#danwell frey

[aegor-bamfsteel]

“Heirs have the responsibility, second sons have fun” - does it truly suck to be a third son of a noble family then, in Westeros and/or real world medieval Europe?

Some notable third sons in Westeros (not counting the ones who got to inherit based on the death of their elder brothers, such as Jaehaerys I, and not counting those elder of their brothers who died in infancy, such as Oberyn Martell, who is technically a fourth son):

Waymar Royce

Loras Tyrell

Renly Baratheon

Rickon Stark

Benjen Stark

Rhaegel Targaryen

Victarion Greyjoy

Maester Aemon

Archmaester Vaegon “the Dragonless”

Daeron “the Daring”

Joffrey Velaryon

Tygett Lannister

Tornan Peake

Aenys Frey (And other Freys including: Tion, Petyr “Pimple”, Danwell, Jaime, Whalen, Maester Willamen, Waltyr)

As is explicitly pointed out in Waymar’s (“Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs.” —AGOT Prologue) and Loras’ (“it relieved him of the difficult task of trying to find lands and a bride for a third son, never easy, and doubly difficult in Ser Loras's case.” —ASOS, Sansa VI) cases, as third sons they had little chance to inherit, and little chance of marrying into/conquering lands, thus they joined celibate organizations. Maester Aemon joined another celibate organization, the Citadel, on the orders of his grandfather Dàeron II (who feared too many Maekarspawn running around, I guess), and Archmaester Vaegon was pressured by his father Jaehaerys I after he refused to marry any of his sisters (and probably had a happier ending than any of his siblings, studying in obscurity). Similarly, Benjen Stark and Maester Willamen Frey joined the Night’s Watch or Citadel respectively in order to not require their families to provide for them, or to follow family custom. Then there’s joining a sellsword company like Tornan; the “Second Sons” is named after how many landless younger sons joined (they could also be third sons, or sons of any birth order); similarly, Daemon Targaryen’s army on the Stepstones was partly composed of younger sons.

Those who didn’t join a celibate organization or went abroad usually stayed with their families as household knights, with mixed results of “fun.” Rickon and Renly had to part with them, either because splitting up would be safer or because since his brother was crowned, he got his own castle; they probably had the most fun out of their brothers, either fighting unicorns on Skagos or throwing tourneys in the Reach, but definitely not trained to rule. Joffrey was also kept out of the war due to his age, but that didn’t stop him from trying to protect the Dragonpit. It’s stated that Daeron “the Daring” was more of a follower of his brothers than a leader, and refused to accept the kingship when his brother was incapacitated. Prince Rhaegel was unfit to rule due to mental health issues, what with dancing around the Red Keep naked, but seemed to enjoy himself more than the notoriously joyless Maekar and Aerys. Tygett Lannister, Victarion Greyjoy, and Aenys Frey were fierce warriors and loyal commanders to their brother/father, although sometimes there’s been resentment (and none are dying well, from the pox or from falling into a trap during wartime in addition to probably unknowingly eating his own son, to whatever magical accident Victarion will end in). The other third son Freys range from horrifically murdered (Tion, Petyr) to humiliated (Danwell, Whalen) to children/just unknown, but I’m not sure if that’s due to them being third-born sons or if the author likes to debase Freys in general.

Joining celibate organizations or joining the army was true to life for younger sons in Medieval France, England, and Italy, although as these were Catholic countries, that celibate organization was the Church (that actually meant these sons often had a more scholarly education than their oldest brothers). However, there were third sons that were given land/titles/brides (often heiresses in their own right) by their fathers/brothers, or served their families through commanding armies or as diplomats (though there could be resentment). The amount of “fun” or “suckiness” depended on the situation of the family and character of the son, but he was certainly richer and better educated than most of the country. Though I’ll say that in Westeros, it’s often the first sons who are charismatic but drown themselves in their passions to avoid having to self-reflect/face criticism (Robert, Robb, Tywin), the second sons burdened with grim responsibility/loyalty/duty (Stannis, Ned, Kevan), whereas the third sons can get a little more freedom of expression away from the family (Renly, Rickon, Maester Aemon) (although in case of fourth sons, they may have the more fun and the third born is also somewhat burdened with grim loyalty; see Gerion, young “Egg”, young Aeron). But it’s difficult to try to assign traits based on birth order to all ASOIAF characters due to their different circumstances and personalities.

[atopvisenyashill]

who do we think would be part of ✨catelyn’s lady court✨

i was thinking wynafrei whent, bc she’s a cousin and probably around the same age. she’s married to a frey so u can see walder being like “take one of my daughters north right the fuck now” bc he’s trying to offload. idk who though….she’s married to danwell frey, who is a crakehall frey, and they’re mostly Pathetic Freys imo. would walder be offloading freys around catelyn’s age or robb’s age. i was picturing just after bran’s been born, like 192ish.

from the north i thought for sure leona woolfield (and wylis manderly) would be there, probably dacey mormont, meera reed, alys karstark…i simply want sansa and myranda to be friends in every universe, so she goes north when catelyn writes a letter to bronze yohn and makes ned sign his name at the bottom.

[444namesplus]

all character names used in the song of ice and fire pile

addam addison adrack adrian aegon aegor aelyx aemma aemon aemond aenar aenys aerea aerion aeron aeryn aerys aethan aethelmure aggo agnes ahai aladale aladore alan alannys alaric alarra alayaya alayne albar albett albin alchemist alekyne alerie alester alfyn alicent all allar alleras alliser allyria alton alvyn alyce alyn alys alysanne alyssa amarei amerei amory amos and andar andrey andrik andros androw anguy annara antario anya archer archon's ardrian aregelle areo argella arianne arlan armen armond aron arra arrana arrec arryk arryn arsa arstan arthur artos arwood arwyn arya arys asha ashara ashford aubrey aurane aurion axell ayrmidon azor b baelish baelon baelor balaq balerion ball balman balon banefort bar baratheon barbara barber barbrey barneby barra barre barristan barthogan bass bastards beesbury bella bellanora bellegere bellena bellonara belly ben benard benedict benfred benfrey benifer benjen benjicot bennard bennarion bennifer benton beren berena beric bernarr beron bertrand bess beth bethany bettley bharbo big billy biter black blackbar blackberry blackfyre blackshield blacktyde blackwood blade blood bloody blount blue boarkiller boisterous bolton boremund boros bors borys botley bowen boy bracken bran branda brandon brax braxton breaker brella brienne brightstone bronn broome brother brother brune brus bryan bryce bryen brynden bryndon buckler bullock bulwer bump burley burton byan byrch byron bywater c cadwyl cafferen caleotte calla captain captain's cargyll caron cassana cassel cassella caswell category catelyn catspaw cayn cedric celtigar cerelle cerenna cerissa cersei cerwyn ceryse character characters characters charlton chataya chayle chett chiggen children clarent clayton clegane clement cleos cletus cleyton clifton clydas cockshaw codd cohollo coldhands colemon colin colmar commander commander's connington corbray corlys corne correy coryanne costayne courtesan cousin cox craghorn

crake crakehall crane cregan cregard creighton cressen creylen crow culiper cuy cynthea cyrelle cyrenna d daario dacey dacks daegon daella daemion daemon daenerys daenora daenys daeron daeryssa dagmer dagon dale dalt dalton damion damon danny danos danwell dareon daring darke darklyn darlessa darnold darry daryn daughter daughter daven davos daxos dayne deana deceased deem delena demonlover denyo denys desmera desmond devan deziel dick dickon dobber donal dondarrion donel donella donnel donnis donnor dontos doran doreah dormund dorna dornishman dragons drogo drumm drunkard dryn duckfield duncan dunstable dunstan duram durran durrandon durwald dusk duskendale dusky dustin duur dyanna dykk dywen e ebrose eddara eddard eddison edgar edgerran edmund edmure edmyn edric edwell edwyle edwyn edyth eerl egen elaena elder eldred eleyna elia elinda elinor ella ellard ellaria ellyn elmar elmo elric elwood elyas elyn elys elysar emberlei emma emmett emmon emmond emory endrew erena erenford erich ermesande erren erryk essie estermont estren ethan euron ever eye eyed f falena falyse farman farring farwynd father fenn fergon flatnose flement fletcher flint florent florian florys flowers folk follard fool foote for forel fork forley foss fossoway fox franklyn free frenken frey from g gael gaemon gage galbart gardener gared gareth garibald garlan garrison garse garth gaunt gawen gendry genna gerald geremy gerion germund gerold gerrick gevin gilbert gilliane gilly gilly's glendon glover godry gold goodbrook goodbrother goode goren gormon gormond gorold gower graceford gran grance greatjon green greenbeard greenfield greenhand gregor grell grenn grey greydon greyiron greyjoy griffith grover groves guard guncer gwayne gwenys gwin gwynesse gylbert gyldayn gyles gysella h h'ghar haegon haereg haggo haggon hagon haigh hairy hake hal halder hali halleck hallis hallyne halys hammer hardy hardyng hareth harlan harlaw harlon harma harmen harmond harmund harrag harras harren harrion harrold harron harry harwin harwyn harys hawick hayford heddle helman hendry henly herndon hero herrock heward hibald high hightower hill hilmar historical hoare hoarfrost hoat hobb hobber hobert hodor hogg hoke hollard holly hop horas horgan horn

