken time, but recovery did come, and your baby sister - born in the Year of the Dragon’s Peace - had never known an empty belly like you had.

So your steps were light as you made your way down the stony path from your father’s farm to the village. The evening air was warm and syrupy with the scent of summer blooms, and your lute bumped happily against your back. Up ahead, the village inn - The Fine Fool - was already buzzing with life, as tomorrow was a day of rest for most, and the townsfolk wished to make a merry start. You could hear a constant stream of chatter from the open doors as you approached the inn with its thatched roof and warm, glowing windows. You slipped inside and saw it was crowded already. The farmers and their farmhands had dirt under their nails and flagons in hand, smelling faintly of sweat from a day on the fields. The wives traded news and gossip, some with children underfoot or babes in arms. The innkeeper - a ruddy-cheeked man everyone called Good Beck - was yanking a wheel of presumably stolen cheese out of the hands of a wily boy with a grin on his face. You weaved through the villagers, smiling at all as you went, and a ripple went through the gathered throngs around you.

“The bard!” A man called.

Good Beck looked up at that, “Aft’noon, bard!” He called over the sea of heads to you as you made your way to the little raised stage in the corner. You tilted your head in greeting at him.

“The Bard of Riverbrook Farm!” A woman this time called, and you winced at the name a little. You were no more a bard than a peasant with a pitchfork was a great army general. Just someone born with a halfway decent voice and a mind for melodies, courtesy of your mother. And a lute, of course, courtesy of your father - a gift he’d bought when he’d been courting your mother. You’d picked up the lute when your parents’ evenings had become filled with tending to the baby, and you’d been left in want of something to do. When the villagers complained of the lack of musicians on the Riverroad these days with the terror of war still so close to memory, your father had let slip what a good player you were becoming, playing gentle tunes before the fire in the evening and softening the babe’s worst tempers with a lullaby. Good Beck had been at your door within the sennight, offering fair coin and mead on the house. Honestly, how could you refuse?

It had been a tremendous success so far - Good Beck had music livening his common room, you had extra coin in your pocket to help about the house, and the village was near as cheerful as it had been before, in the halcyon days of your childhood.

You took to your stage, avoiding the gazes of the onlookers as you always did. You always felt nervous when you were cold. You pulled your mother’s loot from your back, took a deep breath to steady yourself and block out the noise, and gently strummed and fiddled with the pegs for a second, finding the lute singing sweetly - just as you’d left it. You hummed as you tuned, feeling your throat warm. Good Beck sent a serving girl over with your first tankard of mead. He was good to you, and the honeyed drink was smooth in your throat.

Once you judged yourself ready, you took in the crowd. Some watched eagerly, and some carried on their conversations. The melody leaping from the strings hushed more voices as you sprang into a lively rendition of The Bear and The Maiden Fair.

Before you were three songs deep, the townspeople were singing along and setting up impromptu dancing sets. The ale was flowing freely tonight, you could tell, and you quickly set out your cap for any coppers the townspeople might throw your way. The sound of music drew in more spectators and revellers, and soon, Good Beck and his serving girl were fighting to keep up with the flow of thirsty patrons at the bar.

During a particularly ribald song, you looked out upon your crowd, and your eye caught on a group of men unfamiliar to you in a darker corner of the room. It was a small village and faces totally unfamiliar were quite unusual, but the berth the villagers were giving the men told you all you needed to know. Their clothing was shabby, their faces sunburnt - they were former army men, the sort who still wandered the Riverlands. Likely Aegon the Usurper’s, but it could be some of Queen Rhaenyra’s Northmen who had no wish to return to their frozen homeland when the fighting was done. Many had sustained injuries to their person, many more to their minds, and had nothing to return to from whence they came. So they wandered, eeking out a living by offering help on the farms or sites of construction whenever needed. It was a hard life, and you felt for them, but the wariness of the townsfolk made sense - such men were known for causing trouble when they had nothing left to lose.

One of them caught your eye, and you looked away in a hurry.

By the time your song was finished, you were huffing and puffing for breath, and the villagers were no better. Dancing sets had turned into barely contained circles of swinging, spinning, and chaos. Everyone was laughing, and the mood was high, but it was also growing desperately warm in here, with many a man or woman wiping sweat from their brow with a yellowed sleeve.

Time to slow it down, you thought, as you watched the patrons join the queue at the bar, desperate to quench their thirst. Good Beck looked flustered behind the bar - pleased but flustered - so it was time to allow him to catch up and rake in the good custom. You sat on your stool for a moment and took a long draw from your tankard of mead. Now was as good a time as any to try something new you’d been working on, one of your first original songs. If it went over well with the townsfolk, that was great, but if not, at least you weren’t killing the good mood but giving them a well-earned chance to recover before they spun into more dancing.

You cleared your throat and drew a breath, striking a chord that rang clear above the chatter.

The river runs red, my dear, can you see it?

High in your tower, the earth is bleeding,

The home burns, the water breaks

Upon the tomb at our love’s wake

Is it too late for us? Your beacon, my fire,

We were just children drunk on sweet desire,

Where did that go? What did we do?

What has become of me and you?

Save your prayers for your Gods, for I want none,

I only want the honeyed words on your tongue,

Fly with me now, stand with me at heaven’s gate,

Only love’s forgiveness can change our fate,

You trailed off in the soft, mournful ballad, for that was as far as you had gotten. There was a small round of appreciative applause around your stage, but most were more concerned about getting their drinks refilled. That didn’t bother you, though. You’d played it aloud now to someone who could offer more feedback than a squalling babe - as sweet as your sister was. It was time for you to take a quick break, and your mind buzzed with the possibilities of what you could add and change as you squeezed through the crowd to go and get some fresh air.

The sun had set outside and the sky was that soft purple it was before it was truly night. You stepped away from the throngs outside the inn and found yourself a quiet patch of wall to lean against and catch your breath. Your breathing slowed, and your heart settled as you took in the inky sky, the lighted windows in the village, the distant trickle of flowing water. On your leg, you tapped out the metre of your ballad and sang softly to yourself, thinking of the next words and the stories that had inspired them.

“I’d never heard that one before,” the accent was unusual for these parts - crisp - and it took you a second to realise the voice was speaking to you.

You looked up and felt your stomach lurch. One of the army men was approaching you in the quiet patch outside the inn you had chosen. His head was shaved to the scalp - probably lice - and his left eye was covered by a battered leather patch. He wore a sword on his belt - not unusual in these parts, but not exactly welcoming either. You didn’t want any trouble, and you certainly didn’t want any unwelcome attention.

“It’s mine,” you explained. It answered the question but didn’t invite more conversation.

“That explains it,” the man said. Your ears hadn’t been deceiving you - his accent was smooth, his tongue precise on the sounds. He wasn’t from here. He wasn’t from anywhere you had ever seen. “You have a talent for playing and for writing, then.”

His features betrayed no emotion, and you wondered if he was as insincere as he sounded or if you were just being paranoid. “You’re too kind,” you said in the absence of a better response.

“What inspired your work?”

The flinty look in his remaining eye was putting you on edge. “Stories,” you said, “from… real bards who have passed through. Their tales are a good inspiration. Otherwise, all my songs would be about harvests and plough horses. Not much going on around here, not much to keep a curious mind occupied.”

“You don’t have books?” He asked.

You scoffed like he’d just asked if you could fly. “What use are books if you were never taught how to read?” You asked. Who was this man, with his refined tongue, thinking that farmers have use for books?

He had the decency to look embarrassed at least, and the softening of his gaze, the flicker of his eye, and the way his cheeks darkened made you feel calmer. He wasn’t angry. Most men would be angry at being talked back to like that - your father had often warned you about it. Not because you tested his patience - he was a good man, a kind one. He just prayed his firstborn’s quick tongue wouldn’t cause more problems than it fixed. 

“That was foolish, I beg your pardon,” the man said, and you were so confused by his humility that you nodded your acquiescence without a second thought. He drew closer and leaned his shoulder into the wall by you. “My earlier question stands, however. What inspired your song?”

You raised an eyebrow. “A tale from a bard - the tale of the Dragon’s Peace,” you said. You swung your lute down by your side to trace your fingers over the strings, like a focal point for the frenetic energy you felt as the man asked his probing questions. “The tale is all over the realm - how Queen Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent came together to stop the war and the shedding of innocent blood. Words saved the day when swords could not - I guess I liked that.”

He raised an eyebrow. There was something deeply morose about him. His features betrayed no warmth - in fact, he was so still it was like he was cold-blooded. “It’s just that you… you sounded like you were singing of something more than just a peace accord.”

Obviously, you thought dryly, but you were still wary enough of this man not to provoke him outright. “A peace like that does not just happen. The two Queens were friends in childhood. I just thought… they could have been more. What if they were - still are - more? It must be a… special friendship to forgive what they have had to forgive each other of.”

His brow creased as his frown deepened. “Is such an unconventional… friendship not a dangerous thing to sing of? To even imply?”

You felt a heat rise in your cheeks. What a fool reason not to speak of it, to hide behind euphemisms and platitudes, you thought. “The only dangerous thing is forbidding certain loves for the form they come in. Love is the one thing, the only thing that ever saves us from ourselves.”

He hummed thoughtfully at that. It struck you as just another thing that was strange about him. Anyone else might have laughed, made fun or cursed you for an ungodly wretch. But he seemed to be thinking of your words with a deep seriousness. “Is it finished?” He asked. You must have looked confused because he clarified, “The song, have you finished it?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m trying to find the words, the tune to express the betrayal but also the loyalty. The joy in spite of the suffering. I’ve only just begun writing my own songs in the past few moons - I think I’ll need to practice it.”

“If I am any judge, I think you have made a good start.” His eye looked almost purple in the dusky light, reflecting the soft hues of the sky.

“And who are you?” You asked, bold all of a sudden. “To judge, that is?”

He gave you a smirk like you’d just told him a slightly amusing joke. “Just a man with an interest in that tale.”

“Because you fought in the war?”

He was quiet for a second, and you wondered if it was because he was considering lashing out or fleeing. “Yes,” he said instead. “I did.”

You nodded. “And now you have… nowhere to go?”

“I have… somewhere,” he said, considering. He looked far away, far into his own mind. It was not an uncommon look on the men who had seen war. “It was just never truly home. And now I don’t know how to return or how to be that person again.”

“You can never go home,” you said. It came out blunter than intended, but it was something you had found to be true. “Not really. Figuratively speaking. I… home to me is before. Before the hunger and the bodies and the fear. That home no longer exists for us; you can’t go back.”

“So what do we do then if we cannot go home?” The moon had emerged and cast shadows on his face. He was beautiful, you realised, with a thud in your chest. With his long nose and carved cheeks and strong jaw cast in sharp relief by the flood of moonlight. You wondered what colour his hair was when it was not shorn. Maybe chestnut, like your father’s plough horse. Or golden, like wheat at harvest.

You wished you had an answer to his question, but you didn’t. “I don’t know,” you said truthfully. “I don’t know.”

He looked a little crestfallen but nodded like he hadn’t foreseen any other answer. “Maybe I should just start anew, then. Build a home, sow a field, fall in love.”

You smiled. It was all any of you could hope for - a chance to start again. It was all any of you dreamed of. “There’s many an empty croft and field around here, since the war. And many a girl who wishes for a handsome husband with a good sword arm.”

