#and now the rains weep o'er his hall ... and not a soul to hear.

[cornerofhell]

" "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

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

And not a soul to hear"

- Rains of Castamere (Game of Thrones)

[gialloschlock]

"Let us drain our cups to these three strong boys"

- Aemond Targaryen

"and now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear"

- Tywin Lannister

When the serious Westerosi villain starts making a pun with your name, you know shit's about to go down.

[wpmorse]

"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 And so he spoke, and so he spoke That Lord of Castamere But now the rains weep o'er his hall And not a soul to hear Arya VII Pg 538

Entertaining himself in the middle of a rainy night, Tom O Sevenstreams sings all the songs about rain he can think of, most notably "The Rains of Castamere".

I wasn't sure how to do this one. I certainly didn't want to do a repeat of Hands of Gold. I finally decided to show Tywin watching his army attack the castle.

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

⎯⎯𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 ( 𝟓 ) 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 .

BURN THE WITCH - SHAWN JAMES The flames lick at my feet Their hearts full of hate What they don't understand, they condemn What they can't comprehend must meet its end But I won't scream, won't give them that satisfaction No, I won't confess my false interaction As I breathe deep and prepare for my passing I hear them chant, "Burn the witch"

CRY FOR THE MOON - EPICA Eternal silence cries out for justice Forgiveness is not for sale Nor is the will to forget You can't go on hiding yourself Behind old fashioned fairy tales And keep washing your hands in innocence

THE RAINS OF CASTAMERE - SIGUR ROS A coat of gold, 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 And now the rains weep o'er his halls With no one there to hear

LIKE A VILLAIN - BAD OMENS Look into my face, then look again We are not the same, we're different To tell your tales and fables, you couldn't wait You need a new clean slate without the dents A place to put your pain, your consequence When you look into the mirror, are you even there?

O' DEATH - KATE MANN Oh, death someone would say could you wait to come til another day. The children pray, the preacher preach, time and mercy are out of your reach. I'll fix your legs til you can't walk. I'll lock your jaw til you can't talk. I'll close your eyes til can see the very air go with me I am death come to take the soul, leave the body and leave it cold. Draw the flesh above the frey; earth and worm both have a claim.

Tagged by: @agonizedembrace @legendscried

Tagging: @bells-of-black-sunday (frank?) @misstantabismuses @just-a-wander @hemoplagued

[abbyandhanako]

Eun-min singing The Rains of Castamere.

The lyrics are behind her:

"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…

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…

And not a soul to hear…

[mostpraised]

But now the rains weep o'er his hall

And not a soul to hear

[her-lorathi]

The irony of the last two lines Rains of Castamere

Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,

And not a soul to hear.

Yes now his stench spreads across the hall; And for every soul to sneer :)

#you deserve your very own crab rave

#elia smiling from the heavens

i think it’s so hot that tywin’s death was like. it wasn’t particularly violent or painful or gruesome in a book full of violent and or painful and or gruesome deaths. but what it arguably is is the most degrading. he dies on a toilet with a dead prostitute in his bed and his daughter (who he doesn’t like because she’s a woman) the one who has to clean up the mess. it’s not the worst death in the series by a mile but ooooooh tywin would hate it sososo much.

[gcuienveres]

where: the eyrie, the kingdom of the vale / featuring @rememberences​ and @kingarryn​​ what: self-para, containing guinevere lannister’s initial news of her aunt lanna lefford’s murder.

the courtiers of the vale of arryn were feasting, within the silver and blue hues of the eyrie’s great gathering hall, celebration of news of neutrality, just as it had been in times of old before the dragons soared. all the great banner houses had made their presence known, revelling in the change; though only members of the small council and the arryns themselves knew of all it had taken to get to this point. looking upon the face of her courtiers, noting how they seemed all so in unison, for the first time she did not feel entirely like an imposter. that perhaps this place upon this silver throne, could be hers; was meant to be hers, according to some plan dictated by the gods. there would be peace, regardless how the mountain they had scaled to get it, the heartbreak it took - it was time to begin again.

