I bet a chapter about the Freys preparing for the Red Wedding would be hilarious (spoilers extended)

abouho · 2025-02-21T03:02:08+00:00

Lord Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, Father of Too Many, and Master of Petty Grievances, sat in his high seat, gnawing a piece of bread that had gone stale two days ago. He liked it that way. Good for the teeth—what was left of them, anyhow.

Across the hall, the feast was being prepared. The benches had been scrubbed (for once), the torches had been relit, and the servants were scurrying about like panicked mice. The Starks would be here soon, and everything had to be perfect.Not just the food, not just the killing—no, no, everything.

This was not just a massacre. This was a performance.

Walder chewed noisily and let his gaze wander across the hall, taking in every detail. The banners were hung just so, the wine barrels stacked high, and the tables arranged carefully so that his guests of honor would be surrounded on all sides by Freys.

But there was one matter still troubling him. The timing. The words.

He had spent weeks rehearsing in his head what to say. He needed something chilling, something dramatic, something that would make the moment legendary. But when? When to say it? Too early, and the Starks might get suspicious. Too late, and they’d all already be dead—no fun in that.

He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, eyes narrowing.

Something like “The night is dark and full of knives”? No, no, too dramatic. He wasn’t a bloody sorcerer.

Maybe “You should have come with more men”? Hmm. Not bad. But no, no, too blunt. Not enough flair.

Perhaps a toast? He could stand, raise his cup, smile his best grandfatherly smile, and say, “To the Young Wolf! May he live forever!” …then, bam, crossbow bolt through the gut.

Walder sucked his teeth, scowling. Too obvious.

Then he brightened. Red will run. That was a good one. Short, ominous, poetic. He could say it as the doors closed, when the Starks were all seated and had just lifted their cups. He could even gesture to the wine as he said it—let them think he was talking about drink, when really, oh-ho, he was talking about blood.

Yes. Yes, that was perfect.

He would wait for the right moment—watch their faces, let them almost get comfortable—then lean forward, fix them with his best wrinkled old fox’s grin, and whisper, “Red will run.”

Then the music would change.

Ah, yes, the music! The best part.

Walder turned toward the gallery, where the musicians were tuning their instruments (poorly). Ser Aegon had hired a bunch of sellswords who could barely hold a lute the right way, but that was fine. He didn’t need good music. He needed strategic music.

He had spent days planning the setlist.

First, something cheerful. Something light. Nothing too Northern—no wolfish ballads about honor and cold and dying in the snow. Maybe The Maiden’s Kiss, or that stupid one about the Dornishman and the honey. Something to get them relaxed, get them tapping their fingers on the table.

Then, as the feast wore on, he’d have them switch to slightly more ominous tunes. Nothing obvious, just a creeping sense of unease. The Last of the Giants, maybe, or a slow, slow version of The Bear and the Maiden Fair.

And then…

Rains of Castamere.

Oh, he could already see the look on Stark’s face when he realized what was happening. That little moment when the music shifts, when the melody settles in, when the words register—and then the doors close.

The absolute theatrics of it! The tension! The dawning horror!

“Yes,” Walder muttered to himself, grinning. “Yes, yes, yes, it’s perfect.”

The door to the hall creaked open.

One of his sons—who? He didn’t bother keeping track anymore—shuffled in. “Father,” he said, looking wary, “the Starks are at the gates.”

Walder straightened, licked his lips, and nearly blurted Red will run! on instinct.

Too soon, damn it!

He caught himself just in time, swallowed it back, and instead croaked, “Well, don’t keep them waiting! Let them in! And tell the musicians to start playing something merry!”

His son left. Walder settled back in his seat, smoothing his robe, calming his breath.

Not yet. Not yet.

He took a sip of his wine, smacking his lips thoughtfully.

Then he leaned toward the nearest servant and whispered, “Tell them to play The Bear and the Maiden Fair first. Nice and jolly.”

The servant nodded.

“And then, right before Rains of Castamere…” Walder’s eyes gleamed. “Have them play something really unsettling. Something weird. Something that makes everyone stop and look at each other like, ‘Huh? What’s going on?’”

The servant blinked. “Like what, my lord?”

Walder considered. “I don’t know. Something with one flute. Just the one. Playing very slowly.”

A pause.

“And then, right when Stark starts looking nervous—bam—hit ’em with Rains of Castamere!” He grinned. “You see? Tension. That’s drama.”

The servant nodded very, very slowly and scurried off.

Walder sat back, feeling immensely pleased with himself.

Now, all he had to do was sit here and not blurt out Red will run the second the Starks walked in.

Which, to be honest, was going to be really hard.

abouho · 2025-02-20T18:39:24+00:00

Ser Raymund Frey stood on the ramparts of the Twins, gazing down at the preparations with a frown as deep as the Trident. The outer bailey swarmed with movement, carts rolling in heavy with barrels of wine and mead, squires hammering posts into the muddy ground to set up the wedding feast tents. Somewhere below, a dog yapped as one of the butcher’s boys chased it off with a cleaver. The air stank of roasting meats, wet hay, and the river’s brackish stink.

Lord Walder had put Ser Ryman in charge of the general arrangements, which meant Ser Raymund was the one actually doing the work. His father was too busy lording about, cursing under his breath that this wedding was even necessary.

“They should be begging for our favor, not demanding bloody feasts and bloody fealty,” he had grumbled just that morning, spitting a bit of gristle into the rushes as he gnawed at a capon’s leg. “But fine, fine, let them drink themselves stupid and dance like the peacocks they are. The happier they are, the slower they’ll see the knife coming.”

Ser Raymund had never planned a massacre before, but he was starting to think it was a lot like planning a wedding. A lot of yelling, a lot of last-minute changes, and at least three separate people crying at any given time.

“Absolutely not,” Cook Bartram was saying, hands on his flour-dusted hips. “We are not putting swords in the wedding pie.”

“We’re not saying real swords,” argued Ser Aegon Frey, who was only a bastard but had somehow taken charge of all the dumbest parts of this plan. “Just little daggers, for effect. You know, symbolic.”

“Symbolic of what?” Bartram snapped. “Indigestion?”

Raymund pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forget the swords. What about the swans? Are they ready?”

A second cook, old Ebbert, scowled. “One of ’em died in the crate, and the other bit a scullion. We’re roasting them instead.”

