Forest Blonde Girl

$PIPPIN

Robb Stark, the young King of the North, formed an alliance with House Frey through marriage to one of Walder Frey's daughters. The goal was simple: strengthen his position before the war against the Lannisters by securing the Freys' support and their soldiers. Robb promised to respect the Freys' traditions and later marry the bride they chose. The agreement was solemnly sealed with oaths of loyalty and mutual protection—a symbol of trust and alliance.

However, political haste and Robb's heart betrayed him: he broke his word, changing his wedding plans in favor of love for Jeyne Westerling. The Freys felt deeply offended and secretly plotted revenge. Breaking the agreement proved fatal: at a wedding meant to be a celebration, tragedy unfolded—the Red Wedding, where Robb, his mother, and many of his close allies perished.


The lesson is clear: in politics as in the crypt, breaking trust leads to catastrophe, and promises are the most valuable asset that must never be ignored.

$PIPPIN

Cersei Lannister was not just a queen — she was a regent who wanted to rule in place of her weak son and stronger than any council. Her goal was simple and dangerous: eliminate her enemies through others' hands and keep her own clean. When the nobles and Tyrells stood in her way, Cersei decided to bring religious fanatics — the Sparrows — back to the capital. She legalized their order, allowed them to carry weapons, and judge 'sinners,' confident that barefoot preachers would become a compliant club against her opponents.

At first, everything went perfectly. The Sparrows humiliated the nobility, arrested lords, and shattered old balances. Cersei saw this as a masterstroke: fear instead of an army, faith instead of law. But His Sparrowhood did not play politics. He saw only sin — and the crown offered no immunity.

Cersei was arrested in the very sept she had brought the fanatics to. The cell, the interrogations, the loss of dignity. Then came the humiliating procession: barefoot, shaven, under the ringing of bells she walked through the streets of King's Landing, while the crowd spat, shouted, and threw filth. The one who wanted to control fear became its embodiment.

Cryptomoral: never unleash a force you can't reel back.

$PIPPIN $DOGE

The Trojan War was underway. The wrath of Achilles kept him in his tent, and the war was at a standstill. Due to a quarrel with King Agamemnon, the greatest of the Achaeans vowed not to fight, and without him, the Trojans pushed the Greeks back to the sea. Patroclus, his friend and shadow, saw the ships burning and warriors falling, and realized: waiting was no longer an option. He didn't seek glory—only a brief respite for the army. So he asked for Achilles' armor, knowing the power that even a single name could hold.

Putting on the armor, Patroclus entered the battle, and the field trembled. The Trojans believed Achilles had returned and retreated. Victory spun his head: the enemy's fear turned to exhilaration, caution into audacity. Patroclus forgot he was not the one he was mistaken for and chased the enemy toward the walls of Troy. There, fate caught up with him. Hector, seeing through the deception, struck without hesitation. The foreign armor offered no protection: Patroclus fell, paying the price for stepping beyond his limits.

His death brought Achilles back into battle, but the cost was terrible: the illusion of strength destroyed the one who acted from the purest intentions.

Moral: you can wear a powerful name and catch a wave, but if behind the facade there is no understanding or discipline, the market, like Hector, will mercilessly test reality.

$PIPPIN $TA $ETH

In a distant land called Zaoqianya, Ryzhik, a man with a hairstyle resembling blown candy floss, decided to stage "the operation of the century": capturing the neighboring dictator Uzik, a master of long speeches and disappearing goods. The plan was simple: enter dramatically, make a grand appearance everywhere, catch Uzik, and display him in cages for the crowd's amusement.
Ryzhik marched in with fanfares, shouting about "freedom and justice," while his troops stumbled and accidentally opened cages containing circus clowns instead of Uzik. But, miracle of miracles, Uzik was eventually caught—and after being loaded into a cage, Ryzhik put on a grand spectacle where the crowd laughed, waved bananas, and threw popcorn.
A second act of the farce is expected: Uzik's trial and another round of Ryzhik's insane tweets, because nothing so perfectly adorns dictatorship as a public circus with cages.

