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elegantwoes · 3 years ago

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“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.

#asoiaf reread project #rereading agot #Sansa Stark #a little bit of Jonsa #anti asoiaf fandom #anti sandor clegane #anti sansan #i am quite opinionated in this post #so buckle up everyone

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hinamesh · 3 years ago

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I'm sorry who is that person who said that Elia is the blandest Martell ever? S/he certainly doesn't read the books correctly.

It was stated by GRRM himself that Elia is a delicate beauty in TWOIAF, while the girl that s/he seems to stan being similar to "horse face" duh...

Remember there is also a dude that literally stolen a kiss from Elia and he boasted about it all the time to his fellow men, no sane men would boast kissing an average and bland looking woman to his friends.

Elia is respected and loved in Dorne until this day, her family never forget her and trying to avenge her death.

She is known to be gentle, kind, and CLEVER. Laughing at Oberyn's joke about fart and showing kindness towards a dwarf that his own sister called as monster, what part of her that bland?? When GRRM has showed you otherwise. If anything he showed her to be very human with personality.

Both people that who are still madly in love with Rhaegar shows to be jealous of Elia not Lyanna, I wonder why?? Cough.. cough JonCon and Cersei...

Rhaegar did leave her becuse he doesn't want her to die, if he so wanted her to die he could have just forced the third baby on her but nope he DIDN'T do that.

Rhaegar thought that his children with Elia are the third head dragons, do you really thing that he would abandon them just like that when he so believe that the three head dragons are so important?? Elia is their mother, if he wanted his babies to survive and grow up well, their mother life is also very important.

Rhaenys last moment was hiding under his bed implying that he had a good relationship with his little daughter to the point that she seeked comfort and protection in his belongings.

Do you really thing a man that love giving to the poorers, so against violence, prefer playing his harp more than his sword would feel okay abondening his family without f**cking good reasons??? Do you really think GRRM write painfully all those sentiment and melancholy in Rhaegar's characterization just for him to have a younger cunt and the end?? What about his characterization that imply to drive by prophecy since he was a freaking child??

You know what Jaime once had a dream of Rhaegar's ghost visiting him talking about his family, " I leave my wife and children to you..." this also implied that in Jaime's memory Rhaegar did care about his family including Elia.

Also Rhaegar never visited brothels while he married to Elia. If Elia was so bland, what stop him from seeking relief there?? Yet what we knew so far is contradicted Rhaegar actually produced Rhaenys as soon as they get married on the same year LOL talk about being bland duh. How many trial and errors do they did to have Rhaeneys so soon hmm???

Again this proving that many stories have yet to unfold, our knowledge are very limited but at least GRRM throw hints here and there for us to be a better judge. As for now better sit tight rather than crosstag and whining about certain character on the said character tag, there is an anti tag for a reason.

#elia martell #asoiaf #rhaegar targaryen #anti-lyanna fans #aegon vi targaryen #rhaenys targaryen #rhaegar x elia #anti rhaegar x lyanna #anti r+l

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fancyfanfiction · 5 years ago

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Soon It Will Be Spring (Chapter 2)

At this rate I’ll be giving GRRM a run for his money with writing speed.

Cross posted to AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242599/chapters/51959866

Summary: The blue glow of the pre-dawn sky had only just begun to peer through the boarded-up windows of the old Kazan Cathedral when Katya woke. She and Vaganov had been lucky to find a way in. He was huddled against the wall, still sleeping.

The blue glow of the pre-dawn sky had only just begun to peer through the boarded-up windows of the old Kazan Cathedral when Katya woke. She and Vaganov had been lucky to find a way in. He was huddled against the wall, still sleeping. Katya stretched, hoping to release some of the tension that had pooled in her back from sleeping propped against a wall. The cold seeped in past the layers of clothing sending shivers radiating through her slight frame.

She shook Vaganov awake. “It’s morning.”

Gleb rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn.

“What time is it?” He pulled his coat closer around himself.

“Just before dawn.” A few pops accompanied Katya’s stretching. “I never want to sleep propped against an abandoned church wall again.”

“Again? I wasn’t aware you made a habit of sleeping in abandoned churches,” Gleb quipped.

“You know what I meant,” she dismissed.

Katya’s stomach cut off the argument with a low gurgle. She hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. The borscht hadn’t been fresh, and the taste of beets made Katya want to wretch, but food was food and she needed more.

“We should go eat. The question is where…” Katya figured that two people wanted by the Cheka couldn’t easily walk into any old bakery and place an order, no matter how early it was. She tapped her fingers against her jaw, racking her brain for any place that might work.

“I know a place.” Gleb picked up his pack taking the lead.

The backstreets of St. Petersburg were lined with people huddled against the cold, their garbage can fires long reduced to embers by time. Gleb and Katya plodded along their path, making eye contact with no one and keeping their heads down. Sympathy panged in Gleb’s chest at the scene of the poor huddled together and clinging close to the stone walls on either side of the unpaved alley. The new order was supposed to cure this—to ensure none of these people would be warding themselves against the cold with no roof over their heads or food in their stomachs. Could he have really been so blind to this suffering? The thought settled in his gut so heavily, he was unsure if the churning he felt was from hunger or shame.

After nearly fifteen minutes, the pair reached the backdoor of a shop. The windows were boarded up, though the broken glass had been long since swept away. The memory of that night added to the cold currently attempting to suffocate the man who had spent many an afternoon playing in that same alley all those years ago. Gleb rapped on the weathered wood.