hornwood horpe horse horton horys hosman hosteen hostella hoster hot hotah hotho howard howland hubard hubert hugh hugo hullen humble humfrey hunter huntsman husband illifer illyrio ilyn imry irri iv ix j jacaerys jacelyn jack jacks jaehaerys jafer jaime jalabhar jammos janei janna janos jaqen jared jaremy jason jasper jast jax jayne jennis jenny jenye jeor jeren jeyne jhiqui jhogo jirelle joanna jocasta jocelyn joffrey johanna john jojen jommo jon jonah jonnel jonos jonothor jonquil jorah joron jorquen jory joseran joseth joss josua joy joyeuse jurene justin justman jyck k kaeth kandaq karlon karstark karyl kedge kegs kella kenning kermit kettleblack kevan kezmya kindly king king kings kingsblood kingsblood's kingsguard knight knights kurleket kyndall kyra l lad laenor lake lambert lancel langward lanna lannister larence lark larys last laswell leana leathers leek lefford lelia lem lemoncloak lenwood leo leobald leona leonella leonette leslyn lester lew lewyn lewys lharys lia lianna lickspittle lily locke lodos lollys lomys long longbough longleaf longthorpe longwaters lonmouth lonnel loraq loras lorch lord lord loren lorence lorent loreon lorimar lorimer loron lorra lothar lothor lucamore lucas luceon lucifer lucimore lucinda lucion luthor luwin lyanna lyarra lydden lyle lyman lymond lyn lynara lynora lyonce lyonel lysa lythene m mace mad maege maegelle maegon maegor maekar maelor maelys maester maia maid maldon malegorn malleon mallery mallister mallor man mance manderly mandon manfred manfrey manfryd manly marbrand

margaery margaret marghaz margot mariah marillion maris mariya mark marla marlon marna maron marq marqelo marsella marsh martell martyn maryam masha maslyn massey matarys mathis matthar mattheus matthew maz meadows medgar medrick medwick meera megga meha melantha melara meldred melesa melessa melisandre melissa mellario melony melwyn merianne meribald merlon merlyn mern merrell merrett merryweather mervyn meryn mikken milk mina minisa mirri mo mohor mollander mollen monarchs moon moore mooton mopatis mord mordane moreo morgan morgarth morgon mormont moro morrec morrigen morros mors morya moryn mott mounts mullendore mullin mully munda murenmure musgood mya mycah mychel myles myr myranda myrcella myre myriame myrielle mysaria n naerys naggle naharis nan narha night's norbert norcross norjen norman normund norne norren norrey norridge norvos notch noye nute nymeria o o' oak oakenshield oakheart oarsman obara oberyn of old olene olenna ollidar olymer olyvar olyver omer ondrew orbert orkwood ormond ormund orryn orton orys osbert oscar osfryd osha osmund osney osric oswald oswell oswyck oswyn othell otherys othgar otho othor ottyn owen oznak p paege pahl palehair patchface pate pater patrek paul paxter payne peake penny pennytree penrose perceon peremore perianne perkin perra perriane perwyn petyr philip pie piper plummer podrick polliver poole porther pov praed pree prentys prester preston prince

princes promised prudence prunella pryor puckens pyat pycelle pyg pyke pypar q qalen qarl qarlton qhored qhorin qhorwyn qorgyle qotho quaithe quaro queen quellon quenten quentin quenton quentyn quincy qyburn qyle r ragged rakharo ralf rambton ramsay randyll rast raven ravos raya rayder raylon raymont raymun raymund raynald raynard reach red redbeard redfort redpool redwyne reed reference regenard regis regnar renfred renly rennifer reynard reyne reysen rhae rhaegal rhaegar rhaegel rhaella rhaelle rhaenyra rhalla rhea rhogoro ricasso richard rickard rickon rivers rob robar robard robb robert robett robin robyn roderick rodrik rodwell roger rogers rognar rohanne roland rolder rollam rolland rolley rolly rolph romny ronel ronnal ronnel roone roose roote rorge roryn rosamund rosby rose rosey roslin rowan roxton roy royce rufus rupert rus russell ruttiger ryam rycherd ryella ryger ryk rykker rylene ryman rymolf rymond ryswell s saan sabitha salladhor sallei saltcliffe samantha samgood samwell sand sandor sansa santagar sara saranella sargon sarra sarsfield sarya satin sawane scales scarb seastar seaworth sebaston selmond selmy selwyn selyse senelle septon serena serra serry serwyn sevenstreams shadrich shae shaena shagwell sharp she shella shepherd shett shiera shierle shireen shirei shortear shrike shrykos sigfry sigfryd sigorn simon sister sisterton skahaz skinchangers sloane slynt small smallwood smike smiling snow son son soulless sour sparr spicer spotted squire stackspear stafford

stallion stannis stark starvling staunton steffarion steffon stevron stillwood stiv stokeworth stone stonehouse stonetree storm stout strickland strong suggs sumner sunglass surly swann sweet swyft sybell sylas sylvenna sylwa symond syrio t taena tagaros talbert tall talla tallhart tally tanda tanner tarbeck targaryen tarle tarly tarth tawney templeton teora ternesio terys tess that the the theo theodore theomore theon thoren thorne thoros three timeon timotty tion titus tobho todder todric togarion tollett tom tomard tommen torghen torgon torrhen torwyn torwynd tower towers toyne trant tree tregar tristifer triston trystane tully tumitis turnberry turnip tyana tybolt tyene tygett tyler tyrek tyrell tyrion tyrion's tysane tysha tyta tytos tywald tywin u ulf uller umber umfred umma urragon urras urrathon urrigon urron urswyck uther utherydes uthor utt v vaegon vaellyn valaena valerion valiant vance varamyr vardis vargo varly varys vayon velaryon veron vickon victaria victarion victor vikary vines visenya viserra viserys volmark vorian vortimer votyris w waif walda walder walderan waldon walgrave wallace wallen walter walton waltyr walys was waters watt waymar wayn waynwood weaver webber weeper wendamyr wendel westerlands westerling westling wex whalen whent white whittlestick who wick wife wildling will willamen willas willem william willis willow wind wineseller winterfell wode wolves woman woodcock woolfield world woth wulfgar wull wyl wylde wylis wylla wyman wynafrei wynafryd wynch wynton wythers x xaro xho xhoan y yandry yarwyck yew ygon ygritte yohn yorbert yoren yorko youngest yronwood ysabel ysilla z zo zollo

[meryllfrey]

Meryll of House Frey (OC) -- Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire

FULL NAME:  Meryll Frey BORN: 281 AC ALLEGIANCE: House Frey CULTURE: Riverlands STATUS: Unmarried RELIGION:  The Seven LOCATION: The Twins, Riverlands SOCIAL CLASS: Noble SPOKEN LANGUAGES: Westerosi Common Tongue, High Valyrian

MOTHER: Mariya Frey (of House Darry) FATHER: Merrett Frey, Ninth Son of Walder Frey SIBLINGS: Amerei "Gatehouse Ami" Frey, "Fat" Walda Frey, Marissa Frey, "Little" Walder

FACE CLAIM: Gemma Arterton HAIR COLOR: Chestnut Brown EYE COLOR: Light Brown TATTOO(S): N/A SCAR(S): N/A

ATTRACTS WITH: Captivating charm and compassion, complexity, humour, loyalty, marvellous mind, eccentricities, humanitarian conscience, high ideals and inspiring imagination, exaggerated curiosity

LOSES WITH: Self-righteousness and brutal honesty, emotional defenses and paralysis, lack of deep personal engagement, unreasonable arguments and opposition

BIOGRAPHY: Meryll was the fourth daughter born to Merrett and Mariya Frey. Four girls, and no sons. Her father had been greatly disappointed by the birth of another daughter. Meryll can't remember if anyone ever told her that, but as a child, she must have sensed it on some level, because as early as she can remember, she tried to be the son her father wanted. She dressed in boys clothing and followed him everywhere. He taught her how to care for the horses, how to fish, how to ford the river when the waters were high, and other practical skills.

After Meryll's tenth nameday, Merrett and Mariya were finally blessed with a boy -- "Little" Walder, and her father finally had a real son. She was getting to an age were she couldn't really pass herself off as a boy anymore anyway. Around this same time, Merrett began suffering terrible headaches as a result of a head injury suffered when he was a squire. He started drinking heavily and became known as the Twin's biggest drunk, none of which improved his mood. He was a mean drunk and Meryll began to feel as if her very existence offended him somehow. Fortunately, her Uncle Danwell and Aunt Winnifrei, who had not been able to have children, stepped in and raised Meryll as if she was their own.

Meryll begged for a sword but Uncle Danwell didn't think it wise to give such an unruly girl a blade, and instead presented her with a bow. She turned out to be a natural with a good eye and steady hand.

Growing up at the Twins, Meryll was close with her three sisters, Amerei, Walda and Marissa, as well as an uncle of similar age to her, Olyvar, and a cousin, Alesander. Meryll didn't have a bad relationship with her mother, but Mariya wasa prickly woman, lacking in warmth.

While home at the Twins, Meryll spends as much time as possible outdoors, and can often be found reading by the riverbank. She is particularly fond of tales of the great knights, her favourite being Ser Barristan the Bold, Ser Gerald Hightower, and Ser Duncan the tall -- in that order.

VERSES:

There will be blood | Pre- Red Wedding (AGOT, ACOK)

This is a time of uncertainty for House Frey. Meryll has kinsmen who are loyal to the Starks, and kinsmen who think the only way for House Frey to survive is to kneel to King Joffrey. In this verse, Meryll can be found in: 

The Twins (default)

Kings Landing – attending the Tourney of  the Hand with her Uncle Danwell

Winterfell – as Catelyn’s wards along with Little Walder and Big Walder

The Dreadfort – helping pregnant sister Walda

10 things I hate about you | Post- Red Wedding

Meryll is conflicted about her family’s actions and is looking for a way to leave The Twins. It is a dangerous time, however, with House Frey being persona non grata, and it’s hard to know who to trust. In this verse, Meryll can be found:

At The Twins, plotting her escape

Travelling around Westeros, hiding her identity

Across the Narrow Sea | Post- Red Wedding, in Essos

Meryll has accompanied her childhood hero, Ser Barristan Selmy, to Essos to find Daenerys Stormborn. In this verse, Meryll can be found:

in various locations of Essos, still searching for Daenerys

anywhere along Daenerys’ book or show route

[elegantwoes]

“It is better than the songs,” she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling.

