arb-deviantart

And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low? Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know. In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws, And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours. And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castamere, But now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear. Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear. With coats akin to golden coins, Lions of the Rock advance. Lies, incest, bribes and keeps, The Queen leads a wily dance. In the North, beyond the wall, wights turn in their graves. Eyes, hands, all cold blue, b

And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low? Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know. In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws, And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours. And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castamere, But now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear. Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear. With coats akin to golden coins, Lions of the Rock advance. Lies, incest, bribes and keeps, The Queen leads a wily dance. In the North, beyond the wall, wights turn in their graves. Eyes, hands, all cold blue, b

The city burned, the night fires lighting up the sky. Dense smoke obscured all but the tops of flaming structures. The "city" was nothing more than a collection of huts and hovels. There were some rusted water tanks a midst them, but they were leaning dangerously due to the heat eating away at weakened foundations. The huts were made of mud and in a few cases, wood. The roofs were thatched with straw.   Some of the fires were spreading from the thatches to buildings close to them, but they had little effect, only staining the pristine walls. The buildings were made of fire resistant asbestos concrete. "Let these Kelek worshipers burn. They

    Ductal carcinoma, scientific terminology for breast cancer. At seventeen, they were incomprehensible to Catelyn, terror and disbelief not striking yet. Three years along, intensive chemotherapy took her hair. The lumps on her chest still grew, pain only worsening.    She was trying a wig from her mother. Suddenly a little girl peeked in. "What's your name?" "Arya. I heard you crying." Catelyn's wasted face stared back in the mirror, still bringing tears, even after all these years. "The wig's horrible enough," she replied sharply, wincing. Hair was a sensitive topic.    "You're bald!" squealed Arya, oblivious. Between giggles- "Take i