#for what was stannis baratheon but the stranger come to judge them one of the hardest lines of all time actually thanks sansa

[thekeytothenorth]

stannis baratheon is…

eddard xiii AGOT

jon i ACOK

davos i ACOK

a ghost in winterfell ADWD

sansa v ACOK

[sayruq]

...for what was Stannis Baratheon, if not the Stranger come to judge them?

i’ve been thinking about stannis and this quote. he’s supposed to be a just king, uncompromising in his goals and a man who sees things as basically lawful and unlawful. considering how westeros is presented to us where the king’s court is corrupt and where there’s injustice everywhere we look, of course a lot of readers want stannis to become king or at the very least take out one of the biggest villains in the series. the problem is does grrm agree?

in grrm’s world even the heroes commit murder, the most innocent character is still capable of hurting people. grrm once said that a man who hurts his wife can also be a good person. that doesn’t make sense to me but it explains his worldview- that people can be both good and bad. while stannis has developed since his defeat at blackwater, he still only sees things in black and white. look at his reaction to gilly, it’s not one of empathy for the horrors she survived. i think that is what ultimately dooms him. that and the fact that he won’t compromise his goals no matter what, even a river burning and many of his men deserting him won’t stop him. these two traits end up alienating all but his most loyal supporters.

even if stannis isn’t doomed, he would still judge the other characters. he’d accuse sansa of treason, arya of murder and not care of what drove them. grrm thinks he would be wrong to do that, that moral absolutism is harmful and does not bring peace or stability. stannis basically has the traits of a good king but it’s flaws that grrm wants to highlight

[diwatang-sirena]

It's interesting how the premiere episode of GOT Season 8 is painting Daenerys as an unfit Queen.

And seeing how a lot of the general audience is reacting to her actions negatively, it's definitely working.

While I am a Daenerys fan and will always want to defend her, I can't deny that some of her actions in this episode have come off as questionable. But I also cannot completely blame her for it either, as both sides of opposition in her scenes do have some merit to them.

Let's have a look at some of her main scenes shall we?

1. The Meeting with the Northerners

Of course we all expected the Northerners to not be ecstatic about Dany's arrival. Their concern is quite reasonable, especially after the rough times they've been through for the past years.

Sansa also in my opinion has good reason to question Daenerys in terms of practicality, especially with their food supplies. And I definitely can't blame her for being very wary of foreign strangers who is conveniently the daughter of the Mad King, especially after she herself has been passed around like a pawn by the likes of Cersei and Littlefinger. If Jon did not bend the knee to Daenerys during the first few days/weeks he's been in Dragonstone, why would Sansa be more lenient?

Still, I do think that it would've been smarter for Sansa if she took on a sneaky Margaery persona than a Cersei one in this case, perhaps by not really showing her true opinion of Dany in her face until she could really analyze her properly. Even Littlefinger rarely showed his distaste on certain people unless he's really sure of who they are and what he's going to do to them. And her questioning Jon and Dany's leadership in public for the Northerners to see is really not helpful to anyone, especially with the danger that's coming their way.

As for Daenerys, while I also can't blame her for being frustrated, I think she should've acted as the better person by at least assuring the North that she does not demand them to bend the knee, at least not immediately, especially when she herself experienced the threat of the Night King. After all, she did offer her allegiance to Jon completely before she knew that he would bend the knee to her, so it's interesting to see how she reverts back to making her queenship a priority.

Although in hindsight, if she does this instead, then Sansa and the Northerners might be even more suspicious and mistrustful of her since they'd expect that she'd want something in return for her services, so it really isn't a win-win situation for Dany's rep at the moment.

BUT HERE'S THE CATCH : Without Daenerys, her dragons, her dragonglass, and her army, will the North really be able to hold their fort?

Like what Jon said to Mance and Dany to Jon, isn't their survival more important than their pride?

This line applies to both sides of the party, but the reality is, the North needs Dany more than she needs them. So I find it funny how some people want Dany to be killed off when without her, they don't have a fighting chance against the Night King and the White Walkers. The odds of them surviving are already slim enough, why risk scraping that small chance even slimmer? Heck, they wouldn't even have the right weapons for it if it weren't for Dany's approval.

So I want to ask the haters, HOW can they say that Dany is truly evil when she's already brought everyone and everything they need for them to have a better chance at survival? Even after the way they treated her, she still didn't leave the North to fend for themselves the second she received their cold welcome.

Whatever you think of her ego or the lengths she would go through for her quest for power, do not forget that her true motive to be Queen in the first place is to end corruption and to save more people from more suffering. I see people sympathizing with Stannis Baratheon and still saying that he's the one true king despite all the terrible things he's done even before killing Shireen, and yet nobody calls him out as a Mad King.

Sansa questioned Jon on whether or not he bent the knee for the North or because he loved Dany. We all know by now that both assumptions are correct, but having Jon admitting to Sansa that his personal feelings had an effect to his decision would further make her distrust his leadership. In reality though, the love that Jon and Dany share with each other is one of the only reasons why Dany's still around to help save them, so in hindsight, Sansa should've been more grateful for the fact that a romance has bloomed between those two, especially when it means that Jon can help sway Daenerys' decisions for the good as it already had in the past.

2. DANY'S THREAT ABOUT SANSA

There is a scene where Jon and Dany walk around Winterfell and talk about how Sansa seemed to dislike Dany. This particular scene jumps out to people as one of the moments where Dany's "Mad Queen" persona came out where she seemingly implied in front of Jon that Sansa's safety will be compromised if she doesn't respect her before being cut off by the Dothraki. This is also most likely the scene that made the Dany detractors come alive.

It's very interesting that the first thing that comes to the general audience's mind when Dany left off her threat is that she'd burn Sansa with her dragons, as she did with Randyll and Dickon Tarley.

But when you really try to think about it more, is Dany really the type of person who would burn a young girl for defying her at this time, especially when said girl is the sister/cousin of her lover? And would Dany REALLY be that insensitive to make that sort of threat IN FRONT OF JON if her motive was truly as sinister?

Look at Jon's reaction. He doesn't seem affected by Dany's "life-endangering threat", in fact, he sympathizes with her frustration with Sansa. I mean think about it, why would he just stand by and do nothing if he thought that Dany was really threatening Sansa's life?

They may not be perfect, but Daenerys and Jon are not that stupid. Like what Dany said in Season 7 episode 7, she came to save the North, not to conquer it. Dany is there trying to get the Starks and the Northerners' approval, so why would she even think about burning their beloved Lady of Winterfell if it means that that'll not only destroy her relationship with the North but also with Jon?

This episode highlights how easy it is for the audience to judge Dany for her aggressive actions, choosing to see more of her faults and "Mad Queen" tendencies perhaps because of the Targaryen reputation rather than trying to sympathize with her as a person and see why she would feel that way.

