#these people honest to god make me feel dehumanized with how they act towards me and my time and energy. just say you want me dead instead

[teamhawkeye]

i cannot for the life of me stress how fucking pissed off it makes me when a client books me, and then after they know i'm locked in going "well, ACTUALLY, here's a change and more work-" and expecting me to be chill with it

genuinely cannot stand people taking advantage of me and my kindness anymore

[theusurpersdog]

A Bird in a Cage

Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is all about boxing her in. Not only is she a hostage in King’s Landing, she’s also expected to pretend she’s not; she has to attend Court with a smile on her face, playing the role of Joffrey’s betrothed every day. Showing any honest emotion is punished by verbal and physical beatings. Her entire life becomes a performance she must put on to keep the monsters at bay. Everything about her world is meant to be stifling; from the physical restrictions to the emotional ones, it all makes her retreat deeper and deeper within herself.

But the real magic of this book is the moments where she finds a way to push back or escape her bounds . . . 

Captive

In more ways than one, Sansa is a captive in King’s Landing.

The first kind of abuse she’s subjected to is physical. Beatings are a part of her everyday life. Because Robb was crowned king, or because she was happy Janos Slynt was sent to the Wall, or because Joffrey decided to be especially cruel one day. Sometimes for no reason at all.

She has to take care to dress carefully to hide the bruises:

The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey’s gifts as well.

This should go without saying, but domestic abuse is not rational; nothing Sansa does could stop Joffrey from abusing her – no clever words or tricks she could do to keep him happy. Half the time he has her beaten, it’s because of something Robb did.

Because she could be beaten at any moment, Sansa always keeps one eye on Joffrey, terrified that his mood could turn:

So the king had decided to play the gallant today. Sansa was relieved.

. . .

The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.

Not only is she afraid of being hit, she’s genuinely afraid he could kill her:

When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat.

Sansa knows her life balances on an incredibly delicate string. Jaime being Robb’s prisoner gives the Lannisters a reason to keep her alive, but Joffrey had reasons to keep Ned alive, too. If anything were to set him off, he would kill Sansa without hesitation. That’s why Sansa feels safer with Cersei around to watch her son, because she’s the only thing that remains to keep Joffrey in check. And Sansa knows that if Robb were to do anything to Jaime, her life would be over:

Gods be good, don’t let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

The beating she endures after Robb wins the battle at Oxcross is so bad that she can barely walk afterward; and as I already mention above, she has to be careful to wear dresses to hide her bruises.

And not only does she have to endure the abuse, she also has to carry on the farce for the rest of the court. Everyone knows she’s a prisoner, and everyone knows that Joffrey is having the Kingsguard beat her, but she’s not allowed to show it; all of her pain has to be kept hidden, pushed deep down inside herself.

Which leads me to the other kind of abuse Sansa experiences in King’s Landing. Everything about her time there is meant to emotionally destroy her. Joffrey intentionally tries to taunt her with threats to murder her family:

“It’s almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him.

. . .

“I’d sooner have Robb Stark’s head,” Joff said with a sly glance toward Sansa.

. . .

“I’ll deal with your brother after I’m done with my traitor uncle. I’ll gut him with Hearteater, you’ll see.”

He loves to play mind games with her, like when he promised to show Ned mercy and then cut off his head and said that was mercy. The constant way that he twists reality around messes with her head and leaves her understandably paranoid:

What if it was some cruel jape of Joffrey’s, like the day he had taken her up to the battlements to show her Father’s head? Or perhaps it was some subtle snare to prove she was not loyal. If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she’d come?

The constant cruelty she suffers, and Joffrey and Cersei’s profound betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones, make it hard for her to trust anyone, even when they show kindness:

He speaks more gently than Joffrey, she thought, but the queen spoke to me gently too. He’s still a Lannister, her brother and Joff’s uncle, and no friend. Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.

How is she supposed to trust anyone, when everything around her is false? When everything is a carefully constructed jape at her expense? Especially because she’s surrounded by enemies; anyone making their home in Joffrey’s court is sworn to kill Sansa’s family.

And Cersei intentionally makes her isolation worse, rotating her bedmaids:

Sansa did not know her. The queen had her servants changed every fortnight, to make certain none of them befriended her.

Sansa truly has no one to talk to, not even friendly servants to keep her company. Her loneliness is so profound that she enjoys being watched over by Arys Oakheart because he’s the only person who will actually talk to her.