He smiled back. It wasn’t like the earlier smirks - icy and guarded - it was warm, liquid. It nearly reached his eye. Nearly. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

You took one last look at his face before you turned. It was high time you were back on stage. No sooner had you turned away than a hand caught your wrist. You looked back. Like a thrice-damned fool, you looked back.

“You need to finish the song,” he told you. His gaze was so sure, so serious you felt that he must know everything about you. Like your every waking moment could be felt through the joining of skin, the index finger he was tracing on the inside of your wrist. “If you cannot go home, you must at least finish the song.”

He raised your hand to his lips and kissed it.

Like he was a knight. Like you were noble. Like the words passing between you carried the bond of castles and gold and histories and dragons.

“I will,” you said, and your voice trembled just a little.

“I truly hope it is not too late for them.” He spoke of the Queens in the song. He spoke of himself. He spoke of you.

“I hope so, too.”

[naelysvelaryon]

who: @adam-stark when and where: flashback, in the riverlands post the release of the sun wheels in the riverlands context: these two were once betrothed considering they are the second son and second daughter of house stark and house velaryon respectively. it ended up breaking off, though they remain on good terms.

a figure with jet black mid length hair seemed to blend easily in the surroundings of the night upon the balcony; as she seemed easily able to blend in any surroundings, something she no doubt much appreciated about herself. the endless navy stretch across her head blurred with the colour of her silks and her jewels, gliding onto a balcony following the release of the sunwheels.

or ginny's sunwheel, as she had ruined her own; there was a slight line above her forehead and her lips turned downward naturally at her thoughts.

something about ginny seemed to have changed, like the phases of the moon; and she did not like thinking such things about her friends. but something, felt different; the talk of wanting more, of power - it did more than simply worry her, it unsettled her. she had seen what happened to those who allowed ambition to become their hamartia.

it was only when she heard the footsteps directly below her from where she stood on the balcony did she shift her amethyst gaze downward, half contemplating on what the gods had bestowed to be her own hamartia, half wondering who that would be. and then the candlelight fell across half of the man's face, and she leaned forward slightly upon the balcony, her arms resting upon it.

"adam?" she called, suddenly incredibly self aware and so her voice came somewhat halfheartedly - she had not even thought if he were with someone, or if he had somewhere else to be. she waved the sleeve of her lace slightly, as though to try and get his attention in the night. what good was waving navy silk in the dark of the night? and so, as though it were the best thing to do, she unclasped a sapphire necklace from around her neck and dropped it directly beside him - narrowly missing his head.

when he looked up, she caught his gaze and raised her palm, offering a small wave from her spot atop the balcony. "is deimos still in there with your brother?" she pointed back toward the bustling feasting hall. she found owen stark incredibly loud, and whilst he were nice enough, his casual volume and roaring laugh admittedly overwhelmed her and burned all the embers she had left for socialising.

[casimirtully]

setting: the banks of the tumblestone river, the riverlands. during the making of the sun wheels at lithia, the annual summer solstice celebration. as the various noble guests craft their sun wheels to set upon the river, the prince of the riverlands catches the king of the reach in a rare moment alone.  @visxionaries

𓆟

“I know, I know,” Casimir Tully held his hands up in humorous surrender as he came upon his friend. Cedric Tyrell, King of The Reach — a man who he had not, it seemed, seen nearly enough as of late. Even with the various courtly gatherings. While The Mud Prince had his own list of duties that kept his schedule full, the weight he carried was no longer the same as his best friend. The Riverlands had avoided many of the conflicts that The Reach had been unable to — wars of succession, marriage pacts.

Though they’d both been princes — Cedric destined to be Highgarden's spare, and Casimir fated as Riverrun’s heir — the game had changed completely. Casimir without the crown that had once been his fate, and Cedric’s destiny granting him his own. 

There was a part of his heart that ached, knowing it was his sister — rather than himself —  that Cedric would need look to as his ally. That they would not walk that path together, as they had once stumbled the cobblestone paths of Oldtown, of The Red District. 

But it hummed, too. Always knowing that Cedric had it in him — and had proved he deserved that crown time and time again. Their paths’ had changed, but the profound  pride he had for his friend would never leave him.

“Got caught up with one of the Lannisters. I would’ve just embarrassed myself, anyways.” Casimir was no better than a common foot soldier when it came to archery. He could hold his own — had learned how to wield his bow on horseback while in Essos. He could hit a target, a man... but his ability to land on a center mark was laughable. 

And the conversation had been needed — needed to help him stay in the good graces of those he could in The Lion’s Den, now that Tyland had made his thoughts known. It wouldn’t have looked grand to his sister, or her council, if he’d been shooting arrows instead of doing his duty. “Lord Nicholas — doesn’t seem to have a firm grasp on his father’s trade, but his thoughts on seeing the routes properly fortified between Lannisport and The Red Fork were impressive.” 

Those thoughts, and the fact that he was river-blooded — half House Rgyer — made him an easy and wise choice for the day’s politics. Casimir would have rather been shooting arrows, but having the chance to catch up with Cedric after was well worth it. 

The Mud Prince, grinning, picked up a half-crafted sunwheel from one of the wooden tables. He waved it at the other man, making a small motion with his head towards the babbling water of the Tumblestone. “I’ll make a wish to be less lousy of a shot, aye? Then next time, you’ll wish I’d skipped it again."

[iona-tully]

LITHA, THE SUMMER SOLSTICE — Festival in the Riverlands

Prepare to welcome the summer solstice in Riverrun where the Litha festival is to be celebrated. All guests, Riverlanders or outsiders, are welcome to take part in the various aspects of the celebrations. Beneath the cut you will find a breakdown of events and locations.

Map:

The Queen's Ball: In addition to the solstice celebrations, a ball is thrown as well. There have been rumors for a while that Queen Iona will pick a husband soon after the ball, so nobles and royals alike can present their proposal to the Queen of Rivers during this celebration. The ball takes place in the great hall of Riverrun, where there is feasting, drinking, and entertainment by a troupe of performers. To the merriment of those in attendance, it is common practice that the performers randomly select guests to take part in the performances by improvising.

Litha bonfires: It is tradition to light large bonfires outside of the keep, a custom that honors the sun's strength and symbolizes a plea to the Seven to get abundant harvests when the time for reaping comes. There is dancing and music, although the environment here is much more relaxed than in a formal ball. All guests can participate. This activity takes place by the bank of the Tumblestone River.

Construction of sun wheels: One of the most ancient practices in the region is to craft sun wheels made out of twigs and flowers. They can vary in size, made by one person alone or in groups. Later, the sun wheels are released into the river's stream, placing candles on them, letting the light float on. A more recent practice is to write on a small piece of parchment something that the person desires for the rest of the year or a secret they hope to let go of to not be burdened by it any longer. The piece of paper is then rolled around the candle and released with the sun wheel into the water. This activity takes place by the bank of the Tumblestone River.

Archery and combat competitions: Friendly competitions of skill with the bow, hand-to-hand combat, and with the sword. Competitors can ask the favor of ladies in the audience and the winners of the different disciplines get crowned Litha champions, which is seen as a blessing of good fortune for the winner's houses. This takes place by the bank of the Red Fork River, with tents set up to rest and relax between matches, as well as food, drinks, and various trinkets sold by local merchants.

Fortune telling and divination: It is common to find seers and wise women offering their services around the various locations of the festival. They use cards, crystals, and water scrying to predict what awaits after the summer solstice, with some omens being quite mundane and not transcendental at all, while others touch upon more impactful matters in a person's life. Some guests believe these predictions and others view these so-called prophecies as mere poppycock. Engage at your own risk, however, for it has been reported in past festivals that at least a number of these predictions did come to pass.

[bruiisedpetals-a]

「  𝐒𝐄𝐑  𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐄  𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑  ... 𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐀  𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒  」

@withouthonor​ ; ser jamie lannister , commander of the kings guard

vida was returning from the docks at the blackwater where she had purchased some herbs native to the riverlands with the unmistakable sound of royal and noble celebration being carried on the wind down from the keep to the commonfolk such as herself.   though distance-muffled —— there was cheering , roaring of the crowd , there was music and laughter , the scent of delicious foods occasionally reaching vida’s nose.       ‘i’d better go ,’ she said to the fishmonger whom she’d just bought some crab from , smiling and she handed over the coins ; both of them had paused as a particularly loud cacophony of raucous and celebratory sounds boomed ... ‘the taverns and brothels will be filling fast and i’d rather be out of the city for the evening when they reach bursting point.’

she weaved her way through the people , though many were leaving the market stalls and making their way into — as vida expected — heading into the various establishments of hedonism.   whenever the noble-born held some sort of event , the commonfolk were more than happy take advantage of the distraction to have fun of their own.   vida , however , was not one for crowds and the pushing-and-shoving of bodies in such cramped spaces.  she had shut up her small stall already as to run her errands and now she simply had to pack down , load her wagon and head out  ( thank the gods she didn’t have to rent a room anywhere when she traveled ... her home , and for the most part also her business , was on wheels ).

vida’s footsteps slowed on the gravelly ground , there was a man by her stall , obscured by some shadows as they took shelter from the heavy late afternoon sun. she swallowed and adjusted her satchel , her coins tucked into her bodice and a small blade up her sleeve carefully sheathed ... just in case — vida almost never carried it : only in the bigger cities , on the docks and ports.  she wasn’t a fool.   “i’m closed for the day ,” she said as she approached the figure ; the words a way of announcing herself — for all the healer and apothecary knew , he was simply there by coincidence.

[brrahbrrahcharacterimagines]

My Exception (Brandon/Bran Stark x Reader)

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Bran Stark x Reader

Word Count: 2155

Warnings: Self-doubt, mild angst, spoilers for seasons 1-8, pretty OOC Bran despite my best efforts

Request: If you do write for him, could I request a smut and/or fluff fic for Bran Stark? Maybe about marrying him? -(Anon) 

A/N: I do write for him! I don’t have a whole lot of feelings for him myself so I don’t know how good this will turn out, but I promise to do my best!

You pushed Bran around in the gardens of the Red Keep, relishing in the warm sunlight. You may have been a girl from the North, but that doesn’t mean that you had to love the cold.

“The lilies are beginning to bloom,” you said with a gesture to the pink blossoms. “They look so beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you, my dear,” replied your fiance Bran. As Queen-To-Be you took it upon yourself to brighten up the Red Keep yourself. While the builders worked on restoring the inside of the building, you got your hands dirty in the garden. You may have earned yourself a sunburn or two, but you didn’t mind so long as something beautiful could grow again in King’s Landing. After the battle most of the plants were destroyed, either burned or covered in ash and debris. Finally, the new seeds were blooming vibrantly.

As you came to the end of the garden path you saw a short figure making his way towards the two of you.

“Lord Tyrion, how lovely to see you on this fine morning.” You say with a smile. Tyrion smiles a small smile in return.

“It is lovely to see you as well, Lady Y/N. I would like to congratulate you on how the garden is coming, I must admit that the lavender blooms are my favorite.” You beamed at the compliment. “I’m not just here to admire your handiwork though, I have come to remind your fiance about the small council meeting that started nearly twenty minutes ago.” He shot a sharp look at Bran.

“Oh my goodness!” You exclaimed as you flushed. “That was all my fault! I lost track of time showing Bran around the gardens, I am so sorry Tyrion.”

“It’s alright Darling, I forgot as well.” Said Bran comfortingly, looking up at you with those deep eyes you loved yo much. He reached back to grab your hand in his. Tyrion looked at Bran knowingly; Bran does not forget.

