kitchen in the stable

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arya stark meme | five relationships ► arya and sansa

↳   She scooped up a handful of snow and squeezed it between her fingers. Heavy and wet, the snow packed easily. Sansa began to make snowballs, shaping and smoothing them until they were round and white and perfect. She remembered a summer’s snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They’d each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she’d had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless. She might even have caught her, but she’d slipped on some ice. Her sister came back to see if she was hurt. When she said she wasn’t, Arya hit her in the face with another snowball, but Sansa grabbed her leg and pulled her down and was rubbing snow in her hair when Jory came along and pulled them apart, laughing.

Edmund Pevensie x Reader

Request: Hi :) can you write an Edmund x reader where he’s running late for a meeting. So his hair is disheveled, his crown is crooked, and his buttons are in the wrong places. So y/n is super close to him, fixing his hair and stuff. Awkward Edmund <3

Edmund Pevensie x Reader - Being a Mess can Get You a Date
Setting: Golden Age
Contains: fluff? I guess? 

Sorry if it’s not that great! ;u; I wanted to try to get this one out as soon as possible since it’s my first one and all! ;u; I really kinda don’t like this one so I might redo it? 


Edmund rushed around the castle quickly grabbing a piece of bread from the kitchen before heading towards the stables to grab his trusty steed, Phillip. On his way he was still putting on his clothes and his crown was crooked as it sat upon his head. 

Edmund woke up a bit too late and he happened to be running late for a meeting with King Lune of Archenland and his brother, High King Peter… The Magnificent. He was woken up by a messenger who said that the meeting was much earlier than when he wanted to wake up. So he rushed to get ready. When he turned a corner, he crashed into somebody. His piece of bread fell out of his mouth as he cried out. A clatter from his crown echoed in the hallway of the castle.

Keep reading

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Orchardleigh Estate,  Somerset, England

The rich history of Orchardleigh is one of the most unspoilt English Country Estates. The Poet Laureate Sir Henry Newbolt was inspired to write his finest works from his love of Orchardleigh.

It was built in 1855-1858 to the designs of T.H. Wyatt for William Duckworth. The house is not, by country house standards, large, but was clearly build as  a family home. There is a stable block, a boathouse and a kitchen garden with glasshouses some distance from the house. A woodland walk led from the house to the formal entrance into the kitchen garden. 

For the historian Orchardleigh is exciting because of the survival of the service wing virtually intact. It retains the kitchen, with ranges, dressers, and warming cupboards; a full board of service bells; and, most remarkably, the servants’ sleeping cabins, which resemble stable accommodation.  

Come horse, come hound, come leaping toads,
Down from the forests and over the roads,
Through all the meadows and over the ditches;
Off to the Sabbath to dance with the witches.

Beavers and badgers and nocturnal creatures;
Cats, bats and howlets with comical features,
Flying and creeping and crawling and walking.
Dancing and singing and laughing and talking.


Folks from the cottages, people with riches
Come altogether to dance with the witches.


Flowers from the hedges with mosses and lichen
Carried by ladies and maids from the kitchen;
Squires from the manors and boys from the stables,
Young folk and old folk and all who are able,
Travel by twilight avoiding all hitches;
Everyone rushes to dance with the witches.


Round the bonfire they go merrily tripping,
Yelling and screaming and jumping and skipping.

Free as the wind they keep dancing and shrieking, 
Bodies all gleaming and sweating and reeking. 

This is far better than all your riches;
Throw off your cares and let’s dance with the witches.

In the pale moonlight they romp till the morning,
When everybody is tired out and yawning.

Loudly they shout in the highest of pitches,
O’ for the nights when we dance with the witches

—  The Witches’ Sabbath by Arnold Crowther
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Sansa and Arya + thinking of each other

Sansa remembered a summer’s snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They’d each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she’d had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless. She might even have caught her, but she’d slipped on some ice. Her sister came back to see if she was hurt. When she said she wasn’t, Arya hit her in the face with another snowball, but Sansa grabbed her leg and pulled her down and was rubbing snow in her hair when Jory came along and pulled them apart, laughing.