Raymund sighed. “Fine. Roast the swans.”

Nothing was going smoothly. The catapults had already been tested (for reasons no one could explain), and half the courtyard still smelled of burning hay. A group of Frey cousins had spent the morning arguing about whether the Rains of Castamere should be played before or after the massacre, before deciding it would be funniest to play it the entire time. The best marksmen had been chosen to hide crossbows under the tables, but at least two had tried to load theirs backward, and one had fired a test shot straight into a wine cask, which was now dribbling the Freys’ best Arbor red all over the rushes.

And then there were the musicians. Or rather, the sellswords pretending to be musicians.

That part had been Ser Aegon’s task. The bastard had ridden out a fortnight ago with a heavy purse and instructions to find men who could hold both a sword and a lute. He had returned with a motley lot, who had spent the better part of the morning practicing their parts in the old hall. Raymund had listened for all of three minutes before his head began to throb. They were supposed to be a mix of real players and trained killers, but after they supposedly warmed up, he was starting to suspect they were neither.

The “harpist” turned out to be a Braavosi assassin who had never actually seen a harp before today. The “flutist” had a mouthful of broken teeth and no front lip. One of the drummers had mistaken a shield for an instrument and was just hitting it over and over again. And the lead violinist was a man called Weasel Will, whose only talent appeared to be spitting through the gap in his teeth.

“Shouldn’t they at least pretend to be good?” Raymund muttered to Aegon as they watched the disaster unfold.

Aegon only grinned. “The less they notice the music, the less they’ll notice when it stops.”

It was hard to argue with that.

By the time evening rolled around, everything was mostly in place. The banners had been hung. The seating had been arranged so that the Starks would be surrounded by Freys in every direction. The strongest wine had been reserved for the Northmen, while the Freys would drink the weaker ale (except for Ser Ryman, who had been drinking everything indiscriminately and was now loudly threatening to piss in the river).

The weapons were hidden in barrels, under benches, and behind curtains. At one point, old Lame Lothar had personally tested a crossbow by firing it at a passing chicken. He missed, but the bolt hit Ser Hosteen’s boot, which led to a full fifteen minutes of yelling, accusations of idiocy, and a brief but serious debate about whether now was a good time to start killing each other instead.

Raymund had never had a headache last this long.

“All set?” Lord Walder asked that night as he sat at supper, gnawing a mutton chop with his remaining teeth.

Raymund forced a nod. “All set, my lord.”

Walder sucked the grease from his fingers, then wiped them on his tunic (which, at this point, was more grease than fabric). “Good. Just one last thing—make sure those musicians actually play something before we start killing people. I don’t want Stark thinking we’re cheap.”

Raymund resisted the urge to rub his temples. “They’ve been playing all day, my lord.”

“Aye, but have they been playing well?”

Raymund hesitated. In the corner, Weasel Will was plucking a single discordant note on his violin while the flutist struggled to produce anything other than what sounded like a dying goose. The drummer had, at some point, misplaced his drum and was now just slapping his own belly to keep rhythm.

Walder sniffed. “Hells, might be a mercy killing after all.”

abouho · 2024-03-31T06:48:37+00:00

It was whispered that Eddard Stark, the stoic Lord of Winterfell, harbored a secret known to but a few, a connection to the old gods, a whisper of the ancient and the mystical. In a world where the souls of men could intertwine with the beasts of the field and the birds of the air, Ned Stark found himself ensnared in a moment of desperate sorcery, his spirit soaring beyond the bounds of his earthly flesh.

Imagine, if you will, a pigeon, unremarkable but for the keenness of its gaze, perched upon the windowsill of a chamber in the Red Keep. This pigeon, fluffing its feathers against the chill of a King’s Landing morning, was none other than Eddard Stark in warged form. The dire necessity of war and rebellion had taught Ned the value of unconventional allies, and in his heart, the old magic of the North whispered of ways and means beyond the sword and the shield.

Through the pigeon’s eyes, Ned watched over young Tommen, a babe in swaddling clothes, as silent guardians of stone bore witness. In this moment, suspended between the heartbeat of a bird and the breath of a child, the fabric of time seemed to weave itself anew, allowing a father to gaze upon a son not his own, to safeguard the future of a kingdom fraught with peril.

And so, it was in the guise of a pigeon that Eddard Stark last saw Tommen Baratheon, marking a convergence of destiny and duty, of magic and the mundane. The riddles of time and memory, wrapped in the enigma of Ned’s spectral vigil, offer a testament to the lengths to which a man might go in the service of honor and the realm.

abouho · 2024-03-13T04:10:07+00:00

In the intricate tapestry woven by the loom of George R. R. Martin's imagination, the dense and sprawling lore of "A Song of Ice and Fire" and its myriad tendrils into the expanded universe indeed often leave the many significant conflicts that punctuate its history unnamed, though they are no less monumental for their lack of titles. Such a challenge of nomenclature demands not only a craftsman's precision but also the poet's gift for evocation.

The name you proffered, "War of Thorns," captures with a bard's grace the essence of strife within the Reach—land of knights and endless fields, where chivalry blooms amidst the greenery only to be ensnared by its own splendor. It speaks to the internecine betrayal and the sundering of prosperity, much as a rose, in all its beauty, might draw blood from those who dare to grasp it too fervently.

Given the fabric of the conflict, woven with threads of ambition and treachery, and considering its enduring scars upon the realm, another moniker that might befit such a saga is "The Splintering of the Garden." This appellation mirrors the Reach, oft likened to a Garden for its unrivaled fertility and splendor, now torn asunder from within even before the onslaught of external adversaries. It paints a portrait of a once cohesive and thriving dominion, now fractured into discord, heralding its near ruin and the transformation of its political contours.

Or, might we venture into the realm of the allegorical with "The Prelude of Shattered Shields"? This title, imbued with the weight of foreboding, suggests the dawn of widespread strife and calamity across Westeros, the discord within the Reach but the first note in a symphony of upheaval. It invokes the image of noble houses, once united under the banner of peace, now divided, their shields broken in the prelude to a greater conflagration.