Moral: in politics and in crypto, it's the same thing—those who shout the loudest and wave their hands the cleverest put on the show, while everyone else remains a spectator, clutching their tokens tightly, but often without meaning.

$TA $PIPPIN

A 91-year-old senator from a democratic country would rise every morning with gymnastics and a shout: "Down with the tyranny of the elderly!" Her dumbbells were nearly as tall as she was, and her sarcasm longer than any bureaucratic amendment. She loudly criticized the neighboring non-democratic country, where the elderly rule with an iron fist, feed cronyism, spread corruption like a river, and host disgraceful feasts of power.

"This isn't a government—it's a club of ancient tyrannosaurus!" she proclaimed on television, stroking a three-hundred-year-old cactus that seemed to understand injustice too. Her laugh squeaked like the creak of an old armchair, and colleagues would hide behind newspapers when she called foreign officials "f***ing bureaucratosaurs."

In democratic debates, she sprinkled sarcasm like pepper, and every listener felt: elder tyranny isn't just bad—it's almost comically vile, shameless, and indecent. When asked if she wasn't too old, she replied: "Years are just numbers. The tyranny of the elderly is the real threat!"

Moral: in the crypt, as in life, as long as the elders fight for power, someone always profits… while the rest drown in their puddles.

$TA $PIPPIN

The publicist Nebgorov was a chained dog of the dictator his entire life: he wrote articles as someone might write love letters, only instead of passion, there was fear. He licked the boots of power so thoroughly that his tongue sometimes merged with the sole. But one day, either from old age or because he failed to latch onto the new feeding trough in time, he jumped to the other camp. Now Nebgorov is a knight of justice and democracy.

He shouted about freedom of speech as he once shouted about its suppression. With the same fervor, he delivered lectures on human rights and the importance of not fearing authority. His old articles about censorship and torture he now commented on with contempt, as if they were someone else's text, not his own vile biography. Colleagues laughed: "Look, Nebgorov—he's a saint now!" But Nebgorov laughed too: his laughter was slimy, like a worm just crawling off a political corpse.

He gave advice on democracy to those who yesterday feared even the tip of his finger. And in every word, the same venality, the same sticky greed, only now dressed in the suit of a white knight.

Moral? In the crypt, as in life: even the slimiest creatures can sell themselves for the illusion of truth.

$TA $RIVER

In his old age, the grandfather suddenly became president and immediately remembered that deep down, he was a great warrior. The story doesn't specify where exactly he fought: perhaps battling flies at the dacha, or the queue at the clinic—but once he gained power, the grandfather became convinced of his own greatness.
He locked himself in his study, filled with gold so densely that even the sun begged for mercy. Gypsy baroque: gold-plated curtains, eagles with rhinestone eyes, a golden globe, golden photos everywhere. The grandfather ran around the room, waving a broom, calling it the 'sacred sword of the ancestors,' and shouting battle cries, mixing them up with slogans from the news.
— I'll take over the whole world in three days! — he shouted, tripping over the safe. — At most, in a week, if the weather is bad!
Every time the broom crashed into the gilded column, the grandfather declared it a 'tactical maneuver.' Advisors waited outside the door, pretending it was all normal: great wars, as everyone knows, often begin with a broom and a megalomaniac dream.
By evening, the grandfather grew tired, sat on his throne-chair, and demanded a report on victories that hadn't happened—yet were already written into history.

Moral: power and imagination are volatile things. Just like crypto: today you're a world conqueror, tomorrow you're just an old man with a broom and an empty wallet.

$BTC

Greenland is needed by the US to counter Russia and China, - the White House

"The President has very openly and clearly stated to you and to the entire world that he believes containing Russian and Chinese aggression in the Arctic region is the best option for the United States."

$BROCCOLI714

Once upon a time, there was a Mamluk warrior named Ahmed the Terrible — a hero who fought the Mongols at Ain Jalut without counting. But one day during training, he swung his mace, slipped, and fell off his horse. A crack — an open fracture: a bone is sticking out, blood is flowing.