“Glebka!” A woman opened the door almost instantly, a smile bursting across her features. Wrinkles and crowfeet lined her flour-dusted face; her greying hair was tied back into a once-tight bun, a few strands framing her face.

“It’s good to see you, Sveta.” He returned the smile. “May we come in?”

“Of course, of course! You know you’re always welcome here.” Sveta ushered Gleb and Katya over the threshold, closing the door behind them.

The perfume of baking bread wafted through the warmth of the kitchen. The heat that embraced them brought feeling back to Katya's face and hands while the red glow of the kitchen stoked a nostalgia in her--a memory one can't quite place and that may not have even been real to begin with.

"Sit, sit," Sveta placed a loaf of bread and some cheese on the small, worn, round wooden table that sat next to her stove and pulled out the chairs before turning to put on some tea. "It's been a while since you've brought a girl by, Gleb."

Gleb coughed, trying not to choke on the bread he'd just bitten into.

Sveta turned to Katya pouring hot water from the samovar, "How long have you been seeing each other?" She placed the steeping tea in front of the younger woman.

"Oh, we're not...um..." Katya chose her words carefully, "Seeing each other." She valiantly fought the flush she felt on her cheeks but lost.

"Gleb Stepanovich," Sveta took her seat, "Did you get married without telling me?" Her smile had fallen into a stern, almost unreadable mask.

"No. Sveta, I wouldn't--I--we--" Gleb sputtered, suddenly a teenager again.

Sveta's sternness lasted all of ten seconds before she burst into laughter. "Don't worry, dear. I'm just kidding. You’re just as easy to tease.” She smiled, affection for the young man before her brimming over.

Gleb exhaled, relief overtaking his features. He took a sip of his, still too light, tea. He seemed younger, more at ease here, to Katya. It was an ease she's never seen in him before. The three sat in companionable quiet, enjoying the fresh, soft bread.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, dear," Sveta broke the silence, turning to Katya.

Katya swallowed, "Yekaterina, but please, call me Katya."

"Yekaterina." Sveta's gray eyes were far away, "That was my daughter's name. We called her Katyusha." The faint smile of reminiscence traced its way across Sveta's aged face. "She and Glebka were like brother and sister."

The familiar grief pricked in Gleb's memory. Katyusha had passed so long ago, he'd nearly forgotten his childhood confidant and companion’s face. The intervening decades had taken as much as they had given. "Sveta and my mother owned this shop together; she's more or less my aunt," Gleb explained, matter-of-fact tone disguising his wistful distraction.

The silence returned, tinged with melancholy this time. Katya thought back to her own childhood, to her little brother and her cousins all playing together in the summer. Their white linen clothes and the heat of the beach felt just beyond her fingertips. Her father and his own cousin, their faces so similar, as they laughed at the antics of their children were nearly there before her.

"Sveta, do you still have my father's map?" Gleb asked.

"I think so. Let me go check." Sveta rose and ascended the steps in the corner of the room.

"She's sweet." Katya observed. "We could bring her along."

"She is. And she'd never come with us." Gleb's grim certainty closed the question.

"Found it!" Sveta called as she returned from upstairs. The rolled-up paper she held had browned with the years, small tears and missing chunks the edges further confirmed its age. She held it out to Gleb as she returned to the table.

"Thank you." He took the map, sticking it carefully into his pack.

"Where are you two headed then?" Sveta sat, propping her head on her hands. She looked from Gleb to Katya.

"Paris, ideally, but out of Russia for sure," Katya answered.

"I see." Sveta's expression was blank: whatever she thought of the answer was her own secret. She looked to Gleb again, "Promise you'll write when you get wherever you're going."

"I will," Gleb assured her, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.

With the tea and food finished, Sveta walked her visitors to the door, offering each a warm embrace and a small parcel of bread and cheese as they re-entered the alleyway.

"Thank you for everything." Gleb took Sveta's hands in his, pressing a few rubles into her palm.

"Gleb, I don't--" Sveta began to protest.

"Please, take it," He insisted.

"Thank you." Sveta kissed his cheek. "Be safe."

The sky was still painted with pastels as the pair left the tea shop. The alley had emptied of its formerly sleeping residents leaving Katya and Gleb to walk alone through the silent shadows.

"Why can I never seem to escape Paris?" Gleb griped to no one in particular.

"If you're that opposed, we can go our separate ways once we're out of Russia." Katya shot back. "And if you must know, my family is there." She crossed her arms in front of her, knuckles white as she gripped either side of her coat.

"Your family?" Gleb repeated dumbly. He hadn’t thought she had any family.

"Yes. My mother, brother, and step-father are there," Katya said, protective of the information, as though the buildings on either side would run off to tell the Cheka on her.

"The offer to split up later still holds." Any warmth Katya had shown when talking about her family was chased away by the ice in her tone.

"I promised I'd make sure you got where you were going safely. And that's a promise I would like to keep." Loathe as he was to admit it, the short-tempered cleaning girl had grown on him in their time together.

"Well, if you insist on sticking together, we'll have to get to the train station soon."

"We'll need a plan first and foremost," Gleb countered, holding up his father's map.

The pair walked the few blocks to the park, the increasing bustle of the waking city offering the protection they’d lacked last night. Still-bare trees hung over the park, spindles of wood stark against the clear sky above. The park was blessedly empty, save a couple of children playing. The stone bench retained the bite of the April morning as Gleb and Katya sat, the map spread between them.