Our precious cinammon roll is enjoying herself (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

“His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm,” she whispered to Jeyne. Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm. ... The twins Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, whose shields displayed the grape cluster sigil of the Redwynes, burgundy on blue. Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason’s son. Six Freys of the Crossing: Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen, Ser Danwell, Ser Emmon, Ser Theo, Ser Perwyn, sons and grandsons of old Lord Walder Frey, and his bastard son Martyn Rivers as well

Look at Sansa showing off her skils in history and heraldy.

Jeyne covered her eyes whenever a man fell, like a frightened little girl, but Sansa was made of sterner stuff. A great lady knew how to behave at tournaments. Even Septa Mordane noted her composure and nodded in approval.

GRRM subtly reminding the readers that Sansa has a certain inner strength that is rivalled by few.

The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor’s second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly ... His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer’s day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one

This is clearly a foreshadowing for the Mountain Clansmen interrupting the Winged Knight's Tourney and blood spilling into the Gates of the Moon.

She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for Lady and Bran. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad

I remember in the early years of being part of the ASOIAF fandom and frequently going on the forum site Westeros.org. This scene was often used to proof that Sansa was a sociopath. Which is weird, because first of she admonishes herself for her lack of reaction and in the end she's still saddened by Ser Hugh's death. Secondly, anyone with a brain can see this scene establishes that Sansa, like her brother Bran, can keep her composure in the face of death.

Ser Loras was the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. At sixteen, he was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. Sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful .... To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. “Sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you.” Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, his eyes like liquid gold. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off.

It should be noted that while Sansa initially was taken by Ser Loras beautiful looks, what made her fall for him was the romantic courtly gesture of him giving her a red rose and unofficially declaring her Queen of Love and Beauty. Meaning in order to capture Sansa's heart you have to shower her with romantic gestures. Interestingly enough, the pedophilic characters who Sansa is often shipped with (*coughs* cujo come again *coughs*) don't show any sign of being romantic enough to court Sansa in the way she wants to be courted. The oone who does fit this description is our sour patch kid Jon Snow. Now he knows how to court a lady. Your ugly pedophile fave can never compare to him (✿◡‿◡).

“You must be one of her daughters,” he said to her. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. “You have the Tully look.” “I’m Sansa Stark,” she said, ill at ease. The man wore a heavy cloak with a fur collar, fastened with a silver mockingbird, and he had the effortless manner of a high lord, but she did not know him. “I have not had the honor, my lord.” Septa Mordane quickly took a hand. “Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king’s small council.” “Your mother was my queen of beauty once,” the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. “You have her hair.” His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away.

What I would like to know is WHY ON EARTH IS SEPTA MORDANE SITTING IDLY BY AS THIS CREEP IS TOUCHING SANSA. This old woman has one job and she can't even do it right. ╰(艹皿艹 )

Sansa and Septa Mordane were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where the king himself sat beside his queen. When Prince Joffrey seated himself to her right, she felt her throat tighten. He had not spoken a word to her since the awful thing had happened, and she had not dared to speak to him. At first she thought she hated him for what they’d done to Lady, but after Sansa had wept her eyes dry, she told herself that it had not been Joffrey’s doing, not truly. The queen had done it; she was the one to hate, her and Arya. Nothing bad would have happened except for Arya.

imagine reading this part and not seeing how Sansa is desperately trying to convince herself that Joffrey isn't who she thinks he is and even then she barely convinces herself by the looks of the next passage:

She could not hate Joffrey tonight. He was too beautiful to hate. He wore a deep blue doublet studded with a double row of golden lion’s heads, and around his brow a slim coronet made of gold and sapphires. His hair was as bright as the metal. Sansa looked at him and trembled, afraid that he might ignore her or, worse, turn hateful again and send her weeping from the table.

Sansa shows signs of having the battered woman syndrome. Did the fandom notice this? Did they even care about Sansa and the horrible situation is in? Of course they don't. They are too busy hating on her. This is why I fucking hate a certain section of this fandom when they speak on the so called dangers of Sansa being the ideal westerosi noble lady. When you can't understand the great nuance to why Sansa made that choice during the Trident incident and why she chose to forgive both Cersei and Joffrey then you should keep your mouth shut and never ever talk about Sansa.

And Joffrey was the soul of courtesy. He talked to Sansa all night, showering her with compliments, making her laugh, sharing little bits of court gossip, explaining Moon Boy’s japes. Sansa was so captivated that she quite forgot all her courtesies and ignored Septa Mordane, seated to her left

Notice how only after Joffrey love bombs her that Sansa finally decides to forgive him and thinks that what happened at the Trident was only a fluke. Once again does the fandom notice? Of course not. They are too busy sucking off the fan favorite characters and don't bother to understand the nuance to Sansa's chapters, especially her AGOT chapters.

“Do you need an escort back to the castle?” “No,” Sansa began. She looked for Septa Mordane, and was startled to find her with her head on the table, snoring soft and ladylike snores. “I mean to say … yes, thank you, that would be most kind. I am tired, and the way is so dark. I should be glad for some protection.”

I swear this woman is the WORST SEPTA IN PLANETOS.

Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. “Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?” He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit ... Suddenly terrified, Sansa pushed at Septa Mordane’s shoulder, hoping to wake her, but she only snored the louder. King Robert had stumbled off and half the benches were suddenly empty. The feast was over, and the beautiful dream had ended with it.

Sansa is clearly terrified by Cujo come again and yet some people have convinced themselves that this is a grand romance.

Sansa could not bear the sight of him, he frightened her so, yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. A true lady would not notice his face, she told herself. “You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor,” she made herself say. Sandor Clegane snarled at her. “Spare me your empty little compliments, girl … and your ser’s. I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight. Did you see him ride today?” “Yes,” Sansa whispered, trembling. “He was …” “Gallant?” the Hound finished. He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie. Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. “Some septa trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.” “That’s unkind.” Sansa could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. “You’re frightening me. I want to go now.”

Sansa tries to start a conversation out of politeness and this nasty man has to derride her for this. He goes on to mock her skills and even when she makes a clever comment he still denigrates her despite knowing full well that her courtesies is something she should be fucking proud of. God this man is so hateful. He can't accept anything being good and kind. Everyone needs to be as equally miserable as him. (* ￣︿￣).

Sandor Clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her, and moved the torch close. “There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look.”

This is the second older man that touches Sansa's face without her consent, but sure tell me how cujo come again, is so much better than Pedofinger and the King of Incels.

The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away. The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. “He was no true knight,” she whispered to him.

Despite the fact that cujo come again has been so rude to her, had every intention to break her spirit and her ideals, Sansa rises above it, and shows us her unyielding side. 'He was no true knight.' And she's right. Even if the insitution of knighthood is corrupt that doesn't mean chivalry isn't worth upholding. In fact it's especially in face of adversity that you should stay true to the knightly ideals. Cujo come again take note from Sansa Stark.

The Hound caught her by the arm and leaned close. “The things I told you tonight,” he said, his voice sounding even rougher than usual. “If you ever tell Joffrey … your sister, your father … any of them …” “I won’t,” Sansa whispered. “I promise.” It was not enough. “If you ever tell anyone,” he finished, “I’ll kill you.

In case you guys didn't know, threatening to kill someone is a great way to start off a romance. /s

Next chapter our reluctant detective: Ned Stark.

[writergirl2011]

Current Royals Roster as of Chapter 39

King’s Landing Royals Current roster, including September call-ups:

Starting Pitchers (6):

Bronn Blackwater, Garin Greenblood, Jaime Lannister, Loras Tyrell, Steelshanks Walton, Raynald Westerling

Relief Pitchers (11):

Lyle Crakehall (middle relief), Andrew Estermont (middle relief), Cleos Frey (left-handed specialist), Edmund Gardener (middle relief), Thoros Myr (closer), Lorimar Peake (left-handed long relief), Josamyn Peckledon (left-handed middle relief), Lewys Piper (middle relief), Meryn Trant (set-up man), Kermit Tully (left-handed reliever), Karyl Vance (middle relief)

Catchers (3)

Rego Draz, Podrick Payne, Brienne Tarth

Infielders (7)

Daven Lefford (second base), Arryk Leftright (utility player), Erryk Leftright (utility player), Addam Marbrand (shortstop), Arys Oakheart (first base), Casper Straw (second base), Balon Swann (third base)

Outfielders (6)

Beric Dondarrion (center field), Osmund Kettleblack (left field platoon), Dickon Manwoody (center field), Dickon Tarly (right field), Damon Vypren (utility player), Gendry Waters (left field platoon).