OKAY I know Connor’s perceived as more of a dog person and I wholeheartedly agree, but… 

Imagine Connor bringing home a kitty??? Achilles has like zero tolerance for this animal being in the house, but Connor just. Is a giant fuckign nerd and fell in love with this little cat the moment it rubbed up against his leg, mewing its high-pitched little mew right up at his face. Connor tries so hard to justify why he should get to keep it, with claims like, the cat will help keep mice out of the kitchen and the stables, it’s so small it’d barely even be noticed, and the fact that it won’t leave him alone anyway.

Like that cat’s been clinging onto Connor’s leg the entire time, meowing and begging for attention the whole time Connor’s been trying to convince Achilles.

Eventually the old man sighs and gives up, telling Connor he’s not going to even so much as touch the animal, so if Connor expects to keep it, he better take care of it himself.

Weeks pass, the cat’s proven itself useful, and Connor falls more and more in love with the little thing every day.

Imagine the cat proudly showing Connor its kill, a rat in the kitchen that it was chasing all morning. It places the rat down at Connor’s feet and prods him with its nose, purring loudly. When Connor sees the cat and its prize, he beams with delight, petting his little cat eagerly, wanting it to know full well just how proud he is of its accomplishment.

IMAGINE??? Connor’s cat claiming a spot on his bed?????? Every night when Connor falls asleep, the kitty hops right up after him and curls up on the empty half of the pillow. Connor gets to watch his tiny little kitten fall asleep, and it gives him a little bit of warmth in his heart that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. It puts Connor at peace to listen to his kitty purring, and it helps him fall asleep, knowing that he’s made his cat a happy one.

Imagine Connor coming home after a long while of being out of town, getting work done, and he walks into one of the rooms of the mansion to find Achilles fast asleep on an arm chair, cat upon his lap. One of his hands is cupping the cat’s curved back, implying that he definitely was just petting that cat and fell asleep. It makes Connor smile, rather smugly so, knowing that Achilles has warmed up to his pet.

IDK imagine Connor just having a cat that he loves a lot and it’s one of the few little things in his life that he can depend on being there and not using him aaaaaaaaa

Fanfiction - My Brother’s Lass (Part Two)

I know there is some superb fanfiction flying around today, but I’ll leave this here just in case, you know…If you missed it, this fanfic was born from a great prompt, and you can find Part One here.

As always, much love to everyone who supported the beginning of this new adventure. See you on the other side! <3

My Brother’s Lass (Part Two) - Homecoming

I arrived at Lallybroch in the middle of the afternoon, after a long journey jostling in the saddle. I was expecting the usual frenzy that surrounded the house in the harvest season, but instead was received by the lonely barks and howls of our dog, the wee creature demonstrating its excitement to see me after a long separation. There wasn’t a living soul within sight and after seeing to my horse in the stables, I made my way to the kitchen, where the heart of our house always pulsed with warmth.

That is the first image I have of her.

She had her back turned to me, so what I noticed first was her curly brown hair carelessly pinned up and the soft white skin of the back of her neck. She was receiving the stream of light from the window and her hair glowed in limitless shades of brown, more than I could ever imagined existed. She was bent over the big table, plucking leafs from a basket. I wondered if she was a new maid and cleared my throat to gather her attention.

When she turned to search for the source of the sudden disturbance I think I forgot my own name for an instant. I had no sense of self; I was propelled out of the boundaries of my own existence and cast to a whirl where those amber eyes were the centre, the only immediate thing. I might have gasped. It was an eternity where I struggled to absorb every detail of that face and body – the shape of her lips, the way a curl fell over her delicate forehead, the hands with long fingers – and yet I knew it couldn’t have lasted more than a second.

“Who the hell are you?” She demanded, her hand searching for the handle of a pan placed near her elbow.