“The best way out will be to take the Moskvosky from Nikolaevsky station.” Katya traced the railway on the paper with her finger, “Then from Moscow to Warsaw to Berlin and Berlin to Paris.”

“Oktyabrsky station to Moscow is fine, but we should head from Warsaw to Vienna instead and enter France from the south though Italy,” despite his emphasis, Gleb’s voice was low as he glanced around for prying eyes and ears. His heart thrummed, if the wrong person caught their conversation it wouldn’t matter which way they wanted to get to Paris.

Katya scowled at the man across from her. “Why do you insist on changing the names of everything?”

“Why are you so upset by it? It’s not like you have any attachment to the names,” Gleb shot back.

Katya sputtered before giving up the fight. The former Deputy Commissioner had won this round. She’d agree to his plan for now, if only to keep them moving.

The knell of bells marked the hour as Gleb rolled up the map and replaced it in his bag. The ninth and final chime rung out and the unspoken understanding that it was time to go passed between them. They rejoined the flowing river of people once they reached the Nevsky Prospekt allowing the eddies to carry them to their destination.

#anastasia musical #anastasia fanfiction #gleb vaganov #fanfiction #soon it will be spring #soon it will be spring chapter 2

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kittykatknits · 7 years ago

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So I read a "post" saying Sansa running WF successfully is ooc. I disagree. Sansa's the defacto lady of the Vale and she's doing a good job. Besides innately being smart she's also getting training for being a lady,administrator, diplomat and in politics. She has natural acumen for organization,logistics,hardwork,knows how to run a household well She's learning to gauge others' motivation&how to maneuver them successfully. Also she'll have advisors to help her. I see her as a very successful 1/2

ruler/Lady of WF or when ruling the North/looking after its daily workings/governing/managing it; I dont think it’s ooc for Sansa to be a capable ruler/administrator/and dispatch the duties that come w/ being Lady of WF/looking after the North at all. That’s where her book arc&training montage is leading her. What do you think? 2/2

In short, I largely agree with you.

I’m loathe to think of fandom as a single identity but there has been a general trend with Sansa as a character over the years (at least based upon my unique experiences). Long ago, when only two books were available in the series, Sansa Stark was largely defined by two things: (1) the events on the Trident and subsequent deaths of Lady/Mycah and (2) the betrayal/execution of her father. Then, the third book was released in 2000 and fandom decided Sansa should also be defined by her feelings, or lack thereof, towards Tyrion Lannister. Oy, I am forever sick of those debates. Opinions changed, somewhat, after aFfC was released in 2005. Twelve years later and we are still waiting to see how fandom reacts to her in the next book.

It’s funny in a way. Seventeen years and, for the most part, the discussion around Sansa is almost exactly the same, “Starkness”, killed her wolf, cruel to her sister, cruel to Jon, snob, got her father killed, not truly north like, and so on. Well, no, it’s not funny, it’s frustrating because it seems like there is a growing trend of throwing power hungry into the mix although I think that’s fed largely by the show than by the book’s version of the character

For the most part, Sansa has never been a popular character, ever. The trend I’ve seen is not so much that she’s received less negativity over time, because she hasn’t, but that her actual fan base has grown. There was an explosion of Sansa fans after the first season of Game of Thrones aired and then again after the second.

So, anyways, to get to the point, the fact that you saw a post like that, isn’t particularly new or surprising. It’s shallow and inaccurate, but not a surprise. To be honest, I actually blame Martin for some of it. For the most part, he’s done a great job at world building and is fairly consistent when it comes to enforcing the rules. Cat mentions her Ladies once and…that’s it. Cersei is the queen and has no women at court. Martin doesn’t really show us the lives of women in ordinary circumstances, he’s pretty bad at it. We get Marg and her cousins in the third book some and Cersei finally gains a friend (who is also a spy…) in the fourth. There is a lot of work telling us how men are educated, think of the memories of both Jaime and Jon. We even see it with Bran as he functions as the Stark in WF. Heck, the first chapter is showing Ned raising his sons. But, the women, it doesn’t happen to nearly the same degree. Readers need to work at it so much more than they do with the male characters.

To me, I compare Sansa’s interactions with Measter Colemon in the Vale to those of Bran with Luwin. Colemon speaks with and takes guidance from Sansa in the same way Maester Luwin did with Ned/Cat, but much less so with Bran.

And let’s look at this:

Maddy and Gretchel were waiting outside with Maester Colemon. The maester had washed the night soil from his hair and changed his robe. Robert’s squires had turned up as well. Terrance and Gyles could always sniff out trouble.“Lord Robert is feeling stronger,” Alayne told the serving women. “Fetch hot water for his bath, but see you don’t scald him. And do not pull on his hair when you brush out the tangles, he hates that.” One of the squires sniggered, until she said, “Terrance, lay out his lordship’s riding clothes and his warmest cloak. Gyles, you may clean up that broken chamber pot.”

- Alayne II, aFfC

The household is taking orders from Sansa here too. And when her authority is questioned:

Gyles Grafton made a face. “I’m no scrubwoman.“Do as Lady Alayne commands, or Lothor Brune will hear of it,” said Maester Colemon. He followed her along the hallway and down the twisting stairs. “I am grateful for your intercession, my lady. You have a way with him.” He hesitated. “Did you observe any shaking while you were with him?”