Currently on Injured List:

Danwell Frey (60-day IL, torn Achilles tendon, required surgery, out for season)

Dontos Hollard (60-day IL, torn Ulnar Collateral Ligament, required Tommen Jon surgery, out for season)

Moreo Tumitis (60-day IL, shoulder tendonitis, out for season)

Recent Royals Transactions:

ACTIVATED Jaime Lannister from 60-day IL; currently serving 10-game suspension for inciting benches-clearing incident vs. Harrenhal

MOVED Moreo Tumitis from 10-day IL to 60-day IL

RECALLED C Podrick Payne, OF Dickon Manwoody, IF Casper Straw, RP Karyl Vance, RP Andrew Estermont, and SP Lorimar Peake from AAA

[jaimebrienneonline]

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth Characters: Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister, Cersei Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Selwyn Tarth, Genna Lannister, Kevan Lannister, Cleos Frey, Barristan Selmy, Tywin Lannister, Wylla Manderly, Humfrey Wagstaff, Dick Crabb, Danwell Frey, Alliser Thorne, Bronn (ASoIaF), Osmund Kettleblack, Podrick Payne, Janos Slynt Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, yes this is The Baseball Story!!, (for everyone who's heard me talking about it for a while), pitcher!Jaime, catcher!Brienne, typical misogyny against a female who wants to play baseball, at least at first, and yes there is twincest at the beginning, warning: This Author is a lifelong St. Louis Cardinals fan, and she's not shy about admitting that parts of this story will draw on recent Cardinals history, More characters to be added later, Slow Burn, yeah I probably should've warned for that a little sooner, and more tags too Summary:

All Brienne Tarth's ever wanted to do was play baseball. Aresd thisll the world's ever given her is scorn for thinking a woman could be as good as a man--until she's drafted by the King's Landing Royals. Now she's got a chance to make her wildest dreams come true.

Jaime Lannister overcame a rocky start to his career to become the premiere pitcher for the King's Landing Royals. He thinks a woman playing professional baseball is ludicrous--until he meets Brienne Tarth.

---

READ THIS!!

[redhoodsjacket]

Cold - Jaime Lannister

Hello! So this is my part for @justauthoring ‘s 14k challenge! Also a bit of my pilot as to know if I start a GoT sideblog, if enough people like this one.

Pairing: Jaime Lannister x Reader

Prompt: “Look, if this is gonna happen, then you need to do it. I can’t risk getting stabbed again. I just can’t” (prompt 21 if I remember correctly)

Word count: 2409

Warnings: This has no happy ending I’m sorry but I could do a part 2 on demand I guess

"Get off of me you prick-- oof" Your teeth were clenched as you fought against the two men dragging you across the court. They had stopped trying to be gentle a while ago, but it didn't dim the fire enraging you.  They finally stopped in the middle of the place, holding you in front of the Black Fish. He looked at you with half contempt, half admiration before his eyes trailed onto the barred door. You couldn't help but follow his stare, your heart skipping a beat knowing who was on the other side of it. "Just say the words girl" The Tully man spoke, barely sparing her a glance. "And you're free to go"

"You won't make me change my mind" She sneered. "I won't give in"

"Want some advice. Don't sacrifice yourself for them" He grunted. "He's not worth it" "I'm loyal to house Lannister" She spat at his feet.  "As you wish" He sighed and walked away. You were held there for a few minutes, until the door opened to let Edmur Tully in. He didn't even spare you a glance and went straight up the watch tower. Moments later, the door opened again.  You began trashing against your hold again as you watched the Lannister army walk in with Jaime at their head.  "Jaime!" You yelled, getting his attention. "Let her go" He commanded to the man, and seeing as the Tully forces had surrendered, he did as told.  You let out a breath of relief as you went to him, and halted your steps at a modest enough distance from him. You hadn't seen him in years, but he had gotten even more handsome, if he even could.  "Are you alright?" He asked in a breath after a quick visual analysis for apparent injuries.  "Quite, thank you" You replied, catching his glance as it set back on your face. "... And your husband?" He hesitated, but managed to hide most of the disgust in his voice. He never liked that your father married you off to a Frey.  "Killed in combat" You replied without much emotion, but a bit of sadness for your next words. "So was the boy" "I'm sorry" His voice was low. He did his best not to sound even remotely joyful of the news. Of course he would have never wished for you to lose your infant child, but he knew this arrangement had never made you happy anyway. Neither him, if he was being honest.  "It's fine-- Watch out!"  You woke up with a gasp, clutching your left side where you remembered vividly the steel piercing through. You had reacted quicker than Jaime had and put yourself in between him and the Black Fish's sword. You had been reliving this memory in your dream more often lately, and you really wished it would go away. It bitterly reminded you of the worst mistake you had ever made.  Days after the stabbing, when you had woken up again, Jaime had been at your side. You had been granted a chamber in the Twins, one where the rising sun spilled warmth into the room. He had been there, sitting on the side of your bed to make sure you woke up again.  You had left the Twins not long after, and he had closely looked after you for the time of your travel back to the Capital. Every time your carriage would stop he'd check on you, he'd make sure your wound was cleaned and bandaged again every few hours. You had caught up on the lost time, and you had really thought the spark that had been there years ago when you first met was back and stronger than ever.  But then, when you had reached King's Landing, everything changed. He had only checked on you once, a few days after your arrival, and avoided you when you began to walk around again. When crossing paths with your became inevitable, he would only advert his eyes and nod in half acknowledgement, and it broke your heart.  The final blow, you thought, was the day you had been summoned into the throne room by the Queen. There were only five other people around her, and you had felt small under their stare.  "Lady (Y/N), my dear" Cersei had greeted with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You look better than the last time I saw you" "I feel better, Your Grace. Thank you" You had politely lowered your head.  "Good" She had simply replied. "I have an important matter to discuss with you today" You had only nodded, suddenly feeling uneasy. You hadn't known if it was her smug expression or the stares from the two men you recognized as the Tarlys, but you had had a bad feeling about the outcome of this.  "As you know you are one of the last Tyrell alive, and the only one who respected her pledge to the throne through thick and thin" She had began. "The future of house Tyrell now weights on you, whether or not you were prepared for it" "Of course, Your Grace" You had agreed with it. Your cousins might have broken faith with the Lannisters, but you hadn't.  "And from what I've been told, you are no longer married to Danwell Frey. Such tragic fate for your son" She had trailed off. "But a Lady with your name deserve better than the Frey, won't you agree?"  You hadn't replied, only gulped and glanced quickly at Jaime, who had been staring emptily directly in front of him. "Once the war is over, you will marry Dickon Tarly to unite house Tyrell and Tarly again" Her words had been like a second blade in the wound. You didn't want to marry ever again, not when you had just been reunited with Jaime. Your first marriage had left a bitter taste in your mouth and you wanted no part in another one again. You had tried to catch Jaime's glance as a plea for help, but to no avail.  You had swallowed hard and forced yourself to meet the Queen's eyes again. You had taken a deep breath and curtsied, pushing back your true feelings deep inside. "I will fulfill my duty, your Grace. Thank you" You looked outside at the sun rays peeking at the horizon and sighed, knowing it was useless to try and sleep again. You stretched and got out of bed, starting your routine earlier than usual. As you were slowly getting dressed, you realized how much of an idiot you were to stay loyal to the Lannisters. You should have taken the Black Fish's advice when you still could and go wherever you wanted.  You weren't exactly a prisoner of the Queen, as you had a proper chamber and could go out in the gardens at any time, but you weren't free to leave either. Now that your new promised had been executed by the Targaryen girl, you weren't worth as much in her eyes. There were no one left important she could marry you off to; you were only a pawn she no longer needed.  You quickly braided your hair, then grabbed your bow and quiver from under your bed. You had always loved archery, but your marriage to the Danwell Frey had you putting it aside. However, now that all you ever had was free time, you liked to sneak off somewhere private and practice.  You stayed all morning by the sea, just shooting all of the arrows in your quiver and picking them back up to do it all again. It relaxed you as much as it gave you a foreign sense of freedom you knew you would never really taste.  When you got back to your chambers, the door had been left ajar. You tensed up and carefully pushed it open, your fingers twitching on your bow. Though, your shoulders sagged when you recognized the golden hair of the intruder, who had his back to you. "What are you doing here?" You said sternly as he spun around, eyes wide.  "(Y/N), thank the gods" He took several steps in your direction. You noticed me wasn't wearing his usual armor, but rather was clad in a leather jacket and a cloak and opting for low profile colors instead of the flashy red and gold. "We need to go now" "What's going on?" You took a step back as he took one forward to bring you with him, and hurt flashed in his eyes.  "I don't have the time to explain now" He started pacing around. "We need to--" "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me what is happening" Your tone took a sharp edge. "Please" He begged. "Just trust me" "Ha, that's rich" You snapped. "Why should I trust you after you've betrayed me that way?" Jaime flinched. "It wasn't like that"  "It wasn't like that?" You repeated, your eyes widening in anger and disbelief. "You knew how I felt about marriage, and most importantly, you knew how I felt about you. How we felt about each other. Was I just a toy for you?" "No!" He exclaimed, almost frustrated. "I felt for you the same way, you know it. I never wanted that for you" "Yet You just stood by and watched. All you had to do was speak up" You replied in a half whisper, before your voice took a more cynical edge. "But no, you wouldn't have done that now, would you? Because the she would have known, and you couldn't have that" He didn't deny your accusations, which made you chuckle dryly. Of course, you wouldn't be enough for him to go against his sister, his lover.  "I believed in you, Jaime" You said as you put your bow down and started to undo your quiver belt. "I believed in us. And look where it got me" "Alright, I'm an idiot and I'll never be worthy of you. There, I said it" He hurried his words. "But please, believe me when I say that we both need to get out of here while we still can. She almost had me killed, (Y/N)" That made you pause for a moment. You looked into his eyes and saw nothing but urgency and desperation. You knew Jaime, and despite the fact that you weren't ready to even remotely forgive him, you did believe him. You sighed and gave him a nod, and his shoulder untensed slightly.  "Bring your bow and a cloak, we'll get the horses" /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ You brought your horses to a halt when you were far enough from the capital to put on your gloves, as the temperature had suddenly dropped several degrees. You watched a single snowflake fall on the black leather covering Jaime's golden hand, and suppressed a shiver of fear and uncertainty concerning what would happen next. You had been informed of Cersei's planned betrayal, but you still hesitated to ride up North like that, as you were still very much flagged an enemy. Just like he had read your mind, Jaime then spoke up. "We can't just ride to Winterfell alone" He said, gaining your attention.  "We can't" You agreed. "They'll hang us" He took a moment to think, then looked to his left. "The Lannisters army's camp is down this road" He stated. "I'll try to rally as much men as I can to ride up with us" "That would be smart" You nodded. "I might need your help as well" He then added. "Can you try and convince the old Tyrell allies to ride North? I'm sure they'll follow you" You went rigid in your saddle. By sticking by the Lannisters, you had betrayed your family's decision to side with the Targaryen queen. You had been seen as a traitor then, and you doubted your reputation got better when the traditional Tyrell allies had been forced to switch alliances after the taking of High Gardens.  Telling them now to change allegiance once again and pledge yet another oath to the Tyrells would get you killed for sure. "Look, if this is gonna happen, then you need to do it" You sighed, fidgeting with your reins. "I can't risk getting stabbed again. I just can't. Not for you" His expression went from disappointed to pained by your last words. It was like he only then realized he had let you down in the worse way after you had literally taken a knife for him. Like he finally understood how much he had hurt you. On one hand you felt satisfaction to see him get even a small portion of the pain you had felt. But on the other hand, the part of you that still loved him ached from the mutual suffering that was happening right now. In any cases, he had deserved your words and their harshness. It didn't mean, however, that you enjoyed it. You had never been a cruel person, and you wanted to think you'd never be one.  "Fair enough" He muttered dejection in his voice. He began to turn his horse toward the camp, but he paused mid way. "For all it's worth, I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry about everything I did to you, and everything I didn't because I was a coward. I can only hope one day you will find it in you to forgive a complete fool, but I won't hold it against you if you can't" Tears welled in your eyes at his apology. He seemed so broken at the moment; it almost made you forgive him on the spot. But you remained strong and held eye contact, chin high and shoulders squared.  "I guess I just wanted you to know I do love you, and that I have no excuse for not realizing it sooner" He added, making you choke on air. You once again almost lost your composure, but held it together by some miracle. "I'm sorry, (Y/N)" "You should go gather the men now" You spoke up, trying to cover up the shakiness of your voice. "I'll wait here" It wasn't the answer he expected, but he nodded nonetheless, head low in defeat. He galloped in direction of the camp, and only when you were sure he was far enough, let the tears fall down your cheeks.  You had been waiting years for that confession, so why did it feel like you had been stabbed all over again?