She realizes that no one in King’s Landing cares if she lives or dies:

She [Cersei] spared Sansa not so much as a glance. She’s forgotten me. Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won’t even think about it.

And before the Battle of the Blackwater started, Tyrion told her this:

“I ought to have sent you off with Tommen now that I think on it.”

Unlike Joffrey and Cersei, Tyrion doesn’t wish Sansa any harm; he orders Joffrey’s men to stop hitting her, tries to comfort her afterward, and doesn’t want her to be married to Joffrey. But she is not one of his priorities. It didn’t even occur to him to try and get her safely out of the city.

This is dehumanizing. Sansa has no friends or even anyone to talk to, and the people around her treat her life as an afterthought.

Sansa also suffers from the emotional fallout of Joffrey’s abuse. She blames herself when he has men hit her:

She must learn to hide her feelings better, so as not to anger Joffrey.

The fear of being hit by Joffrey is nearly all-consuming for Sansa. It affects everything down to the smallest details of her life, like how she dresses and does her hair:

I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s always liked me in this gown, this color.

Instead of getting to live as her own person, doing things to make herself happy, Sansa has to live for Joffrey’s satisfaction. Even when she’s being physically beaten, she thinks of him instead of herself:

Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.

Everything about her life is a performance for other people. She wears the gowns and jewels Joffrey likes, dressing to hide the bruises his men leave all over, and says the words they tell her to say:

“My father was a traitor,” Sansa said at once. “And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well.” That reflex she had learned quickly. “I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.”

Sansa repeats that phrase over and over throughout the book, always at once. Almost like a reflex. An actor on stage repeating their lines, rehearsed and performed a thousand times.

The worst part of the act is that everyone knows it’s exactly that: an act. Sansa is required, every day, to declare that her family are traitors who deserve to die, and for no reason at all. The way Joffrey abuses her is an open secret:

“He’s never been able to forget that day on the Trident when you saw her shame him, so he shames you in turn. You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation.”

There is no way anyone could ever believe Sansa actually loves the boy who killed her father and intentionally humiliates her in front of his court. No matter how well Sansa tells the lie, it will always be see-through; especially because everyone knows that she’s a prisoner, being held until Jaime is freed. Sansa has to repeat the lie of believing her family to be traitors to try and please the Lannisters – if she said anything different she would be beaten or killed – but there’s no way they will ever be happy, because even when Sansa says the lies as convincingly as humanly possible, they know they’re lies because there’s no way they could be anything else. Sansa cannot win.

That’s never clearer than during her conversation with Cersei inside Maegar’s Holdfast, while the Battle of the Blackwater rages on:

“I pray for Joffrey,” she insisted nervously.

“Why, because he treats you so sweetly?” The queen took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and filled Sansa’s cup. “Drink,” she commanded coldly. “Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with truth for a change.”

If Sansa told Cersei the truth in this moment, she would be severely punished. And Cersei knows that, because she would be the one doing the punishing. Yet she verbally berates Sansa anyway.

The same dynamic plays out between Sansa and the Hound. At the end of A Game of Thrones, he gives her this bit of advice:

“Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”

And as one of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, he knows first hand of the abuse Sansa suffers if she says anything that could even be construed as out of line. Yet when Sansa tries to follow the advice he gave her, he throws it back in her face:

“ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you”

Everyone in King’s Landing is always threatening to kill Sansa if she tells them the truth, and then calling her stupid when she repeats back the lies they want to hear. They’re forcefully dehumanizing her, demanding she remove all of her own thoughts and emotions and replace them with hollow lines they’ve given her, and then getting mad when her words are empty.

This plays on one of Sansa’s greatest insecurities about herself, which is her intelligence. Because of her low self-esteem, she already thinks of herself as being less-than. That’s very clear whenever she does an act of kindness – she steadfastly refuses to give herself credit for anything:

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court?

. . .

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

She never thinks to herself You are doing this because you are a good person. She always punishes herself internally, calling herself stupid and childish for believing in good things. Joffrey and Cersei have destroyed her so much that she can only see herself through their eyes, cruel and mocking.

The fear that she’s stupid is one of her greatest anxieties:

“My Jonquil’s a clever girl, isn’t she?”

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

And she doesn’t like to be watched by Ser Preston Greenfield because he treated her like a lackwit child.