- Alayne II, aFfC

This chapter shows Sansa shutting down the Eyrie and preparing for the entire household to take up residence in the gates of the moon. It’s exactly what would be expected of the Lady of the Vale.

And if there is any further doubt, the first Alayne chapter is one long bit of political theater:

“She did indeed. She saw to the mulling of the wine first, found a suitable wheel of sharp white cheese, and commanded the cook to bake bread enough for twenty, in case the Lords Declarant brought more men than expected. Once they eat our bread and salt they are our guests and cannot harm us. The Freys had broken all the laws of hospitality when they’d murdered her lady mother and her brother at the Twins, but she could not believe that a lord as noble as Yohn Royce would ever stoop to do the same.The solar next. Its floor was covered by a Myrish carpet, so there was no need to lay down rushes. Alayne asked two serving men to erect the trestle table and bring up eight of the heavy oak-and-leather chairs. For a feast she would have placed one at the head of the table, one at the foot, and three along each side, but this was no feast. She had the men arrange six chairs on one side of the table, two on the other. By now the Lords Declarant might have climbed as far as Snow. It took most of a day to make the climb, even on muleback. Afoot, most men took several days.It might be that the lords would talk late into the night. They would need fresh candles. After Maddy laid the fire, she sent her down to find the scented beeswax candles Lord Waxley had given Lady Lysa when he sought to win her hand. Then she visited the kitchens once again, to make certain of the wine and bread. All seemed well in hand, and there was still time enough for her to bathe and wash her hair and change.”

- Alayne I, aFfC

This isn’t GRRM being overly verbose here or falling in love with his food descriptions. It’s Sansa setting up a stage, thinking through everything from guest right to the type of table and chairs and their placement. Remember, these are not random guests, these are six individuals that are contesting LF’s hold on SR and the Vale. Everything matters.

It’s no different than the Lannisters in the throne room after the Battle of the BW. That’s one long bit of political theatre too, with the rehearsed scene between Joffrey and Loras or Tywin riding in atop his horse. It’s presentation and Sansa is doing a really good job here of setting everything up to their advantage.

After this, Sansa dresses herself:

“There was a gown of purple silk that gave her pause, and another of dark blue velvet slashed with silver that would have woken all the color in her eyes, but in the end she remembered that Alayne was after all a bastard, and must not presume to dress above her station. The dress she picked was lambswool, dark brown and simply cut, with leaves and vines embroidered around the bodice, sleeves, and hem in golden thread. It was modest and becoming, though scarce richer than something a serving girl might wear. Petyr had given her all of Lady Lysa’s jewels as well, and she tried on several necklaces, but they all seemed ostentatious. In the end she chose a simple velvet ribbon in autumn gold.”

- Alayne I, aFfC

Again, it’s more of the same. This isn’t Sansa obsessed with clothes (although what’s wrong with that if she is?) It’s the image she wants to present, it’s the same reasons the Tyrells drape themselves in gold and green.

Sansa’s chapters are swimming with this stuff and it tends to get dismissed. This stuff matters and it matters a lot. This theater and pageantry is present in every wedding and clothing choice. It’s present in the food (remember the poor fare offered at the RW?). It’s reflected in seat placement at both the WF feast and the PW. And Sansa is really good at it, like really damn good.

Heck, even Tyrion picks up on her skills:

“She is good at this, he thought, as he watched her tell Lord Gyles that his cough was sounding better, compliment Elinor Tyrell on her gown, and question Jalabhar Xho about wedding customs in the Summer Isles. His cousin Ser Lancel had been brought down by Ser Kevan, the first time he’d left his sickbed since the battle. He looks ghastly. Lancel’s hair had turned white and brittle, and he was thin as a stick. Without his father beside him holding him up, he would surely have collapsed. Yet when Sansa praised his valor and said how good it was to see him getting strong again, both Lancel and Ser Kevan beamed. She would have made Joffrey a good queen and a better wife if he’d had the sense to love her.”

- Tyrion VIII, Sos

But, as important as all of this is throughout the entire series, it has always tended to be overlooked and dismissed which is really disappointing. I don’t claim to know her ending, whether Hand, queen, Lady of WF, or something else. But, I guarantee all of the above is going somewhere and it isn’t just to take out LF or rebuild after. I suspect it will be incredibly important come the war for the dawn too.

This has gone on for a long time though, so I will stop now. But, hopefully, I answered your question…at least some.

Thank you anon for letting me talk about my girl!! I love Sansa so much. :)

#Sansa Stark #ASoIaF #asoiaf meta #house stark #anon ask #feel free to ask #feel free to ignore #sansa stark meta

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jitolibido · 7 years ago

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Asha I Battle of Ice (entire chapter)

For convenience, I just post the whole thing here so it’s easier to read.

The following is a speculative fan fiction based on the facts established by The King’s Prize chapter in A Dance with Dragons, the Sacrifice chapter in A Dance with Dragons, and Theon I preview chapter in The Winds of Winter. The Night Lamp theory was initially created by BryndenBFish on reddit I believe. Also there’s Asha fragment, a paragraph decoded from an enhanced image of GRRM’s computer. I wrote this fan fic, and ahhhh... follow me on instagram @truestannis

The day was cold, and the white winds bit harder as Asha inhaled. Ser Justin Massey, the freckled knight of summer, had left with the banker Nestoris and Ned Stark’s daughter. She did not desire him, a southron knight who wore a pretty blonde beard could hardly be her Lord husband in the days to come, were she to live. And yet, she thought of him. The other queen’s men, Farring and Suggs, thirsted for her blood like a pack of jackals. The knights of the greenlands would pray to their queer god of fire, but the North was of the old, and the old gods were more punishing and severe than R’hllor could ever be. Doomed, she thought, doomed men on a death march.