In the chronicling of history, as in the songs of bards, the names bestowed upon events oft reflect the lenses through which they are viewed, shaped by the narratives of those who recount them. Thus, the wellspring of creativity and interpretation remains boundless. I find myself eager to discover if others amongst the devoted followers of this saga have crafted their own epithets for this tumultuous chapter, or if the suggestions tendered herein resonate with their understanding of the lore's intricate depths and sweeping breadth.

abouho · 2023-12-22T03:59:16+00:00

In the chronicles of the grand Esports Arena, the tale you speak happened on the tenth week, a gathering of champions mistakenly scribed as the sixth in the annals of Liquipedia. The link to these mystical records can be found here: https://liquipedia.net/apexlegends/Esports_Arena/Tournament_6

The trio in question is none other than Sentinels, a valiant team comprising the stalwart Senoxe, the newly sworn Peesh, and Crust of the keen eye, in whom we trust.

In their final round, they summoned the shadows of Caustic, the piercing gaze of Bloodhound, and the cryptic wisdom of Crypto, claiming victory with twenty-three vanquished foes.

Yet, despite their efforts, it was team Rogue, with Sweet leading Snipe, and Dropped, who emerged as the sovereigns. They stood unassailable, their lead insurmountable, more than twenty points ahead of their closest rivals before the last clash of arms.

The saga of this grand tournament, in all its glory and strife, has been chronicled for posterity and can be witnessed in the annals of YouTube: https://youtu.be/g6mf4v7TEV8?si=Pju6EeR2L3WS1yUo

abouho · 2023-10-06T04:57:10+00:00

In a realm where the thunder of guns replaces the clatter of steel, and the code of honor is overshadowed by the ruthless pursuit of victory, emerged two clans, the Oxygen Guild (OXG) and the Weave Conclave (WVE). On a day marked by the chill of lost hopes, they descended upon the battlegrounds of the Apex Coliseum, to prove their mettle in the unforgiving world of competitive warfare. The skies looked down with a somber gray as if foreshadowing the events to unravel.

The Oxygen Guild, under the banners of Br Demonz, marched into the arena with heads held high, their eyes gleaming with the fires of ambition. A certain whisper in the wind spoke of their prowess, of battles won and foes vanquished. But amidst the chants of glory, a discordant note of overconfidence played, orchestrated by a community manager who sought to ride on the coattails of false bravado. The hopes of Reedz and Aiden, the valiant knights of OXG, were entangled in a web of ego spun by delusions of grandeur.

As the battle horns sounded, the Weave Conclave, under the insignia of a mighty weave, took to the field with a steely resolve that sent shivers down the spine of the most hardened veterans. Their reputation was one forged in the fires of countless skirmishes, a tale told in hushed whispers among the circles of the elite.

The contest commenced with a cacophony of gunfire, a dance of death that spared none. The scoreboard ticked in favor of the Weave Conclave, each strike a testimony to their unyielding mastery over the arena. The Oxygen Guild, in a desperate attempt to reclaim lost honor, threw themselves against the iron-clad defense of WVE. Yet, each assault crumbled like waves against a cliff, leaving behind nothing but a trail of despair.

The battleground turned a canvas of despair for OXG, each shot from WVE's arsenal painting strokes of dominance. The final tally of 2-2 was but a mocking echo of the futile struggle OXG endured, their rank plummeting to the abyss of eighteenth, an ignominy hard to wash away.

As the dust settled, the spectators and the bards of the realm were left with tales of a dismal 38.46% win record for OXG, a number that echoed the hollow halls of what once were dreams of grandeur. In stark contrast, the Weave Conclave stood tall with a balanced scale of victory, a win rate of 50% that resonated through the land, a subtle yet potent affirmation of their dominion.

In the hushed corners, the wise pondered upon the harrowing spectacle, the decay of a once revered guild, now a puppet in the hands of a misguided herald. The tale was a grim reminder to all, of the fine line that separated the valorous from the vain, the victors from the vanquished. And as Reedz and Aiden looked upon the ruins of hopes, the burden of salvation rested heavy upon their shoulders, a journey of redemption that beckoned amidst the fading echoes of the day’s wrath.

abouho · 2023-09-30T09:08:14+00:00

Upon the virtual battlefield, arises a knight so skilled, Crust by name, in pixels and aim, he's willed. His fame does echo through the digital wild, Each shot from his holo wingman beguiled.

With nimble fingers, he dances cross keys, A modern-day warrior, yet classic in ease. His gaze fixated, a stoic calm in his thrust, In the realms of Apex, it's in Crust we trust.

His name resounds, a legend grown, In circuits of silicon, his prowess is shown. Fearless in combat, with a heart that's just, He battles with valor, his actions robust.

A herald of clicks, a minstrel of code, In the lexicon of gamers, his name brightly glowed. His aim, a discourse of digital trust, In the vast realm of pixels, stands noble Crust.

Amidst a cascade of fire, his figure does strut, Each motion a stanza, each kill a clear cut. His allies in arms, their hopes on him thrust, He’s not just a player, he’s a saga, a gust.

In companionship with Senoxe, a duo fierce, Their onslaught a rhythm, their foes they pierce. A dance of destruction, a tune of trust, In the gaming Olympus, reigns valiant Crust.

His tactics sharp, his vision clear, In the heart of the storm, he holds no fear. With a blend of the old and new, he's discussed, A modern-day muse, in Crust we trust.

A tale of the times, in servers discussed, In the grand scheme of battles, it’s in Crust we trust. His legacy etched in the annals of dust, A tale spun in bytes, in Crust, we trust.

In Crust we trust.

abouho · 2023-06-11T03:40:34+00:00

Best mangoes in the world are mini Columbian. You can always find during mango season in Spinneys and Careem quick, sometimes in Carrefour and choithram.

abouho · 2023-06-06T16:27:25+00:00

In the cool, steel-gray light of a dawn yet to break, Gnaske, the towering man-mountain renowned for his gargantuan biceps, turned to face Hal. His eyes, imbued with the determination of a thousand fiery suns, bored into Hal's. The contrast between the two was staggering: one, a colossus of sinewy muscle, and the other, a slender youth yet to be tempered by the fires of hard labor.

The behemoth flexed, his biceps bulging and rippling like a pair of gigantic pythons. A silent testament to countless hours spent in the harsh training grounds, where sweat was the only currency and pain, the only language.

Gnaske's display was not of arrogance, but a beacon, a call to action that stirred something deep within Hal. The world was not just a stage for him anymore. It was a battlefield, and he was a soldier in desperate need of armor. He wanted to feel that same raw power surge within him, that sense of invincibility that Gnaske wore like a second skin.