Try to think in her shoes; She gave up her conquest for the throne, something she's worked for half of her life, to come save the North with every possible source she's got, has travelled a long way and had not long ago just lost a child to the Night King, and then arrived to Winterfell only to receive a very cold reception from the very people she's willing to save and sacrifice for, especially with the Lady of Winterfell and the other leaders not only questioning her authority in public, but also Jon's, the man she loved, who risked everything to give these people a better chance of surviving.

Why would anyone not feel the slightest bit offended if not only for herself but also for the one you love? Unfortunately, Daenerys Targaryen does not have the patience of Jesus Christ.

Jon himself probably understood that she needed to have someone to vent her irritation to, which is why he didn't retort back when Dany said what she said. Remember the time he tortured that poor dummy in Season 1 Episode 1 during Robert's welcoming feast because he was excluded by Catelyn from being with the Starks?

It's the same thing with Dany, except she uses strong words rather than actions. And Jon understands that. Remember that Dany is not actually an overly-confident person through and through. She has learned to put up an egotistical facade to hide her vulnerability and fear, just recall her conversation with Tyrion before they left for Westeros. Jon had already seen through that side of her when she came to the wall for him which resulted in Viserion's death. At that point, he knows that Daenerys is not the type of person who will just drop everything they've worked for for her ego, not after it cost her one of her children.

So in conclusion, perhaps we should readjust our perspective and remember that not everything people say out of exasperation are meant to be taken literally. Just like how not every little threat Daenerys makes means that she'll burn everyone alive. That's more Cersei's way to be honest.

Next up is the Sam-Dany Confrontation..

((To be continued?..))

[captaingondor]

Dynamic Duo

aka a dumb self fanfic modern au i wrote of my own characters, hope y’all enjoy these dorks, i love them

“You’re fifteen years old and you’ve never been trick-or-treating‽”

I swiftly sat straight up from where I had been lounging on Seyetto’s bed and leaned towards him in shock. He was still sitting unperturbed at his desk, though he’d paused in typing on his laptop in front of him. Ostensibly, we were here to work on homework together, but I’d already run through my French flashcards flawlessly and thought it was a little premature to start on our history paper like he was.

“Isn’t that for little kids?” he asked, turning halfway towards me.

“Nah, you’re never too old for trick-or-treat! Free candy, dude! But you’ve never gone? Ever?”

He shook his head. “No, my parents just buy us a ton of candy anyway and have a house party, usually. Or sometimes we go to a family friend’s. But I haven’t dressed up for a few years.”

Right, what did free candy matter when you could just drop hundreds of dollars on it any day of the year without a second thought? It was easy to forget just how loaded Seyetto’s family was sometimes. Then he’d just drop some statement without realizing how completely not normal it was.

“Well, you are missing out! You gotta come with me this year.”

He met my eyes with a slight frown. It was an expression I was intimately familiar with. Those who didn’t know Seyetto as well might interpret it as displeasure, or perhaps annoyance, but I could read it for what it was. One part confusion, one part careful thought in attempt to eradicate the confusion, one part embarrassment at being confused, four parts covering all this up with classic Seyetto stoicism. And one part reservation at getting himself involved in whatever scheme I was pitching to him, as off his beaten path and outside of his bubble as it usually was, but knowing he’d give in and enjoy it anyway. “Why? I don’t need to ask random strangers for candy at their houses - and neither do you. You can just come here and get just as

much as you would otherwise from my parents.”

“But then no one will see your costume!”

“That’s preferable. And I don’t have a costume. Or want one.”

“We’ve got to come up with one together. Some kind of cool buddy costume,” I continued past his protests.

“Rinnyx-”

“Like, um, Batman and Superman!”

“I am not wearing tights.”

“Well, you’d be Batman, obviously. He doesn’t wear tights, always.”

“Sure, let me just drum up a custom-fit set of bat-armor-”

I thought he was being sarcastic, but you never knew with the whole ‘ridiculously loaded’ thing. Like the real Batman! “And he’s got a mask so you wouldn’t have to worry about people knowing you were having fun.”

“Who else would be out trick-or-treating with you in themed costumes?”

“Fair point, fair point.” I nodded. “Just the first idea. How about… Aang and Zuko! I’ll be Aang, you’ll be Zuko. You identify with Zuko, right? With the fire.”

He turned all the way towards me in his chair, which was a success. “First of all,” he said, punctuating his statement with a pointed finger, “I like fire a completely normal amount.” This was a blatant untruth which he repeated frequently, but I humored him. “And unlike Zuko, I get along great with my father, Who is neither evil nor crazy.”

I didn’t exactly doubt that Seyetto got along great with his father, but he did always call him ‘sir’ and snap to attention in his presence. But then, who was I to judge? “Well, you can be Azula, then.”

“I am not dressing up as Azula.”

“It doesn’t have to be a perfect match. Aang’s great for me, though. I could shave my head!”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Well, we can consider our options…” I looked up and tapped my fingers on the bed. All I had to do was present Seyetto with some terrible options, so when I finally thought of something incredible it would look so much better in comparison he couldn’t refuse.. “Tom and Jerry?”

“You have got to be kidding me. I am not a furry.”

And what were the components of the perfect buddy costume for us? Obviously, of course, it had to be something that went together, a great pair like us. “Maybe not characters… something like salt and pepper. Ketchup and mustard. You love red, I love yellow. Hm?”

Seyetto didn’t even dignify that with an answer, but turned back to type out a few more sentences at his laptop. I had to reel it in a little, keep his interest.

It would be best if, in addition to going well with each other, they had something in common with us as well - our personalities or characteristics. “Okay, okay, nothing like that. You’re right, we can do way better. Like, um, Ben and Chris, from Parks and Rec!”

“I don’t even watch that show.”

“You’ve watched like forty episodes.”

“You’ve watched like forty episodes while I was in the room.”

For some reason this seemed oddly familiar. I brushed it off. “They wouldn’t be distinctive enough costumes, anyway.” That was another thing, Seyetto would want a costume that would look good. He didn’t like to feel foolish. If he was going to dress up, he wouldn’t do it halfway. No, he’d wear something that people could appreciate. Something cool. He liked pretending he was above being cool, but he so wasn’t. “We don’t want to be boring. We aren’t boring.”

“We aren’t?”

“James Potter and Sirius Black. Captain America and the Winter Soldier. Buzz and Woody.”

“Oh, please, nothing Disney! I’m saturated in that enough already.”

That was the final checkmark - it had to be something Seyetto was interested in, something that would lure him in, something that he would actually enjoy. His enjoyment was the point of all this, after all - I’d be happy with whatever costumes we were wearing. Unfortunately, there were scant few pieces of media that truly caught his interest. He mostly read nonfiction.