The ice lakes at the crofters�� village were caked with snow. When Asha walked outside along the camps, the snow seeped into her boots. The hill tribes, the southron knights, and the Glovers had been working day and night felling the trees. Catapults, she thought. Why would Stannis want siege weapons when the enemy were to meet him in an open field?

The king walked out of the tower. She had last seen him when she was pleading for her brother’s life, or a quick death, rather. “Your Grace. My brother—“

“He will live, for now. I have better use for him, because he knows the layout of Winterfell. Which walls are the strongest, and which gates the weakest. It’s not me you need to worry about, Lady kraken, it’s these northmen. Norrey and Wull would not hesitate for an instant to bloody their axes with Theon’s head.”

The queen’s men escorted their prisoner outside. Arnolf Karstark was accused of conspiring with Lord Bolton to turn on Stannis’s rearguard once the battle began. The queen’s men prepared a pyre for Lord Karstark on the weirwood island. Next to the pyre was a chopping block. The Wulls, the Flints, and the Norreys gathered around the king and his men.

“Lord Arnolf Karstark, you have been charged with treason and the conspiring with the enemy. I, Stannis Baratheon, the one true King of Westeros, sentence you to die. You are a northman. I do not wish to tamper with your old gods or your tradition in front of the brave men who stand beside me. Confess, and I shall grant you the swift death with my sword. Lie, and you will meet a warmer end. Choose wisely, Ser Clayton Suggs has much and less patience than I.”

“Aye, I confess. What of it! Lord Bolton has seven thousand strong. You will starve, and freeze, pretender. The Frey host alone is like to shatter what’s left of you and yours without breaking a sweat!” The old man spat onto the snow. He turned to the Wull, “Hugo fucking Wull. You support some southron fool now? Much is the pity! You are dead men! Do you hear me? Dead! Dead will be your false king, and dead your sons. Be cursed!” The old man coughed and grinned.

“Very well then,” the king pulled his magical sword from the scabbard. It was bright, and red, and orange. The light was as blinding as the sun.

The old man quivered before the sword and squinted his eyes. His cracked lips nonetheless widened into a hideous grin, “All hail King Tomm—” The old man’s head came falling before he could finish his words. Thirty yards away, amidst the cold winds, Asha could still hear the king’s teeth grinding as the name Tommen was mentioned. Baseborn abominations, he’d liked to call the children of Cersei Lannister. The king would not risk the allegiance of the northmen, so even a treasonous schemer such as Arnolf met his end in the ways of the weirwood. Arnolf’s sons, Cregan and Arthor, as well as Arnolf’s grandsons were still kept in the cells, except the one who’d lost his arm. Stannis had need for Karstark’s strength, four hundred spears, two score archers, and a dozen mounted lances.

“Eddard Karstark, step forward,” the king commanded. A boy, no more than twelve, walked forth to Stannis. The clansmen and the knights made way for the boy who bore the wolf’s name. The lad was of neither Rickard’s nor Arnolf’s line. The Tallhart next to Asha told her that the boy was kin to the Hornwoods and the Manderlys. Harrion, the rightful heir to Karhold, was Lord Walder’s prisoner still. Stannis needed not an heir to Karhold, but a man who could command the Karstark forces in the battles to come. Boys have been conquerors before. Mayhaps little Ned will surprise us yet.

The boy knelt before the king dutifully as he swore his allegiance. The queen’s men, once again, began singing the only song they knew, “One realm! One god! One king! One realm! One god! One king!” The clansmen sneered at that.

Morgan Liddle rode back to the islet with a group of scouts. He climbed off his palfrey and walked towards the king. Ser Godry soon followed.

“Your Grace, the Freys will be upon us soon. Mostly mounted knights, followed by the baggage train,” the Middle Liddle brushed the snow from his warhelm. “The Manderlys are yet to be seen.”

“The turncloak told the truth, it would seem.” Stannis smiled at that. “Lord Wull, give the order, we will march forth to give them battle. Get the men in formation now. It’s time.”

“Men!” The Big Bucket Wull walked forth to his men. The clans gathered and began forming the van. He brushed the ice off his long, thick beard with one hand, and raised his huge battle axe with another. “We’ve been through many battles, aye, and this is like to be our last. I remember the days when I dreamt of glory, listening to the songs and tales of great heroes and their greater deeds. The first battle is like fucking for the first time. You are afraid, so afraid that you may foul your breeches. We all shit ourselves. There’s hardly shame in that. We are marching towards almost certain death. We may never return again to embrace our wives, or cradle our babes as they draw breath for the first time. And yet we must fight, and we must die, for the Ned, his house, and all he’s done for us. Let the Freys know the wroth of the old gods. Let them scream as our axes bite deep into their skulls. Let them know that winter is here, and the North remembers!”

“The North remembers!” The clansmen chanted in unison. The king’s knights joined as well. “The North remembers! The North remembers! The North remembers!”

The king gathered his knights, as Ser Richard Horpe, his second-in-command, gathered whatever horses they hadn’t eaten.

“Fifty horses we have left, sire. Adding to the dozen from the Karstarks, two and sixty.” The knight said grimly.