[notenoughmuses]

Dropping Benjen and adding:

Jarrett Frey is an imagining of one of Danwell Frey’s stillborn children if one had lived.

He is a Grandson of Waldar Frey and born in 272 AC and is about 28

He’s a knight and also scoured the seas as a pirate on and off and was a first mate before he went back to land shortly as his kin are being killed off (or all slaughtered in show verse)

[goodqueenaly]

So I've been thinking a lot about House Whent based on conversations with @racefortheironthrone on his upcoming “Bran II” CBC. House Whent is confusing, because we have a good number of House members but not a lot of information on how they all fit together. Nevertheless, I decided to create a proposed (emphasis on proposed) Whent family tree to use as a working model for future meta thoughts/fics. I mean, this is as much fic as it is meta anyway - actually, probably more so - so take that for what it's worth. 

So, here’s the family tree I came up with. It’s built on basically four, I think reasonable assumptions:

There were three successive Whent rulers of Harrenhal after the Lothstons. This assumption is supported by the career of Ben Blackthumb, whom Gendry reports “[s]mithed for Lady Whent and her father before her and his father before him, and even for Lord Lothston who held Harrenhal before the Whents”. I also think it not impossible that over a period of roughly seven decades (from the time Maekar I gave it to the former landed knight House Whent sometime in the 220s - and probably later in the decade, to have Ben still around to smith - to the death of Shella in ~300 AC), there would have been just three rulers. 

Shella was a Whent by birth and Lady of Harrenhal in her own right. Again, Ben Blackthumb's history with Harrenhal, specifically citing the father and grandfather of Lady Whent, strongly indicates that this is the case. It also explains why Shella continued to hold Harrenhal in her own right in the main series, despite having a husband styled “Lord Walter”. Speaking of which ...

Shella was married to Walter to keep Harrenhal with House Whent. It is a sad but true fact of the series that in Westeros, a woman who wishes to rule in her own right has a far more difficult time asserting her right to do so than a male counterpart. This would have been no less true of Lady Shella, who was not only the heiress of a House whose lordly honors went back only two generations, but had succeeded after the last Lady of Harrenhal, Danelle Lothston, had supposedly gone mad and turned to the black arts. If Shella married her cousin Walter - the most senior male descendant of First Lord Whent - not only would these potentially competing claims be combined, but Harrenhal would stay in firmly Whent hands. This in turn explains why Walter is styled “Lord Walter” in various sources: although he ruled in right of his wife, Walter enjoyed the benefit of being a highborn man in a highborn man’s world, and I think patriarchal Westerosi society would have simply assumed that he would be running the affairs of Harrenhal. (I sense a parallel to, say, the Hayfords calling little Ermesande’s husband “our lord Tyrek”.) 

Minisa Whent was Shella’s sister. There is no direct evidence for this, but their children seem to have been very roughly of an age (all four of Shella’s sons were knights in 281 AC, while the “fair maid” seems to have been around or just under Lysa’s age), and I think it fits nicely with Hoster’s marital ambitions. By marrying the younger sister of the heiress to Harrenhal, Hoster Tully could not only establish close ties with his greatest vassal family, but also put himself in a perfect position to snatch up Harrenhal if Shella proved as bad a ruling lady as Danelle.

As for Sarya and Wynafrei, I think it makes sense for them to be of the same generation (technically, I think Oswell was older than Sarya, but for some reason the family tree put her as older and I didn’t feel like it was so essential a point to delete everyone of that line and redo it). Both seem to have married their Frey spouses in the 270s (Alyssa Blackwood, the wife immediately preceding Sarya, died sometime after 269 AC, while Bethany Rosby, the wife immediately after Sarya, gave birth to her first child with Walder in 278 AC; Danwell, meanwhile, was born sometime between 252 and 261 AC, so the 270s seem a likely era for him to wed), and I like to think that perhaps the Whents made it a double wedding. If Danwell, only the eighth son of Lord Walder, were to have a bride of House Whent - a new lordly House, but not too new by the 270s, and certainly far greater than the Freys - then perhaps the Whents insisted that Walder make Sarya Lady of the Crossing.

I think this family tree also nicely explains Ser Oswell joining the Kingsguard. As the younger son of a junior branch of House Whent, with his brother and sister-in-law/cousin producing four male heirs who would presumably have sons of their own, Ser Oswell’s dynastic prospects were probably not terribly high. As kin by marriage to the Tullys, however, and a grandson of Lord Whent, Ser Oswell had more than suitable credentials for a white cloak. 

Again, this is as guesswork as anything. But until we get more information, I’m sticking with it.

[makerkenzie]

Grassroots justice

Not quite sure where this is going, but I want to do a little thinky on the role of the smallfolk in the Riverlands situation. Start from this conversation here:

Jaime pulled back his golden fingers and turned once more to Lady Mariya. “How far did Black Walder track this hooded woman and her men?”

“His hounds picked up their scent again north of Hag’s Mire,” the older woman told him. “He swears that he was no more than half a day behind them when they vanished into the Neck.”

“Let them rot there,” declared Ser Kennos cheerfully. “If the gods are good, they’ll be swallowed up in quicksand or gobbled down by lizard-lions.”

“Or taken in by frogeaters,” said Ser Danwell Frey. “I would not put it past the crannogmen to shelter outlaws.”

“Would that it were only them,” said Lady Mariya. “Some of the river lords are hand in glove with Lord Beric’s men as well.”

“The smallfolk too,” sniffed her daughter. “Ser Harwyn says they hide them and feed them, and when he asks where they’ve gone, they lie. They lie to their own lords!”

“Have their tongues out,” urged Strongboar.

“Good luck getting answers then,” said Jaime. “If you want their help, you need to make them love you. That was how Arthur Dayne did it, when we rode against the Kingswood Brotherhood. He paid the smallfolk for the food we ate, brought their grievances to King Aerys, expanded the grazing lands around their villages, even won them the right to fell a certain number of trees each year and take a few of the king’s deer during the autumn. The forest folk had looked to Toyne to defend them, but Ser Arthur did more for them than the Brotherhood could ever hope to do, and won them to our side. After that, the rest was easy.”

Martin, George R.R.. A Feast for Crows (A Song of Ice and Fire, Book 4) (p. 510). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

Here’s Jaime’s framework for pulling the rug out from under outlaw bands: both outlaws and nobles are dependent on the smallfolk. Nobles tend to think it’s the other way around, but realistically, the nobility needs to have a reliable population of commoners to grow their food, make their clothes, and maintain their castles. Many nobles are so accustomed to the smallfolk giving them tireless productivity and unflagging loyalty, they don’t see how their lifestyles depend on the common people far more than vice versa. 

Meanwhile, outlaw bands also cannot exist without the peasantry on their side. Outlaw bands tend to be poor on infrastructure, liquid assets, and other resources. Their combat style relies on subterfuge rather than brute force. Common households give them hiding space so they can escape detection and capture by the nobles’ knights and men-at-arms. Commoners feed them so the outlaws can approach the nobles on their own terms. To neutralize the threat posed by outlaw bands, the nobility needs to have the peasantry on their side. 