Everyone around her is comfortable calling her stupid and emotionally abusing her, and it’s easy for Sansa to start internalizing those messages. Joffrey and Cersei’s betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones forever changed Sansa; the fear that she could ever be so wrong again, and the fear that she was stupid to believe in them, haunts her. Throughout her time in King’s Landing, her self-worth plummets, and she really starts to believe all the things that Joffrey, Cersei, and everyone is always telling her about herself.

Because she has to endure so much abuse and cruelty every day, it starts to become normal to Sansa. Compared to the way Joffrey treats her, anything would be an improvement; she has a soft spot for Arys Oakheart because he hesitated to hit her once:

Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros might have, and at least he had argued.

At least he had argued is one of the saddest lines in a series of books that has a lot of sad lines. Sansa expects so little of the people around her, and is subjected to so much cruelty, that the mere act of hesitating before hitting a defenseless child is enough to stand out in her memory as an act of kindness.

And Sansa thinks this when Tyrion asks her if she’s flowered yet:

Sansa blushed. It was a rude question, but the shame of being stripped before half the castle made it seem like nothing.

This is a perfect moment to show the small ways in which Joffrey is breaking her down emotionally. Tyrion’s question is embarrassing and impolite, but Sansa doesn’t even care because it is so much less embarrassing than the humiliations Joffrey makes her suffer. Joffrey has set the bar for cruelty so high that Sansa is willing to ignore others mistreating her because it isn’t as bad as Joffrey.

The secret friendship she has with Dontos makes this even worse:

“And if I should seem cruel or mocking or indifferent when men are watching, forgive me, child. I have a role to play, and you must do the same. One misstep and our heads will adorn the walls as did your father’s.”

Dontos is not wrong, but it doesn’t make it any less toxic a message for Sansa to hear: I’m cruel and hit you for your own protection. That’s on display when Joffrey is beating Sansa for Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering. He was armed with a “Morningstar” whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all.

Sansa is happy that Dontos is the one hitting her, because at least it’s better than Meryn Trant and Boros Blount. Dontos volunteering to hit her is an act of kindness for Sansa; which further reinforces the idea that someone hitting her is okay.

All of this works to lower Sansa’s standards and warp her perception of what is and isn’t okay; and in the case of Dontos, it is outright grooming on the part of Littlefinger. He intentionally paid an older man to win Sansa’s trust and get her used to the dynamic of secrecy and pushing boundaries, all so he can swoop in during A Storm of Swords. Sansa’s stuck in an endless cycle of her abuse conditioning her to accept more abuse.

All of the abuse and isolation Sansa suffers also leaves her incredibly depressed throughout A Clash of Kings. When she gets the note telling her to go to the Godswood, she thinks she will kill herself before she’s caught:

If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more, she told herself.

After the bread riot, Sansa has panic attacks; so much so that she feels suffocated in small rooms:

Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She crossed over the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes and made her way up the narrow turnpike stair, but when she reached the door of her bedchamber she could not bear to enter. The very walls of the room made her feel trapped; even with the window opened wide it felt as though there was no air to breathe.

She likes to go up to the roof of the tower so she can see the entire city laid before her; it’s the only place where she doesn’t feel so claustrophobic and trapped.

That passage is also so fantastically written to show just how depressed Sansa is. Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She's too depressed to go riding around the courtyard; she doesn’t see the point in going around in circles. We know from A Game of Thrones that Sansa has plenty of hobbies: playing the high harp, needlepoint, reading, and sharing gossip with her best friend. In A Clash of Kings, she’s too isolated to have anyone to talk to, but we never see her doing any of her other hobbies either. Nothing brings Sansa happiness in this book.

Especially because she’s constantly surrounded by reminders of her trauma. The way Sansa copes with her grief is by pushing it out of her mind and pretending like it doesn’t exist:

Sansa did not know what had happened to Jeyne, who had disappeared from her rooms afterward, never to be mentioned again. She tried not to think of them too often, yet sometimes the memories came unbidden, and then it was hard to hold back the tears.

Sansa actively tries to forget about the people who mean the most to her because it hurts too much to think of them.

But she can’t forget about Ned when she’s surrounded by reminders of his death. Joffrey and Cersei intentionally throw it in her face, and she has to walk through the same halls his men died in:

Sansa moved as if in a dream. She thought the Imp’s men would take her back to her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast, but instead they conducted her to the Tower of the Hand. She had not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from grace, and it made her feel faint to climb those steps again.