His comrades carried him to the best healer in Cairo, a student of Ibn al-Nafis. He examined the leg and calmly said: the fracture is complex, but we can set it, we will fix it with splints, treat it with honey and herbs — in a couple of months you will be back in the saddle.

Ahmed roared: "No! A jinn has possessed my leg! Take me to Grandma Fatima!"
They dragged him to the witch. The old woman looked at the bone and nodded importantly: "Yes, a jinn. Evil and corrupt." She recited verses backwards, smeared his leg with manure and garlic, hung amulets, and ordered him to scream at the fracture for three days.

On the third day, the leg turned black and swelled — gangrene. In a panic, Ahmed was returned to the hospital. The healer only sighed: the leg had to be amputated. Ahmed survived but became lame and the subject of ridicule in Cairo.

Since then, the Mamluks knew: first to the doctor, then to miracles.

Moral: if you treat fractures with faith in jinns — you will lose your leg. If you invest in crypto without understanding — you will lose money..

$BTC

⚡️ Trump threatened that Venezuelan Vice President Delcy Rodriguez "will pay a high price" if her actions do not satisfy the United States.

$BTC

Bitcoin soared above the mark of 91,000 dollars as traders continued to rebound in 2026 against the backdrop of geopolitical events in Venezuela.
Major cryptocurrencies such as Ethereum, Solana, and Cardano also showed growth, driven by mass liquidations and increased risk appetite.
Political changes in Venezuela, including U.S. intervention plans, affected market volatility and trading dynamics.

In the morning hours of the Asian market, Bitcoin traded at around 91,300 dollars, rising approximately 1.4% for the day and more than 4% over seven days. Ethereum increased by about 1% to around 3,150 dollars and appreciated approximately 7% over the week, while Solana added about 1.6% and rose more than 8% over seven days. XRP fluctuated just above 2 dollars, rising approximately 0.6% for the day and nearly 10% for the week, while Cardano saw a slight increase for the day and around 8% over seven days.

$BTC

📰 Maduro must appear in court by Monday evening - Sky News

The ousted president of Venezuela and his wife are reportedly being flown from Guantanamo to a military facility and then transported by helicopter to New York, according to CNN.

According to the channel, the couple will be taken to a federal facility for paperwork, where their fingerprints will be taken and photographs will be taken. After that, they are expected to be sent to a detention center in Brooklyn. According to the law, couples are entitled to share a cell in a detention center.

$BTC

In a dense forest ruled a Lion with a shiny mane, who proclaimed himself the global protector of the “Free Forest World.” He loudly claimed that he would bring democracy and prosperity to every tree, but only on his terms. Where valuable resources appeared — Solar Fruits or Copper Roots — the Lion immediately found a “threat to global stability” or a “non-democratic regime.”

At first, he came with loud words of help and alliance, and then sent his “advisors” — Wolves in camouflage. To the Bear, who did not want to reveal his supplies, he threatened with “sanctions.” The Owl, who saw too much, was accused of spreading “fake news.” The Lion disrupted the way of life for the forest inhabitants, destroyed burrows under the pretext of “fighting tyranny,” and built his bases in their place. The ideals of freedom turned into total control, and the promised order became chaos and fear.

The Lion sincerely believed that he brought light, but behind him lay only scorched fields.

Moral: like cryptocurrency promises, loud slogans about democracy often serve merely as a facade, behind which lies a desire for power and others' resources. True freedom exists where there are no “noble” predators on a mission.

$BTC

⚡️ Maduro and his wife were flown out of Venezuela by helicopter and dropped off on a ship that will take them to New York, Trump said.

$BTC $SOL

⚡️ The USA will be heavily involved in the work of the oil sector in Venezuela, — Trump

Democracy extends help to the brotherly Venezuelan people.

$BTC

There is a war in Venezuela, but cryptocurrency is unaffected.
The only scenario that governs the rise and fall of cryptocurrency prices is manipulation... the reasonable actions of rich and honest traders.