the dance floor was full, guinevere herself upon it with the daughter she never wished to replace the role of mother for; only ensure she were still given the motherly love and affection she deserved. in truth, she were surprised the young girl had timidly asked her to dance with her, finally using words to speak to her instead of slipping her notes beneath her chamber door and running off down the hall. unable to pick maddalena up in unison with the regular dance moves, no doubt due to her swelling stomach, guinevere held the girl’s hand as she twirled in unison to the beat, earning a happy, surprised laugh to fall from the queen’s lips. “come, let us show papa your special dance.” guinevere encouraged, taking the beaming child by the hand and peering the room for the king, who would not be far. 

maddalena must have spotted him, for she darted among the crowds, though guinevere was distracted by the pageboy attempting to venture across the dance floor to her. lifting her skirts and meeting the boy at the edge of it, wondering what correspondence would come to her directly at such an hour, she found herself nervous to recognise the sigil clasped upon the envelope. the sight of it was enough to cause a small, pained smile to cross her golden features. the lion, handwriting that was scrawled in jason’s hand. a small breath of relief came over her for a minute; this was it, surely, was it not? news of the neutrality had finally broken, and perhaps, if the gods had blessed her enough, perhaps she would be able to ensure her child knew of the sunset sea, of those who had served and protected and loved her well. and so, she opened the note - how she would come to regret it. 

aunt lanna is gone. poison, we think the reynes. tyland and i will handle it, i'll try to keep you updated. will talk to tyland about the funeral.

if one needed to understand what it was to feel despair, hope being ripped from one’s chest, a world of colours fading to mere black and white, one only needed to have looked closely enough at the queen’s face. the people danced around her, music played, the courtiers chatted; and yet, she suddenly felt as though the world had gone silent. she could hear a pin drop within the middle of this marble hall, a growing sense of numbness to the point where she felt as though she could burn and she would feel nothing. everything seemed slow, she had to remind herself to breathe. 

“excuse me...excuse me.” she uttered, with a face as white as snow, winding around her courtiers as it seemed her legs moved on their own accord, toward the oak doors. “excuse-” she spoke again, a sense of pain coming to her chest now, as though each breath she took was crushing, searing, pained. your grace, your grace, heads bowed as the woman swished by them, a pained smile crossing her features; though her eyes, her eyes told a story of horror, of terror. there were too many people, the dance circle moved too quickly, and she managed to finally get herself off the dance floor, her own ladies involved in the dancing.

she would have sought her husband out, sought anyone out, if she trusted herself to be able to remain within this hall for another two seconds without letting out a scream that was bloodcurdling; her aunt’s body was laying somewhere, now, cold, lifeless. she could no longer talk, or laugh, or gossip, or call her darling cub again. oh gods, what did her voice sound like? was she remembering it wrong? it was gone...it was, crumbling. they were crumbling, calla’s marriage, they-

why could she not breathe? each inhale was pained, a struggle, her chest tightening more and more, until it felt like agony. she gasped, each breath forced, as her hands clenched on either side of her. she was in the hallway outside the main gathering hall now, a ghost of a figure in torchlight, noting how some of the servants peered in her direction, wondering where she was going. up the staircase, guinevere, get up the staircase...“your grace?” the voice of the hand of the king came from before her, as she lifted her skirts; trust him to be avoiding a party, trust him to be around every corner she turned. 

“i-” guinevere looked upon him, hand clasping the sides of the grand staircase, the shock and concern in his voice only reaffirming that her reaction was visceral in itself, this was all real judging by the note she clasped in a tight fist, and it was enough for the mountain to finally full upon the shoulders of guinevere lannister. the inhale she took was one of shock, harrowing as though she was desperate for air; she was too high up, she was too high up; they were below, they were down-

she was gone. they were gone. this was a new beginning, this could have been-

her legs had given way then, and thankfully the hand of the king had managed to ensure she had landed upon the marble staircase rather than tumble, though the gut wrenching sob of utter anguish that had come deep within her chest as she finally reached the bottom - not a scream of horror, not a scream at all, but the sounds of one attempting to take in breath, harrowing and harsh, wracked between the silent sobs that had caused her body to appear more of a rag doll. “call the king, call the king!” the ruling lord of runestone bellowed, though guinevere was blind through her tears. she saw nothing, only hues of arryn blue and purple - and red. they need not have called him, for she heard his voice only a moment later; not his words, only his voice, and his touch upon her waist.