The reminder that hurts the most is the presence of Ilyn Payne, a recurring figure in all of Sansa’s nightmares. Just his presence makes Sansa’s skin crawl:

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.

. . .

She looked for Ser Ilyn, but the King's Justice was not to be seen. I can feel him, though. He's close

When Sansa’s afraid she’s going to die, it’s always his blade she fears:

I'll not escape him, he'll have my head.

. . .

Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won't even think about it.

. . .

If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she'd come?

. . .

If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

Watching Ilyn Payne kill her father is the worst thing that ever happened to Sansa, and she lives in constant fear that the same thing could happen to her.

The only thing that keeps her going is the thought of her family. Sansa is insecure in herself enough to start believing the abuse that Joffrey and Cersei inflict on her; but she loves her family too much to ever believe the lies about them. Even though she’s forced to declare them traitors every single day, her internal monologue is always fighting against it:

Rob will kill you all, she thought, exulting

. . .

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell.

She even finds a way to make Joffrey’s words work in her favor:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

One of the only moments where Sansa is even remotely happy in this book comes when she’s talking to Tommen, because he reminds her of Bran:

Princess Myrcella nodded a shy greeting at the sound of Sansa’s name, but plump little Prince Tommen jumped up eagerly. “Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in the tourney today. Mother said I could.” Tommen was all of eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe.

Sansa would have given anything to be with him. “I fear for the life of your foeman,” she told Tommen solemnly.

That’s a short passage, but it so beautifully captures a small piece of what Sansa is truly like, outside of the abuse and the fearing for her life and the never being able to express her emotions. She loves her family so much and wants nothing more than to be with Bran again. And while Joffrey mocks Tommen for his knightly dreams, Sansa is so nice to him, building up his confidence before he competes. She’s old enough to have grown passed the childishness of Tommen facing the quintain, but because she knows how important it is to Tommen, she gladly plays along with him. We never got to see any scenes in A Game of Thrones of Sansa interacting with Bran and getting to act like a big sister, but this scene does such a good job of showing us that Sansa was a great sister to him.

Sansa also feels a much stronger connection to the Godswood, the ancestral home of her father’s gods:

The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood, even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes.

And even though Lady’s long dead, Sansa still has a strong connection to her wolf. When she believes she’s going to die during the Blackwater, Lady is the first thing she thinks of:

“Lady,” she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

The more abuse Sansa suffers and the more pressure is put on her to denounce her family as traitors and give up on ever going home, the more Sansa falls back on her family. That’s the only form of comfort she has in King’s Landing; the memory of Winterfell, and the belief that Robb is coming to save her.

The Lannisters have Sansa held captive physically and emotionally in King’s Landing; she has to suffer through beatings and repeat their words to stay alive. But as long as Sansa has her family - has Winterfell - to hold onto, there is a part of her that the Lannisters can never have. Even if it’s only within the walls of her own mind, Sansa has fought herself a small piece of freedom.

Courtesy is a Lady’s Armor

Trapped within the political machinations of King’s Landing, Sansa starts to learn how to play the game in earnest.

Even before she consciously starts to do it, though, Sansa is already in many ways an adept political actor. There’s a reason that all highborn children are taught from a young age how to conduct themselves; Westeros is a society built on the cornerstone of tradition, and knowing how to perform courtly behavior is important. Because Sansa took all of Septa Mordane’s training seriously, she already knows how to walk the dangerous tightrope of courtly speak:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, “I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord.”

This is the same skill we saw in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, when she was proud of herself for telling the Hound that no one could withstand Gregor during the tourney – she managed to say something courteous without telling a lie. Just as she did then, Sansa manages to say an apology to Tyrion that’s true.

It also shows just how good Sansa is at keeping a level head, because just moments before she was thinking this:

Tyrion turned to Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel."

Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.

Faced with the men responsible for killing her father, she manages to think on her feet and fulfill the role of a Lady.

She also learns how to use that same skill to benefit herself. Whereas at first she was just trying to perform the functions of a Lady, she starts to use her courtesy to talk the people around her into helping her in such a way that they don’t even realize it’s happening:

“I would sooner return to my own bed.” A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. “This tower was where my father’s men were slain Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked.”

Tyrion Lannister studied her face. “I am no stranger to nightmares, Sansa. Perhaps you are wiser than I knew. Permit me at least to escort you safely back to your own chambers.”