“Robin Hood and Little John. Mario and Luigi.” I was getting close, I had to give him some good contrast. “Bert and Ernie.”

“How would we even - no, Rinnyx.”

Maybe something from history? He liked Ancient Rome - Julius Caesar and… no, no, no good options, they all ended up murdering each other. And he’d probably worry about historical accuracy. And we couldn’t do something too obscure. We wanted to be recognizable. Always explaining yourself was no fun, and he wouldn’t like that kind of attention. Something well known, but something he’d like…

I snapped my fingers and pointed towards him with both hands, a wide grin over my face. I had it. “King Stannis Baratheon and Ser Davos Seaworth.”

He turned back towards me, started to open his mouth, then leaned back thoughtfully. “I do love Stannis.”

“Of course you do. He’s great. He’s the one true king of Westeros.”

“He is! He’s the rightful king and anyone who disagrees -” He paused and toned down his enthusiasm, but it was too late. I’d seen it. “I mean, the rules of succession are pretty clear.”

“And you have the Baratheon look. Black hair. Blue eyes. Royal demeanor.”

“I suppose…” He was trying to put up an outer defense still, but I could tell he’d already given in.

“I can even hold your candy bag for you, and you can stand in the back while I ask people if I can pick one up for my king, too.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“If you say so, my king.”

“You don’t have to be in character, either.”

“But it’s so much more fun! And it’s easy for you to be in character, you just have to stand there and look disgruntled. Anyway, if you were king, I’d be your loyal retainer. I don’t have to fake it.”

“Well, ah. Thanks.” He gave one of those half-smiles that he did when he was feeling more than he was accustomed to showing. “Anyway, I bet we can put it together in time.” He closed the document on his laptop and brought up Google to look for images to work of. I went to look at them over his shoulder, smiling. Victory.

[readbookywooks]

Catelyn

Tell Father I have gone to make him proud." Her brother swung up into his saddle, every inch the lord in his bright mail and flowing mud-and-water cloak. A silver trout ornamented the crest of his greathelm, twin to the one painted on his shield.

"He was always proud of you, Edmure. And he loves you fiercely. Believe that."

"I mean to give him better reason than mere birth." He wheeled his warhorse about and raised a hand. Trumpets sounded, a drum began to boom, the drawbridge descended in fits and starts, and Ser Edmure Tully led his men out from Riverrun with lances raised and banners streaming.

I have a greater host than yours, brother, Catelyn thought as she watched them go. A host of doubts and fears.

Beside her, Brienne's misery was almost palpable. Catelyn had ordered garments sewn to her measure, handsome gowns to suit her birth and sex, yet still she preferred to dress in oddments of mail and boiled leather, a swordbelt cinched around her waist. She would have been happier riding to war with Edmure, no doubt, but even walls as strong as Riverrun's required swords to hold them. Her brother had taken every able-bodied man for the fords, leaving Ser Desmond Grell to command a garrison made up of the wounded, the old, and the sick, along with a few squires and some untrained peasant boys still shy of manhood. This, to defend a castle crammed full of women and children.

When the last of Edmure's foot had shuffled under the portcullis, Brienne asked, "What shall we do now, my lady?"

"Our duty." Catelyn's face was drawn as she started across the yard. I have always done my duty, she thought. Perhaps that was why her lord father had always cherished her best of all his children. Her two older brothers had both died in infancy, so she had been son as well as daughter to Lord Hoster until Edmure was born. Then her mother had died and her father had told her that she must be the lady of Riverrun now, and she had done that too. And when Lord Hoster promised her to Brandon Stark, she had thanked him for making her such a splendid match.

I gave Brandon my favor to wear, and never comforted Petyr once after he was wounded, nor bid him farewell when Father sent him off. And when Brandon was murdered and Father told me I must wed his brother, I did so gladly, though I never saw Ned's face until our wedding day. I gave my maidenhood to this solemn stranger and sent him off to his war and his king and the woman who bore him his bastard, because I always did my duty.

Her steps took her to the sept, a seven-sided sandstone temple set amidst her mother's gardens and filled with rainbow light. It was crowded when they entered; Catelyn was not alone in her need for prayer. She knelt before the painted marble image of the Warrior and lit a scented candle for Edmure and another for Robb off beyond the hills. Keep them safe and help them to victory, she prayed, and bring peace to the souls of the slain and comfort to those they leave behind.

The septon entered with his censer and crystal while she was at her prayers, so Catelyn lingered for the celebration. She did not know this septon, an earnest young man close to Edmure's age. He performed his office well enough, and his voice was rich and pleasant when he sang the praises to the Seven, but Catelyn found herself yearning for the thin quavering tones of Septon Osmynd, long dead. Osmynd would have listened patiently to the tale of what she had seen and felt in Renly's pavilion, and he might have known what it meant as well, and what she must do to lay to rest the shadows that stalked her dreams. Osmynd, my father, Uncle Brynden, old Maester Kym, they always seemed to know everything, but now there is only me, and it seems I know nothing, not even my duty. How can I do my duty if I do not know where it lies?

Catelyn's knees were stiff by the time she rose, though she felt no wiser. Perhaps she would go to the godswood tonight, and pray to Ned's gods as well. They were older than the Seven.

Outside, she found song of a very different sort. Rymund the Rhymer sat by the brewhouse amidst a circle of listeners, his deep voice ringing as he sang of Lord Deremond at the Bloody Meadow.

And there he stood with sword in hand, the last of Darry's ten . . .

Brienne paused to listen for a moment, broad shoulders hunched and thick arms crossed against her chest. A mob of ragged boys raced by, screeching and flailing at each other with sticks. Why do boys so love to play at war? Catelyn wondered if Rymund was the answer. The singer's voice swelled as he neared the end of his song.

And red the grass beneath his feet, and red his banners bright, and red the glow of setting sun that bathed him in its light. "Come on, come on," the great lord called, "my sword is hungry still." And with a cry of savage rage, They swarmed across the rill . . .

"Fighting is better than this waiting," Brienne said. "You don't feel so helpless when you fight. You have a sword and a horse, sometimes an axe. When you're armored it's hard for anyone to hurt you."

"Knights die in battle," Catelyn reminded her.

Brienne looked at her with those blue and beautiful eyes. "As ladies die in childbed. No one sings songs about them."

"Children are a battle of a different sort." Catelyn started across the yard. "A battle without banners or warhorns, but no less fierce. Carrying a child, bringing it into the world . . . your mother will have told you of the pain . . . "

"I never knew my mother," Brienne said. "My father had ladies . . . a different lady every year, but . . . "

"Those were no ladies," Catelyn said. "As hard as birth can be, Brienne, what comes after is even harder. At times I feel as though I am being torn apart. Would that there were five of me, one for each child, so I might keep them all safe."