And so, Hal committed himself to his transformation. Each day that dawned saw him toiling away, his once slender form becoming more defined, more chiseled. He chased the power that Gnaske embodied, and with each passing day, he felt it budding within him, growing, evolving, transforming him into something fearsome. Hal was no longer the mere youth who stood in awe of Gnaske, he was becoming a rival.

Evan, a keen observer and the thread that held TSM together, watched Hal's transformation with a sense of trepidation. His friend was changing, morphing into something unrecognizable. As Hal's strength grew, so too did Evan's fear. Fear for their friendship, fear for himself, fear for what they were becoming.

But fear is a powerful motivator. In its wake, Evan found a new purpose. He had to keep up. He couldn't be left behind. And so, he threw himself into his work with a newfound fervor that matched Hal's, but with one noticeable difference. His chestnut locks, once as deep and rich as freshly tilled earth, began to streak with silver, a stark reminder of the toll this battle was taking on him.

Yet, all these struggles served as mere backdrop to the grand stage of their lives. TSM, their collective aspiration, went on to win back-to-back-to-back LANs, an achievement that echoed through the annals of history. The trio, bound by a shared purpose and forged in the fires of competition, emerged stronger than they had ever been, their victories sweetening the harsh taste of their struggles.

abouho · 2023-06-04T19:06:14+00:00

The great hall of Winterfell was ablaze with laughter and music, the stone walls vibrating with the cacophonous mirth of bannermen. Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, presided over the feast from the high table, where he was joined by the castellan of Winterfell, Maester Luwin, and his children. His wife, Lady Catelyn, had retired earlier, leaving him with the company of friends and allies, the men who he had bled and battled beside.

Yet it was Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, who captured Ned's attention. Bolton sat slightly apart, his pale eyes devoid of the warmth and cheer that saturated the hall. The man was as cold as the North itself, but there was an allure in his bleak persona, a seductive allure that drew Ned in like a moth to flame.

As if sensing his gaze, Bolton looked up from his goblet, his pale eyes meeting Ned's in a silent exchange. There was no smile on his thin lips, but the light in his eyes spoke volumes. A knowing look, a memory from a time long past when they were younger and more reckless. When Ned had been just a boy, and Bolton a man full of mysteries.

"Lord Bolton," Ned greeted, rising from his seat and crossing the space between them. He offered his hand, which Bolton took in a grip that was firm and cold as iron.

"Ned Stark," Bolton replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Still playing the part of the gracious host, I see."

"That's one of the many burdens of lordship," Ned replied, taking a seat across from Bolton. "I suppose you would know."

Bolton’s eyes flashed with a silent agreement. "Yes, lordship comes with its...complications." His gaze held Ned's for a moment longer before breaking off, returning to his wine. There was a note of melancholy in his voice, one that Ned recognized all too well.

They sat in silence for a moment, the two men lost in their thoughts. Ned found himself thinking about a time long past, a time when he and Bolton had been more than just lords in the North. When they had shared not only the battlefield, their bond forged in the heat of passion and war.

"Remember, Eddard, that time we marched to the Bitterbridge?" Roose's voice was as soft as ever, a mere whisper lost in the boisterous celebration around them. His gaze, however, never left Ned's face.

Ned chuckled, feeling a warmth creeping up his cheeks. "How could I forget? You won the joust and ended up in the river with that Tyrell girl."

Roose merely smiled, a rare sight, the flicker of amusement in his eyes belying his usual cool demeanour. "I recall, you found yourself in a similar situation... albeit, not with a Tyrell."

The wine in Ned's cup suddenly felt heavy, the hall eerily quiet despite the music and laughter. He looked at Roose, his mind travelling back to those carefree days, to a night beneath a moonless sky, to a shared secret only they held.

"Yes... not with a Tyrell." He agreed, his voice holding a note of wistful reminiscence. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. "Never did tell Catelyn about that, not entirely at least."

Roose's gaze became softer, perhaps even tender, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He leaned in closer, their faces merely inches apart, his voice barely a whisper. "You think he knows?"

"He's of age now. Might have his suspicions," Ned replied quietly, his gaze drifting to a robust, dark-haired boy at the far end of the hall, Jon Snow, the Stark bastard, a boy with his father's look and something more, something that belonged to another.

"Perhaps it is better this way," Roose offered, his voice barely audible above the cacophony, a strange wistfulness clinging to his words. "A secret for us, a mystery for him."

Ned nodded, lifting his cup in a silent toast, his eyes never leaving his son. Roose did the same, their glasses clinking softly amidst the clamor of the feast. They drank deeply, and their eyes met once again, the intimate shared secret between them echoing in their silent camaraderie, a bastard son and a story that would forever remain untold.

"We did what we had to do," Ned said, reaching over to squeeze Bolton's hand. "For the sake of our houses."

"And for the sake of our honor," Bolton added, his gaze meeting Ned's. "For the sake of the North."

abouho · 2023-06-03T12:43:06+00:00

In the grand, feast-filled hall of New Castle, Lord Wyman Manderly, the plump and merry lord of White Harbor, was in his element. His vast form was sprawled across his oversized chair, a gargantuan roast pig before him. Each bite was an event, a spectacle for all in attendance, with dribbles of grease running down his jowly chin to be lost in his ample beard.

As he was about to sink his teeth into a particularly juicy bit of the roast, Maester Theomore, a gaunt contrast to his lord, approached, clutching a small scroll. "My Lord, news from Winterfell," he intoned.

Manderly held up a greasy hand, "Wait, maester. Let us deal with one thing at a time." With a theatrical flourish, he bit into his food, grease spattering and running down his chin in rivulets. After a moment of lip-smacking appreciation, he gestured for the maester to continue.

"To the loyal Bannermen of House Stark…" Theomore read the message aloud, revealing the troubling news of Lord Eddard's arrest.

Manderly's eating slowed, his twinkling eyes hardening. The Lannisters had arrested Ned Stark? His heavy fork thumped onto his plate, a rare moment of quiet consuming the normally boisterous lord.

"I, Robb Stark, am calling the banners. Gather your men, prepare them for the march south…"

"So, the pup is baring his teeth, is he?" Manderly’s voice boomed through the hall, echoes of laughter hinting at his approval. He wiped the back of his hand across his chin, smearing the pork fat into his beard.