Podrick came up to assist Bran to the small council chamber, and you began making your way through the castle. While your future husband worked on fixing the political climate of the six kingdoms, you took it upon yourself to renew the beauty of the Red Keep and King’s Landing. You made many trips around the halls, looking for projects to be done. Just last week you had commissioned a series of paintings to hang in the new throne room when it was finished. You wanted scenes of the war to be depicted, both good and bad. This way future generations would have a reminder of the horror right in the room in which they ruled.

As you meandered down the corridors for a considerable amount of time until you began to hear a small commotion coming from one of the rooms. The closer you got to the room, the more apparent it became that it was full of ladies from the court, chattering and occasionally roaring with laughter. You had never really fit in with the rest of the ladies, but you figured it was worth a shot to try. After all, as Queen you would have to interact with these ladies much more frequently. You began to enter the room, but stopped dead in your tracks as their words found their way to your ears.

“I bet he doesn’t really even like her,” said one of the ladies as the rest had giggled. They could be talking about anyone, you reminded yourself from your place in the doorway. However, you had a knowing, sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You decided to listen in but not move, as they had not noticed you quite yet. 

“Of course he doesn’t!” Yelled one women as they all erupted into chuckles. “He doesn’t like anyone! He’s the ‘three-eyed-raven’ who doesn’t want!” The woman did a horrendous impression of Bran at the end, making tears spring to your eyes. Not only were they mocking Bran, but also speaking of his false love for you.

“If he doesn’t want, how could he want her? If he is just choosing at random, he could have at least chosen somebody beautiful.” The tears threatened to slip.

“It’s as if she is so stupid that she is unaware of how insincere his affection towards her.”

“And it is as if you are all so stupid that you are unaware of your surroundings,” you said, mustering all your courage so that it did not sound as if you were on the verge of tears. It worked, making all the ladies turn towards you with a gasp. Their reaction spurred you on, taking on a cold demeanor. “You speak of the future Queen behind her back as if she is not there. Though, of course, you had assumed that I was not. Perhaps you should have taken notice of who was entering the room instead of carrying on like children.”

Despite gossiping about you mere seconds ago, this shift in your personality left them speechless and wide-eyed. You held the power, and they all knew it.

“Do not talk about me and my husband-to-be like this again, or there will be consequences.” Your delivery rivaled even Cersei’s, surprising you with just how cold and calculated the words sounded coming from your lips. The ladies nodded, hurrying to leave the room. 

As they left, you too began the walk back to your chambers. It was getting rather late anyway, and the sun was beginning its descent through the sky as the moon began to appear. You slowly made your way back down the corridor to your bedroom. With every step you took, the bravado began to fade and the doubt began to surge through your mind again. The ladies were right. As the Three-Eyed-Raven, Bran was free from earthly wants and desires. It is what made him a good King; he is not selfish or greedy.  But you had not thought about what that meant for the two of you.

You had met as children, running around and getting into loads of trouble when your father would make his monthly visits to Winterfell. House (L/N) may be a small house, but it is a house of proud Northerners who used their closeness to the Lord and Lady Stark to their advantage. You looked back on those memories fondly. Bran and you would always climb anything you could get your hands and feet on, and you would always have to endure a scolding from your father afterwards. You never minded the trouble, so long as you got to hang out with your best friend. 

When you heard of Bran’s fall, you fell to your knees and cried. You thought that your friend would die. By some miracle of the Gods he did not, and you went to visit him as he lie in bed. You were told he would never walk again, and you knew that your climbing days were over. You didn’t mind. All you wanted was to spend time with him, whatever way you could.

The visits to the Starks became less frequent after Ned left for King’s Landing. After his execution, your father raced to Winterfell to help Robb and his army in any way that he could. You got to accompany him, but after Theon returned to take Winterfell you were whisked away to the Riverlands. You were informed of Bran and Rickard’s passing weeks later, falling into a deep lull for many months.

As Sansa and the other Starks returned to Winterfell years later, you returned as well. You reunited with Bran, feeling something special spark as your eyes landed on him for the first time in years. It was more than just seeing an old friend. In fact, it was even more than just seeing your best childhood friend who you had believed was dead for years It was as if you were seeing your soulmate.

Now looking back on that memory, the way you felt, you realized that it may have been one-sided. You knew that he did not desire as he had before disappearing behind the wall, but you thought that you were different. You thought that he had loved you. Maybe instead he was able to read you like a book, realizing that you would be the easiest to have by his side because you would be there out of devotion instead of greed. Perhaps you were merely the most convenient.

Tears made their way from your eyes and down your cheeks as you finally reached the door, closing it behind you. To your surprise, Bran was already inside. You must have wandered the castle halls for longer than you thought. He turned his chair from where he had been sitting at the window so that he could face you.

“What is wrong, my dear?” He asked, using his arms to wheel his way over to you. Despite your obvious unhappiness, you did not want to admit to him your weakness.

“Nothing, Bran,’ you replied. He cocked his head.

“You never call me that.”

“Well it is your name.”

You began to get ready for bed, feeling Bran’s eyes on you as you did so.

“My love, I cannot help you unless you tell me what is wrong.” He said. You could hear the pain in his voice.

“As if you couldn’t just read my mind,” you retort hotly. Bran let out a sigh.

“You know that I promised never to do that to you, Y/N. You know that I love you and I respect your privacy. I would never use my greensight against you to see what has happened to make you so upset. I want you to tell me yourself if you decide to of your own accord.”

You took a deep, shaky breath.

“But do you?” You asked. Bran furrowed his brows.

“Do I what, Y/N?”

“You said you love me. Do you?” The tears began again, leaving hot trails on your face. His face fell. He reached out to you, pulling you to him so that you sat sideways across his lap. He held you with one arm as he wiped the tears as they fell from your eyes.

“Of course I do, my dear. You are so special to me. You are a light shining in my life every day and I am lucky to be able to call you my own. What would make you think that I may feel any other way about you?” Bran stared into your eyes and you knew he was telling the truth. His eyes were full of love and devotion, and you knew it. You leaned against his chest.

“You’re the Three-Eyed-Raven,” you say.

“Does that make me any less your fiance as well?”

“No, but it means that you do not have wants as normal people do.”

Realizing what you thought, Bran pulling you into a tight hug, caressing your hair. 

“You are right Y/N, I do not desire things as I did before I was pushed from that tower. But that does not mean that I do not desire you.”

You pulled back from him, looking into his eyes.

“I may not want land, or wealth, or power, and I may not desire in the same way. But you, my darling,” said Bran, looking at you with admiration, “are my exception. I want you more than anyone could ever want anything. The first time I saw you again after the start of the war I felt something change in me. You sparked desire that I thought I could never feel. I have full faith that fate brought us together, whether because I am the Three-Eyed-Raven or in spite of that. I do love you Y/N, with all of my heart.”

You crashed your lips to Bran’s, his moving in sync with yours as you moved your body to straddle him instead of sitting sideways. 

“I love you too Bran,” you said between kisses as you pulled back for air. He wheeled the two of you towards the bed that you shared, making you squeal and wrap your arms around his neck so that you wouldn’t fall.

“Come love, let’s get into bed so that I may lay with the woman I love. My fiancee.”

“Bran, that was rather cheesy. Especially for you.” He smiled up at you as you helped him into bed, sliding in beside him and letting his arms wrap around you.

“But you loved it, didn’t you?”

“My love, if you don’t hush up I won’t help you get up in the morning and you’ll be stuck here all day.” You retort with a blush.

“You’re a cruel woman,” he teased. “But I love you anyway.”

You turned to face him and see his smiling face. You snuggled closer to his chest.

“And I love you too, my dear.”

[toffeetaffy]

Beast at My Side [final]

The Metronome Stutters

For a while I was haunted. Every dream was a nightmare, and every waking hour filled me with an unspeakable dread. Jane would come. I was sure of it. She would come and tear me limb from limb with her tiny hands; she would taste my blood on her pretty pink tongue. She would end me. Each morning I woke in a silent scream. The days were long, spent trembling and quaking, and praying for the end. But each end only came when I shook myself apart, the pieces of me too tired to continue quivering.

And then, one night, I dreamt of Luc.

It was easy to lose myself, to float away with him in to the night. Easy to hang myself from his smile and let the fear wash away. I hoped to awaken unburdened. New and clean. I wanted to tear my chest open and flood it with light, paint my bones a warmer shade. But things are never so easy. It is three whole months of shaking and shivering. Three whole months of wreckage and ruin.

Then came Tuesday.

Tuesday is pancakes, and short-shorts, and learning to breath again. Tuesday is classes, and friends, and thinking of him. Jasper's a fire-coloured sky when I imagine him. Stars and smoke signals. He's a thumb across my cheekbone, a mouth pressed to my own. For the first time in so, so long I ache to have him near me, but I have kept the promise I most wanted to break: I let him go. I did not follow him. I did not stop him. No matter how fervently Bella had insisted I go to him, I had left Jasper to carry out his foolish errand alone. So I make a wish. Nothing happens, of course, because wishes are little more than futile hopes. They are things we say aloud because they hurt too much to hold inside. But the thought is small and soothing so I keep on thinking it. Five words, five tiny words. I wish you were here.

Also on Tuesday, I fix things. Fix my hair, fix my nails, fix the unsightly hole in my bedroom wall. It was a childish attempt to regain control. My fist through the plaster, my fist through the grief, my fist through the unspeakable terror of being alone. But I can fix all of it. I will paint my life with a shiny new coat of Hot Pop Yellow, of Riverland Blue. I will start my life again. This story will be my own.

Tuesday is a phoenix born of Mondays ashes. It is a light in my chest. My ribs, my heart, my tender flesh and umber skin all warm and glowing. Even as the sunlight dims, I feel the heat of it. By dusk I am done. Golden and glorious. No longer half of a person, half of a pair.

On Tuesday, I am whole.

Night comes late, the tender dark drawn slowly like a veil. It feels like an omen. My phone rings in familiar staccato beeps, and I hold it up, breath thick and slow against the screen.

"Could I get a lift?"

His voice is strange after so long, softer than I remembered. Sweeter. We have three months of silence growing between us. It has bloomed and blistered in to something twisted and prideful, something almost impossible to make peace with. With silence we wounded each other. Perhaps it should have been me who spoke first, who pierced this solemn thing, but I would forgive myself my petty grudges. I have forgiven so much worse.

"Just... tell me where you are."

He does. I snatch up the keys to my ugly orange van and tear out of the apartment. The stairs are narrow. Where once the concrete walls felt like a vice—crushing, closing, clamping—there is now comfort in their closeness. My sneakers hit the tiles with a screech. The foyer is blue and grey, no more than smoke as I tear my way through it.

Then, I am driving.

Traffic's sparse until I hit the marketplace. I watch my own hands drum restlessly against the wheel, fingers stained pink by the row of stop lights. It is purgatory. Trapped in a moment, a liminal space, held motionless by the rush around me. These nerves are strange. Misplaced. The dampening neck and quickening heart are relics of a forest, a riverbed, a cabin in the snow. I draw air into my nose, into my lungs. It's sharp, and hot, and stinks of gasoline. Warm and foul. A horn blares behind me and my stomach flies in to my throat, coating my neck in a new, slick sheen of panic. I have no plan, no schedule, no idea what unseen force pulls me forward. But it's there. A thrilling compulsion to advance - no matter what. And so I do.