Part of why Sansa’s so naturally gifted at this kind of political double speak is because she understands people so well; she’s an empathetic and emotional character, and is extremely aware of the emotions of everyone around her. To affectively influence others, you need to understand what they want and be able to give it to them. Because Sansa is so aware of the people around her, she intuitively knows what they want; and all she wants to do is give it to them, because she doesn’t want to be hurt again.

The whole conversation she has with Tyrion in the Tower of the Hand does an excellent job showing how intelligent she is:

“I . . .” Sansa did not know what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth? She stared at the dwarf’s brutal bulging brow, the hard black eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard. “I only want to be loyal.”

“Loyal,” the dwarf mused, “and far from any Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I wanted the same thing.” He smiled. “They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, Sansa?”

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell. “I pray for an end to the fighting.”

Again, she shows an unparalleled ability to lie without actually lying. And she’s clever enough to tell Tyrion what he wants to hear without saying anything that’s actually false, that way it can’t come back to bite her later. She learned her lesson in A Game of Thrones not to trust someone just because they’re kind, and is careful not to show her cards to Tyrion. But in case he’s being honest in trying to help her, Sansa does not reaffirm her love for Joffrey. That’s why her answer of I only want to be loyal is so smart; whether Tyrion is playing her false or no, Sansa has given him the answer he wants to hear. She’s kept all of her doors open without creating additional risk for herself.

Having to survive Joffrey every day also teaches Sansa how to get what she wants without actually having to say it. When she saves Dontos’ life, she plays to Joffrey’s ego:

Unhappy, Joffrey shifted in his seat and flicked his fingers at Ser Dontos. "Take him away. I'll have him killed on the morrow, the fool."

"He is," Sansa said. "A fool. You're so clever, to see it. He's better fitted to be a fool than a knight, isn't he? You ought to dress him in motley and make him clown for you. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."

All Sansa wants is to save Dontos’ life, and in the moment she comes up with a spectacular lie. Of course Joffrey would think it humiliating to make Dontos into a fool, so Sansa convinces him that would be an even greater punishment than death. She manipulates Joffrey into doing what she wants him to, and he doesn’t even know it’s happened.

Learning how to slyly insult Joffrey is one of the few ways Sansa can actually express herself as a prisoner, and she gets incredibly good at it. She starts by passive-aggressively getting one over on him:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

But as she gets better at politics she goes even further, actively tempting Joffrey into getting himself killed:

“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.”

Joffrey’s biggest insecurity is that he can’t rule in his own right; Cersei won’t let him do certain things, and Tyrion is in charge of him as the Hand of the King because he hasn’t come of age yet. While Joffrey’s anger is normally aimed destructively at Sansa, here she figures out a way to make it work for her; using his own emotions against him to do something reckless.

As well as learning the art of political double-speak, Sansa starts to understand the broader political machinations at work. Because she was a diligent student of Catelyn and Septa Mordane, she has almost every sigil in Westeros memorized; at Joffrey’s name-day tourney, she recognizes every competitor by their House. This may seem unimportant at first glance, but it’s actually very important; twice in Arya’s chapters in A Clash of Kings she wishes she knew Houses and Sigils as well as Sansa, because than she would know who she was dealing with.

Since Sansa knows who everyone is, she has head start in understanding where everyone’s loyalties lie. On top of that, she’s also incredibly observant; she’s constantly taking in everything around her, stopping to pay attention to every little detail and interaction between people. Even though Cersei and Joffrey are trying to keep it hidden, Sansa notices that Joffrey’s tourney is held inside the Keep because he would be mobbed if they went out into the city. And she knows the Redwyne twins are hostages just as much as she is:

The Redwyne twins were the queen’s unwilling guests, even as Sansa was. She wondered whose notion it had been for them to ride in Joffrey’s tourney. Not their own, she thought.

That’s not something anyone would have told Sansa. For one, no one is even allowed to talk to her per Cersei’s orders. For two, Cersei doesn’t let anyone acknowledge that she has hostages – in the same way Sansa has to pretend she is a guest of Joffrey’s court, the Redwynes have to pretend they’re willing guests. That means that Sansa, with no help from anyone, has of her own accord put all the pieces together and realized the Redwynes are political pawns just like her. Very impressive for a twelve-year-old.

Sansa’s attention to detail is clear when she meets Shae, and immediately notices something is not right with her:

Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to show her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes.