“she’s dead.” she managed to get out through pained breathing, only noting how her wet her cheeks, the tears that had poured from from raw grief. “she’s dead, they killed her, reyne...” her voice rose,  bouncing off the walls of that marble hallway in the eyrie that fateful night.

[casterlygldcs]

who: @goldcoat​ where: oldtown, the reach when: the discovery of lanna lefford, and the aftermath

The sun had slowly begin to rise over the city of Oldtown, quieter than usual, many taking a day of rest following the celebrations yesterday. There were two lions walking along the cobbled stones, the King of the Pride and his own little Princess, who had insisted on accompanying him for a morning walk. Holding her hand as he helped her climb the steps to a long bridge over a small canal, the sounds of the guards behind them, he spoke quietly to his child, his heir, of how there were other lions in the Westerlands, though she must always remain the most fierce. It were not only dragons she must look for. He knew little of what could become of him, or his brother, at any given turn; and with Cerenna now remaining with her mother in the Reach due to the dangerous shifts in Tyland's court, he found the ache within his heart was eased upon finding his daughter's hand within his own.

He saw it in the corner of his eye first; a wafting cloak of red and gold, floating in the river as the hues of dawn slowly reflected over the surface. A robe of embroidery, a lion's embroidery, and a head of gold; it was enough to cause his world to stop for a moment. In that moment, he were no longer the fierce Lion King, ruthless with an iron fist - he was merely the same boy a twelve year old Lanna Lannister had held within her arms, cooing lightly. Bending forward to take hold of Cerenna, ensuring she would not see the sight, he felt his arms almost shaking as he pulled her into his chest, muttering how he would always ensure she remained the mightiest lioness in all the lands. He saw his guards change direction, silent; as though they were bringers of death themselves, finding a reckoning.

An hour had passed since then, as he continued his walk back toward the Hightower with his daughter, not daring to even put her down the entire time they walked up those cobbled stones. And with each step, he knew what would be awaiting him when he returned to his household. His daughter was escorted back to the Tyrell quarters by various maids and a governess, and he walked into his chambers, knowing it was around the time Jason would soon be stirring. And there she was, laid out upon his bed, his guards standing vigil around her; cloaks of maroon and gold, parting to the horror before him. It were rare to see Tyland Lannister crack, and yet, as the man stood by his closed door and looked upon the sight of the generation before him, brought to her knees. Taking a knee silently beside the woman, who appeared as though she were finally at some sense of peace in knowing her family would have no choice but to unite regarding this, he took her hands and clasped them together, so she were laid out like the Princess she would have been if it were Tymond that had gone independent.

"Call my brother, and leave us." They were enough words, and as the door closed around him, Tyland found no sense of wrath or fury at the sight before him; he could hardly bring himself to see such blood and anger in her presence, out of respect. And so, the King wept silently, shoulders shaking as he realised he had failed. Time and time again, he had failed his line, failed his family. The sense of regret and guilt soon came crashing beyond him, and when the door opened with his brother's voice asking what was going on, he found his brother kneeing at their Aunt's side.

[pen-and-umbra]

Hermo

“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 as 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.”

[chispas-and-broken-bindings]

Lmao 🤣 I know to which post you are replying about them being besties . That scene always gave me more ominous vibes than actually something that would ignite friendship . Also the title of " Usurper's Dog " isn't something @ry@ is going to take lightly .

Ha! I actually didn't have any particular post in mind. The Dany/Arya friendship is just something that I see float around the fandom from time to time and it drives me absolutely bonkers (not fanon. feel free to explore all your platonic dreams with these two in fanon. Go wild. You do you.)

