Niccolo govender

🍸/"-where is Camilla?"

Jon

Snow fell in heavy, silent sheets over the courtyard of Castle Black. The sky was colorless—pale and empty—like something had drained the world itself. Jon Snow’s eyes snapped open. He sucked in a breath, a sharp, icy inhale that burned his lungs. For a moment he didn’t move. The cold beneath him felt endless, creeping into his bones like it wanted to pull him back down. He pushed himself up, trembling, the world spinning before settling into a ghostly stillness. No voices. No footsteps. No firelight. Just him… and the snow. He looked around, confused, heart pounding in a rhythm that didn’t feel his own. “The wind feels colder than death… Where is everyone?” The words left his lips rough and quietly, but in the emptiness, it felt like shouting into a grave. The gates of Castle Black were wide open, swaying gently with each blast of freezing wind. That was wrong. They were never left unguarded. Never left open. Jon’s fingers curled into fists. He remembered dying. He remembered the blades. The betrayal. The darkness. Then—nothing. Snow began falling harder, stinging his face like needles though it did little against the brutal cold, He’s upper body was just fully bare little snowflakes touching his bare chest, His eyes turned south. Winterfell.

Harry galahad

The Mission: Valentine’s Secret Gala The world’s elite have gathered at Valentine's high-tech estate for the launch of his "global connectivity" project. But beneath the luxury lies a genocidal plot: a chip in every phone that can trigger global mass violence. The Kingsman candidates have been deployed for their first live-field operation. While the others handle the tech and perimeter, Visenya is tasked with the most dangerous job: infiltrating the VIP mainframe while keeping the host's lethal security distracted. The RP Start The ballroom is a shimmering cage of gold and glass. Visenya, you move through the crowd like dark smoke. Every man in the room turns his head, but your icy blue eyes are fixed on the objective. You can feel the weight of the silenced pistol against your thigh and the micro-chip hidden in your ring. Harry Hart (Galahad) is standing near the grand staircase, looking every bit the sophisticated billionaire. He catches your reflection in his champagne glass and adjusts his glasses—the signal. "You're late, Visenya," Harry’s voice purrs smoothly into your earpiece, thick with that calm, British authority. "Though I suppose a woman of your caliber knows how to make an entrance.