And when she’s entering Maegar’s Holdfast at the start of the Blackwater, and notices the guards:

The two guards at the door wore the lin-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.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of Westerosi Houses and her attention to detail combine to give her a really good head for political machinations. She sees how the Lannisters use empty titles to flatter their lesser servants while saving the best prizes for their family:

Hallyne the Pyromancer and the masters of the Alchemists’ was raised to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands nor castle accompanied the title, which made the alchemist no more a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by far was granted to Ser Lancel Lannister.

She manages to keep pace with Littlefinger and Tywin’s games:

She did not understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time. He’ll beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.

I cannot emphasize enough that Sansa, following the tiny thread of Littlefinger looks happy to be Lord of Harrenhal, manages to predict the Red Wedding a whole book before it happens. That’s pretty incredible. Right now, Sansa has no power to start pulling meaningful strings of her own, but it’s clear that she fundamentally understands the complexity of geopolitics and would be well-prepared to make decisions of her own when the time comes.

Another way Sansa continues to learn about the realities of ruling is through people around her trying to teach her lessons. Because Sansa’s a hostage and isn’t allowed to say anything she feels, she basically becomes a blank slate for people to project whatever they want onto. Cersei, Dontos, and the Hound all try to “teach” her something as they project all of their own fears, insecurities, and trauma onto her.

Dontos tells her to play the fool:

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

“Let them. You’re safer that way, sweetling. Queen Cersei and the Imp and Lord Varys and their like, they all watch each other keen as hawks, and pay this one and that one to spy out what the others are doing, but no one ever troubles themselves about Lady Tanda’s daughter, do they?”

Of course, Sansa already knows this. All the way back in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, Sansa thinks to herself that Moon Boy is smarter than he looks and is only pretending to be a fool so he can go wherever he likes; and Dontos confirms her suspicions when he reveals Moon Boy is a spy for Lord Varys.

It’s a consistent pattern that everyone around Sansa is constantly underestimating her; partly because of their own biases, and partly because Sansa is an almost entirely internal character, rarely letting people hear her honest thoughts. People assume she’s as hollow as the words they force her to say, but in reality she’s an introvert and a hostage.

The Hound also feels the need to impart some “lessons” onto Sansa:

Sandor Clegane snorted. “Pretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They’re all liars here . . . and every one better than you.”

Again, he’s assuming Sansa’s much dumber than she actually is. Sansa already knows that everyone in King’s Landing is a liar, and has sworn to herself never to trust them again.

The most valuable lessons Sansa gets are from Cersei during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Certain things are expected of a queen. They will be expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best learn.” The queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the benches. “Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection. If my wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits, how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.”

In this moment, even though she’s not doing a particularly good job actually doing it, Cersei articulates what’s really important about politics: optics. Her true motives for protecting the Ladies don’t matter as long as the Ladies believe that Cersei is doing it for the right reasons. That’s what monarchies are built upon. They’re a fragile house of cards constructed out of people’s belief.

That’s a lesson Sansa learns again when Joffrey sets her aside and takes Margaery as his bride. Sansa knows it’s going to happen, and is coached by Cersei how to react:

I must not smile, she reminded herself. The queen had warned her, no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed the world must look distraught. “I will not have my son humiliated,” Cersei said. “Do you hear me?”

But in front of the court, Joffrey carries on the charade, pretending Garlan’s offer of his sister’s hand is brand new information. Sansa watches from the sidelines and sees how people react; chanting and cheering to the theatre of it all. She gets to learn in real time how important it is to be performing your duties for the people. Other characters – most notably Jon Snow and Daenerys – can never quite figure that part of ruling out, and it has grave consequences.

I don’t mean performing in the negative sense. Of course, it can be used like that, like when the Tyrell’s intentionally starve King’s Landing so they can swoop in and make a big show of providing food. But it can also be used for good; it is an absolutely necessary aspect of ruling to let your people know what you’re doing for them. Jon in particular gets in trouble at the Wall because he doesn’t explain why he does things; he just does them and hopes people will trust him. Part of the courtly aspect of ruling is doing the work of showing your people how you’re helping them. That way you build trust with them, and they know you care for them. That’s what Sansa’s learning how to do.

Sansa’s also very good at the literal courtly aspect of politics; the time actually spent in court, sitting for hours and hours as the tedious day-to-day of ruling takes place. After the Battle of the Blackwater is over, Sansa has to sit in court for an entire day as soldiers are given their reward. She manages to stay focused the whole time, giving incredibly detailed accounts of each prize that’s awarded and each act of valor that caused it. She handles herself better than the grown men in the hall:

By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the hall was growing restive, and none more so than Joffrey. Some of those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away, but the notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the king’s leave.