That’s where Jaime comes in and says: you don’t brute-force the peasants’ loyalty. The way to deny the outlaws their support system is by being nice to the smallfolk. Not just nice, but respectful. Ser Arthur Dayne was generous and communicative with the people supporting the Kingswood Brotherhood. He made them feel heard and appreciated. He showed them that the crown would allow them greater security and prosperity if they supported the crown’s interests. Without the shelter, food and discretion of the smallfolk, the Kingswood Brotherhood were vulnerable and easily defeated. 

For a little digression, I want to ask: can anyone imagine Tywin Lannister taking this approach to law enforcement? Lord Tywin, the one who arranged the gang-rape of a young girl because she had the cheek to give her love to his son? Jaime had to learn that from Ser Arthur, and only when his father was far, far away, because Lord Tywin would’ve washed his mouth out with soap. 

That much aside, if we look at Jaime’s leadership in his Feast/Dance arc, he’s already taken an interest in playing nicely with the smallfolk. He orders his soldiers to stay out of the fields, he has them stay in the village and use their own provisions at Pennytree, for example. He also executes one of the Mountain’s guys (ergo the crown’s forces now) for merely attempting to rape a serving girl. By demonstrating to his soldiers a zero-tolerance policy on rape, he’s making the women of the Riverlands much safer. 

He doesn’t think of this as the way to disempower the outlaws, though. The fields are off-limits and the villagers’ pantries remain untouched because the commoners need to eat. The attempting rapist has to die because girls like Pia shouldn’t have to deal with that shit. 

However, this is not to say Jaime doesn’t respect the danger posed by outlaws in the Riverlands. He’s not about to be lax with security at Castle Darry:

The castle gates swung open slowly. “My coz will not have room to accommodate a thousand men,” Jaime told Strongboar. “We’ll make camp beneath the western wall. I want the perimeters ditched and staked. There are still bands of outlaws in these parts.” 

“They’d need to be mad to attack a force as strong as ours.” 

“Mad or starving.” Until he had a better notion of these outlaws and their strength, Jaime was not inclined to take any risks with his defenses. “Ditched and staked,” he said again, before spurring Honor toward the gate.

Martin, George R.R.. A Feast for Crows (A Song of Ice and Fire, Book 4) (p. 502). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition. 

Again, it’s not a matter of brute force, it’s about the balance of risk and benefit. Widespread hunger makes the army’s work more difficult. And he understands that his father’s warmongering has left a lot of Riverlanders with little to eat. 

Not that the Lannisters are all alone in taking food out of peasants’ mouths:

“Can we starve the castle out?” 

Ser Daven shook his head. “The Blackfish expelled all the useless mouths from Riverrun and picked this country clean. He has enough stores to keep man and horse alive for two full years.”

Martin, George R.R.. A Feast for Crows (A Song of Ice and Fire, Book 4) (p. 555). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

Here’s the contrast between Uncle Brynden and Lord Edmure Tully: when Edmure has frightened smallfolk, he brings them into the castle. Catelyn thinks it’s sweet of him to have that impulse, but when a castle is about to be under siege, you don’t want to increase the ratio of warm bodies to food stores. Then we have Uncle Brynden the Blackfish, who chases the inessential folks out of the castle AND scours all the spare food stores from the countryside to keep the castle out of the Freys’ hands. 

In terms of giving the middle finger to the Freys and Lannisters, Uncle Brynden knows what he’s doing. In terms of maintaining relations with the smallfolk, though…the peasants don’t care about which family holds Riverrun nearly as much as they care about how they’ll feed their kids through the winter. When they’re going hungry, they’ll remember who emptied out their pantries. Jaime seems to think their chances of capturing the Blackfish are slim following the Riverrun surrender, and that may be true, but at the same time, I’m not sure how far Blackfish will get in a countryside that he made sure to pick clean of food. 

And I don’t think the Freys are making themselves any more popular with the peasantry, either, but they’re not the ones who took the bread off hungry Riverlanders’ tables. Just sayin’, the smallfolk may not be real invested in the position of House Tully in the near future.

Surely, there’s a reason for Feast/Dance having so much to say about the realm, especially the Riverlands, going hungry following the war. Maybe it’s simply GRRM’s way of showing us how the Riverlands are a tinderbox and it’s about to get very ugly very soon. That much may be true, but then so much of our data on the Riverlands situation comes to us through Jaime’s consideration for the smallfolk. The part where he advises Ami and Mariya on how to keep the smallfolk on their side, especially, is noteworthy.

Will any of this play a role in Brienne and Jaime’s conflict with Zombie Catelyn and the Gang? I’m not sure what, if any, that role would be. I think it’s a factor that should be kept in consideration, though, until we get TWOW. They’re dealing with outlaws, depending on smallfolk, and Jaime has some well-tested ideas about how to interact with outlaws and with smallfolk.

[thelegendofclarke]

Hi! How are you? I don't remember well but is it mentioned in ASOIAF that Nymeria &the wolf pack are hurting smallfolks/travelers or hunting their cattle? I could be wrong but the wolves are seen as menace by some dwellers&travelers? I think there was something in Brienne's POV in Feast but I'm not sure. Would be grateful if you could comment on that

Hey Anon! I am doing well, thank you so much for asking :)

From what I can remember, I think there are four instances like what you are specifically referring to where POV characters hear/are told about a direwolf pack causing trouble. 

1) Arya hears about a wolf pack led by a huge female wolf during her march north with Yoren in ACoK:

“It’s been a bad year for wolves,” volunteered a sallow man in a travel-stained green cloak. “Around the Gods Eye, the packs have grown bolder'n anyone can remember. Sheep, cows, dogs, makes no matter, they kill as they like, and they got no fear of men. It’s worth your life to go into those woods by night.”

“Ah, that’s more tales, and no more true than the other.”

“I heard the same thing from my cousin, and she’s not the sort to lie,” an old woman said. “She says there’s this great pack, hundreds of them, mankillers. The one that leads them is a she-wolf, a bitch from the seventh hell.”

(….)

The man in the green cloak said, “I heard how this hellbitch walked into a village one day … a market day, people everywhere, and she walks in bold as you please and tears a baby from his mother’s arms. When the tale reached Lord Mooton, him and his sons swore they’d put an end to her. They tracked her to her lair with a pack of wolfhounds, and barely escaped with their skins. Not one of those dogs came back, not one.”

— ACoK, Chapt. 5, Arya II

2) The example I think you were referring to in AFfC, where Septon Meribald tells Brienne about a great pack of hundreds of wolves led by a “monstrous she-wolf, a stalking shadow grim and grey and huge” (aka NYMERIA AF!) seen around the Trident:

“Dog keeps me safe upon the roads, even in such trying times as these. Neither wolf nor outlaw dare molest me when Dog is at my side.” The septon frowned. “The wolves have grown terrible of late. There are places where a man alone would do well to find a tree to sleep in. In all my years the biggest pack I ever saw had fewer than a dozen wolves in it, but the great pack that prowls along the Trident now numbers in the hundreds.”

“Have you come on them yourself?” Ser Hyle asked.

“I have been spared that, Seven save me, but I have heard them in the night, and more than once. So many voices … a sound to curdle a man’s blood. It even set Dog to shivering, and Dog has killed a dozen wolves.” He ruffled the dog’s head. “Some will tell you that they are demons. They say the pack is led by a monstrous she-wolf, a stalking shadow grim and grey and huge. They will tell you that she has been known to bring aurochs down all by herself, that no trap nor snare can hold her, that she fears neither steel nor fire, slays any wolf that tries to mount her, and devours no other flesh but man.”

— AFfC, Chapt. 25, Brienne V

3) Danwell Frey complains to Jaime about the growing number of wolves in the Riverlands in AFfC:

After the toast Lady Amerei stopped weeping and the table talk turned to wolves, of the four-footed kind. Ser Danwell Frey claimed there were more of them about than even his grandfather could remember. “They’ve lost all fear of men. Packs of them attacked our baggage train on our way down from the Twins. Our archers had to feather a dozen before the others fled.” Ser Addam Marbrand confessed that their own column had faced similar troubles on their way up from King’s Landing.

— AFfC, Chapt. 30, Jaime IV

4) Also in AFfC, Ser Dermot tells Jaime about finding hundreds of wolves near Riverrun led by a “she-wolf of monstrous size” and Jaime ~specifically~ wonders if it could be Nymeria:  

The next day Ser Dermot of the Rainwood returned to the castle, empty-handed. When asked what he’d found, he answered, “Wolves. Hundreds of the bloody beggars.” He’d lost two sentries to them. The wolves had come out of the dark to savage them. “Armed men in mail and boiled leather, and yet the beasts had no fear of them. Before he died, Jate said the pack was led by a she-wolf of monstrous size. A direwolf, to hear him tell it. The wolves got in amongst our horse lines too. The bloody bastards killed my favorite bay.”

“A ring of fires round your camp might keep them off,” said Jaime, though he wondered. Could Ser Dermot’s direwolf be the same beast that had mauled Joffrey near the crossroads?

— AFfC, Chapt. 44, Jaime VII

As far as commenting on it, I suppose it depends on what you were looking for; but here are my thoughts for what they are worth… I definitely think the “giant she-wolf” is Nymeria, and that she is the alpha of the pack people have spotted. I also think it’s particularly important that not only have other characters besides Arya seen and mentioned the direwolf, but that Nymeria and her pack are doing something distinct and notable: causing problems in places, and for people, who are affiliated with enemies of the North and anti-Stark forces.  