There are ten more minutes of queer and curious agony, of stopping and starting, of fingers tapping, before I see it. It is a strange and dusky outline. A cap drawn low, a dusty duffle slung across narrow shoulders. My heart hammers in my chest. It shakes all of my bones in turn as I steer the van off the road, as I fling open the door, as I run headlong in to the arms of the boy made of stone.

"I still hate you," I say.

"I know," he replies.

But I don't. Not any more. I spent three months learning how to forgive Jasper, learning that I cannot despise him for the man he was, a man he cannot even remember. Though fairness seldom seems to pair with judgement, I resolve to only measure the man he is today, the life he lives right now. When I tell him that, he smiles small and slow. It isn't hard to imagine that the expression is crooked from disuse, but I cannot find the courage to ask where he has been, what journey could have ruined even the smile on his lips.

He slouches low in the passenger seat of the van, lazily pulls the cap from his head. We waste a few minutes on awkward small-talk, my eyes darting between the road and him, still captivated by the sight. Greasy hair frames his face - tilted toward the windows, his eyes superfluously pulled closed. He looks human. Not just scripted, not just a series of perfectly composed affectations. Messy. Tired. Human. It would be foolish to let myself believe it, to fall prey to one of their greatest snares, but I can pretend. Just for a while. Just while his cheeks are stained red by the stop lights, just while my hands are still restless against the wheel.

When we get home he showers and changes clothes. Jasper's inhuman charms have never seemed more conspicuous than sitting at the tiny pine table in my dinky old flat. I wonder again how it is they pass for human. Their bodies too strong, their minds too quick, their pretty skins too poorly stretched to hide what lurks within. Just trying to imagine him in an ordinary classroom sets the blood roaring in my ears. People must be blind.

"Bella said you were in Volterra." He only nods in response, my disbelief is full and staggering. "Why? Why would you go there?"

"I went to fight a war."

It takes all my strength to look at him, to force my eyes on to his. When I draw air in to my lungs it feels wet and warm but comes out cold. Frigid and salty like an ocean spray. Another war. I wonder if he could ever live without battle, without bloodshed.

"It was passed time someone ended Jane's grudge against Bella." He seems troubled by his own thoughts, by even the force of gravity on his anchored form. "And that meant getting rid of Aro, the one who pulled her strings."

Regicide. Air bursts in to my chest in sickly hiccups, my fingers twist and flex. Jasper has killed a king. The story he tells is dark and treasonous, rich with blood and woe. Aro, it seemed, played the part of Mad King. He seethed and raged in secret, plotting to destroy Bella for embarrassing him, for birthing an impossible child. I think of Ren, soft and small and strange. She should not exist. None of them should. It ends with the deaths of Alec and Jane, of Aro and Caius.

"Marcus keeps his throne for now," he says, "at least until he gives the new queens of Volterra a reason to end him."

It is a terrifying thought. Four powerful, immortal creatures torn down and ripped apart; a secret society and ancient government both forced in to reformation. And at the heart of it: Bella. Beautiful Bella. I wonder if she knows how many lives she has destroyed, how close she came to destroying mine. Wet, cold, and blue all-over. I nearly died to please the Mad King, and Beautiful Bella had never even told me why. The betrayal of that stings me. It pierces my chest, and fills my lungs with a fractured fury, the heat of it burning in waves, rubato, like the beating of my injured heart.

In time I will forgive her. That sting is greater still.

___

My predator's gaze is heavy, heated. It scorches my skin and warms the flesh beneath until the origin of my aching is muddied with desire. I run. I keep running. Four more laps, then five. Soon, I am laid out at his feet, panting and breathless, my pulse a throbbing distraction. He follows me here every morning. He risks being caught by the first slip of day just to watch me run. I am fast, he tells me, as though I don't already know. As though this track is not the only place my winter bones feel truly warm.

"I could make you faster."

His offer holds little temptation. For now, I am content. They can keep their ritual, their alchemy, their eerie perfection; I will choose to ache, and to age because the pain of living has never felt so good. His offer will come again. It has come before. For weeks now, Jasper has offered strength when my limbs grew weary, tirelessness when I slept through my studies. Most tempting though, are his offers of eternity. Forever, when he kisses me. Forever, when our fingers lace. Forever, as he presses his body into mine. For too long my strength was a lie, my bravery an illusion. My humanity was all I knew to be true, knew to be mine. And forever means surrendering that to him. I am not ready for forever.

He is gone before the sun's made real. Burning lips and nervous hands waiting for the dark. But my days are full. I have classes, and friends, and the rapturous feeling of a life becoming whole, becoming real. The nights are better still. Tangled limbs and fevered kisses, cupping and clenching, our skin turned blue by the light of the television. My palms over his ribs are like an epiphany. As though my hands had no purpose before they wrapped around him, as though my fingers were meaningless before they knotted in his hair. We spend weeks like this. Breath in concert. Flesh to stone. Every part of us becoming something stronger, something better, while we pretend I'm not a ticking clock. Forever is never more tantalising than when the room turns silent, and the clock is all I can hear.

We are carving our time in to seconds, making notes on how best not to waste it. But we are wrong - the chronology of us. Somehow, even entwined, we use a line to divide ourselves, keep my insides from his outsides, and it leaves us out of sync. I wonder if we can transcend this. I wonder if I will ever let him convince me of the fallacy of my death. For his kind the end is a beginning, a painful pause to mark the birth of something new. For me, it is just the end. When the night drains from the sky they flee for the shadows, but I cannot imagine a life without the sun on my skin, without the exhilarating hammer of my heart within my chest. The metronome stutters.

Forever.

___

There's a feeling growing inside me, something unformed and unknown, that threatens to make me useless when he looks at me. It beats inside my chest. It warms me slowly. It's a taste, not a word, somehow, but contorts around my tongue and squeezes between my teeth with all the weight of wanting. But what more could I possibly want?

Apparently we'll hike today. Plot a course, do a climb, make a mountain ours. For a creature whose survival depends so heavily on the masquerade of humanity, Jasper seems dangerously at ease with our planned excursion. I am far less certain. Where once I may have thought this brave or defiant, I now wonder if he's simply stubborn or foolish. But it doesn't matter. I am helpless to deny him. Wanting, wanting.

Our trail is covered in stone and sand. And though the sun burns above us, bright and dazzling, he is unafraid here. No thought of discovery, of danger can keep the smile from Jasper's face. Pleased and pleasing. His skin glows dully, as though a fire burns just beneath. It sparks and spreads and rolls in waves. When his hand grips mine it is warm and strange, never more like real flesh. These hands, this flesh, this love will ruin me. Love. It is far too soon for the feeling. I feel it just the same. I swallow the word down deep before it can crawl right out of my mouth.

We hike for hours, steady and slow. When we reach the rock-face, he takes my hand again, gives it a gentle squeeze. He climbs with ease. Nimble hands dig pits and pockets, sure holds for my nervous feet and fingers to follow in. The climb is hard. The rock is sheer. Straining muscle and grasping hands drive me to the top. There, I collapse exhausted, exhilarated. A sweating, ruddy tangle. I have never felt more powerful, more incredible, more human. He lays down beside me. Stony fingers drag through the dirt, through the sand, then paint a dusty trail upon my face. There's an ache in my chest. I wonder if he feels it.

"Tell me what can I give you." There's a dull pain in his voice, some sort of ancient misery that makes his meaning incomprehensible to me. "I know you're tired of forever—of eternity—but I have nothing else to offer." His lips are a tight line. An effort to make the words stop. "So please, Lena, tell me what I can give you."

I throw myself against him, press my lips to his, and hope that time just ends. He turns. He covers my body with his own. His mouth draws a line up my neck, whispers into my ear. There is no story I could write for myself better than this one. I am fully and truly satisfied. What can he give me, then? This desert. These rocks. Each part of him that presses flush against me. He can give me these. I need nothing more.

"Give me this," I say, my palm against his chest. "Give me you. For just as long as you want to."

He traps my hand with his, creates a cage around his heart. "Forever, then?"

Behind him, all I see is the sky, the sun in his hair like a fiery crown. Forever. Finally, it doesn't sound like a curse. "Forever, then."

We stand, not quite sure of what comes next, of where forever starts. But we have this. This desert. These rocks. His hands across my skin like a river, like a promise. Our descent is clean and quick, the mountain somehow softer from my longing, but we ramble the return path slowly. The minutes smear together. Everything casts a shadow. I wonder aloud if there was even any escape from them, the alluring monsters who captured my heart.

" 'The more I saw of them,' " he quoted, " 'the greater became my desire to claim their protection and kindness.' "

I laugh, the sound a distant echo off each surrounding stone. " 'My heart yearned to be known and loved by these amiable creatures.' "

Jasper turns to me, his brow quirked in practised interest. "But doesn't that make you The Monster?" He laughs softly, quietly, and then simply walks away.

Perhaps he's right. Perhaps I am The Monster. I suppose I'll have forever to find out.

___

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[jackoshadows]

Hi, I’ve a question. In ACoK, when Arya’s travelling with the remaining recruits of the watch after Yoren’s been killed they pass through the God’s eye where Arya feels as if the lake was calling out to her. What do you think it means? Could you please kindly explain it for I’m not sure what it implies. Thank you in advance.

I am not sure it means anything magical. It just speaks to Arya’s desire to be clean and have some fun in the waters after what her little gang has experienced.

The air was full of birds, crows mostly. From afar, they were no larger than flies as they wheeled and flapped above the thatched roofs. To the east, Gods Eye was a sheet of sun-hammered blue that filled half the world. Some days, as they made their slow way up the muddy shore (Gendry wanted no part of any roads, and even Hot Pie and Lommy saw the sense in that), Arya felt as though the lake were calling her. She wanted to leap into those placid blue waters, to feel clean again, to swim and splash and bask in the sun.

Thirty yards from shore, three black swans were gliding over the water, so serene… no one had told them that war had come, and they cared nothing for burning towns and butchered men. She stared at them with yearning. Part of her wanted to be a swan.

Arya is still a young child as she journeys through the Riverlands and experiences the horrors of war. She constantly yearns for that time before everything went to shit and she had a home and family and was carefree and did not have to worry about getting raped or killed.

Arya’s ACoK chapters are some of the most harrowing in the books as we see a child process war and suffering and trauma and slowly change and adapt to that situation.

[jzeeeeeeeee]

Game of Thrones 8.06 Series Finale Recap and Review

THE NIGHT IS DARK AND FULL OF SPOILERS

This should be kind of obvious but I'll be discussing the final episode of Game of Thrones here so if you're not caught up don't read this unless you want to be spoiled!

CITY OF ASHES

Tyrion walks us into the episode, literally, walking through the ashes of King's Landing, closely followed by Jon and Davos. Ash is everywhere, still raining down, floating in the air like snow. I can only imagine the smell, if the scent from piles of burning dead outside Winterfell was bad this must be a thousand times worse considering they've always said how bad the city smelled to begin with... The horror on Tyrion's face is evident and surely echoes our own, as he walks by dead children and a near-naked burnt man stumbling out of the ruined city looking truly shellshocked. Tyrion tells Jon he wants to go on alone and heads for the destroyed Red Keep. Jon and co. run into Grey Worm and the Unsullied sentencing some Lannister soldiers to death in Dani's name and under her orders. Jon tries to tell Grey Worm that the war is over and the enemy soldiers are prisoners now, pleading for their lives. But the overwhelming loss must have had a hollowing effect on Grey Worm, emptying him of every last fuck he had to give. It almost comes to blood between Grey Worm/the Unsullied and Jon/random Northmen but Davos intercedes, quickly urging Jon to go speak with Dani directly. As Jon walks away, Grey Worm goes back to slitting throats of Lannister men like it's nothing, as if to show Jon how truly empty his fuck-tank was.