“The mountain clans will ride forth with whatever few garrons they have. The snows will halter even the finest breeds. It’s spears and shields we need to face Ser Stupid. The night falls early this time of year. Use it to your advantage. Attack their train and gather whatever loot you can gain. Ride back when you see the men from White Harbor or the Bastard. You are far too few to engage them as yet.”

“Your Grace,” Asha walked towards the king. “Free me from these chains and put an axe in my hand.”

“You are in no position to make demands.” Ser Richard intejected

“The kraken’s daughter has no lack for courage, it would seem. The banker ransomed your lot from Lady Glover, it would seem only fit that I put you under her men’s command. Ser Richard, bring Lady Asha to Ned Woods and unchain her. Give her a bow and an axe. Keep her close to the Liddles as well. The Liddles know their lands. Let them guide the sixty horses you have. Tristifer Botley and his men, we need more bows. Go, now.”

Asha climbed onto Ser Richard’s horse and they rode to gather the queen’s men, the ironmen, the Liddles, and a dozen Glovers. I am the daughter of the Lord Reaper of Pyke, and yet here I have no ships, no seas. Only an axe and bow. I am fighting alongside the men who want me dead. I am sure to die here, but I’m no craven. I will die with a war cry and blood on my face and hands. Asha thought as she looked on the lay of the land.

Asha squinted her eyes as she turned her head to the north. The enemy emerged from the snows. The leader of the enemy wore silvered plate and mail, inlaid with details of lapis lazuli. The crest of his warhelm was tall, fashioned in the shape of the Twin Towers of House Frey.

Before him rode three banner bearers, One bore the stag and lion standard of King Tommen, another the Twin Towers of House Frey. The third brandished a bloody head impaled upon the point of a tall spear. An old man’s head, white-bearded and one eyed. The spear was made from a pale wood, almost white. Its upper shaft was dark and red with blood. Crowfood Umber, Asha knew. The old northman had fought to his death, it seemed. Perhaps the foe had thought the sight of severed head would strike fear into Stannis’s men. They rushed together as Hugo Wull raised his shield wall. The Karstark men remained at the longhall. The Karstarks are meant to defend against Manderly’s knights, Asha thought. The twin lakes provided the king with some advantage, it would seem. One narrow passage. Stannis does not wish to be ambushed again as he was at the Blackwater. He has no lack for caution. Robert was always the bold one. Ser Justin once told her that Tyrion Lannister’s mountain clans from the Vale had attacked Stannis’s forces at the kingswood, thus preventing him from knowing the Lannister-Tyrell relief force in advance. No trick will work against him twice. Good.

“Will they hold?” Asha asked.

“The clans are not meant to hold,” Ser Richard replied, “they’re meant to retreat.”

“Where do they retreat to? The longhall? The weirwood islet?”

“Stop asking questions and mind the surroundings. If a dozen Frey knights are to follow us, or if the fat lord appears, I want to know. You’re wanted for your axe and your eyes, not for those prattling lips that irk me so.” Ser Richard was less harsh a man than the likes of Godry the Giantslayer and Clayton Suggs, nonetheless his patience wore thin as ice in such conditions. The winds came slashing against Asha’s face, each cut harsher and more ruthless than the one before. She felt her lips crack, but refrained from licking them, as she knew it would soon turn to ice. She pressed her cheek against Ser Richard’s cloak. The cold winds and the snow are foreign to these southron knights, and yet they fight for their king as they always did. Does the faith in R’hllor warm their hearts, or the faith in Stannis? The promise of a northern castle, or the glory in the battle itself?

It was not long before Asha saw the baggage train. Ahead of the train were twenty riders, all clad in heavy armor and the surcoats of House Frey. Ser Richard drew his longsword from the scabbard. “Men! With me!” Asha raised her axe as the enemy rode forth to them. Richard gestured the men to spread out the flanks to envelope the enemy. He raised his sword and charged against the enemy leader. The foe was no craven, and his sword nearly cut off Asha’s head. Her battle axe had shorter reach than the long sword, but there were more than one way to engage a mounted enemy. As the Frey’s sword clashed once again with Ser Richard, Asha cut off the palfrey’s leg with one firm swing of her axe. The loss of balance had Ser Richard’s horse founder into the snow. Asha was tossed some ten feet away. As she pushed herself up from the damp and cold ground with her axe, she saw the unhorsed Frey knight walking towards her. His helm was gone. Asha readied herself, as the man put both hands on his the hilt of his longsword and lunged forward. Before he could reach her, Tristofer charged forward and lopped his head off with his axe. The Liddles finished off the rest of the enemies soon enough, and seven Frey horses remained alive. The majority of palfreys and destriers in Stannis’s army hadn’t survive long in the march, but more horses were better than no horses.

Ser Richard lead a captured Frey destrier towards Asha, “Now you have your own horse, my lady.”

“I’m not a lady.” Asha took her gift gratefully.

Richard pointed at a few Glover men, “take these Frey armors and bring the train back to the king from the south side of the lakes. Rest of you, with me. It’s getting dark, we must return and give them battle.” Ser Richard commanded.

Asha looked towards the village, the snow was blinding, and the darkness was soon to come, and all she could see was the faint lamp light from the watchtower.