I think there is some really clear and heavy symbolism present that could be indicative of Arya becoming “alpha” of her own “wolf pack,” and potentially becoming a leader/commander of some form of Stark/Northern forces. Nymeria’s namesake was a warrior queen, a skilled general and fierce commander, who led her people on a dangerous journey to safety in Essos after the Rhoyne was conquered by the Valyrian Freehold and their dragons. Nymeria of Rhoynar also played an (obviously) integral role in Nymeria’s War, the campaign where she and her husband, Mors Martell, conquered the various kings of Dorne and united the land under the rule of their combined house, House Nymeros Martell. Now Nymeria the direwolf is also a strong leader and the commander of her own forces, the wolf pack. There is so much about leadership, loyalty, courage, and the “strength of the pack” woven into Arya’s narrative. Additionally, her time with the Faceless Men has taught her so much about discipline, strategy, and resourcefulness, and has helped her to really hone her mental dexterity. I could definitely see all of this as foreshadowing for Arya becoming an effective and formidable leader/commander in her own right. 

I also think it’s more than possible that, like Nymeria, Arya will raise a little hell for enemies of House Stark and the people who betrayed her family. 

[nanshe-of-nina]

Wives of Lord Walder Frey

Perra Royce, first wife of Lord Walder Frey. Mother of Stevron, Emmon, Aenys, and Perriane Frey.

Cyrenna Swann, second wife of Lord Walder Frey. Mother of Jared Frey and Septon Luceon.

Amarei Crakehall, third wife of Lord Walder Frey. Mother of Hosteen, Lythene, Symond, Danwell, Merrett, Geremy and Raymund Frey.

Alyssa Blackwood, fourth wife of Lord Walder Frey. Mother of Lothar, Jammos, Whalen, Morya and Tyta Frey.

Bethany Rosby, fifth wife of Lord Walder Frey. Mother of Perwyn, Benfrey, Willamen, Olyvar and Roslin Frey.

Sarya Whent, sixth wife of Lord Walder Frey.

Annara Farring, seventh wife of Lord Walder Frey. Mother of Arwyn, Wendel, Colmar, Waltyr, Elmar, and Shirei Frey.

Joyeuse Erenford, eighth wife of Lord Walder Frey.

[readbookywooks]