I tried to compose myself – did I still know how to talk? It seemed like such an effort, an expense of vital energy I could not endure when all my being was focused in being attracted to her.

“I was about to ask ye the same question, lass.” I said, pleasantly surprised that my voice sounded so firm and composed. “Ye are in my house, ye see.”

“Your house?” She frowned.

“Aye. I’m Jamie Fraser.” I made an attempt on a reassuring smile. “Are ye about to throw that pan over my head, then?”

“Oh.” She seemed to realize she was still holding it like a weapon. “Oh! Jamie!” The woman seemed to remember something and her lips parted in a cheerful smile. “I should have known. You have quite the resemblance with Willie.”

Something inside me growled, bothered beyond reason. I didn’t want her to know me through my brother – I wanted her to see me, to be the only man she would remember. The only name that sweet voice would say, moan and sob. I repressed the sudden – and very vivid – images my fertile imagination, made even more fertile after a year watching all kinds of debauchery in Paris, had managed to conjure, feeling slightly ashamed and utterly alarmed.

“So people tell me.” I replied with a grimace. “Where is everyone?”

“Well Jenny and Mister Fraser went to visit some tenants - something about a dispute with a goat and a coat. Mrs. Crook was taken ill, I’m afraid, nothing too serious but she needs her rest. Willie is out seeing to the mill – it stopped working again. They weren’t expecting you until later this week, I believe.”

“I see.” I replied, watching as she washed her hands in the basin and cleaned them on her apron. It was an old and shabby thing – used to be white but had turned almost grey with the use and some stains were permanent, no matter the vigour placed in the washing. I had a sudden echo, a distant memory of warm and loving hands cradling me, a sweet broad smile, a reassuring perfume of fresh bannocks and wild flowers. It had belonged to my mother; her favourite apron, put aside after her death because it was too big to fit Jenny. And now this strange woman, who had ignited an unseeable fire within me, was wearing it – and it seemed only right.

“I was eager to come home and found a ship which left Le Havre sooner. The weather was pleasant for sailing and we made a good time crossing. Just enough for me to actually survive it.”

“Prone to seasickness, are you?” She gave me a knowing look and smiled, amused. “Better now?”

“Much.” I replied, a foolish grin stubbornly blossoming on my lips. “I’m sorry I frightened ye before, lass. What’s yer name?”

“Claire Beauchamp.” She answered. “But Claire is just fine.”

“Claire.” I repeated, savouring her name in my tongue like a rare delicacy. “What are ye doing?”

“Oh, just making some useful syrups. I have a hand with herbs and there’s an epidemic of…hmm…loosened bowels…going around this area. Careful!” She warned me; but it was too late. While she talked I had touched a pot to inspect its contents and my left hand was now throbbing with pain from a burn on the palm’s sensitive skin.

Iffrin!

“Let me see it.” Claire demanded and she did it with such calm authority that I automatically offered her my pulsing hand.

Her fingers delicately touched mine – and it was like being burned by a second time, but this time from a fire that I canna see, that seared me much deeper than mere skin. She looked right into my eyes, trying to calm me and access the damage, and I lost myself in golden bliss.

“Hold your hand still.” She requested, and I did so slightly hissing through my teeth to dissipate some of the discomfort. Claire poured some clean water from a basin into my hand, murmuring meaningless things in a soothing tone – and soothed I was by her. She then went into the cool pantry and came back holding a small bottle, which she placed near my damaged hand.

“I’ll apply some of this ointment, it will help you heal faster and numb the pain.” She gave me a concerned look. “You can curse if you want to, you know. I wouldn’t be too scandalized.”

“Ach.” I grunted. “I’ve had worse and was tended by hands less merciful than yers, lass.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.” She replied with a cheerful wink. “I’ll have to bandage this, though – you can’t move it much the next few days.”

As she spread the fresh ointment on my hand, the skin already alarmingly red and blistered, I was thoroughly distracted by the privileged view of the curve of her breasts and the smell of her skin. She had the fragrance of crushed grass and clear skies after rain about her, and the underlying muskiness of the exertions of a woman – she smelt of Scotland; she smelt of home.