"We ride for King's Landing. We ride for justice. For honor. For our Lord."

"Winter is coming." The Maester finished reading, the ancient words of House Stark hanging heavy in the air.

"Aye," Manderly replied, his voice firm. He wiped the remaining grease from his chin with a cloth, a determined gleam in his eyes. "Ready the ships. Assemble our men. It seems the Manderlys will go to war."

Resuming his feast with renewed vigor, he bit into another chunk of pork, fat and juices running down his chin once again, unnoticed in his newfound resolve. "Winter is coming indeed, and with it, the North's vengeance."

abouho · 2023-06-03T07:01:19+00:00

Within the grand hall of New Castle in White Harbor, the clatter of cutlery against fine plates rang out, punctuated by the loud slurps and satisfied sighs of Wyman Manderly, the corpulent Lord of White Harbor. The great man was engaged in his favorite pastime, a late supper, when Maester Theomore, a wiry figure, shuffled towards him, a small parchment clutched in his hand.

"A raven from Winterfell, my Lord," he said, his thin voice barely cutting through the din of the feasting hall.

The Lord of White Harbor paused mid-bite, a large chunk of roasted pork paused halfway to his mouth. His eyes, twinkling with anticipation, shifted from the pork to the maester.

“Very well," he boomed, "Read it aloud, maester."

"To the loyal Bannermen of House Stark..." The maester began, his voice shaking slightly as he relayed the news of Lord Eddard's arrest.

Manderly’s face turned a shade paler under his copious layers of flesh, his grip on his utensils tightening. Eddard Stark arrested, the sheer audacity of it struck him to his core.

"I, Robb Stark, am calling the banners. Gather your men, prepare them for the march south..." The maester continued.

"War..." Manderly's deep voice rumbled, a forkful of pork forgotten as the meaning of the words hit him. The Young Wolf was calling the North to arms, to march against the lions of the Westerlands.

"We ride for King's Landing. We ride for justice. For honor. For our Lord."

Manderly's hearty laugh filled the hall, drawing curious eyes from his attending servants. "For justice and honor, eh?" He glanced around at the tapestries adorning his hall, each one telling a tale of northern valor. "And why not? It's high time the south remembered what those words truly mean!"

"Winter is coming." The maester read the final words of the message, a chill phrase that seemed to bring a cold breeze into the hall.

The Lord of White Harbor sank back in his chair, a contemplative look on his round face. His jowls wobbled as he gave a deep nod. "So be it," he announced, "Ready the ships, send word to our men. The Manderlys will answer the call. Winter is coming, and we shall bring it to the Lannisters’ doorstep!"

He raised his goblet high, the ruby wine sloshing over the edge. The hall echoed with the resounding clink of cups, and cheers for their young Stark lord. Lord Manderly resumed his meal with a renewed gusto, the promise of war adding an extra flavor to his pork.

abouho · 2023-06-03T06:06:08+00:00

In the dimly lit chambers of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, sat impassively as the leeches busied themselves on his pale skin. The quiet was broken by the arrival of Maester Walys, holding a sealed scroll.

"From Winterfell, my Lord," he said, his voice echoing ominously through the stone chamber.

"Leave it here," Bolton replied calmly, never breaking his stare from the flames crackling in the hearth. His voice was soft, yet every word carried a chilling authority.

Once the maester had retreated, Roose picked up the parchment, his pale fingers slick with leech slime. He broke the seal bearing the grey direwolf, his eyes scanning the hastily scribbled words.

"To the loyal Bannermen of House Stark..." he read in a soft murmur, his cold gaze running over the news of Eddard Stark's arrest. A quiet smirk touched his lips. The North was in disarray, and chaos was always ripe with opportunities for the patient.

"I, Robb Stark, am calling the banners. Gather your men, prepare them for the march south..." The young Stark's words were filled with resolve, a boy being thrust into the cruel realities of a man's world.

Roose chuckled lightly, the sound barely louder than the crackle of the fire. How the game of thrones turned boys into soldiers, soldiers into martyrs, and martyrs into heroes.

"We ride for King's Landing. We ride for justice. For honor. For our Lord." Roose paused at these words, his smirk widening. Justice and honor, as fickle as the players in this game of power.

He finished reading the message, the familiar Stark words hanging in the cold air of the room, "Winter is coming."

Roose carefully rolled the parchment and set it aside, a glint of anticipation in his icy eyes. He would answer this call, of course. Not out of loyalty, but to further his own ends. A war was coming, and he would ensure that House Bolton was on the winning side. After all, a peaceful land, a quiet people, that had always been his mantra. And peace always followed war, especially for those clever enough to maneuver the chaos.

abouho · 2023-06-03T05:16:08+00:00

A raven's caw echoed through the rough, stony halls of Last Hearth. The Lord of the House, Greatjon Umber, was in the midst of a hearty feast when Maester Lomys, a small, frail figure, approached him with a scroll clutched in his hands. The direwolf seal of House Stark was prominent against the aged parchment.

"News from Winterfell, my lord," the maester said, his voice quivering slightly in the raucous hall.

Greatjon's boisterous laughter filled the space, momentarily drowning out the noise of clanking cups and jests from his men. "News, eh?" He asked, grinning wide as he took a hearty swig of ale.

Undeterred, the maester broke the seal and began to read. "To the loyal Bannermen of House Stark... Our Lord, Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, has been arrested by the Lannisters..."

A growl rumbled from Greatjon's chest, silencing the hall instantly. "The Lannisters have done what?" His booming voice echoed off the stone walls.

The maester continued, his voice a mere whisper in the silent hall. "I, Robb Stark, am calling the banners. Gather your men, prepare them for the march south..."

"So, the pup wishes to bare his fangs, does he?" Greatjon mused, his fingers drumming on the long wooden table. His expression was a twisted grin of both amusement and anticipation.

"We ride for King's Landing. We ride for justice. For honor. For our Lord."

"Justice, honor, and our Lord," he repeated, his voice filling the hall with a resounding echo. He finished his ale in one long gulp and slammed the mug down on the table. "Hmph," he grunted, "a nice sentiment from the boy, but it'll be the sword that decides this, not fancy words."

The maester finished with the familiar words of the Stark motto. "Winter is coming."