The night fell as the king had promised, as the sky shifted to grey, to a dark blue, and then black, in contrast to the white of the never ending snow. Asha could scarce make out the sound of cold steel clashing amidst the punishing winds. Her back ached from the fall, as she could hardly keep the lance straight. I’m more fit for an axe, she thought. The Frey soldiers were more like to use long swords, spears, and crossbows. Asha had slung the dead Frey’s crossbow onto her back. She thought of her uncle Victarion who would cut through scores of foes with his battle axe. Had I not pressed my claim, would he have won the kingsmoot then? Anyone in Westeros would be fitter to sit the Seastone Chair than Euron Greyjoy.

She could almost make the Frey banners as she rode forth towards the light. The Frey rear marched slowly whilst the van was engaged with the clansmen. The two flanks of the Frey army attempted to envelop the clans but arrows flew from the king’s position, halting their formation. The fire arrows provided little or less light as they were extinguished as soon as they hit the snow.

“We’ll lure out their rear,” Ser Richard commanded, “separate them from the main force. Ready the men!”

Asha and the rest of the ironborn loosed the crossbow bolts onto the Frey rear. A few Frey horses fell into the snow. The rearguard turned, and they outnumbered Ser Richard’s men two to one by sight. However, by the time that their luxurious and yet impractical southron breeds managed to turn around, Richard’s cavalry already jammed their lances into a row of Frey knights. The rest of the foes remained ferocious, however, and they retaliated. The right wing, commanded by Liddle, began to retreat, and the freshly aggravated Freys ate the bait and then some. As the left wing of the rearguard rode forth towards the Liddles, Asha, Tristifer Botley, and the men under Ned Woods’s command went to engage them. We have the element of surprise, and their numbers matter but little so long as they can’t maintain the formation.

Asha drove her spear into the back of a Frey’s neck. The man wore chainmail under his warhelm, but the sheer impact broke his neck. In a matter of moments, the left wing of the rearguard was all but annihilated. There were many left still, Asha realized that as a man cut her spear in half with a sword. She drew her axe and engaged, but her arm was growing weak. The initial blood rush from a battle would make one forget the very concept of exhaustion, but soon or late, fatigue always set in. In that instant, she grew thankful of Ser Justin Massey, who had urged her to devour more horse meat despite her lack of appetite. She gave all the strength she had and swung the axe upward, and the blade almost touched the enemy’s warhelm. Her body was left defenseless, and the foe lowered his sword to his chest level for a killing strike. Oh, fuck me.

The foe’s head came flying towards Asha before his sword could land a killing strike. Tris? she thought for an instant. As the headless body rolled off the horse, the man who appeared was Qarl the Maid. Asha remembered the night she had spent with Qarl in Deepwood Motte, when he’d sucked her breasts whilst driving his firm cock into her wet cunt to release his seeds. Asha had loved the rough play. Quiet, mind, she reminded herself. She gave a nod to Qarl. It may be that I shall never bed you again.

The Freys were no meek foes, the rest of the rearguard were not to submit without a fight. Thirty men or so they had left, perhaps fewer, got in formation, and charged forward with a chilling war cry, as the Liddles turned around. Ser Richard’s men engaged them, and Tris was on the left wing, attempting to surround the Freys once again.

Qarl rode close to Asha. He sees that I’m weak, Asha thought begrudgingly, I’m not some princess who needs a flowery knight to shield me from danger. And yet she seemed to be surrounded by men who’d die for her, and a precious few who’d love to see her burnt alive. Almost forgot that.

“Thank you.” It took a deal of reluctance for Asha to express her gratitude. She had affection for the pink-cheeked boy once in a while. Asha rubbed on her right shoulder to make sure that she could still swing. When she turned her head it was too late.

A spear went through Qarl’s back and protruded out of his chest. Qarl had worn only jerkin, fur, and light armor, and the blood rendered the back of his white horse crimson. He held onto the tip of the spear with his right hand, and coughed out blood. The enemy tried to pull the spear but Qarl would not let go.

No time to grieve, Asha turned her horse towards the Frey. The man loosened his grip on the spear to draw his sword, but Asha killed him with a single swing before his sword could clear the scabbard.

“Don’t forget me.” Qarl smiled with blood around his lips. It was the sweetest smile he ever gave. Asha fought her tears, and she fought them hard. A few managed to drop, however, and they froze onto her cheeks. she pressed her hand against her cheek to break it. Qarl almost fell from his horse, and she held him.

“Go.” He planted one last kiss upon Asha’s lips before he fell into the snow.

“What of our losses?” Ser Richard cut down a Frey and rode forward to Middle Liddle.

“A dozen or more,” the Liddle replied.

Richard ordered the men to ride towards the light of the watchtower. When they rode close to the lakes, Asha realized that the light was not from the tower at all.

The tower was all in darkness. Instead, the light that they saw was on the weirwood islet. Asha remember the tales of the night lamp of Sisterton, where the sistermen lure ships with false beacons.

The mountain clans fought the Freys on the surface of the ice lake. Already Asha saw a few horses sinking their limbs into the ice as the knights fell off their backs. When the Frey knights got on their feet, the clansmen cut their throats.

Asha heard one blast from a horn, coming from the longhall. The mountain clans began to spread out and retreat. The Freys either chose to dismount, or struggling to hold still. One Frey who was larger than most, dismounted and cut down two clansmen. He was freakishly huge, althought not as big as Gregor Clegane. The big bellied chief Hugo Wull raised his axe to engage him. The old man struggled, as the Frey was much stronger. The old man blocked the Frey’s blow with the hilt of his axe, but the knight kicked him in the belly. The old man rose and lunged forward, raising his battle axe. The knight got on his feet and parried the attack and drove his sword into the old man’s throat. Two of the queen’s men began fighting the ferocious Frey. And then came the second blast. Stannis’s men moved farther from the islet, and the Freys struggled. The holes were not only for fishing, Asha thought. Ned Woods had made a remark about Stannis’s men drilling holes into the ice.