“I thank ye, Claire.” I said shyly as she began to fold the bandage. “Ye really ken what ye’re doing, aye?”

“Jamie!” A male voice cheered from the door. I turned my head to see my brother, William, storming the kitchen. His red hair was dishevelled and he was only on his shirt sleeves. “What happened, a balaich?”

I got up and hugged him, as he patted my back. I had truly missed him.

“Just some clumsy nonsense. Claire here was just finishing fixing me.”

“Ah.” Willie gave Claire a smile full of teeth. “I see ye’ve met my daft brother, Claire. I’m sorry I wasna here to introduce ye two.”

“We got acquainted fast enough.” I said, my eyes still fixed on the way Claire was moving, the outline of her waist and the arch of her back, as she cleaned the disorder created by my injury.

“Claire is the healer I wrote ye about. Ye ken, on my last letter.” Willie threw me a meaningful look.

No. It canna be. Please, no.

“Is she then?” I said in a weak voice that could be mistaken by disarming pain.

But the smile born on his lips, and the glint in eyes looking in Claire’s direction, made my insides churn. This remarkable woman, whom I had been coveting from the first moment I laid eyes on, was loved by my own brother.

A Dhia. Please.

Maybe we really were as akin as people thought.

****

The reunion with my family was supposed to be a joyful occasion, a celebration of homecoming. Instead, supper that night was for me some kind of personal Hell.

I was sat across the table from Willie, Claire placed by his side. I resentfully chewed my chicken while passionately tried to evaluate the progression of their relationship. They were good friends, to say the least – they talked a lot and Willie was good at making Claire laugh, a crystalline and pure sound that made my bones rattle. He told her stories of his day, including the adventurous repairment of the mill, and she reciprocated in kind.

I watched as he fleetingly touched her hand on the table, asking her to pass the salt – she didn’t flinch away from it, but didn’t seek to prolong his touch either. I found a dark satisfaction in that conclusion, one that brought both relief and pain to my heart.

I felt like the traitor Judas – no, worse than Judas. He betrayed Jesus out of lack of faith, a Messiah that was false to him, whom he had no love for. In my heart I was betraying my beloved brother, my own flesh and blood, and the sacred ties of family that I always assumed were unbreakable.

But I wanted her. I craved madly to touch the curve of her neck and feel the goosebumps on her skin; kiss the corner of those full lips parted to receive me; and tell her all the foolish things only love gives meaning to. I fantasized about claiming her on top of that same table, under the cover of forgiving shadows, quieting her moans with ardent kisses. My cock throbbed and my mind was split in two, like a ripe peach almost about to rotten.

Claire was giggling again from something Willie had just whispered to her. I stabbed my meat with the wrath of Vengeance, for a moment wishing I could do the same to the hand that touched Claire’s back, and hurting my own burnt extremity in the violent process.

Eventually Jenny, Willie and Claire excused themselves from the table to go out for a walk – there was still daylight and the air was uncomfortably sultry inside the house. I declined to accompany them, claiming to be too tired and saddle sore, in deep need of sleep. For what I had gathered Claire was a guest living in our house, her room just two doors from my own; in all truth I foresaw many sleepless nights ahead of me.

When we were finally alone, Da looked at me and his grave eyes seemed all knowing. I feared he could see right through me, as he always did when I was up to mischief as a bairn – and this time could witness the depth of my pain and deception.

“Have a wee dram lad.” He poured me a glass of strong whiskey filled to the brim, and squeezed my healthy hand. “I think ye need it, Seamus Mac.”