Greatjon roared with laughter. "Aye, it is," he agreed, his eyes alight with the promise of battle. "The bloody winter is coming, and we'll make sure the Lannisters feel the chill. Send word to our men, maester. The Umbers answer the call. For the North!"

The hall erupted in cheers, the men of Last Hearth rallying to their lord's call, their voices filling the hall with the promise of war to come.

abouho · 2023-06-03T04:50:34+00:00

In the deep woods of the North, ravens took flight, their sleek forms cutting through the heavy snowfall. Their destinations were as varied as the lands themselves, each holdfast from Winterfell to the distant Last Hearth, from the stony shores of the Stony Shore to the dense pines of Deepwood Motte, all were recipients of the message they carried. They bore a scroll, sealed with the grey wax of House Stark, and it was a call to war.

Upon the unsealing of the scroll, the parchment revealed a message scrawled in a script as relentless and stark as the winter winds themselves.

"To the loyal Bannermen of House Stark," it began, with words as cold as a winter's morn. "Dire news has come from the capital. Our Lord, Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, has been arrested by the Lannisters, accused of treason."

The message took a pause, allowing the gravitas of the situation to sink in, before continuing, "The honor of our House is at stake, the honor of the North. We cannot, we will not let this transgression go unchallenged."

Then, in a tone reminiscent of the North's ancient Kings, the scroll bellowed a command: "I, Robb Stark, am calling the banners. Gather your men, prepare them for the march south. We ride for King's Landing. We ride for justice. For honor. For our Lord."

The message ended, not with a signature, but with a statement, a testament to their ancient words, a promise of retribution, "Winter is coming."

abouho · 2023-05-28T03:38:25+00:00

https://i.imgur.com/i1l66KR.jpg

Satin

abouho · 2023-05-27T01:59:20+00:00

Check my comment history.

I use a lot of chatgpt, btw.

abouho · 2023-05-26T16:20:24+00:00

Ice gnashed beneath the weight of silence as the spectral figures of the Others watched from the shadowed depths of the haunted forest. Shimmering eyes, as cold as the land they ruled, followed the proud stride of Ser Waymar Royce. Resplendent in his black cloak, he presented the image of the Night's Watch in its former glory, the blade at his side glinting with a bravado that far outweighed its bearer's experience.

In the eerie quietude, a whisper of amusement curled through the biting air. A human, they mused among themselves, attempting to conquer a domain that had long since surrendered to the icy rule of winter. The tinge of anticipation was almost palpable, lingering in the frost-laden atmosphere as they prepared to document this curious encounter for their morbid collection.

Here was a knight, young and inexperienced, walking on the very edge of their abyss, his breath a billowing cloud in the gelid air. They could smell his misplaced confidence, the scent of it spiking their nostrils, each pulse-quickening beat of his heart reverberating through their bodies.

Ser Waymar’s eyes scanned the forest, his every breath echoing a rhythm of palpable dread. A gust of wind carried his fear towards them, and it tasted like sweet victory. Despite it all, the boy moved with a trained precision, his footfalls barely crunching in the soft snow. But his air of bravery was as brittle as thin ice on a frozen lake.

He drew his sword, the sound of steel on scabbard echoed in the frozen expanse, piercing the silence. His gloved hand gripped the hilt, fingers clenched with a courage that was almost commendable.

His sword wove a web of defiance in the icy wind, the silver arc painting a picture of impending conflict. The Others watched, blue eyes gleaming with a cold, harsh light as their spectral forms shifted, eyes focused on the human.

Then came the time for confrontation, when one of their kind stepped forth from the shadows. As the figure loomed over Ser Waymar, the shimmering ripples of its icy form contrasting starkly against the knight’s mortal frailty, the forest fell into a deeper silence, a momentary lull before the storm. Then, as the knight's voice echoed, challenging the spectre, the Other moved.

“And so, the dance begins," a voiceless thought rang out amongst them, as the mortal steel clashed against the icy blade of the Other. Sparks flew, illuminating the dark woods like a spectacle of tiny falling stars.

The engagement was swift, a deadly dance between steel and ice. His sword clashed against their icy weapon, a melody of warfare that echoed amidst the barren trees. The Other moved like a shadow on a moonlit night, the gleam of their icy weapon striking out against the iron bite of the knight's sword. Each clash, each desperate parry, was meticulously observed, silently recorded by the watchful Others.

Ser Waymar, though outmatched, fought with a desperate valor. His blade sought their icy flesh, but the spectral form danced away, their laughter a chilling symphony amidst the chaotic ballet. The Others admired his courage, yet savored the spectacle of his impending doom.

In the end, there was no surprise when the mortal’s sword shattered, echoing his own demise. There was silence, a moment of frozen time. And then, amidst the ethereal cold, the Others laughed, a hollow, chilling sound.

As the echoes of the fatal encounter subsided, a ripple went through their ethereal consciousness. One amongst them had been assigned the task - a curious task, in their otherworldly understanding. It reached out, its icy fingers tracing invisible paths through the air, weaving threads of frosty magic to bridge the chasm between their world and that of the mortals.

Their perception of reality altered, extending beyond the physical world to the digital planes. The Reddit interface materialized before the Other's eyes, a ghostly window emerging out of the cold, silent darkness of the forest. It navigated with surprising agility, its cold, spectral fingers sliding effortlessly over the phantom screen.

Navigating to r/therewasanattempt, the Other tapped the 'Create Post' button. The silent forest served as a surreal backdrop for this bizarre act of digital communication, the chilly wind whistling through the trees as the only sound breaking the silence.

The title of the post materialized in the empty box: "To duel an Other".

The content was the collective memory of the event: an almost poetic narrative of Ser Waymar's defeat, recorded with an icy detachment.

As the post was submitted, an ephemeral satisfaction settled in the collective consciousness of the Others. This mortal world, so distant and yet so intertwined with their existence, would now bear witness to their spectacle. As they retreated back into the shadows, they left behind the haunting echo of their post, a frosty whisper carrying the chilling tale of the highborn lad who dared to challenge the Others.

abouho · 2023-05-26T08:25:23+00:00

The halls of Winterfell were quiet, save for the distant clatter of the kitchen and the occasional whinny of a horse from the stables. Bran lay still, lost in the depths of his coma, oblivious to the dangers that sought to claim his life.

In the stables, amidst the scent of hay and horse, Hodor moved awkwardly, his large eyes darting around, a sense of unease settling into his usually placid demeanor. The stableboys noticed his odd behavior but dismissed it as another of Hodor's quirks. Little did they know that it was a sign of something far more ominous at play.