$B
The fennec was a rare breed of crypto scammer — small, eared, and incredibly persuasive. He went live against the backdrop of a dune, waving his paws and promising the impossible: "I will turn the Sahara into a blooming garden! Blockchain + moisture + faith!" Investors applauded, donated, and lit up the chat. The fennec showed slides: palm trees, canals, peacocks. Under the slides in fine print: not a financial recommendation, this is fate.
He sold the OASIS token, assuring that each coin was a "drop of future rain." There was no rain, but there was a report: "Precipitation was delayed due to retrograde Mercury." Then — an update: "The smart contract watered the sand, but the sand proved ungrateful." The fennec nodded seriously and asked for a little more funds — "for watering cans."
When investors asked where the garden was, the fennec showed a pot with a cactus. "Mini-version. MVP." Then the cactus disappeared — "hackers." Soon the fennec disappeared too, leaving a farewell post: "The Sahara is within us." The next morning, the OASIS rate dropped to zero, but in the comments, someone was still writing: "Holding. Believing. The ears were honest."

The moral is simple: if they promise to irrigate the desert with a presentation — they only water the ears.

$RIVER

In the old Chinese district, where lanterns burn even during the day, the Crypto clan ruled. They called themselves not bandits, but investors of fate. Each new adept brought not an oath, but a 'contribution' — and the hope of getting rich by tomorrow.
The leader was Lao Bit, a gray-haired strategist with jade beads. He never fought — he only made promises. His word 'tuzemun' sounded like a spell: upon hearing it, people willingly brought money.
His right hand was considered to be Xiao Hesh, an accountant with the face of a monk. He could manipulate coins in such a way that they disappeared, while on paper they doubled. He was feared more than swords.
The power block was led by the brothers Futures and Leverage. The first struck quickly, the second — with force, but together they broke even the most cautious. They always repeated: 'Win a little — lose everything.'
In the alleys scurried Shitcoin, a petty crook with loud promises. He attracted newcomers, and when they realized what had happened, it was too late — the clan had already 'collapsed' and vanished.
Crypto lived by a simple law: entry was free, exit — only through disappointment. And everyone in the district knew: if they promise you quick money — it means you have already paid.

$LIGHT

On New Year's Eve, I saw that dream again: a stairwell with no exit, staircases leading up and down simultaneously, an elevator - either a bottomless shaft or a rusty cage on a cable. There was always a door to the outside, and behind it - night and snow. Dead, endless, like the silence in my head.
I woke up in the morning - with a hangover and emptiness. The apartment looked like after a long siege: vodka, crumbs, a television with fake merriment. Suddenly - a knock at the door. A woman rushed into the apartment. She was trembling and crying, begging not to open: "They have come for me."
She told me that in childhood she received a gift from Father Frost - a box with three wishes. The first two came true: health and money. Years went by. And today her child found the box and made their wish.
While she was speaking, it became cold in the apartment. The windows were covered with frost, the vodka in the bottle froze, and the knock at the door became dull and heavy, as if winter was beating from the inside. I was frightened and did what cannot be justified...
When everything fell silent, there was an empty stairwell behind the door. No traces, no people. Only snow.
Perhaps she woke up and left.
Moral: a bad coin, like any "magical" promise of quick money, first fulfills wishes, and then comes for you.

$LIGHT $RIVER

Santa Claus has quietly and domestically become a conman. One day he realized: if people believe that he travels around the world in one night, they will believe anything. He announced that he was launching a "Christmas Happiness Fund." Money had to be sent in advance — so the miracle could ripen.
Elves sat at tables writing letters on behalf of Santa: "Invest now — receive double by the holiday." The reindeer carried bags not with gifts, but with cash. Rudolph lit his nose, showing the way straight to the ATM.
People were bringing in money by the millions. Some wanted a new home, some — love, some — just a miracle. Santa smiled at everyone and said: "Patience, children." On New Year's he went on air, waved his hand and… disappeared. The chimneys turned out to be empty. The gifts — too.
In spring, Santa was seen on the beach in Bagpmakh. He was drinking a cocktail, lying under a palm tree and reading letters: "Santa, return the money." He sighed and told the elves:
— Strange people. They still believe.
Two beautiful transgender women near him understood little, but smiled knowingly and kindly.
And indeed — many were still waiting. After all, maybe next year he will still come. 🎅