When Asha heard the third blast of the horn, large rocks were flung into the lakes from the north and the south. Catapults, Asha noticed. large portions of the ice began to crumble and crack. two dozen Frey knights sunk into the water as the rest attempted to retreat. The king’s knights and the mountain clans lined up along the east side of the lake and held a shield wall. Another hail of rocks were launched with the next blast of the horn. Dozens, or hundreds of horses fell. Asha could barely tell as the snows were blinding. The heavy cavalry were mostly sunk as the barding on the destriers added more weight. The king’s archers got into position as well, two dozens at the north side of the lake, and another two dozesn at the south side.

“Nock! Draw! Loose!” A hail of arrows were loosed onto what remained of the Frey van. Some arrows found their way onto the clansmen’s shields as well. Most of the Freys dismounted and drew their swords to engage in melee with the mountain clans. The horses were spooked and began running in all directions. The Freys’ castle-forged steel were still an advantage. The Frey men got into formation in an attempt to fight their way out of the mountain clans’ envelopment. They concentrated their forces on the right wing. Stannis’s archers were lightly armored and the Freys cut through them with ease. The Freys began pushing south as they were no longer surrounded. The large Frey fought in the frontlines and cut down half a dozen of the tribesmen. Asha had seldom seen such ferocity. The man reminded her of her uncle Victarion. Stannis’s knights went towards the Freys. Asha could hardly see faces, but she saw the winged pig and the purple knight sigils. Suggs and Farring, she thought. For a split moment Asha wished that the bloodthirsty queen’s men would fall. She hoped that the fearless Frey knight would cut them in half. She soon regretted that thought. She wondered why she grew to hate the queen’s men a little less. Perhaps it was Ser Richard, she thought, nothing in this world turns foes into friends faster than comraderie born amidst a bloodbath.

The fire-crazed knights were indeed a fearsome lot, as their steel clashed against the Frey armors. The knight of the winged pig, Ser Clayton Suggs, stroke the helm off the tall Frey. A husky man with a jut-jawed face thick with beard and full of rage. He blocked the blows from both Suggs and Farring, and pushed forth with his freakish strength. Godry the Giantslayer lowered his sword and cut the Frey’s leg, and as the Frey went onto his knee, Clayton drove a dagger into the brawny man’s throat.

Asha heard a horn blast from the north, but a deal farther than the one before. More men? She thought. By the sound, Asha judged them to be a few hundred horses at least. Asha looked towards the north and could almost make out the banners. Green, she thought, a white figure on a blue-green field, a merman. The knights wielded tridents instead of spears. The Manderlys. The Karstarks came out of the long hall to engage the White Harbor knights. She could almost hear the laugh of relief of the Freys. Their saviors finally came for them, and we are fucked.

Except, the tridents went through the necks of the Frey knights, not Stannis’s men. The clans soon understood the situation and surrounded the Frey knights completely. More cavalry came pouring through the woods onto the helpless Freys. The trumpets were blowing, as the knights continued to charge and trample through the deserting Freys, and the words they cried were “the North remembers! The North remembers! The North remembers!”

#a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #asha greyjoy #fanfic #fanfiction #the winds of winter #georgerrmartin #grrm #fantasy #stannis #stannis baratheon #stannis the mannis #melisandre #davos seaworth #theon greyjoy #asoiaf #got

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sunspearesque · 11 months ago

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i will never get over how princesses and their knight boyfriends are unnecessarily doomed by the narrative in asoiaf

#rhaenyra x harwin #arianne x arys #did i forget anyone?#*throws a tantrum*#this is so unfair dude #grrm you will cough in three days #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones

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sunspearesque · 11 months ago

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NAUUUUUUR NIA COME BACK TO ME

quentyn martell is the textbook definition of "doomed by the narrative”

he took the fall for his uncle and was sent to be fostered away from his family, and that was the reason why his mom left his dad, then his sissy hated his ass all these years cause she thought he is trying to usurp her seat as the ruler of dorne, then he was sent off by his dad to ask for a queen’s hand and he was shaking in his lil boots at the prospect but was more afraid to disappoint his dad, and then when he finally got there the queen was like "aww :( nope sorry froggy” then his goofy ass thought it was a good idea to tame a dragon before it bbq’ed his ass

his literal last word was "oh”

he truly didn't get it til the very end

oh, i forgot, he is also the only martell who lost the genetic lottery (my poor boy was unfortunate looking)

#no actually im so distraught baby boy deserves better #grrm you will cough in three days #he just wanted his dad to be proud :’(

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jitolibido · 7 years ago

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Asha I The Winds of Winter (Part i)

Asha I The Winds of Winter (fan fiction based on the real decoded Asha fragment from a high definition image of GRRM’s computer and the facts established in A Dance of Dragons as well as Theon I The Winds of Winter)

True Stannis @ instagram

The ice lakes at the crofters’ village were caked with snow. When Asha walked outside along the camps, the snow seeped into her boots. The hill tribes, the southron knights, and the Glovers had been working day and night felling the trees. Catapults, she thought. Why would Stannis want siege weapons when the enemy were to meet him in an open field?