"And who would keep you safe, my lady?"

Her smile was wan and tired. "Why, the men of my House. Or so my lady mother taught me. My lord father, my brother, my uncle, my husband, they will keep me safe . . . but while they are away from me, I suppose you must fill their place, Brienne."

Brienne bowed her head. "I shall try, my lady."

Later that day, Maester Vyman brought a letter. She saw him at once, hoping for some word from Robb, or from Ser Rodrik in Winterfell, but the message proved to be from one Lord Meadows, who named himself castellan of Storm's End. It was addressed to her father, her brother, her son, "or whoever now holds Riverrun." Ser Cortnay Penrose was dead, the man wrote, and Storm's End had opened its gate to Stannis Baratheon, the trueborn and rightful heir. The castle garrison had sworn their swords to his cause, one and all, and no man of them had suffered harm.

"Save Cortnay Penrose," Catelyn murmured. She had never met the man, yet she grieved to hear of his passing. "Robb should know of this at once," she said. "Do we know where he is?"

"At last word he was marching toward the Crag, the seat of House Westerling," said Maester Vyman. "If I dispatched a raven to Ashemark, it may be that they could send a rider after him."

"Do so."

Catelyn read the letter again after the maester was gone. "Lord Meadows says nothing of Robert's bastard," she confided to Brienne. "I suppose he yielded the boy with the rest, though I confess, I do not understand why Stannis wanted him so badly."

"Perhaps he fears the boy's claim."

"A bastard's claim? No, it's something else . . . what does this child look like?"

"He is seven or eight, comely, with black hair and bright blue eyes. Visitors oft thought him Lord Renly's own son."

"And Renly favored Robert." Catelyn had a glimmer of understanding. "Stannis means to parade his brother's bastard before the realm, so men might see Robert in his face and wonder why there is no such likeness in Joffrey."

"Would that mean so much?"

"Those who favor Stannis will call it proof. Those who support Joffrey will say it means nothing." Her own children had more Tully about them than Stark. Arya was the only one to show much of Ned in her features. And Jon Snow, but he was never mine. She found herself thinking of Jon's mother, that shadowy secret love her husband would never speak of. Does she grieve for Ned as I do? Or did she hate him for leaving her bed for mine? Does she pray for her son as I have prayed for mine?

They were uncomfortable thoughts, and futile. If Jon had been born of Ashara Dayne of Starfall, as some whispered, the lady was long dead; if not, Catelyn had no clue who or where his mother might be. And it made no matter. Ned was gone now, and his loves and his secrets had all died with him.

Still, she was struck again by how strangely men behaved when it came to their bastards. Ned had always been fiercely protective of Jon, and Ser Cortnay Penrose had given up his life for this Edric Storm, yet Roose Bolton's bastard had meant less to him than one of his dogs, to judge from the tone of the queer cold letter Edmure had gotten from him not three days past. He had crossed the Trident and was marching on Harrenhal as commanded, he wrote. "A strong castle, and well garrisoned, but His Grace shall have it, if I must kill every living soul within to make it so." He hoped His Grace would weigh that against the crimes of his bastard son, whom Ser Rodrik Cassel had put to death. "A fate he no doubt earned," Bolton had written. "Tainted blood is ever treacherous, and Ramsay's nature was sly, greedy, and cruel. I count myself well rid of him. The trueborn sons my young wife has promised me would never have been safe while he lived."

The sound of hurrying footsteps drove the morbid thoughts from her head. Ser Desmond's squire dashed panting into the room and knelt. "My lady . . . Lannisters . . . across the river."

"Take a long breath, lad, and tell it slowly."

He did as she bid him. "A column of armored men," he reported. "Across the Red Fork. They are flying a purple unicorn below the lion of Lannister."

Some son of Lord Brax. Brax had come to Riverrun once when she was a girl, to propose wedding one of his sons to her or Lysa. She wondered whether it was this same son out there now, leading the attack.

The Lannisters had ridden out of the southeast beneath a blaze of banners, Ser Desmond told her when she ascended to the battlements to join him. "A few outriders, no more," he assured her. "The main strength of Lord Tywin's host is well to the south. We are in no danger here."

South of the Red Fork the land stretched away open and flat. From the watchtower Catelyn could see for miles. Even so, only the nearest ford was visible. Edmure had entrusted Lord Jason Mallister with its defense, as well as that of three others farther upriver. The Lannister riders were milling about uncertainly near the water, crimson and silver banners flapping in the wind. "No more than fifty, my lady," Ser Desmond estimated.

Catelyn watched the riders spread out in a long line. Lord Jason's men waited to receive them behind rocks and grass and hillocks. A trumpet blast sent the horsemen forward at a ponderous walk, splashing down into the current. For a moment they made a brave show, all bright armor and streaming banners, the sun flashing off the points of their lances.

"Now," she heard Brienne mutter.

It was hard to make out what was happening, but the screams of the horses seemed loud even at this remove, and beneath them Catelyn heard the fainter clash of steel on steel. A banner vanished suddenly as its bearer was swept under, and soon after the first dead man drifted past their walls, borne along by the current. By then the Lannisters had pulled back in confusion. She watched as they re-formed, conferred briefly, and galloped back the way they had come. The men on the walls shouted taunts after them, though they were already too far off to hear.

Ser Desmond slapped his belly. "Would that Lord Hoster could have seen that. It would have made him dance."

"My father's dancing days are past, I fear," Catelyn said, "and this fight is just begun. The Lannisters will come again. Lord Tywin has twice my brother's numbers."

"He could have ten times and it would not matter," Ser Desmond said. "The west bank of the Red Fork is higher than the east, my lady, and well wooded. Our bowmen have good cover, and a clear field for their shafts . . . and should any breach occur, Edmure will have his best knights in reserve, ready to ride wherever they are most sorely needed. The river will hold them."

"I pray that you are right," Catelyn said gravely.

That night they came again. She had commanded them to wake her at once if the enemy returned, and well after midnight a serving girl touched her gently by the shoulder. Catelyn sat up at once. "What is it?"

"The ford again, my lady."

Wrapped in a bedrobe, Catelyn climbed to the roof of the keep. From there she could see over the walls and the moonlit river to where the battle raged. The defenders had built watchfires along the bank, and perhaps the Lannisters thought to find them night-blind or unwary. If so, it was folly. Darkness was a chancy ally at best. As they waded in to breast their way across, men stepped in hidden pools and went down splashing, while others stumbled over stones or gashed their feet on the hidden caltrops. The Mallister bowmen sent a storm of fire arrows hissing across the river, strangely beautiful from afar. One man, pierced through a dozen times, his clothes afire, danced and whirled in the knee-deep water until at last he fell and was swept downstream. By the time his body came bobbing past Riverrun, the fires and his life had both been extinguished.