If we are talking canon though, I can't think of a single character that has more anti-Targ foreshadowing in their chapters than Arya (even Jon comes in second place). I actually started pasting bits of Arya's chapters into a word document awhile ago, because I couldn't believe how much GRRM uses her POV to detail the horrors of fire and burning...it's almost comical how heavy-handed he is with it.

And yet...

After I saw this ask in my inbox, I looked at the Arya Stark tag and immediately found a post about Dany and Arya being best friends.

So.

Here we are:

A Storm of Swords - Arya I

Later they passed through a burned village, threading their way carefully between the shells of blackened hovels and past the bones of a dozen dead men hanging from a row of apple trees. When Hot Pie saw them he began to pray, a thin whispered plea for the Mother's mercy, repeated over and over. Arya looked up at the fleshless dead in their wet rotting clothes and said her own prayer. Ser Gregor, it went, Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei. She ended it with valar morghulis, touched Jaqen's coin where it nestled under her belt, and then reached up and plucked an apple from among the dead men as she rode beneath them. It was mushy and overripe, but she ate it worms and all.

That was the day without a dawn. Slowly the sky lightened around them, but they never saw the sun. Black turned to grey, and colors crept timidly back into the world. The soldier pines were dressed in somber greens, the broadleafs in russets and faded golds already beginning to brown.

Hot Pie opened his mouth and closed it. He did not fall off his horse. The rain began again a short time later. They still had not seen so much as a glimpse of the sun. It was growing colder, and pale white mists were threading between the pines and blowing across the bare burned fields.

A Storm of Swords - Arya III

That night they sheltered in a burned, abandoned village.

A Storm of Swords - Arya IV

The next night they found shelter beneath the scorched shell of a sept, in a burned village called Sallydance. Only shards remained of its windows of leaded glass, and the aged septon who greeted them said the looters had even made off with the Mother's costly robes, the Crone's gilded lantern, and the silver crown the Father had worn. "They hacked the Maiden's breasts off too, though those were only wood," he told them. "And the eyes, the eyes were jet and lapis and mother-of-pearl, they pried them out with their knives. May the Mother have mercy on them all."

A Storm of Swords Arya VI

"Please," Sandor Clegane rasped, cradling his arm. "I'm burned. Help me. Someone. Help me." He was crying. "Please."

Arya looked at him in astonishment. He's crying like a little baby, she thought.

Clegane tried to stand, but as he moved a piece of burned flesh sloughed right off his arm, and his knees went out from under him. Tom caught him by his good arm and held him up.

His arm, Arya thought, and his face. But he was the Hound. He deserved to burn in a fiery hell. The knife felt heavy in her hand. She gripped it tighter. "You killed Mycah," she said once more, daring him to deny it. "Tell them. You did. You did."

"I did." His whole face twisted. "I rode him down and cut him in half, and laughed. I watched them beat your sister bloody too, watched them cut your father's head off."

Lem grabbed her wrist and twisted, wrenching the dagger away. She kicked at him, but he would not give it back. "You go to hell, Hound," she screamed at Sandor Clegane in helpless empty-handed rage. "You just go to hell!"

(Okay, so she's not exactly sympathetic to the Hound's plight here, but still...another reference to burning, and a pretty graphic one at that)

A Storm of Swords - Arya VII

Jack-Be-Lucky, Harwin, and Merrit o' Moontown braved the burning septry to search for captives. They emerged from the smoke and flames a few moments later with eight brown brothers, one so weak that Merrit had to carry him across a shoulder.

The septry soon collapsed in a roar of smoke and flame, its walls no longer able to support the weight of its heavy slate roof. The eight brown brothers watched with resignation. They were all that remained, explained the eldest, who wore a small iron hammer on a thong about his neck to signify his devotion to the Smith. "Before the war we were four-and-forty, and this was a prosperous place. We had a dozen milk cows and a bull, a hundred beehives, a vineyard and an apple arbor. But when the lions came through they took all our wine and milk and honey, slaughtered the cows, and put our vineyard to the torch.