Back to Tyrion, walking around the remains of the Red Keep. He follows the steps down just like he told Jaime and sees the gigantic mountain of rubble covering the exit he had described. He starts digging through the rubble and finds jaime's gold hand. Digging further he uncovers both his siblings, dead on each other's arms. The music is haunting, a slow violin rendition of Rains of Castamere. This scene was picture perfect in it's tragedy, the bricks washing all color out of the scene save for the Lannisters. I might not have liked the way Cersei's end came or Jaime's middle finger to his redemption arc but seeing Tyrion kneeling there crying over them definitely gave me the feels.

PLAZA OF PRIDE

Arya walks past dead bodies and ruins out into the square in front of the Red Keep where the mysterious remaining half of the Dothraki are riding around on their horses, cheering and raising their arakhs in the air. We switch to follow Jon who's walking past the Dothraki and Unsullied towards massive, imposing steps of what is apparently left of the Red Keep. It makes me think of the Mayan Temple of the Sun, draped with a truly ginormous Targaryen banner. Jon looks at Grey Worm when he gets to the top of the stairs like "this is not handicap accessible". Just kidding, Jon looks at Grey Worm like he's gone as bonkers as his Queen. Dani and Drogon come flying in overhead and land somewhere behind the ruined Keep. Drogon's wings behind Dani stretch out and fold as she comes walking into the foreground. The sight is truly amazing and I've watched that part alone a hundred times. This is a powerful leader with men fiercely loyal to her returning victorious, no longer that little girl in Essos constantly on the run from assassins. There's a nice juxtaposition of the Unsullied lined up with precision thumping their spears in perfect unison, while the Dothraki are in a frenzy behind their orderly rows, practically doing wheelies on their horses as Dani delivers her victory speech.

Ok let's just stop and appreciate this character for a minute. Let's just imagine going through what she went through, it truly must feel like destiny, step by step bringer her closer to madness, all that power she has. She has a huge dragon that is closely bonded to her, she's the Unburnt not just a Khaleesi, not just a Queen. She's conquered before, and liberated before. When a character is too OP you just know they can't last... Remember the speech she gave when she named the entire khalasar her bloodriders? These men watched her walk out of fire, TWICE, unharmed. Who wouldn't kneel? They must think her a goddess! Grey Worm is devoted utterly because he was freed by Dani and he controls the Unsullied. The naming as Master of War, a great boon to him I'm sure, leader of ALL her forces now. He's still covered in the blood of dead Lannister soldiers as he steps forward to accept the nomination.

Danaerys speaks passionately, fervently as any champion of fire would. I could practically see flames dancing in her eyes as she talks of liberating the people of King's Landing. The show told me she's going crazy so I guess she must be. Jon's eyes when she starts talking about liberating the entire world... But it seems Tyrion agrees with me and in a fit of pique and anguish he casts off his Hand of the Queen pin to the ground. Dani commands the guards to take Tyrion and he locks eyes with Jon as he's walked off, with this "Your girl done gone nuts bro" face.

Arya catches up with Jon on the steps, urging him to see that Dani is a killer and he's in danger from her since she knows his true heritage. I like how he's surprised to see her, asking for its the audience what she's doing there in the first place. He doesn't even question the fact she came to kill Cersei and walks off to go find Tyrion's cell.

BROKEN THINGS

Jon and Tyrion discuss what happened and Jon can't deny what Dani did was wrong but he's trying to justify it by naming all the things she lost along the way to madness. Tyrion reiterates what Arya was saying, that Jon's life is at risk because of his claim to the throne. Jon actually rolls his eyes before sitting down to take it all in. It seems like Tyron admits he had feelings for Dani here, saying he loved her though not as successfully as Jon did. He walks Jon by the hand to the idea that she's the biggest threat to the people, especially his sisters. He lays a choice at Jon's feet, knowing that only Jon has the chance to bring this to an end.

Jon leaves to go find Dani in the Keep. Drogon is stretched outside like the largest cat ever, briefly getting up to see who's disturbing his rest but let's Jon go by without even a puff of smoke. Dani's walking through the ruined throne room, stretching out her hand to the Iron Throne she's sought after for all these years, touching the arm briefly. The ruins of the throne room and the snow-like ash in the air are the payoff from the vision she had in Qaarth's House of the Undying. She's contemplative, making a meta comment about the throne being made of a thousand blades from Aegon's fallen enemies. This is a sort of dig because the throne GRRM had described and imagined was more like the one she does here. Jon comes in to rain on her parade, angry about the Unsullied executing Lannister soldiers along with the thousands of dead and burned children outside. He seems to be giving her one last chance, begging with her to see reason. As she says her final words about building a new world and breaking the wheel I'm heartbroken because I know what's coming next without anyone telling me. "Be with me. Build the new world with me. This is our reason, since you were a little boy with a bastard's name and I was a little girl that couldn't count to 20. We do it together. We break the wheel together." He kisses her passionately this time, "You are my Queen, now and always", not breaking away like he did at Winterfell and Dragonstone, and I know the instant the knife goes in her heart he's sobbing and so am I. It's like she had plot armor her entire life... until today.

THE IRON THRONE

Jon lays Dani's body down on the ground and suddenly Drogon's there, sensing something wrong with his mother. He nudges her with his head but she's gone, and the sadness that pours out of him is an echo of my own seeing her tragic story at an end. This girl had been on this path since her birth, freeing slaves, serving justice to those who deserved it and I'm supposed to believe right at the end she decides to kill all the innocent people she came to save. Ok fine I'll go along with it for now since we're on mega fast forward this season and maybe I just missed all the subtle steps on the way to Dani's madness. Back to Drogon... He's so full of anguish he let's out a few huge bursts of fire, melting the Iron Throne down to slag. The scene was awesome in the true meaning of the word but I'm a little confused why Drogon would understand the meaning of such an act. And why didn't Jon move out of the way more? He has a weird thing with facing dragons I guess, maybe he planned on yelling at Drogon like he did to his brother. The scene ends after Drogon snatches up Dani's body in one claw and flies away, never to be seen again.

Tyrion awakes, finding his buddy Grey Worm at the door. He's led out to the Dragonpit where the Lords and Ladies of Westeros (🤷) are waiting. I have no idea what kind of time has passed but guessing from Tyrion's hair it's been a few weeks since Dani's death. Sansa demands to know where Jon is but Grey Worm insists they are in control of the city and it's prisoners. Sansa doubles down letting him know King's Landing is surrounded by Northmen. Yara makes some threat about Jon getting killed by the Unsullied but Arya comes right back at her saying she'll slit her throat lol. I think it's right around here everything becomes a bit hokey to me. After some back and forth with Grey Worm about the fate of Jon Snow, Tyrion suggests they choose a king or queen (who will ultimately be in charge of that fate). That Tully dude, Lord of the Riverlands gets up to make a speech (maybe to make a play as king?) but Sansa shoots him down by asking him to just sit, be a good boy, and drink his bottled water. Sam suggests a type of democracy system where everyone gets a say and they all just laugh at him. Just like everyone imagined, Tyrion reveals Jon is the heir to the Throne and they all live happily ever after. Wait no, actually he walks around and talks about how stories hold the world together and Bran should be King. What in the ever-loving fuck? Who has a better story than a man who came back from the dead only to find he was not a bastard at all but the heir to the Iron Throne????!!! Ok I get that he killed Dani so that's a stain on his honor but he did it to save the whole damn world. He didn't want to rule but neither did Bran! Tyrion proposes kingship to Bran in a way that sounds like a marriage proposal from the realm. Then Bran shows more emotion than he has in the past 2 seasons, he smiled a little and says "Why do you think I came all this way?" Huh? Well I had thought it was to help defeat the Night King and the White Walkers but fine I'll go along with that too I guess... I thought for a hot second he'd say "I am Groot". Sansa declares independence for the North after we get a round of "ayes" from all the other Westerosi Lords and Ladies in favor of Bran the Broken as king. I face palm but on my 3rd or 4th rewatch I see that Tyrion's cleverness did shine through one last time. He knew that giving Jon to the Unsullied would mean more war, knew Jon didn't want the throne anyway, knew that the puzzle needed solving and I suppose he did it. Jon would go to the Wall and serve a life sentence in the Night's Watch as a compromise, apparently to keep everyone from getting what they want. We see Tyrion meet briefly with Jon to explain this and he's as baffled as I am there's even a Night's Watch left. What are they watching? Season one?

A DREAM OF SPRING

Another time jump of unknown proportions and Jon is getting on a boat, headed for the Wall. He sees Grey Worm on another ship about to set sail for Naath where I can only assume he'll die from butterfly poison trying to protect Missandei's people. As Jon rounds a corner he sees Bran, Arya and Sansa are there to see him off. Hugs all around, Sansa apologizes to Jon and I can't help but think it's forced, Arya will sail West of Westeros. When Jon kneels in front of Bran saying, "Your Grace" I'm still wondering what his Targ ancestry had to do with anything and why Bran thought it was so important for him to know. The last of the Starks are going to go on their separate paths again, but hey they won the Game.

We next get a cute scene of Brienne writing Jaime's deeds in the White Book, meaning she's the Lord Commander now. This part is uber meme-able, particularly when she makes faces trying to think of good deeds to write. After a few creative truths she closes the book without writing anything about how he saved the people of King's Landing from being burned alive with wildfire. This scene also shows us Bran the Broken has taken a raven for his sigil, it's now prominent on Brienne's Kingsguard armor.

We go next back to Tyrion, the Keep mended enough to have a small council meeting in the old spot he's meticulously rearranging the chairs. Sam, now Grandmaester, brings in a book called a Song of Ice and Fire, very Hobbit of him, setting it in front of Tyrion. The rest of the small council files in, Bronn as Lord of Highgarden and Master of Coin, Davos as Master of Ships, and Brienne the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Bran is wheeled in just for a minute so we can hear they're missing a few officers and see Sir Podrick is in charge of pushing his chair around now, making an ambiguous comment about finding Drogon just before leaving the running of the kingdom to the council (please give me a sequel of just that!). The scene ends with Tyrion starting his famous jackass/brothel joke but we never get the punchline.

NORTH OF THE WALL

Jon arrives at the Wall, which has been repaired with wooden gates. Then the most well-done cutting of scenes together happens as we bounce between Arya getting ready for her journey west, Jon's arrival and subsequent leaving of the Wall, and Sansa's coronation as Queen of the North. We see Jon moving through the wildlings and finally, FINALLY, he pets Ghost. Arya's on a ship with a huge Stark wolf on the sails. Sansa is at Winterfell newly crowned. It all ends kind of how it started, with Jon on his horse walking north into the woods, wildlings on foot following him into the future. The scene evokes a sense of adventure unknown and reminds me of the first scenes from the pilot where we first saw the wights and Walkers in action but instead of death it's life moving through these woods now.

UPS AND DOWNS

So my main reason for breaking this all down was because I've been asked over and over what I thought of this episode. Many of you know I'm passionate about this show and even now that's it's over I'm sure I'll rewatch it many, many times again, season by season. In fact, this will probably be the first blog entry I have in "Watching Thrones Backwards; maybe it makes more sense this way?"