A small victory, Catelyn thought when the fighting had ended and the surviving foemen had melted back into the night, yet a victory nonetheless. As they descended the winding turret steps, Catelyn asked Brienne for her thoughts. "That was the brush of Lord Tywin's fingertip, my lady," the girl said. "He is probing, feeling for a weak point, an undefended crossing. If he does not find one, he will curl all his fingers into a fist and try and make one." Brienne hunched her shoulders. "That's what I'd do. Were I him." Her hand went to the hilt of her sword and gave it a little pat, as if to make certain it was still there.

And may the gods help us then, Catelyn thought. Yet there was nothing she could do for it. That was Edmure's battle out there on the river; hers was here inside the castle.

The next morning as she broke her fast, she sent for her father's aged steward, Utherydes Wayn. "Have Ser Cleos Frey brought a flagon of wine. I mean to question him soon, and I want his tongue well loosened."

"As you command, my lady."

Not long after, a rider with the Mallister eagle sewn on his breast arrived with a message from Lord Jason, telling of another skirmish and another victory. Ser Flement Brax had tried to force a crossing at a different ford six leagues to the south. This time the Lannisters shortened their lances and advanced across the river behind on foot, but the Mallister bowmen had rained high arcing shots down over their shields, while the scorpions Edmure had mounted on the riverbank sent heavy stones crashing through to break up the formation. "They left a dozen dead in the water, only two reaching the shallows, where we dealt with them briskly," the rider reported. He also told of fighting farther upstream, where Lord Karyl Vance held the fords. "Those thrusts too were turned aside, at grievous cost to our foes."

Perhaps Edmure was wiser than I knew, Catelyn thought. His lords all saw the sense in his battle plans, why was I so blind? My brother is not the little boy I remember, no more than Robb is.

She waited until evening before going to pay her call upon Ser Cleos Frey, reasoning that the longer she delayed, the drunker he was likely to be. As she entered the tower cell, Ser Cleos stumbled to his knees. "My lady, I knew naught of any escape. The Imp said a Lannister must needs have a Lannister escort, on my oath as a knight—"

"Arise, ser." Catelyn seated herself. "I know no grandson of Walder Frey would be an oathbreaker." Unless it served his purpose. "You brought peace terms, my brother said."

"I did." Ser Cleos lurched to his feet. She was pleased to see how unsteady he was.

"Tell me," she commanded, and he did.

When he was done, Catelyn sat frowning. Edmure had been right, these were no terms at all, except . . . "Lannister will exchange Arya and Sansa for his brother?"

"Yes. He sat on the Iron Throne and swore it."

"Before witnesses?"

"Before all the court, my lady. And the gods as well. I said as much to Ser Edmure, but he told me it was not possible, that His Grace Robb would never consent."

"He told you true." She could not even say that Robb was wrong. Arya and Sansa were children. The Kingslayer, alive and free, was as dangerous as any man in the realm. That road led nowhere. "Did you see my girls? Are they treated well?"

Ser Cleos hesitated. "I . . . yes, they seemed . . . "

He is fumbling for a lie, Catelyn realized, but the wine has fuddled his wits. "Ser Cleos," she said coolly, "you forfeited the protection of your peace banner when your men played us false. Lie to me, and you'll hang from the walls beside them. Believe that. I shall ask you once more—did you see my daughters?"

His brow was damp with sweat. "I saw Sansa at the court, the day Tyrion told me his terms. She looked most beautiful, my lady. Perhaps a, a bit wan. Drawn, as it were."

Sansa, but not Arya. That might mean anything. Arya had always been harder to tame. Perhaps Cersei was reluctant to parade her in open court for fear of what she might say or do. They might have her locked safely out of sight. Or they might have killed her. Catelyn shoved the thought away. "His terms, you said . . . yet Cersei is Queen Regent."

"Tyrion spoke for both of them. The queen was not there. She was indisposed that day, I was told."

"Curious." Catelyn thought back to that terrible trek through the Mountains of the Moon, and the way Tyrion Lannister had somehow seduced that sellsword from her service to his own. The dwarf is too clever by half. She could not imagine how he had survived the high road after Lysa had sent him from the Vale, yet it did not surprise her. He had no part in Ned's murder, at the least. And he came to my defense when the clansmen attacked us. If I could trust his word . . .

She opened her hands to look down at the scars across her fingers. His dagger's marks, she reminded herself. His dagger, in the hand of the killer he paid to open Bran's throat. Though the dwarf denied it, to be sure. Even after Lysa locked him in one of her sky cells and threatened him with her moon door, he had still denied it. "He lied," she said, rising abruptly. "The Lannisters are liars every one, and the dwarf is the worst of them. The killer was armed with his own knife."

Ser Cleos stared. "I know nothing of any—"

"You know nothing," she agreed, sweeping from the cell. Brienne fell in beside her, silent. It is simpler for her, Catelyn thought with a pang of envy. She was like a man in that. For men the answer was always the same, and never farther away than the nearest sword. For a woman, a mother, the way was stonier and harder to know.

She took a late supper in the Great Hall with her garrison, to give them what encouragement she could. Rymund the Rhymer sang through all the courses, sparing her the need to talk. He closed with the song he had written about Robb's victory at Oxcross. "And the stars in the night were the eyes of his wolves, and the wind itself was their song." Between the verses, Rymund threw back his head and howled, and by the end, half of the hall was howling along with him, even Desmond Grell, who was well in his cups. Their voices rang off the rafters.

Let them have their songs, if it makes them brave, Catelyn thought, toying with her silver goblet.

"There was always a singer at Evenfall Hall when I was a girl," Brienne said quietly. "I learned all the songs by heart."

"Sansa did the same, though few singers ever cared to make the long journey north to Winterfell." I told her there would be singers at the king's court, though. I told her she would hear music of all sorts, that her father could find some master to help her learn the high harp. Oh, gods forgive me . . .

Brienne said, "I remember a woman . . . she came from some place across the narrow sea. I could not even say what language she sang in, but her voice was as lovely as she was. She had eyes the color of plums and her waist was so tiny my father could put his hands around it. His hands were almost as big as mine." She closed her long, thick fingers, as if to hide them.

"Did you sing for your father?" Catelyn asked.

Brienne shook her head, staring down at her trencher as if to find some answer in the gravy.

"For Lord Renly?"

The girl reddened. "Never, I . . . his fool, he made cruel japes sometimes, and I . . . "

"Someday you must sing for me."