A Storm of Swords - Arya XI

"Dead," he shouted back at her. "Do you think they'd slaughter his men and leave him alive?" He turned his head back toward the camp. "Look. Look, damn you."

The camp had become a battlefield. No, a butcher's den. The flames from the feasting tents reached halfway up the sky. Some of the barracks tents were burning too, and half a hundred silk pavilions. Everywhere swords were singing. And now the rains weep o'er his hall, with not a soul to hear. She saw two knights ride down a running man. A wooden barrel came crashing onto one of the burning tents and burst apart, and the flames leapt twice as high. A catapult, she knew. The castle was flinging oil or pitch or something.

"Come with me." Sandor Clegane reached down a hand. "We have to get away from here, and now." Stranger tossed his head impatiently, his nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. The song was done. There was only one solitary drum, its slow monotonous beats echoing across the river like the pounding of some monstrous heart. The black sky wept, the river grumbled, men cursed and died. Arya had mud in her teeth and her face was wet. Rain. It's only rain. That's all it is. "We're here," she shouted. Her voice sounded thin and scared, a little girl's voice. "Robb's just in the castle, and my mother. The gate's even open." There were no more Freys riding out. I came so far. "We have to go get my mother."

(heart: broken)

Look, there is a lot to say about fire and about rain in Arya's chapters, particularly in A Storm of Swords. I don't have the energy for it, so I'm just dumping quotes. Draw your own conclusions.

This collection is by no means exhaustive, and I'm sure there is someone more dedicated than I am, who has written something about this symbolism. (If anyone has it, send me a link).

All I'm saying is that GRRM isn't throwing all this devastation by fire and blood into Arya's chapters as positive foreshadowing for how she'll feel when a certain conqueror cross the Narrow Sea with her dragons.

[mirandahamilton]

got meme [five/eight quotes]: the rains of castamere 

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.

[givemeanorigami]

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

[queer-as-used-by-tolkien]

Storyline Study: Bangar and Almorra

This is a rewritten form of the juicy parts of this post that I foolishly left under a readmore. (This isn't all of it; there are some buried insights that didn't fit so well into the structure of this version.)

Inspired by @allergy-sufferer-emo-wandererr's Bangar-centric PMV of the song Rains of Castamere.

"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 halls, with no one there to hear. Yes, now the rains weep o'er his halls. And not a soul to hear.

This song is about a lord and an underling; it draws lines between ranks and classes. A very Bangar song, but there's a hint of Almorra in it, too - the gladium-turned-hero, estranged from her people first by custom, then by choice.

One of my favorite aspects of this story is how strikingly little we, the Commander, have to do with it. This story started before many of our Commanders were even born, such as how Almorra and Bangar met, what their relationship was like, whether Almorra's unnamed daughter is also Bangar's, and when they broke up; several parts of it occurred right in front of us without our realizing - your first Vigil mission addresses Ajax, and even a few key parts of it during Bound by Blood were only accidentally overheard by the Commander. And, of course, there is the fact that we would never even know anything if it weren't for our eavesdropping through Ryland's memories. We are simply not relevant. It's not our story.

I think this is appropriate. There are stories in Tyria we will never know in their entirety; this makes the world feel more real, that we have these untold stories reaching into the murky past, connecting us with history.

Back to the song; a lot of my insights are drawn from wondering if the song would fit them, and a few stumbles I made along the way. It drew out the similarities and differences in a very striking way.

First, I wondered if the song could be mostly about Almorra and less about Bangar, since the pmv felt... not exactly connected right. (No offense.)

In this incarnation, it would be about Almorra, a new gladium, being rejected by her culture (presumably, specifically Bangar) and going off to found the Vigil. Except that the song ends in loneliness; and despite Almorra's death and even Jhavi's line that no warrior should have to die alone, it just didn't feel like it fit properly.

Contrasted to the song, this made me realize that the stories of Almorra and Bangar are similar, but in a way that they contrasted each other as a sort of emphasis.