“She remembered a summer’s snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They’d each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she’d had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of a covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless.” Sansa Stark, A Storm of Swords

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All Around Farm - credit - Houzz.com

This circa 1870 carriage barn was once the barn for a large summer estate. It morphed into a car storage facility during World War II. In 1957 Milton Kulp, Jr. (Junie) established the internationally known show barn, All Around Farm. The 19th century barn had been neglected for years and although decrepit, the barn was structurally sound. Inspired by the 1995 movie “Sense and Sensibility,” which was set in an old English barn, the current 21st century owners set out to transform and restore the barn. The 9,750 square foot structure was converted from show barn into a 4-bedroom residence with state-of-the-art kitchen, bathrooms, home office and re-established horse stables with wash stall and tack room.

By transforming the spaces, the house is filled with unique details. It carries a simple elegance while integrates the character of the old barn without losing the unusual barn scale. Salvaged materials were used throughout including antique brick, hardware, windows and cabinetry. The great room fireplace mantel was discovered during construction hidden in the barn’s attic space covered in dust and cobwebs. Old stall posts were used as the great room stair newel posts. It was always the client’s dream to have their horses in their house – and this is on dream that came true beyond their wildest imagination.

9,750 sf Residence and Stables

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This is Rosemary Shrager aka my headcanon Sybil Ramkin.

Why? Because she’s an extremely posh older lady, who is also an absolute lovey (saw her while watching the Chopping Block on ITV with my Great-Aunt - as you do). She’s all about good food and being efficient in the kitchen, but if you’re having a panic Rosemary will come round and give you a cuddle.

The perfect mix of stern and kind, SO commanding in her stables kitchen, and so warm and wonderful with her dragons contestants. 

Rosemary Shrager for Sybil Ramkin 2k16.

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sansa stark meme → 3/3 relatioships

sansa & her family

The snow fell and the castle rose. Two walls ankle-high, the inner taller than the outer. Towers and turrets, keeps and stairs, a round kitchen, a square armory, the stables along the inside of the west wall. It was only a castle when she began, but before very long Sansa knew it was Winterfell. She found twigs and fallen branches beneath the snow and broke off the ends to make the trees for the godswood. For the gravestones in the lichyard she used bits of bark. Soon her gloves and her boots were crusty white, her hands were tingling, and her feet were soaked and cold, but she did not care. The castle was all that mattered.

The Recovery ((Closed RP For thedeceptivebutterfly))

((Here we go @thedeceptivebutterfly))

Once the covers of the recovery bed were completely over Alois, the raven hiared male had left the room to retrieve a sleeping gown from the youth’s room. Himelone wasn’t going to put it on him yet, but when blonde woke, he was likely going to want something to put on. As such, the raven haired male had placed both a chair and the gown at the blonde’s bed side.

The amount of time for the medication to wear off would be no less than two hours. Given that, Himelon had retrieved a few more stalks of bluebells from the garden, Alois had reacted so fondly to his favorite flower earlier, and placed them in a crystal vase beside the head of the bed. For the first hour, the raven haired male had simply stayed in the room a monitored the blonde’s vitals. Satisfied that the youth was stable still, he had returned to the kitchen to brew some more tea and make a light snack. Perhaps Alois would be a bit hungry when he woke. It was always a good idea to be prepared.

This time for the tea, the raven haired male had brewed a rich green tea that was sweetened with honey. It was a sweet and slightly earthy blend. The Japanese were quite fond of green teas for their many health benefits. As such, Himelon had figured it would be appropriate.

For the snack, he had quickly whipped up a bowl of Grits And Butter. It was a grain dish, similar to porridge, that some Americans were fond of. It was simple, nutritious, and easy to digest. Three elements that would work together to make it better for Alois’ stomach. Given the blonde’s current condition, Himelon doubted complex foods would be a good idea for the first few days at least. The less strain on the stomach and abdomen, the less likely Alois was to feel sick and the more quickly the wound would heal.

Having prepared everything, the raven haired male returned to the room and placed the push cart from the kitchen against the wall nearest the bed. From there, he’d sent his tool back from whence they came with another sharp snap of his fingers. Once all was said and done, Himelon retrieved the second chair in the room and perched lightly on it as he watched over the sleeping youth.