"I . . . please, I have no gift." Brienne pushed back from the table. "Forgive me, my lady. Do I have your leave to go?"

Catelyn nodded. The tall, ungainly girl left the hall with long strides, almost unnoticed amidst the revelry. May the gods go with her, she thought as she returned listlessly to her supper.

It was three days later when the hammer blow that Brienne had foretold fell, and five days before they heard of it. Catelyn was sitting with her father when Edmure's messenger arrived. The man's armor was dinted, his boots dusty, and he had a ragged hole in his surcoat, but the look on his face as he knelt was enough to tell her that the news was good. "Victory, my lady." He handed her Edmure's letter. Her hand trembled as she broke the seal.

Lord Tywin had tried to force a crossing at a dozen different fords, her brother wrote, but every thrust had been thrown back. Lord Lefford had been drowned, the Crakehall knight called Strongboar taken captive, Ser Addam Marbrand thrice forced to retreat . . . but the fiercest battle had been fought at Stone Mill, where Ser Gregor Clegane had led the assault. So many of his men had fallen that their dead horses threatened to dam the flow. In the end the Mountain and a handful of his best had gained the west bank, but Edmure had thrown his reserve at them, and they had shattered and reeled away bloody and beaten. Ser Gregor himself had lost his horse and staggered back across the Red Fork bleeding from a dozen wounds while a rain of arrows and stones fell all around him. "They shall not cross, Cat," Edmure scrawled, "Lord Tywin is marching to the southeast. A feint perhaps, or full retreat, it matters not. They shall not cross."

Ser Desmond Grell had been elated. "Oh, if only I might have been with him," the old knight said when she read him the letter. "Where is that fool Rymund? There's a song in this, by the gods, and one that even Edmure will want to hear. The mill that ground the Mountain down, I could almost make the words myself, had I the singer's gift."

"I'll hear no songs until the fighting's done," Catelyn said, perhaps too sharply. Yet she allowed Ser Desmond to spread the word, and agreed when he suggested breaking open some casks in honor of Stone Mill. The mood within Riverrun had been strained and somber; they would all be better for a little drink and hope.

That night the castle rang to the sounds of celebration. "Riverrun!" the smallfolk shouted, and "Tully! Tully!" They'd come frightened and helpless, and her brother had taken them in when most lords would have closed their gates. Their voices floated in through the high windows, and seeped under the heavy redwood doors. Rymund played his harp, accompanied by a pair of drummers and a youth with a set of reed pipes. Catelyn listened to girlish laughter, and the excited chatter of the green boys her brother had left her for a garrison. Good sounds . . . and yet they did not touch her. She could not share their happiness.

In her father's solar she found a heavy leatherbound book of maps and opened it to the riverlands. Her eyes found the path of the Red Fork and traced it by flickering candlelight. Marching to the southeast, she thought. By now they had likely reached the headwaters of the Blackwater Rush, she decided.

She closed the book even more uneasy than before. The gods had granted them victory after victory. At Stone Mill, at Oxcross, in the Battle of the Camps, at the Whispering Wood . . .

But if we are winning, why am I so afraid?

[sayruq]

Sansa the Dancer

I want to discuss the appearance of dancing as an action and dancing as a description in Sansa’s chapters. Dancing as an action is something Sansa enjoyed and likely did very well. Though we don’t have scenes of Sansa dancing in the first two books, we do know she enjoys watching performances.

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.

Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the "Dance of the Dragons,"

Sansa doesn’t get a chance to truly dance as she only attended two feasts that were focused on the performers, rather ones that allowed the guests to dance. These feasts occured early in the story while everything was still stable and her father was alive. Objects that were described as dancing had positive connotations initially.

They rode out as dawn was breaking over the city, with three banners going before them; the crowned stag of the king flew from the high staff, the direwolf of Stark and Lord Beric's own forked lightning standard from shorter poles. It was all so exciting, a song come to life; the clatter of swords, the flicker of torchlight, banners dancing in the wind, horses snorting and whinnying, the golden glow of sunrise slanting through the bars of the portcullis as it jerked upward. The Winterfell men looked especially fine in their silvery mail and long grey cloaks.

This changed when Ned was executed and Sansa became a prisoner. Throughout A Clash of Kings, ‘dancing’ was only used as a descriptor coupled with a dark or sad moment, sometimes proceeding a terrible event for Sansa.

He drew his longsword. "Here's your truth. Your precious father found that out on Baelor's steps. Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, Warden of the North, the mighty Eddard Stark, of a line eight thousand years old . . . but Ilyn Payne's blade went through his neck all the same, didn't it? Do you remember the dance he did when his head came off his shoulders?"

The Mother's altar and the Warrior's swam in light, but Smith and Crone and Maid and Father had their worshipers as well, and there were even a few flames dancing below the Stranger's half-human face . . . for what was Stannis Baratheon, if not the Stranger come to judge them?

He was as drunk as the Hound had been, but in him it was a dancing happy drunk. She was breathless and dizzy when he let her down. "What is it?" She clutched at a bedpost. "What's happened? Tell me!"

"It's done! Done! Done! The city is saved. Lord Stannis is dead, Lord Stannis is fled, no one knows, no one cares, his host is broken, the danger's done.

Everything Sansa loved has been ruined by the trauma and abuse she endures. It’s in ACoK that the only armies strong enough to beat the Lannisters have any momentum and Sansa suffers for it. The tone of her chapters are dark and depressive which is why dancing as a descriptor turns into a dark thing and not once does Sansa dance. 

In ASoS, Sansa does get the opportunity to dance again during her wedding and her aunt’s wedding, two events Sansa does not see coming. During her wedding feast to Tyrion, music is played and, unlike the other feasts, people dance. Initially Sansa timidly asks Tyrion to dance with her but he understandably doesn’t want to. So Sansa watches people pair up and dance together. Though she hates many of them, there’s a sense of longing and admiration.

She had often daydreamed of how she would dance at her wedding, with every eye upon her and her handsome lord. In her dreams they had all been smiling. Not even my husband is smiling.

Lady Merryweather, the Myrish beauty with the black hair and the big dark eyes, spun so provocatively that every man in the hall was soon watching her. Lord and Lady Tyrell moved more sedately. Ser Kevan Lannister begged the honor of Lady Janna Fossoway, Lord Tyrell's sister. Merry Crane took the floor with the exile prince Jalabhar Xho, gorgeous in his feathered finery. Cersei Lannister partnered first Lord Redwyne, then Lord Rowan, and finally her own father, who danced with smooth unsmiling grace.

Eventually Garlan Tyrell, whose family is still looking to use Sansa for their own gains, asks Sansa to dance with him.

Perhaps she ought to have remained beside her husband, but she wanted to dance so badly . . . and Ser Garlan was brother to Margaery, to Willas, to her Knight of Flowers. "I see why they name you Garlan the Gallant, ser," she said, as she took his hand.