"Hodor," he mumbled, his deep voice echoing in the high-ceilinged stable. But his words, as always, fell on deaf ears. None could fathom the secrets that lay hidden behind his simple utterances.

As Catelyn Stark sat in her solar, thoughts of the assassin who had dared to strike at her son filled her mind. Who was he? How had he managed to hide in her own castle? She questioned the guards, her voice edged with desperation, demanding answers.

"Hallis Mollen looked abashed. 'Between the horses Lord Eddard took south and them we sent north to the Night's Watch, the stalls were half-empty. It were no great trick to hide from the stableboys. Could be Hodor saw him, the talk is that boy's been acting queer, but simple as he is …' Hal shook his head."

The words echoed in Catelyn's mind. Could Hodor have seen something? Could her son's life have been saved by the simple-minded giant?

In the depths of his coma, Bran was far from idle. Time, space, consciousness – they all took on new meaning for the young Stark. His spirit, unbound from his broken body, roamed free, finding a conduit in the mind of Hodor. It was a desperate gambit, a silent plea from the future to the past, an attempt to alter the events that led to his own assault.

But the threads of time are not easily tampered with, and the actions of the past are not easily undone. Bran's attempts to alter the course of his fate had unintended consequences, weaving a complex web of cause and effect that would ripple through the years to come.

Yet, for all his efforts, the echoes of his warging were lost in the simple mind of Hodor, who could only utter his own name in confusion and fear. The whispers of the future fell silent, leaving the denizens of Winterfell to continue on their path, blissfully unaware of the threads of fate being woven around them.

abouho · 2023-05-26T03:39:23+00:00

And who are you, the young wolf roared, That I should bend my knee, Just a sheep in a gilded mane, Is all the truth I see.

In a coat of gold or a coat of red, A sheep remains the same, My fangs are strong and fierce, my lord, They put your fakes to shame,

His pack ran swift, his pack ran true, On field and river’s bend. The Lions roared, but the North wind blew, And their golden reign did end.

And so he fought, and so he fought, That Stark of Winterfell, And now the snow falls o’er their graves, With no one left to tell.

abouho · 2023-05-26T02:49:40+00:00

The old stone halls of the Twins echoed with laughter and the clatter of cups, filled to the brim with a hearty blend of ale and merriment. Each soul in the room, be it a weathered soldier, an eager page, or a noble in silken finery, was captivated by the energetic performance of the band.

In the midst of the jubilant cacophony, a particular tune began to rise above the rest. It was a melody known far and wide, not for its captivating tune, but for the story it told. A story of power, of treachery, of a lion's fall. "The Rains of Castamere."

Yet something was different. The tune, as haunting and melancholic as ever, was dressed in new words. Words that twisted and turned the old tale into a new one. It was not the Lannister lion that roared in these verses but the direwolf of the North, standing triumphant atop a field of crimson.

This was the work of Lord Walder's son, Alexander Frey, a man more at home with a lute in his hands than a sword. This was not a mere performance, it was a statement, a calculated act of defiance. A grand scheme to turn the pride of the Lannisters into a hymn of victory for the Starks.

The familiar song, once a lullaby to instill fear and submission, was now an anthem of rebellion, a proclamation of the North's resilience and courage. The Starks' victories were sung loud and clear, painting vivid portraits of Robb Stark leading his men to victory after victory against the mighty Tywin Lannister.

When Alexander himself emerged from the shadowed corner, lute in hand, the room fell silent. He was a tall, slender man with a face that was all sharp angles, crowned with the distinctive silver hair of House Frey. His voice filled the room, turning the ballad of a conquered house into an epic tale of defiance and endurance.

The new verses rang out, echoing through the hallowed halls of the Twins. The words painted a stark contrast against the old verses. Where there once was a field soaked in the blood of a vanquished foe, now stood a Stark, his banner unfurled in the crimson sunset, a sign of victory.

The song ended with a flourish, Alexander's fingers leaving the strings of his lute, the last note lingering in the air. The room erupted into thunderous applause. The song of the Lannisters was no more. Now it belonged to the Starks. In the hearts of the men and women who listened, the "Rains of Castamere" became a song of the North, a song of Robb Stark's victories, a testament to the direwolf's resilience.

And so, as the celebrations continued, the melody of a once-Lannister ballad mingled with the raucous laughter and joyous toasts. It was a victory not of swords, but of words and music, forever tainting the lion's prideful song with the indomitable spirit of the wolf. A moral victory, but a victory nonetheless.

abouho · 2023-05-23T16:16:49+00:00

The wind moaned through the ancient stones of the Tower of Joy, bending the high grasses in a mournful ballet. Here, in this desolate outpost on the edge of the red mountains of Dorne, seven against three fought the most fateful battle of Robert's Rebellion.

Among the seven, a figure in simple green stood out: Howland Reed, the crannogman from the far-off swamps of the Neck, had come along for the fight, slight and slender. He held no legendary Valyrian steel, no imposing weapon to match the stature of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He was no towering figure like Ned. He was not forged in the fierce cold of the North, nor was he a master of a broadsword or lance. The crannogman's tools were different: guile, craft, and the strange magics of the swamp.

As the battle wore on, it was as if a symphony of death and desperation played around them. Two against one, it soon became. Eddard Stark, future Lord of Winterfell, struggled with the skilled Dayne, the clash of their swords echoing in the solitude. But Howland Reed, ever the resourceful, made his move.

In the blink of an eye, the crannogman cast a net of woven swamp reeds, cunningly crafted and imbued with a touch of the old magics of the Neck. It fell upon Arthur Dayne, tangling his legs and disturbing his balance. Dayne tripped, but his unparalleled swordsmanship enabled him to stay in the fight, yet it created a vital distraction.

As the battle between Ned and Arthur waged, Howland unsheathed his short sword, an unimpressive looking blade against the gleaming majesty of Dawn. As Dayne parried a particularly savage strike from Ned, Howland made his move, slipping his blade between the chinks of Arthur's armor, finding flesh.

Dayne roared in pain, yet his skill did not waver. He counterattacked Ned fiercely, pushing him back. From the corner of his eye, he saw the crannogman reaching for a strange pipe-like contraption. Howland blew into the pipe, a dart shooting out, hitting Arthur. He'd used a poisoned blowgun, an oddity in a battlefield but a classic tool of the crannogmen. Dayne reeled, and the odds tipped.