That being said I feel like this ending was really perfect for what they set out to do. A show based on a book series is always difficult, and Thrones lost access to the written word once the show moved past the books. I've read every single book and felt that more character development could've been done here in Seasons 7 and 8, both of which would've been better with more episodes. It felt rushed without those extra moments this story deserved but instead we got what we got. And what we got in the last episode was amazing for this series, beautifully produced, imagery leaps and bounds ahead of anything else on television, well-acted, even if not always well-written.

The biggest criticism I have was that the dive into Dani's madness was too abrupt, and such a huge deviation from her character. But her last words will haunt me for all of time. "We will break the wheel together." And they did. Jon's act was a sacrifice for both of them and gave rise to the new system of electing leaders.

Time was also my enemy in this episode, I know that it opens pretty soon after the last one because there's still fires burning but as we go through it I felt less and less certain where we were on the timeline. At the Dragonpit scene Robin Aryn was much taller, does that mean years have gone by or mere weeks? Years of Unsullied occupancy in King's Landing doesn't make sense to me but ok whatever. And at the end stuff was kind of fixed like in the Red Keep and at the wall so that must've been years certainly! But Sansa was just getting crowned so did they really wait all that time to do it? I guess I'll need to wait for GRRM to help me clear that up, hopefully in my lifetime.

My other problem was that everything was getting tied up with pretty little bows, basically going down the list and checking off all the weird bets people were making online. I could've easily told you Arya would head west of Westeros, Sam would name that book a Song of Ice and Fire, and that Tyrion would never finish his joke on screen. I say "was" though because I'd rather have all these things tied up neatly than a lot of wtf moments. We had enough of those watching this series, and this being the last episode it truly was "bittersweet" so seeing storylines get sewn shut was much nicer after I had time to really think about it all. I'm over a dozen times through this episode now and it's held up amazingly well to rewatch.

Even with all the negative criticism I absolutely loved this episode. Each scene in this final episode looked incredible, Jaime and Cersei dead in each other's arms, the dragon wings behind Dani at the Keep, Drogon melting the Throne, even Jon walking off into the woods at the end. Cinematically it was successful, thematically maybe a little less so. But it made sense in a way the Dexter or Lost finales never will. Dany succeeded in the end with breaking the wheel - Shakespearean tragedy at its finest, Tyrion is for all intents and purposes ruling as Hand, Arya stopped killing everyone, Sansa's a queen in her own right, Bran is probably warging into Drogon somewhere off screen flying about and Jon pet Ghost. Team Stark FTW I give it a solid 9 out of 10!

*Picture credits to HBO Game of Thrones*

[house-of-crows]

The Deep Dark

I could hear them down the hall... playing video games, talking to the dog? the cats? I don’t know. I was content enough to stand at the butcher block counters and cook instead. All my utensils and needs lined up in a very neat row against the colored tile backsplash, laid against beautiful sage-green walls. Calming. Carefree. 

Waves beat against the cliffs outside and I knew without doubt what was waiting down the shore. I didn’t pay attention. Instead I directed my mind towards making better meringue in a small white stand mixer with a steel bowl, and getting sourdough and ciabatta toast ready. Light fluffy eggs, parbroiled in a brand new stainless steel oven and toast browned in the simple white toaster, before being set in a skillet with browning butter. 

Down the coast, they combed the beaches and the caves. Crawled over the rocks like black insects flashing oilslick colors in the light. Everything they searched for was already lying safe with me... and I was Busy.

Their technology had given them the blueprints of every room hewed into the rock of the cliffs. The sea stacks towered over the water, their insides riddled with maze like catacombs and hiding places for the People. I knew their places, intimately. Had watched over them in silence, I could not tell how long. Witness, called up from the blackness of my own Deep Dark. 

The black gravel slid like sand under my feet, leaving its mark in swirling smoke stains along my calves. I felt no burning. The cave walls were sharp and slick, no blood flowed from any touch of mine. Other voices howled in the dark, my own did not join them. Closer than their next breath, farther than they could ever hope to reach.

The yolks joined the fluffy white nest beneath the broiler, and the toast, now closer to french than plain browned bread, was slid onto plates round and white as the moon. Music came from somewhere, and its echo matched my heartbeat as I moved from the island to the counter and back again, smooth as a dancer. I could see past the pillars into the living room if I cared to... I did not. No need. I knew where they were; the second half of my soul and my god; without needing to reassure myself with my dreaming eyes.

I knew the three that led just as intimately as the new technology had betrayed their secrets to the outside world. I did nothing. The red plants that grew like spider’s legs outside the entrance to their dwellings tore at clothing and shredded skin... I knew too well the numbing effect its thorns could have. I said nothing. The earth swallowed them whole.

Things in the deepest reaches stirred. Not ours, not ours, not our People. And the figure on the beach merely whispered to the ice-salt wind “no.”

The earth moved.

I looked into the distant sea, leaned against the sun-warmed glass of the door, pulled aside the curtains. Just our cliffs, the edge of the bluffs, sloping down and away into the raging spring seas below. Just green, and yellow, and the deep grey and dirty whites of any northern coastline... I remembered the blacks and the reds. I remembered soaring on aching wings down the riverlands, over downed trees and under ever-growing canopies. Saw mouths yawning wide to catch the unwary, black and brown fur and slick shining scales alike. 

I heard the thunder as yet one more world slid into the unforgiving salt deep... its children resigned to their fates or accepting of this turning of the Wheel. But the timers were going off, and there were things to be cleaned in a stainless steel sink, food to plate, and lovers to call to the table.

I paused at the shelf above the oven, a spidery plant in black, grainy soil. It nearly seemed to smile back at me as smoky stains ran along an outstretched finger. 

I think we understand each other.

[sherlocked-avenger]

Road tripping with the 2017 Toyota Tundra TRD Pro

  Following the muddy launch of the TRD Pro models of Toyota’s Tundra and Tacoma, we headed to the Northern reaches of the Ottawa Valley for a week of work with a sweet Cement Grey Taco, with the DCS Appliances event trailer in tow.  That combined rig stirred up attention everywhere we went, so when a similar trip came onto the horizon recently, it only made sense to see how the big brother Tundra would fare.

Last Fall, we put the Tundra TRD-Pro through its paces in the dirt in Ontario ski country.

The event would see us head from Whitby to Mont Tremblant, a ski town in rural Quebec which also is the home of Le Circuit Mont Tremblant, where we would spend a the better part of the week feeding our friends from Driveteq, who would be spending a couple of days lapping the historic race track.

Once again, we would be grilling on the trailer mounted DCS grill, but we would also be roasting a pig in our La Caja China roaster, which meant we needed a capable hauler with lots of space. We knew the Tundra is big and that the TRD Pro version is tough off road, but would it do the tasks we were presenting it with? We also knew that the Tundra can be a tad on the thirsty side so we were curious to know how it performed when fully loaded.

The traditional domestics have worked hard to surpass the traditional import truck makers when it comes to interior feel and some of them (specifically Ram’s attention to detail) have risen above the rest, including the Tundra. While the interior of the Tundra is both sporty and tough looking, our thoughts were more to the comfort side of things for a long week of driving. How would the seats fare under the weight of my 3XL sized frame and how would my back feel at the end?

Off road packages offered by some manufacturers tend to be of the mild, stickers and fluff variety while others go to the extreme in offering full desert racing spec for those wannabe Baja racers. The TRD-Pro version of the built-in-Texas Tundra falls somewhere to the right of that pendulum arc, offering subtle design cues along with carefully chosen performance upgrades. Beyond the visual branding cues, the most immediately noticeable is the addition of a high flowing performance exhaust, which gives the 381 horsepower 5.7L V8 some serious bark to go with its bite.

When knowledgeable off road enthusiasts start a new build, one of the first changes they often make is to install Bilstein dampers on all four corners, as much for their ability to smooth out a vehicle’s on road presence as for their excellence in the rough stuff. It is heartening that Toyota’s engineering team chose to go the same route when outfitting the TRD-Pro Tundra, as the highway ride is firm yet delightfully smooth for such a big truck.

Naturally, our trip began with the obligatory McMuffin stop!

  Week long road trip to feed people must start with breakfast @sandy_grant @driveteq.ca @toyotacanada @dcsappliances #roadtrip #eventlife #bbqlife #barbeque #

A post shared by Gary Grant (@thegarageguy) on May 29, 2017 at 7:50am PDT

  Our route would take us from Durham region, east of Toronto, through cottage country and skirting the nation’s capital before crossing over into Quebec and heading to ski country. For years, when heading to Ottawa, we would travel the route along Highway 401 like most drivers, until we learned that the trip following the two lane Highway 7 is just as quick. The driving is much more laid back, with great views and lots of little towns to explore and grab a coffee along the way.

  Ceement grey #trdpro Tundra and a caboose! @toyotacanada @dcsappliances @driveteq.ca #havelock #roadtrip #roadlesstraveled #ontario #discoveron @sandy_grant #bbqlife #eventlife

A post shared by Gary Grant (@thegarageguy) on May 29, 2017 at 8:50am PDT

We know the route well now, so our exploration began after our usual visit to Costco in Gatineau to pick up beer for the week. For Ontario residents visiting the Ottawa area, it is worth mentioning that beer in Quebec is seriously cheap. At Costco, which is less than 10 minutes from Parliament Hill, a 24 bottle case of Stella Artois is $46.95 plus deposit at The Beer Store. The same package at Costco is just $27.95 plus deposit.

Having allowed ourselves an extra day before we had to feed the masses, we decided to take a fairly direct route to Mont Tremblant, so we could make the most of our time away. Our drive took us north east on the scenic Highway 50 headed towards the Laurentians, before turning north on the more interesting 323 at Montebello.

As the countryside switched from riverlands to mountains, we began to encounter long, steep climbs. These ascents were of little concern to the heavily loaded rig, but there was one really cool side effect: the six speed transmission dropped to fourth for long stretches, the big V8 spun up to 3,500 rpm at 100 km/h, with a bellow worthy of a Trans-Am car bouncing through the neighbouring forest.

It is worth noting that during our first two days with the TRD-Pro, just booting around town with an empty truck, we averaged about 16.8 L/100 km. As I said before, we knew that the Tundra was a bit thirsty. We were pleasantly surprised to find that even with a very full load, the Tundra’s fuel economy improved to an impressive 16.2 L/100 km at highway speeds.

If you talk to any car racers from the golden age of the late Sixties about Le Circuit Mont Tremblant, inevitably the call it St. Jovite. This is largely because the largest neighbouring town, the one which actually has stores etc. is called St. Jovite. The actual town of Mont Tremblant is a tiny hamlet in between the racing circuit and the gigantic pedestrian village at the base of the historic mountain.

We spent our first night in a wonderful, independent resort called Château Beauvallon, just a few minutes from the pedestrian village. This was the last week in May and we learned that while visiting ski country in the off season can mean that some features, like restaurants, are not available, there are also some perks. We were one of only three rooms occupied in the 70 room hotel and staff had nicely located us directly next to the outdoor hot tub, while the other guests were on the opposite side of the hotel. Even though the on site restaurant was closed, dinner was no problem, as the hotel offered a free shuttle to and from the village.

The draft beer rail at Le Diable micro brewery in Mont Tremblant.

Several of the restaurants in the village were also closed given the time off year, so we settled on dinner at the chain restaurant Casey’s. To say we were unimpressed would be charitable.