Ser Garlan laughed. "I was a plump little boy, I fear, and we do have an uncle called Garth the Gross. So Willas struck first, though not before threatening me with Garlan the Greensick, Garlan the Galling, and Garlan the Gargoyle."It was so sweet and silly that Sansa had to laugh, despite everything. Afterward she was absurdly grateful. Somehow the laughter made her hopeful again, if only for a little while. Smiling, she let the music take her, losing herself in the steps, in the sound of flute and pipes and harp, in the rhythm of the drum . . .

It would not be the first time Sansa loses herself in one of her hobbies. She did it with a book of fairytales after she writes letters to Robb, Hoster and Lysa in AGoT. Despite everything that has happened to her on her wedding day alone, Sansa can take joy and peace from laughter, music and dancing. The dancing descriptor continues featuring in sad or ominous scenes. It still appears whenever Sansa is sad or scared and increasingly in AFFC whenever death is mentioned, discussed or implied. What changes is the act of dancing itself. 

When Littlefinger forces a kiss on Sansa, her aunt Lysa sees them. In a jealous rage, she attacks Sansa for seducing Littlefinger and we see where Lysa’s anger began and where it truly lays.

Lord Bracken's singer played for us, and Catelyn danced six dances with Petyr that night, six, I counted.

"He kissed me," Sansa insisted again. "I never wanted—"

"Be quiet, I haven't given you leave to speak. You enticed him, just as your mother did that night in Riverrun, with her smiles and her dancing.

After a long while of wanting to see her family again, Sansa was almost killed by her aunt. After this Sansa never dances again. In fact she decides her Alayne persona doesn’t dance at all. 

It was a vexing question, to which her heart and head gave different answers. Sansa loved to dance, but Alayne . . .

In my opinion, the trauma is paired with the knowledge that bastards are considered are more lustful than trueborn children and the repeated attempts to rape her after she arrived at the Vale. In short Sansa doesn’t want to seem ‘inviting’ to anyone. My prediction is that the next time we see Sansa dancing, it’s when she’s truly happy and safe again.

This in many ways an embodies Sansa’s story in which the things she loved as a child have been twisted and turned into something that scares her, hurts her and is ultimately a sign of her growing up into a traumatised teenager.

[readbookywooks]

Sansa

They had been singing in the sept all morning, since the first report of enemy sails had reached the castle. The sound of their voices mingled with the whicker of horses, the clank of steel, and the groaning hinges of the great bronze gates to make a strange and fearful music. In the sept they sing for the Mother's mercy but on the walls it's the Warrior they pray to, and all in silence. She remembered how Septa Mordane used to tell them that the Warrior and the Mother were only two faces of the same great god. But if there is only one, whose prayers will be heard?

Ser Meryn Trant held the blood bay for Joffrey to mount. Boy and horse alike wore gilded mail and enameled crimson plate, with matching golden lions on their heads. The pale sunlight flashed off the golds and reds every time Joff moved. Bright, shining, and empty, Sansa thought.

The Imp was mounted on a red stallion, armored more plainly than the king in battle gear that made him look like a little boy dressed up in his father's clothes. But there was nothing childish about the battle-axe slung below his shield. Ser Mandon Moore rode at his side, white steel icy bright. When Tyrion saw her he turned his horse her way. "Lady Sansa," he called from the saddle, "surely my sister has asked you to join the other highborn ladies in Maegor's?"

"She has, my lord, but King Joffrey sent for me to see him off. I mean to visit the sept as well, to pray."

"I won't ask for whom." His mouth twisted oddly; if that was a smile, it was the queerest she had ever seen. "This day may change all. For you as well as for House Lannister. I ought to have sent you off with Tommen, now that I think on it. Still, you should be safe enough in Maegor's, so long as—"

"Sansa!" The boyish shout rang across the yard; Joffrey had seen her. "Sansa, here!"

He calls me as if he were calling a dog, she thought.

"His Grace has need of you," Tyrion Lannister observed. "We'll talk again after the battle, if the gods permit."

Sansa threaded her way through the file of gold-cloaked spearmen as Joffrey beckoned her closer. "It will be battle soon, everyone says so."

"May the gods have mercy on us all."

"My uncle's the one who will need mercy, but I won't give him any." Joffrey drew his sword. The pommel was a ruby cut in the shape of a heart, set between a lion's jaws. Three fullers were deeply incised in the blade. "My new blade, Hearteater."

He'd owned a sword named Lion's Tooth once, Sansa remembered. Arya had taken it from him and thrown it in a river. I hope Stannis does the same with this one. "It is beautifully wrought, Your Grace."

"Bless my steel with a kiss." He extended the blade down to her. "Go on, kiss it."

He had never sounded more like a stupid little boy. Sansa touched her lips to the metal, thinking that she would kiss any number of swords sooner than Joffrey. The gesture seemed to please him, though. He sheathed the blade with a flourish. "You'll kiss it again when I return, and taste my uncle's blood."

Only if one of your Kingsguard kills him for you. Three of the White Swords would go with Joffrey and his uncle: Ser Meryn, Ser Mandon, and Ser Osmund Kettleblack. "Will you lead your knights into battle?" Sansa asked, hoping.

"I would, but my uncle the Imp says my uncle Stannis will never cross the river. I'll command the Three Whores, though. I'm going to see to the traitors myself." The prospect made Joff smile. His plump pink lips always made him look pouty. Sansa had liked that once, but now it made her sick.

"They say my brother Robb always goes where the fighting is thickest," she said recklessly. "Though he's older than Your Grace, to be sure. A man grown."

That made him frown. "I'll deal with your brother after I'm done with my traitor uncle. I'll gut him with Hearteater, you'll see." He wheeled his horse about and spurred toward the gate. Ser Meryn and Ser Osmund fell in to his right and left, the gold cloaks following four abreast. The Imp and Ser Mandon Moore brought up the rear. The guards saw them off with off with shouts and cheers. When the last was gone, a sudden stillness settled over the yard, like the hush before a storm.

Through the quiet, the singing pulled at her. Sansa turned toward the sept. Two stableboys followed, and one of the guards whose watch was ended. Others fell in behind them.

Sansa had never seen the sept so crowded, nor so brightly lit; great shafts of rainbow-colored sunlight slanted down through the crystals in the high windows, and candles burned on every side, their little flames twinkling like stars. The Mother's altar and the Warrior's swam in light, but Smith and Crone and Maid and Father had their worshipers as well, and there were even a few flames dancing below the Stranger's half-human face . . . for what was Stannis Baratheon, if not the Stranger come to judge them? Sansa visited each of the Seven in turn, lighting a candle at each altar, and then found herself a place on the benches between a wizened old washer woman and a boy no older than Rickon, dressed in the fine linen tunic of a knight's son. The old woman's hand was bony and hard with callus, the boy's small and soft, but it was good to have someone to hold on to. The air was hot and heavy, smelling of incense and sweat, crystal-kissed and candle-bright; it made her dizzy to breathe it.