Sansa

Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa's breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind . . . and the knights themselves, the knights most of all. "It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last. The seven knights of the Kingsguard took the field, all but Jaime Lannister in scaled armor the color of milk, their cloaks as white as freshfallen snow. Ser Jaime wore the white cloak as well, but beneath it he was shining gold from head to foot, with a lion's-head helm and a golden sword. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, thundered past them like an avalanche. Sansa remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who had guested at Winterfell two years before. "His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm," she whispered to Jeyne. Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm. He had cut down three of Rhaegar's bannermen on the Trident. The girls giggled over the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, with his flapping red robes and shaven head, until the septa told them that he had once scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in hand. Other riders Sansa did not know; hedge knights from the Fingers and Highgarden and the mountains of Dorne, unsung freeriders and new-made squires, the younger sons of high lords and the heirs of lesser houses. Younger men, most had done no great deeds as yet, but Sansa and Jeyne agreed that one day the Seven Kingdoms would resound to the sound of their names. Ser Balon Swann. Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. Bronze Yohn's heir, Ser Andar Royce, and his younger brother Ser Robar, their silvered steel plate filigreed in bronze with the same ancient runes that warded their father. The twins Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, whose shields displayed the grape cluster sigil of the Redwynes, burgundy on blue. Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason's son. Six Freys of the Crossing: Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen, Ser Danwell, Ser Emmon, Ser Theo, Ser Perwyn, sons and grandsons of old Lord Walder Frey, and his bastard son Martyn Rivers as well. Jeyne Poole confessed herself frightened by the look of Jalabhar Xho, an exile prince from the Summer Isles who wore a cape of green and scarlet feathers over skin as dark as night, but when she saw young Lord Beric Dondarrion, with his hair like red gold and his black shield slashed by lightning, she pronounced herself willing to marry him on the instant. The Hound entered the lists as well, and so too the king's brother, handsome Lord Renly of Storm's End. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin rode for Winterfell and the north. "Jory looks a beggar among these others," Septa Mordane sniffed when he appeared. Sansa could only agree. Jory's armor was blue-grey plate without device or ornament, and a thin grey cloak hung from his shoulders like a soiled rag. Yet he acquitted himself well, unhorsing Horas Redwyne in his first joust and one of the Freys in his second. In his third match, he rode three passes at a freerider named Lothor Brune whose armor was as drab as his own. Neither man lost his seat, but Brune's lance was steadier and his blows better placed, and the king gave him the victory. Alyn and Harwin fared less well; Harwin was unhorsed in his first tilt by Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard, while Alyn fell to Ser Balon Swann. The jousting went all day and into the dusk, the hooves of the great warhorses pounding down the lists until the field was a ragged wasteland of torn earth. A dozen times Jeyne and Sansa cried out in unison as riders crashed together, lances exploding into splinters while the commons screamed for their favorites. Jeyne covered her eyes whenever a man fell, like a frightened little girl, but Sansa was made of sterner stuff. A great lady knew how to behave at tournaments. Even Septa Mordane noted her composure and nodded in approval. The Kingslayer rode brilliantly. He overthrew Ser Andar Royce and the Marcher Lord Bryce Caron as easily as if he were riding at rings, and then took a hard-fought match from white-haired Barristan Selmy, who had won his first two tilts against men thirty and forty years his junior. Sandor Clegane and his immense brother, Ser Gregor the Mountain, seemed unstoppable as well, riding down one foe after the next in ferocious style. The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where Sansa was seated. The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one. Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for Lady and Bran. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad. After they carried off the body, a boy with a spade ran onto the field and shoveled dirt over the spot where he had fallen, to cover up the blood. Then the jousts resumed. Ser Balon Swann also fell to Gregor, and Lord Renly to the Hound. Renly was unhorsed so violently that he seemed to fly backward off his charger, legs in the air. His head hit the ground with an audible crack that made the crowd gasp, but it was just the golden antler on his helm. One of the tines had snapped off beneath him. When Lord Renly climbed to his feet, the commons cheered wildly, for King Robert's handsome young brother was a great favorite. He handed the broken tine to his conqueror with a gracious bow. The Hound snorted and tossed the broken antler into the crowd, where the commons began to punch and claw over the little bit of gold, until Lord Renly walked out among them and restored the peace. By then Septa Mordane had returned, alone. Jeyne had been feeling ill, she explained; she had helped her back to the castle. Sansa had almost forgotten about Jeyne. Later a hedge knight in a checkered cloak disgraced himself by killing Beric Dondarrion's horse, and was declared forfeit. Lord Beric shifted his saddle to a new mount, only to be knocked right off it by Thoros of Myr. Ser Aron Santagar and Lothor Brune tilted thrice without result; Ser Aron fell afterward to Lord Jason Mallister, and Brune to Yohn Royce's younger son, Robar. In the end it came down to four; the Hound and his monstrous brother Gregor, Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, and Ser Loras Tyrell, the youth they called the Knight of Flowers. Ser Loras was the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. At sixteen, he was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. Sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful. His plate was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Ser Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd. His last match of the day was against the younger Royce. Ser Robar's ancestral runes proved small protection as Ser Loras split his shield and drove him from his saddle to crash with an awful clangor in the dirt. Robar lay moaning as the victor made his circuit of the field. Finally they called for a litter and carried him off to his tent, dazed and unmoving. Sansa never saw it. Her eyes were only for Ser Loras. When the white horse stopped in front of her, she thought her heart would burst. To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. "Sweet lady," he said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you." Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, his eyes like liquid gold. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off. When Sansa finally looked up, a man was standing over her, staring. He was short, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair, almost as old as her father. "You must be one of her daughters," he said to her. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. "You have the Tully look." "I'm Sansa Stark," she said, ill at ease. The man wore a heavy cloak with a fur collar, fastened with a silver mockingbird, and he had the effortless manner of a high lord, but she did not know him. "I have not had the honor, my lord." Septa Mordane quickly took a hand. "Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king's small council." "Your mother was my queen of beauty once," the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. "You have her hair." His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away. By then, the moon was well up and the crowd was tired, so the king decreed that the last three matches would be fought the next morning, before the melee. While the commons began their walk home, talking of the day's jousts and the matches to come on the morrow, the court moved to the riverside to begin the feast. Six monstrous huge aurochs had been roasting for hours, turning slowly on wooden spits while kitchen boys basted them with butter and herbs until the meat crackled and spit. Tables and benches had been raised outside the pavilions, piled high with sweetgrass and strawberries and fresh-baked bread. Sansa and Septa Mordane were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where the king himself sat beside his queen. When Prince Joffrey seated himself to her right, she felt her throat tighten. He had not spoken a word to her since the awful thing had happened, and she had not dared to speak to him. At first she thought she hated him for what they'd done to Lady, but after Sansa had wept her eyes dry, she told herself that it had not been Joffrey's doing, not truly. The queen had done it; she was the one to hate, her and Arya. Nothing bad would have happened except for Arya. She could not hate Joffrey tonight. He was too beautiful to hate. He wore a deep blue doublet studded with a double row of golden lion's heads, and around his brow a slim coronet made of gold and sapphires. His hair was as bright as the metal. Sansa looked at him and trembled, afraid that he might ignore her or, worse, turn hateful again and send her weeping from the table. Instead Joffrey smiled and kissed her hand, handsome and gallant as any prince in the songs, and said, "Ser Loras has a keen eye for beauty, sweet lady." "He was too kind," she demurred, trying to remain modest and calm, though her heart was singing. "Ser Loras is a true knight. Do you think he will win tomorrow, my lord?" "No," Joffrey said. "My dog will do for him, or perhaps my uncle Jaime. And in a few years, when I am old enough to enter the lists, I shall do for them all." He raised his hand to summon a servant with a flagon of iced summerwine, and poured her a cup. She looked anxiously at Septa Mordane, until Joffrey leaned over and filled the septa's cup as well, so she nodded and thanked him graciously and said not another word. The servants kept the cups filled all night, yet afterward Sansa could not recall ever tasting the wine. She needed no wine. She was drunk on the magic of the night, giddy with glamour, swept away by beauties she had dreamt of all her life and never dared hope to know. Singers sat before the king's pavilion, filling the dusk with music. A juggler kept a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air. The king's own fool, the pie-faced simpleton called Moon Boy, danced about on stilts, all in motley, making mock of everyone with such deft cruelty that Sansa wondered if he was simple after all. Even Septa Mordane was helpless before him; when he sang his little song about the High Septon, she laughed so hard she spilled wine on herself. And Joffrey was the soul of courtesy. He talked to Sansa all night, showering her with compliments, making her laugh, sharing little bits of court gossip, explaining Moon Boy's japes. Sansa was so captivated that she quite forgot all her courtesies and ignored Septa Mordane, seated to her left. All the while the courses came and went. A thick soup of barley and venison. Salads of sweetgrass and spinach and plums, sprinkled with crushed nuts. Snails in honey and garlic. Sansa had never eaten snails before; Joffrey showed her how to get the snail out of the shell, and fed her the first sweet morsel himself. Then came trout fresh from the river, baked in clay; her prince helped her crack open the hard casing to expose the flaky white flesh within. And when the meat course was brought out, he served her himself, slicing a queen's portion from the joint, smiling as he laid it on her plate. She could see from the way he moved that his right arm was still troubling him, yet he uttered not a word of complaint. Later came sweetbreads and pigeon pie and baked apples fragrant with cinnamon and lemon cakes frosted in sugar, but by then Sansa was so stuffed that she could not manage more than two little lemon cakes, as much as she loved them. She was wondering whether she might attempt a third when the king began to shout. King Robert had grown louder with each course. From time to time Sansa could hear him laughing or roaring a command over the music and the clangor of plates and cutlery, but they were too far away for her to make out his words. Now everybody heard him. "No," he thundered in a voice that drowned out all other speech. Sansa was shocked to see the king on his feet, red of face, reeling. He had a goblet of wine in one hand, and he was drunk as a man could be. "You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed at Queen Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!" Everyone was staring. Sansa saw Ser Barristan, and the king's brother Renly, and the short man who had talked to her so oddly and touched her hair, but no one made a move to interfere. The queen's face was a mask, so bloodless that it might have been sculpted from snow. She rose from the table, gathered her skirts around her, and stormed off in silence, servants trailing behind. Jaime Lannister put a hand on the king's shoulder, but the king shoved him away hard. Lannister stumbled and fell. The king guffawed. "The great knight. I can still knock you in the dirt. Remember that, Kingslayer." He slapped his chest with the jeweled goblet, splashing wine all over his satin tunic. "Give me my hammer and not a man in the realm can stand before me!" Jaime Lannister rose and brushed himself off. "As you say, Your Grace." His voice was stiff. Lord Renly came forward, smiling. "You've spilled your wine, Robert. Let me bring you a fresh goblet." Sansa started as Joffrey laid his hand on her arm. "It grows late," the prince said. He had a queer look on his face, as if he were not seeing her at all. "Do you need an escort back to the castle?" "No," Sansa began. She looked for Septa Mordane, and was startled to find her with her head on the table, snoring soft and ladylike snores. "I mean to say . . . yes, thank you, that would be most kind. I am tired, and the way is so dark. I should be glad for some protection." Joffrey called out, "Dog!" Sandor Clegane seemed to take form out of the night, so quickly did he appear. He had exchanged his armor for a red woolen tunic with a leather dog's head sewn on the front. The light of the torches made his burned face shine a dull red. "Yes, Your Grace?" he said. "Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her," the prince told him brusquely. And without even a word of farewell, Joffrey strode off, leaving her there. Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. "Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?" He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. "Small chance of that." He pulled her unresisting to her feet. "Come, you're not the only one needs sleep. I've drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow." He laughed again. Suddenly terrified, Sansa pushed at Septa Mordane's shoulder, hoping to wake her, but she only snored the louder. King Robert had stumbled off and half the benches were suddenly empty. The feast was over, and the beautiful dream had ended with it. The Hound snatched up a torch to light their way. Sansa followed close beside him. The ground was rocky and uneven; the flickering light made it seem to shift and move beneath her. She kept her eyes lowered, watching where she placed her feet. They walked among the pavilions, each with its banner and its armor hung outside, the silence weighing heavier with every step. Sansa could not bear the sight of him, he frightened her so, yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. A true lady would not notice his face, she told herself. "You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor," she made herself say. Sandor Clegane snarled at her. "Spare me your empty little compliments, girl . . . and your ser's. I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight. Did you see him ride today?" "Yes," Sansa whispered, trembling. "He was . . . "Gallant?" the Hound finished. He was mocking her, she realized. "No one could withstand him," she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie. Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. "Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite." "That's unkind." Sansa could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. "You're frightening me. I want to go now." "No one could withstand him," the Hound rasped. "That's truth enough. No one could ever withstand Gregor. That boy today, his second joust, oh, that was a pretty bit of business. You saw that, did you? Fool boy, he had no business riding in this company. No money, no squire, no one to help him with that armor. That gorget wasn't fastened proper. You think Gregor didn't notice that? You think Ser Gregor's lance rode up by chance, do you? Pretty little talking girl, you believe that, you're empty-headed as a bird for true. Gregor's lance goes where Gregor wants it to go. Look at me. Look at me!" Sandor Clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her, and moved the torch close. "There's a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I've watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look." His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. She had to look. The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of that face. The left side of his face was a ruin. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks that gleamed red and wet when he moved. Down by his jaw, you could see a hint of bone where the flesh had been seared away. Sansa began to cry. He let go of her then, and snuffed out the torch in the dirt. "No pretty words for that, girl? No little compliment the septa taught you?" When there was no answer, he continued. "Most of them, they think it was some battle. A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. One fool asked if it was dragonsbreath." His laugh was softer this time, but just as bitter. "I'll tell you what it was, girl," he said, a voice from the night, a shadow leaning so close now that she could smell the sour stench of wine on his breath. "I was younger than you, six, maybe seven. A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my father's keep, and to buy favor he sent us gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don't remember what I got, but it was Gregor's gift I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separate and fixed with strings, so you could make him fight. Gregor is five years older than me, the toy was nothing to him, he was already a squire, near six foot tall and muscled like an ox. So I took his knight, but there was no joy to it, I tell you. I was scared all the while, and true enough, he found me. There was a brazier in the room. Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. You saw how strong he is. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off me. The septons preach about the seven hells. What do they know? Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is truly like. "My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Arise, Ser Gregor.' " The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away. The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. "He was no true knight," she whispered to him. The Hound threw back his head and roared. Sansa stumbled back, away from him, but he caught her arm. "No," he growled at her, "no, little bird, he was no true knight." The rest of the way into the city, Sandor Clegane said not a word. He led her to where the carts were waiting, told a driver to take them back to the Red Keep, and climbed in after her. They rode in silence through the King's Gate and up torchlit city streets. He opened the postern door and led her into the castle, his burned face twitching and his eyes brooding, and he was one step behind her as they climbed the tower stairs. He took her safe all the way to the corridor outside her bedchamber. "Thank you, my lord," Sansa said meekly. The Hound caught her by the arm and leaned close. "The things I told you tonight," he said, his voice sounding even rougher than usual. "If you ever tell Joffrey . . . your sister, your father . . . any of them . . . " "I won't," Sansa whispered. "I promise." It was not enough. "If you ever tell anyone," he finished, "I'll kill you."

[meryllfrey]

Tears - Find my muse crying.

Send a word for your muse to find my muse in a certain state. || accepting

It took time for news from Westeros to reach Slaver’s Bay, and the latest trade ship brought news concerning House Frey, of all things. The Red Wedding, they were calling it. 

Meryll hardly heard the discussion about the news among Dany’s advisors. She sat, shocked, not even able to picture the gruesome scene in the keep she had grown up in. Finally, the discussion moved on to a new topic and she quietly slipped out of the room onto the terrace.

A wedding – it was supposed to be a union of hearts and houses, a promise of partnership – not a bloody slaughter. She could easily guess which of her uncles had been behind the planning. Grandfather would hardly have had to lift a finger to put the plans in place. 

Gods, had they all taken part in the plan? They would hardly have had a choice, she realized.

It was an unspeakable betrayal of human decency. Members of her house would be hunted down and punished for this vile deed whether they were active participants.

Tears fell down her cheeks as she wept silently – she wept with relief that she had somehow escaped the fate of her house, and she wept in mourning for the members of her family who she loved dearly – Uncle Danwell who had never had the same ruthless ambition as her other uncles, and sweet Olyvar who had been so excited to squire for Robb Stark. They would have been caught in the middle between their allegiance to their house and what they knew was right in their hearts. And she wept for all those innocents who were slaughtered in cold blood.

A small sound startled her and she turned to see Dany.

“Your grace,” she greeted her friend and queen, quickly wiping away the tears. “I just stepped out for some air.”