I was determined to have a bit of fun so I decided that a visit to Le Diable, a micro brewery right in the pedestrian village, was in order. I have been to the joint on a bunch of press trips, and every single time had a great time. Named after the river which winds its way though the region, Le Diable is night time hub where locals and visitors congregate to consume adult beverages in a setting that is part ski chalet, part sugar shack. On this trip, we spent our evening chatting with a lady who works for the company which owns the resort, watching the shenanigans of a gaggle of off shift employees who were treating the bar like their own playground. It really was quite entertaining!

  Our next few days were spent trackside at the iconic racing track, which hosted the Canadian Grand Prix in 1968 and 1970. We were providing catering for the guests of Driveteq, a company which provides multiple levels of service to driving enthusiasts, from track days and instruction to race car rentals. They have recently included travel in their repertoire, shepherding participants to “bucket list” tracks such as Mosport, Tremblant and The Glen. That meant that we spent our week surrounded by all sorts of sporting machinery, from Alfa Romeo and Porsche to McLaren and Ferrari.

For our final day in town, we took the opportunity to drive some of the spectacular roads around the area. Most are well groomed pavement, with literally hundreds of challenging curves and elevation changes. Mindful of the reality that ski country is usually also cycling country, we learned that the off road focused suspension tuning is remarkably adept at handling twisty roads. The Bilstein shocks do a great job of keeping the wheels planted on hard acceleration over uneven pavement.

The countryside is dotted with cool little hamlets, vintage resorts from days gone by and spectacular views, making a drive through the area almost as much fun as taking in a track day. Watch out for wildlife though, as deer are plentiful and closer in to the ski resort they are not shy.

  For the drive home, we took a similar route home through the Laurentians on our way back to Gatineau, but didn’t think about stopping thanks to the torrential rain. Until of course we came across the home town of Canadian hockey legend Guy Lafleur. Ville de Thurso has a large sculpture of the famed Canadien, so we had to stop by for a quick pic.

The @dcsappliances @toyotacanada #bbq rig with Canadian hockey legend Guy Lafleur. #toyota #trdpro #bbqlife #eventlife #quebec #bbq

A post shared by Gary Grant (@thegarageguy) on Jun 3, 2017 at 8:44am PDT

  The drive home through Ontario cottage country was uneventful as the sun finally broke through and the roads dried out.

  It should actually be pointed out that Quebec is Toyota truck country as there seem to be more of them than any other brand on the roads. Local truck fans knew instantly what our truck was and parking lot compliments were made frequently. One guy event took a picture to send to a buddy.

Overall, the Tundra proved to be a more than willing work partner during the entire trip. We actually spent two full weeks with the truck and it averaged out to 16.3 L/100 KM which is more than acceptable given the tasks it was given. From a comfort level, both driver and passenger were in great shape at both ends of the trip, never feeling anything but comfort.

The Tundra TRD-Pro is one of those test vehicles that I was sad to see go. Very sad.

from garage2 http://ift.tt/2hwHIsg via great info

[iona-tully]

LITHA, THE SUMMER SOLSTICE — Plot drop 2: The sun wheels

Sun wheels crafted out of twigs and flowers have been crafted, ready to be released into the river. For an hour or so, people gather and write down wishes, or even secrets. They set on parchment whatever they wish to see accomplished soon, secrets or guilty feelings they hope might not haunt them anymore. As it is custom, those pieces of paper are released with the sun wheels to float away in the Tumblestone River. Whispers begin soon after. Messages that were not meant to be known by others, have been revealed...

Some people have begun spreading the word on what they have heard, thus beginning a chain of potential misinformation. There have also been torn pieces of parchment found, scattered in different areas: near the archery field, inside the ballroom, in tents. It is unknown if these parchments are original messages written by guests, or if some prankster has planted them to cause a little chaos. Either, way, gossip is spreading.

Here are some of the pieces of parchment that were found, causing speculation as to who wrote them:

[torn parchment] Blackwood is to blame for such an atrocity. Only that cunt could do such [torn parchment]

[torn parchment] if Lady Brianna could only grant me one dance without mockery.

Let Harrenhal be the prize I gain for everything I have [torn parchment]

[torn parchment] to have a family of my own. I hope the gods can grant me that wish after [torn parchment]

[torn parchment] to find a husband who will be worthy of all I have to offer.

[torn parchment] what is just, and I can be reunited with my [torn parchment]

There have also been some whispers that have been going around, after the parchments were written:

Princess Mellara's bastard is in reality the son of someone who is in attendance at the Litha festival.

Prince Casimir's peaceful demeanor is a ruse, he intends to take over the Riverlands throne when the time is right.

Lady Ayca Mallister's bad temper has scared off a recent suitor, bringing some shame to her house.

Lady Brianna Bracken is the source of much temptation amongst many a lord, not only in the Riverlands, but beyond the realm.

King Cedric's mistress has an unnatural influence over him, some claim, perhaps due to her Targaryen blood

Prince Rhys Arryn only bothered to attend because he's desperately seeking a royal match and hopes to find it in one of the Tully sisters

Lord Lysano Roote aspires to remain close to Queen Iona only for personal gain, perhaps even to be considered a worthy match for the queen.

Lady Emira Mallister has a secret admirer who has been doting her with attention and gifts, all of which she gladly accepts, content that it was her and not her sister who caught the man's attention.

Some doubt, some are quick to believe. Some, even spread more words to defend themselves, to throw blame elsewhere, or for the mere fun of the chaos that has ensued.

OOC Note:

Feel free to play around with whether or not your muse believes these whispers/parchments to be real, or just something fabricated to cause a little chaos.

You can add more parchments or whispers, only write them in the comments of this post.

[chocdono]

Road tripping with the 2017 Toyota Tundra TRD Pro

  Following the muddy launch of the TRD Pro models of Toyota’s Tundra and Tacoma, we headed to the Northern reaches of the Ottawa Valley for a week of work with a sweet Cement Grey Taco, with the DCS Appliances event trailer in tow.  That combined rig stirred up attention everywhere we went, so when a similar trip came onto the horizon recently, it only made sense to see how the big brother Tundra would fare.

Last Fall, we put the Tundra TRD-Pro through its paces in the dirt in Ontario ski country.

The event would see us head from Whitby to Mont Tremblant, a ski town in rural Quebec which also is the home of Le Circuit Mont Tremblant, where we would spend a the better part of the week feeding our friends from Driveteq, who would be spending a couple of days lapping the historic race track.

Once again, we would be grilling on the trailer mounted DCS grill, but we would also be roasting a pig in our La Caja China roaster, which meant we needed a capable hauler with lots of space. We knew the Tundra is big and that the TRD Pro version is tough off road, but would it do the tasks we were presenting it with? We also knew that the Tundra can be a tad on the thirsty side so we were curious to know how it performed when fully loaded.

The traditional domestics have worked hard to surpass the traditional import truck makers when it comes to interior feel and some of them (specifically Ram’s attention to detail) have risen above the rest, including the Tundra. While the interior of the Tundra is both sporty and tough looking, our thoughts were more to the comfort side of things for a long week of driving. How would the seats fare under the weight of my 3XL sized frame and how would my back feel at the end?

Off road packages offered by some manufacturers tend to be of the mild, stickers and fluff variety while others go to the extreme in offering full desert racing spec for those wannabe Baja racers. The TRD-Pro version of the built-in-Texas Tundra falls somewhere to the right of that pendulum arc, offering subtle design cues along with carefully chosen performance upgrades. Beyond the visual branding cues, the most immediately noticeable is the addition of a high flowing performance exhaust, which gives the 381 horsepower 5.7L V8 some serious bark to go with its bite.

When knowledgeable off road enthusiasts start a new build, one of the first changes they often make is to install Bilstein dampers on all four corners, as much for their ability to smooth out a vehicle’s on road presence as for their excellence in the rough stuff. It is heartening that Toyota’s engineering team chose to go the same route when outfitting the TRD-Pro Tundra, as the highway ride is firm yet delightfully smooth for such a big truck.

Naturally, our trip began with the obligatory McMuffin stop!

  Week long road trip to feed people must start with breakfast @sandy_grant @driveteq.ca @toyotacanada @dcsappliances #roadtrip #eventlife #bbqlife #barbeque #

A post shared by Gary Grant (@thegarageguy) on May 29, 2017 at 7:50am PDT

  Our route would take us from Durham region, east of Toronto, through cottage country and skirting the nation’s capital before crossing over into Quebec and heading to ski country. For years, when heading to Ottawa, we would travel the route along Highway 401 like most drivers, until we learned that the trip following the two lane Highway 7 is just as quick. The driving is much more laid back, with great views and lots of little towns to explore and grab a coffee along the way.

  Ceement grey #trdpro Tundra and a caboose! @toyotacanada @dcsappliances @driveteq.ca #havelock #roadtrip #roadlesstraveled #ontario #discoveron @sandy_grant #bbqlife #eventlife

A post shared by Gary Grant (@thegarageguy) on May 29, 2017 at 8:50am PDT

We know the route well now, so our exploration began after our usual visit to Costco in Gatineau to pick up beer for the week. For Ontario residents visiting the Ottawa area, it is worth mentioning that beer in Quebec is seriously cheap. At Costco, which is less than 10 minutes from Parliament Hill, a 24 bottle case of Stella Artois is $46.95 plus deposit at The Beer Store. The same package at Costco is just $27.95 plus deposit.

Having allowed ourselves an extra day before we had to feed the masses, we decided to take a fairly direct route to Mont Tremblant, so we could make the most of our time away. Our drive took us north east on the scenic Highway 50 headed towards the Laurentians, before turning north on the more interesting 323 at Montebello.

As the countryside switched from riverlands to mountains, we began to encounter long, steep climbs. These ascents were of little concern to the heavily loaded rig, but there was one really cool side effect: the six speed transmission dropped to fourth for long stretches, the big V8 spun up to 3,500 rpm at 100 km/h, with a bellow worthy of a Trans-Am car bouncing through the neighbouring forest.

It is worth noting that during our first two days with the TRD-Pro, just booting around town with an empty truck, we averaged about 16.8 L/100 km. As I said before, we knew that the Tundra was a bit thirsty. We were pleasantly surprised to find that even with a very full load, the Tundra’s fuel economy improved to an impressive 16.2 L/100 km at highway speeds.

If you talk to any car racers from the golden age of the late Sixties about Le Circuit Mont Tremblant, inevitably the call it St. Jovite. This is largely because the largest neighbouring town, the one which actually has stores etc. is called St. Jovite. The actual town of Mont Tremblant is a tiny hamlet in between the racing circuit and the gigantic pedestrian village at the base of the historic mountain.

We spent our first night in a wonderful, independent resort called Château Beauvallon, just a few minutes from the pedestrian village. This was the last week in May and we learned that while visiting ski country in the off season can mean that some features, like restaurants, are not available, there are also some perks. We were one of only three rooms occupied in the 70 room hotel and staff had nicely located us directly next to the outdoor hot tub, while the other guests were on the opposite side of the hotel. Even though the on site restaurant was closed, dinner was no problem, as the hotel offered a free shuttle to and from the village.

The draft beer rail at Le Diable micro brewery in Mont Tremblant.

Several of the restaurants in the village were also closed given the time off year, so we settled on dinner at the chain restaurant Casey’s. To say we were unimpressed would be charitable.