She knew the hymn; her mother had taught it to her once, a long time ago in Winterfell. She joined her voice to theirs.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

Across the city, thousands had jammed into the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya's Hill, and they would be singing too, their voices swelling out over the city, across the river, and up into the sky. Surely the gods must hear us, she thought.

Sansa knew most of the hymns, and followed along on those she did not know as best she could. She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives, with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers. She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without, sang with all the city. She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.

But when the septon climbed on high and called upon the gods to protect and defend their true and noble king, Sansa got to her feet. The aisles were jammed with people. She had to shoulder through while the septon called upon the Smith to lend strength to Joffrey's sword and shield, the Warrior to give him courage, the Father to defend him in his need. Let his sword break and his shield shatter, Sansa thought coldly as she shoved out through the doors, let his courage fail him and every man desert him.

A few guards paced along on the gatehouse battlements, but otherwise the castle seemed empty. Sansa stopped and listened. Away off, she could hear the sounds of battle. The singing almost drowned them out, but the sounds were there if you had the ears to hear: the deep moan of warhorns, the creak and thud of catapults flinging stones, the splashes and splinterings, the crackle of burning pitch and thrum of scorpions loosing their yard-long iron-headed shafts . . . and beneath it all, the cries of dying men.

It was another sort of song, a terrible song. Sansa pulled the hood of her cloak up over her ears, and hurried toward Maegor's Holdfast, the castle-within-a-castle where the queen had promised they would all be safe. At the foot of the drawbridge, she came upon Lady Tanda and her two daughters. Falyse had arrived yesterday from Castle Stokeworth with a small troop of soldiers. She was trying to coax her sister onto the bridge, but Lollys clung to her maid, sobbing, "I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to."

"The battle is begun," Lady Tanda said in a brittle voice.

"I don't want to, I don't want to."

There was no way Sansa could avoid them. She greeted them courteously. "May I be of help?"

Lady Tanda flushed with shame. "No, my lady, but we thank you kindly. You must forgive my daughter, she has not been well."

"I don't want to." Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to shove her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes. "Please, please, I don't want to."

Sansa spoke to her gently. "We'll all be thrice protected inside, and there's to be food and drink and song as well."

Lollys gaped at her, mouth open. She had dull brown eyes that always seemed to be wet with tears. "I don't want to."

"You have to," her sister Falyse said sharply, "and that is the end of it. Shae, help me." They each took an elbow, and together half dragged and half carried Lollys across the bridge. Sansa followed with their mother. "She's been sick," Lady Tanda said. If a babe can be termed a sickness, Sansa thought. It was common gossip that Lollys was with child.

The two guards at the door wore the lion-crested helms and crimson cloaks of House Lannister, but Sansa knew they were only dressed-up sellswords. Another sat at the foot of the stair—a real guard would have been standing, not sitting on a step with his halberd across his knees—but he rose when he saw them and opened the door to usher them inside.

The Queen's Ballroom was not a tenth the size of the castle's Great Hall, only half as big as the Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand, but it could still seat a hundred, and it made up in grace what it lacked in space. Beaten silver mirrors backed every wall sconce, so the torches burned twice as bright; the walls were paneled in richly carved wood, and sweet-smelling rushes covered the floors. From the gallery above drifted down the merry strains of pipes and fiddle. A line of arched windows ran along the south wall, but they had been closed off with heavy draperies. Thick velvet hangings admitted no thread of light, and would muffle the sound of prayer and war alike. It makes no matter, Sansa thought. The war is with us.

Almost every highborn woman in the city sat at the long trestle tables, along with a handful of old men and young boys. The women were wives, daughters, mothers, and sisters. Their men had gone out to fight Lord Stannis. Many would not return. The air was heavy with the knowledge. As Joffrey's betrothed, Sansa had the seat of honor on the queen's right hand. She was climbing the dais when she saw the man standing in the shadows by the back wall. He wore a long hauberk of oiled black mail, and held his sword before him: her father's greatsword, Ice, near as tall as he was. Its point rested on the floor, and his hard bony fingers curled around the crossguard on either side of the grip. Sansa's breath caught in her throat. Ser Ilyn Payne seemed to sense her stare. He turned his gaunt, pox-ravaged face toward her.

"What is he doing here?" she asked Osfryd Kettleblack. He captained the queen's new red cloak guard.

Osfryd grinned. "Her Grace expects she'll have need of him before the night's done."

Ser Ilyn was the King's Justice. There was only one service he might be needed for. Whose head does she want?

"All rise for Her Grace, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent and Protector of the Realm," the royal steward cried.

Cersei's gown was snowy linen, white as the cloaks of the Kingsguard. Her long dagged sleeves showed a lining of gold satin. Masses of bright yellow hair tumbled to her bare shoulders in thick curls. Around her slender neck hung a rope of diamonds and emeralds. The white made her look strangely innocent, almost maidenly, but there were points of color on her cheeks.

"Be seated," the queen said when she had taken her place on the dais, "and be welcome." Osfryd Kettleblack held her chair; a page performed the same service for Sansa. "You look pale, Sansa," Cersei observed. "Is your red flower still blooming?"

"Yes."

"How apt. The men will bleed out there, and you in here." The queen signaled for the first course to be served.

"Why is Ser Ilyn here?" Sansa blurted out.

The queen glanced at the mute headsman. "To deal with treason, and to defend us if need be. He was a knight before he was a headsman." She pointed her spoon toward the end of the hall, where the tall wooden doors had been closed and barred. "When the axes smash down those doors, you may be glad of him."

I would be gladder if it were the Hound, Sansa thought. Harsh as he was, she did not believe Sandor Clegane would let any harm come to her. "Won't your guards protect us?"

"And who will protect us from my guards?" The queen gave Osfryd a sideways look. "Loyal sellswords are rare as virgin whores. If the battle is lost my guards will trip on those crimson cloaks in their haste to rip them off. They'll steal what they can and flee, along with the serving men, washer women, and stableboys, all out to save their own worthless hides. Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn't, would you? All you know of life you learned from singers, and there's such a dearth of good sacking songs."

"True knights would never harm women and children." The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

"True knights." The queen seemed to find that wonderfully amusing. "No doubt you're right. So why don't you just eat your broth like a good girl and wait for Symeon Star-Eyes and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight to come rescue you, sweetling. I'm sure it won't be very long now."