Almorra's story began with loneliness when she lost her warband, but then she grew - she founded the Vigil, she was an open-minded leader who was, ultimately, willing to join the Pact, and later be part of the extended Pact that killed Kralkatorrik. That's where her story was supposed to end; at the pinnacle of her victory - not just that she'd defeated Kralkatorrik, but also that she'd found new allies after the loss of her warband. And she proved that she wasn't just in it for revenge, she wasn't just a bitter fighter who was simply desperate to avenge her companions - she was a true warrior. She kept fighting. She was praised as a hero upon her return to Ascalon, but she brushed off the fakes who dumped her when she was alone (a brilliant lesson in itself about true friendship), and went to continue her life's work - and at the time? At that specific moment, she was going to bring life and hope to her soldiers - her people - telling them of Kralkatorrik's defeat. Almorra Soulkeeper is an awe-inspiring influence and role model, and it's a disgusting shame that Bangar did what he did. But that, I think, was a masterfully contrived symbol that Anet used to contrast their stories.

Bangar was an Imperator. He was a powerful fighter, a masterful influencer (first time I laid eyes on him I pegged him as a politician, and he did not disappoint), and the mentor of the best rising star of the Blood Legion. But his story is one of losing - he lost Rytlock who knows when, he lost Almorra at some point, he lost Ajax in the PS, and then we have the start of IBS when he took all who would, and went into the Shiverpeaks to hunt a dragon. There, he murdered Almorra, supposedly his fire and blood, which may have been what started Ryland's fall. And then, despite his claims of doing everything for the charr, he started a civil war that nearly wiped out the charr, turned a good chunk of them into Icebrood, and all for nothing - Jormag passed over him. To add insult to injury, he lost his last ally - Ryland. Bangar's story ends in a cage, locked in silence, with half of his interactions with other people being solely so that Aurene or the Commander (and even Crecia) could request an audience with Jormag, who has even taken his voice from him.

These stories are polar opposites. To illustrate Bangar's fall, he murders Almorra, the opposing story of success. Almorra achieved what she wanted with Kralkatorrik; Bangar failed utterly with Jormag. Almorra and Bangar's stories spiral together (I'm kind of picturing the spiral helix at the end of HoT), but they are separate and vastly different and both go in different directions. Despite their endings being similar - ending in loneliness - Bangar's story derives in part from his inability to keep Almorra with him after she becomes independent of him. IBS is the climax, the disaster, the desperation and failed hope, the resounding end to Bangar's story. But for Almorra, it was just an annoying epilogue. She'd already lived her story - without him - and emerged victorious.

These two stories are startling in the way they contrast and orbit each other. The Icebrood Saga starts when both are at the height of their power - Almorra has the Vigil and even all of the Pact behind her, she has the Commander, she even has the support of the charr for having killed Kralkatorrik. Bangar, a highly-respected Imperator, is a great uniter - he has brought the four Legions together and managed to have them cooperate peacefully in a celebration. Their positions are nearly equal. The tension arises when Almorra and Bangar still don't see eye-to-eye. There is a disconnect between their core values.

The song is about a lord and a subordinate (I imagine a lowly peasant). This is Bangar, highly respected and powerful, and Almorra, the exiled gladium. The song illustrates the lord's pride versus the peasant's declaration that "my claws are as long and sharp as yours" - or Bangar's pride versus Almorra's individuality, Bangar's army versus Almorra's influence. The song is remarkably simple and short; but the two actors in this story have weaved a dance of opposition and contrast - yin-yang, and light-and-dark.

It is a masterfully plotted echo, a pre-type, a sort of thematic foreshadowing of the opposing but twinned forces of Jormag and Primordus.

[blackmachine312]

And now the rains weep o'er his halls and not a soul to hear.

Tywin is still my man though

(X)

[ice-cream-nekogirl]

Man... I forgot how good this was... every time I hear it it just... gives me goosebumps... as if The Rains of Castamere wasn’t scary enough this takes it to a whole different level... it’s both beautiful and terrifying... definitely gives me a semblance of death and dread.

And now the rains weep o'er his halls With no one there to hear Yes, now the rains weep o'er his halls And not a soul to hear...