I was determined to have a bit of fun so I decided that a visit to Le Diable, a micro brewery right in the pedestrian village, was in order. I have been to the joint on a bunch of press trips, and every single time had a great time. Named after the river which winds its way though the region, Le Diable is night time hub where locals and visitors congregate to consume adult beverages in a setting that is part ski chalet, part sugar shack. On this trip, we spent our evening chatting with a lady who works for the company which owns the resort, watching the shenanigans of a gaggle of off shift employees who were treating the bar like their own playground. It really was quite entertaining!

  Our next few days were spent trackside at the iconic racing track, which hosted the Canadian Grand Prix in 1968 and 1970. We were providing catering for the guests of Driveteq, a company which provides multiple levels of service to driving enthusiasts, from track days and instruction to race car rentals. They have recently included travel in their repertoire, shepherding participants to “bucket list” tracks such as Mosport, Tremblant and The Glen. That meant that we spent our week surrounded by all sorts of sporting machinery, from Alfa Romeo and Porsche to McLaren and Ferrari.

For our final day in town, we took the opportunity to drive some of the spectacular roads around the area. Most are well groomed pavement, with literally hundreds of challenging curves and elevation changes. Mindful of the reality that ski country is usually also cycling country, we learned that the off road focused suspension tuning is remarkably adept at handling twisty roads. The Bilstein shocks do a great job of keeping the wheels planted on hard acceleration over uneven pavement.

The countryside is dotted with cool little hamlets, vintage resorts from days gone by and spectacular views, making a drive through the area almost as much fun as taking in a track day. Watch out for wildlife though, as deer are plentiful and closer in to the ski resort they are not shy.

  For the drive home, we took a similar route home through the Laurentians on our way back to Gatineau, but didn’t think about stopping thanks to the torrential rain. Until of course we came across the home town of Canadian hockey legend Guy Lafleur. Ville de Thurso has a large sculpture of the famed Canadien, so we had to stop by for a quick pic.

The @dcsappliances @toyotacanada #bbq rig with Canadian hockey legend Guy Lafleur. #toyota #trdpro #bbqlife #eventlife #quebec #bbq

A post shared by Gary Grant (@thegarageguy) on Jun 3, 2017 at 8:44am PDT

  The drive home through Ontario cottage country was uneventful as the sun finally broke through and the roads dried out.

  It should actually be pointed out that Quebec is Toyota truck country as there seem to be more of them than any other brand on the roads. Local truck fans knew instantly what our truck was and parking lot compliments were made frequently. One guy event took a picture to send to a buddy.

Overall, the Tundra proved to be a more than willing work partner during the entire trip. We actually spent two full weeks with the truck and it averaged out to 16.3 L/100 KM which is more than acceptable given the tasks it was given. From a comfort level, both driver and passenger were in great shape at both ends of the trip, never feeling anything but comfort.

The Tundra TRD-Pro is one of those test vehicles that I was sad to see go. Very sad.

from mix1 http://ift.tt/2hwHIsg via with this info

[sherlocklexa]

Road tripping with the 2017 Toyota Tundra TRD Pro

  Following the muddy launch of the TRD Pro models of Toyota’s Tundra and Tacoma, we headed to the Northern reaches of the Ottawa Valley for a week of work with a sweet Cement Grey Taco, with the DCS Appliances event trailer in tow.  That combined rig stirred up attention everywhere we went, so when a similar trip came onto the horizon recently, it only made sense to see how the big brother Tundra would fare.

Last Fall, we put the Tundra TRD-Pro through its paces in the dirt in Ontario ski country.

The event would see us head from Whitby to Mont Tremblant, a ski town in rural Quebec which also is the home of Le Circuit Mont Tremblant, where we would spend a the better part of the week feeding our friends from Driveteq, who would be spending a couple of days lapping the historic race track.

Once again, we would be grilling on the trailer mounted DCS grill, but we would also be roasting a pig in our La Caja China roaster, which meant we needed a capable hauler with lots of space. We knew the Tundra is big and that the TRD Pro version is tough off road, but would it do the tasks we were presenting it with? We also knew that the Tundra can be a tad on the thirsty side so we were curious to know how it performed when fully loaded.

The traditional domestics have worked hard to surpass the traditional import truck makers when it comes to interior feel and some of them (specifically Ram’s attention to detail) have risen above the rest, including the Tundra. While the interior of the Tundra is both sporty and tough looking, our thoughts were more to the comfort side of things for a long week of driving. How would the seats fare under the weight of my 3XL sized frame and how would my back feel at the end?

Off road packages offered by some manufacturers tend to be of the mild, stickers and fluff variety while others go to the extreme in offering full desert racing spec for those wannabe Baja racers. The TRD-Pro version of the built-in-Texas Tundra falls somewhere to the right of that pendulum arc, offering subtle design cues along with carefully chosen performance upgrades. Beyond the visual branding cues, the most immediately noticeable is the addition of a high flowing performance exhaust, which gives the 381 horsepower 5.7L V8 some serious bark to go with its bite.

When knowledgeable off road enthusiasts start a new build, one of the first changes they often make is to install Bilstein dampers on all four corners, as much for their ability to smooth out a vehicle’s on road presence as for their excellence in the rough stuff. It is heartening that Toyota’s engineering team chose to go the same route when outfitting the TRD-Pro Tundra, as the highway ride is firm yet delightfully smooth for such a big truck.

Naturally, our trip began with the obligatory McMuffin stop!

  Week long road trip to feed people must start with breakfast @sandy_grant @driveteq.ca @toyotacanada @dcsappliances #roadtrip #eventlife #bbqlife #barbeque #

A post shared by Gary Grant (@thegarageguy) on May 29, 2017 at 7:50am PDT

  Our route would take us from Durham region, east of Toronto, through cottage country and skirting the nation’s capital before crossing over into Quebec and heading to ski country. For years, when heading to Ottawa, we would travel the route along Highway 401 like most drivers, until we learned that the trip following the two lane Highway 7 is just as quick. The driving is much more laid back, with great views and lots of little towns to explore and grab a coffee along the way.

  Ceement grey #trdpro Tundra and a caboose! @toyotacanada @dcsappliances @driveteq.ca #havelock #roadtrip #roadlesstraveled #ontario #discoveron @sandy_grant #bbqlife #eventlife

A post shared by Gary Grant (@thegarageguy) on May 29, 2017 at 8:50am PDT

We know the route well now, so our exploration began after our usual visit to Costco in Gatineau to pick up beer for the week. For Ontario residents visiting the Ottawa area, it is worth mentioning that beer in Quebec is seriously cheap. At Costco, which is less than 10 minutes from Parliament Hill, a 24 bottle case of Stella Artois is $46.95 plus deposit at The Beer Store. The same package at Costco is just $27.95 plus deposit.

Having allowed ourselves an extra day before we had to feed the masses, we decided to take a fairly direct route to Mont Tremblant, so we could make the most of our time away. Our drive took us north east on the scenic Highway 50 headed towards the Laurentians, before turning north on the more interesting 323 at Montebello.

As the countryside switched from riverlands to mountains, we began to encounter long, steep climbs. These ascents were of little concern to the heavily loaded rig, but there was one really cool side effect: the six speed transmission dropped to fourth for long stretches, the big V8 spun up to 3,500 rpm at 100 km/h, with a bellow worthy of a Trans-Am car bouncing through the neighbouring forest.

It is worth noting that during our first two days with the TRD-Pro, just booting around town with an empty truck, we averaged about 16.8 L/100 km. As I said before, we knew that the Tundra was a bit thirsty. We were pleasantly surprised to find that even with a very full load, the Tundra’s fuel economy improved to an impressive 16.2 L/100 km at highway speeds.

If you talk to any car racers from the golden age of the late Sixties about Le Circuit Mont Tremblant, inevitably the call it St. Jovite. This is largely because the largest neighbouring town, the one which actually has stores etc. is called St. Jovite. The actual town of Mont Tremblant is a tiny hamlet in between the racing circuit and the gigantic pedestrian village at the base of the historic mountain.

We spent our first night in a wonderful, independent resort called Château Beauvallon, just a few minutes from the pedestrian village. This was the last week in May and we learned that while visiting ski country in the off season can mean that some features, like restaurants, are not available, there are also some perks. We were one of only three rooms occupied in the 70 room hotel and staff had nicely located us directly next to the outdoor hot tub, while the other guests were on the opposite side of the hotel. Even though the on site restaurant was closed, dinner was no problem, as the hotel offered a free shuttle to and from the village.

The draft beer rail at Le Diable micro brewery in Mont Tremblant.

Several of the restaurants in the village were also closed given the time off year, so we settled on dinner at the chain restaurant Casey’s. To say we were unimpressed would be charitable.

I was determined to have a bit of fun so I decided that a visit to Le Diable, a micro brewery right in the pedestrian village, was in order. I have been to the joint on a bunch of press trips, and every single time had a great time. Named after the river which winds its way though the region, Le Diable is night time hub where locals and visitors congregate to consume adult beverages in a setting that is part ski chalet, part sugar shack. On this trip, we spent our evening chatting with a lady who works for the company which owns the resort, watching the shenanigans of a gaggle of off shift employees who were treating the bar like their own playground. It really was quite entertaining!

  Our next few days were spent trackside at the iconic racing track, which hosted the Canadian Grand Prix in 1968 and 1970. We were providing catering for the guests of Driveteq, a company which provides multiple levels of service to driving enthusiasts, from track days and instruction to race car rentals. They have recently included travel in their repertoire, shepherding participants to “bucket list” tracks such as Mosport, Tremblant and The Glen. That meant that we spent our week surrounded by all sorts of sporting machinery, from Alfa Romeo and Porsche to McLaren and Ferrari.

For our final day in town, we took the opportunity to drive some of the spectacular roads around the area. Most are well groomed pavement, with literally hundreds of challenging curves and elevation changes. Mindful of the reality that ski country is usually also cycling country, we learned that the off road focused suspension tuning is remarkably adept at handling twisty roads. The Bilstein shocks do a great job of keeping the wheels planted on hard acceleration over uneven pavement.

The countryside is dotted with cool little hamlets, vintage resorts from days gone by and spectacular views, making a drive through the area almost as much fun as taking in a track day. Watch out for wildlife though, as deer are plentiful and closer in to the ski resort they are not shy.

  For the drive home, we took a similar route home through the Laurentians on our way back to Gatineau, but didn’t think about stopping thanks to the torrential rain. Until of course we came across the home town of Canadian hockey legend Guy Lafleur. Ville de Thurso has a large sculpture of the famed Canadien, so we had to stop by for a quick pic.

The @dcsappliances @toyotacanada #bbq rig with Canadian hockey legend Guy Lafleur. #toyota #trdpro #bbqlife #eventlife #quebec #bbq

A post shared by Gary Grant (@thegarageguy) on Jun 3, 2017 at 8:44am PDT

  The drive home through Ontario cottage country was uneventful as the sun finally broke through and the roads dried out.

  It should actually be pointed out that Quebec is Toyota truck country as there seem to be more of them than any other brand on the roads. Local truck fans knew instantly what our truck was and parking lot compliments were made frequently. One guy event took a picture to send to a buddy.

Overall, the Tundra proved to be a more than willing work partner during the entire trip. We actually spent two full weeks with the truck and it averaged out to 16.3 L/100 KM which is more than acceptable given the tasks it was given. From a comfort level, both driver and passenger were in great shape at both ends of the trip, never feeling anything but comfort.

The Tundra TRD-Pro is one of those test vehicles that I was sad to see go. Very sad.

from car2 http://ift.tt/2hwHIsg via as shown a lot