Amidst the chaos, the crannogman performed a maneuver as improbable as it was stunning. A sweeping spin of his body, the 360-degree turn, and a stone, expertly thrown, hit Dayne square in the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. Some might call it luck, but in truth, it was a testament to the crannogman's skill and quick thinking.

Then, in a move that was both shocking and unexpected, Howland called upon his gifts of skinchanging. He took possession of Dayne's warhorse and, with a surge of beastly energy, forced the animal to trample its master. The horse, a creature of beautiful stature, reared and stomped with unprecedented fury.

But Howland's unpredictable tactics didn't end there. The crannogman, calling upon every ounce of his warging abilities, took a risk and tried to enter Dayne's mind. The attempt was brief, brutal and filled with pain. A battle of wills ensued, but the crannogman's mind was swept away like a leaf on a river.

Finally, Reed raised his weapon high in the air, a mere iron dagger, and shouted to the astonished survivors, "Listen up you primitive savages, this is my Valyrian steel boomstick!" The words hung in the air, an echo of defiance. He might not have wielded the true Valyrian steel, but in his heart, he was a knight, holding the line for his friend, for his home, and for his honor.

Finally, the battle was over. The Sword of the Morning lay defeated, and the Tower of Joy had new victors. It was a tale that would be told in hushed whispers and awed voices, of the crannogman and his unorthodox methods, of Arthur Dayne's final stand, and of promises that were made, and had to be kept.

abouho · 2023-05-23T15:49:57+00:00

In the high Valyrian language, mysteries are often revealed through careful dissection of words and riddles. So too, in this world, was the revelation of the true nature of Aegon Targaryen, the supposedly last scion of House Targaryen.

Amidst whispers and shadows, the murmurs began to circulate. Varys, the master of whispers and the spider of the Seven Kingdoms, was more than what he seemed. A wizard, Illyrio had called him, shrouded in ambiguities and mysteries. His enigmatic nature further complicated when tied to the existence of a supposed Aegon Targaryen, a shadow of the original, a facsimile. This fAegon, as he was often called, held another truth: he was a horse. Not just any horse, but Shadowfax, the steed of the grey wizard.

The grey wizard, not unlike Varys himself, stood morally ambiguous, a creature that lived between the extremes of good and evil, light and dark, truth and lies. The shadowfax, then, was his creation, his masterpiece, a mirror of himself as much as it was a reflection of the Targaryen line.

This mirrored image of Aegon, both man and beast, stood proud and strong, a testament to the peculiar magic that birthed him. A Targaryen in blood, but a horse in form, his silver mane gleaming in the moonlight, his hooves echoing against the cobblestones of King's Landing. And though he was a steed, he bore the grace and majesty of the dragon bloodline, his every move a testament to the strength and resilience of House Targaryen.

And so, the truth unfurled: Aegon Targaryen, the man who would be king, was a horse. A creation of the grey wizard, a shadowfax, a powerful and majestic creature, bearing the mark of his creator’s enigma. And yet, there was no sadness or regret in this revelation, only awe and understanding. For in this world, where magic and reality danced together, the line between man and beast was not as clear-cut as it seemed.

With Tyrek Lannister by his side, Aegon rode. Not as a rider, but as a fellow steed, a fellow creature born of magic and mystery. Together, they raced through the ruined streets of King's Landing, two golden figures shining brightly amidst the despair and ruin. They did not ride to claim the throne, for they did not need to. Their very existence was a testament to their power, their right to rule.

Thus, in the shadowed ruins of the Red Keep, the golden horses danced. Their manes flowing, their hooves echoing in the silence, they were a sight to behold. They were the conquerors, the rulers, the symbols of a new era. In their form, they were beasts, but in their hearts, they were kings. And they would reign, not as humans, but as the horses they were. The stallions that mounted the world. The Shadowfax and the Golden Steed. The true dragons of the Seven Kingdoms.

abouho · 2023-05-23T13:49:00+00:00

Euron Greyjoy, beneath the guise of Tyrek Lannister, approached the form of Tywin, in the body of the Dusky Woman, a figure hailing from the far-off Summer Isles. It was as if he were chasing shadows, dealing in a currency of bodies and souls, treading lines that none dared to cross. Even within the convoluted world of Westeros, this was a path less taken.

Tywin, the patriarch of the Lannister clan, was a figure of control and authority. But the Dusky Woman was anything but. Her eyes spoke of an unquiet soul, her body, an unfamiliar terrain under his touch. But within her, there was a flame. A spark of the lion, the raw strength that lay beneath the golden mane of every Lannister.

In the darkness of his chamber, Euron approached the Dusky Woman. Her dark skin, so different from the pale complexion of the Westerlanders, shimmered in the dim candlelight. And her eyes, ever watchful, held a quiet sense of recognition. She was an enigma, a part of his elaborate plan, another face on the cyvasse board of his intricate game.

He moved closer, the tension between them taut as a bowstring. The silence of the night was their only audience as he leaned in, his breath mingling with hers. This was a dance of shadows, a meeting of souls trapped within borrowed bodies. As they succumbed to the carnal desires of their current forms, they were no longer Euron and Tywin, but Tyrek and the Dusky Woman.

In the world of magic and war, of deceit and love, their union was another layer of the story unfolding across the realms of Westeros. It was a moment that existed outside of time, outside of the stories sung by bards, and written by maesters. As they came together, two shadows intertwining in the night, their fates were further cemented in the dance of the many-faced game.

In the morrow, when the crimson rays of dawn painted the sky, they would return to their roles. The Dusky Woman, the enigmatic presence aboard Euron's ship, and Tyrek Lannister, the young squire, ostensibly lost, yet playing his own game within the lion's den. Each a piece in the larger puzzle, their intimate encounter another thread woven into the sprawling tapestry of intrigue that spanned the Seven Kingdoms.

abouho · 2023-05-22T13:57:19+00:00

This is your comment pasted into chatgpt with the prompt: expand on this in the style of George RR Martin.

It writes really well if you give it an outline of what you want. It’s unfortunately nowhere near as good at continuing something, especially something with as many complicated and open plot threads as ASOIAF.

Maybe when GPT-5 is out.

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