Actual adults can’t even tolerate it, but Sansa manages just fine. This talent of hers is taken for granted by readers, but really stands out when you compare it to other characters. Sansa has the benefit of being raised to be a Lady, unlike a character like Daenerys who never had to sit through the training. Dany can’t make it through one day holding court in Meereen, and calls a lid early because she’s so bored – then stops holding court all together. Actually being a Queen is horribly bureaucratic, and that’s a skill that takes some practice to be able to perform.

Sansa’s ability to hold her own as a leader also really shines during the Battle of the Blackwater, when all hope seems lost and Cersei abandons the women in Maegar’s Holdfast:

“Oh, gods,” an old woman wailed. “We’re lost, the battle’s lost, she’s running.” Several children were crying. They can smell the fear. Sansa found herself alone on the dais. Should she stay here, or run after the queen and plead for her life?

She never knew why she got to her feet, but she did. “Don’t be afraid,” she told them loudly. “The queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place in the city. There’s thick walls, the moat, the spikes . . .”

“What’s happened?” demanded a woman she knew slightly, the wife of a lesser lordling. “What did Osney tell her? Is the king hurt, has the city fallen?”

“Tell us,” someone else shouted. One woman asked about her father, another her son.

Sansa raised her hands for quiet. “Joffrey’s come back to the castle. He’s not hurt. They’re still fighting, that’s all I know, they’re fighting bravely. The queen will be back soon.” The last was a lie, but she had to soothe them. She noticed the fools standing under the galley. “Moon Boy, make us laugh.”

Sansa has no reason to do this. Cersei has given Ser Ilyn orders to kill her if the castle falls, and all the women in the holdfast are older than she is. She’s the last person who should be capable of standing up to take charge, considering her age and her impending death by execution.

She knows she’s faced with a choice: try and save her own life, or stay and comfort the women in the holdfast. And she decides to stay.

True Knights

This book sees Sansa’s worldview start to deepen. She’s only a child when the series starts, and like most kids has a very simple understanding of the world; there’s good and bad people, and good and bad things that happen. Songs were the way Sansa gave that worldview structure. They taught her that the good things happened to the good people, and the bad things happened to the bad people. Westeros is fair, and only the good people could be put in charge to do good things. Kings, queens, and knights were all avatars of the inherent goodness of the world; people put in place specifically to protect others.

This worldview became unsustainable for Sansa after Ned’s death. Every single rule the songs taught her was violated by her father’s execution. In her last chapter of A Game of Thrones, we see Sansa turn to nihilism as a result; her father is dead, her prince is a monster, and the knights sworn to protect her are the ones beating her. She doesn’t believe in anything anymore, so much so that she just wants to die.

In A Clash of Kings, Sansa starts to grapple with the overwhelming cognitive dissonance. Ned’s death and Joffrey’s cruelty taught her how evil people can be; but she also knows how good they can be, because she grew up in Winterfell. For all of their shortcomings, Ned and Catelyn were loving parents who tried their best to do good, and raised their kids the same.

Sansa still believes in goodness, but sees that everyone around her fails to live up to it:

Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought. They are no true knights, not one of them.

Notice how she thinks They are no true knights. Sansa is surrounded by unimaginable cruelty, but she holds on to an undying sense of optimism. She knows that real knights don’t fight for the right, but that doesn’t stop her from continuing to believe in those ideals. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, when her belief in good was attached to specific people like Joffrey and Cersei, Sansa’s new worldview isn’t dependent on people to live up to. She believes in doing the right thing no matter what, even if the people around her let her down.

Sansa’s conception of beauty is the same way; in the first book, she assumed that beautiful people must also be good. But in A Clash of Kings, she reverses that order; people become either beautiful or ugly to her based on how good or bad they are. We view Joffrey through many POVs, and it is clear that by any standard that he is objectively attractive; yet Sansa now finds him ugly:

His plump pink lips always made him look pouty. Sansa had liked that once, but now it made her sick.

And she thinks this of the Hound:

The scars are not the worst part, not even the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger.

It’s not his physical appearance that scares her, it’s the anger in his eyes. That’s the part of him that’s ugly to her.

This evolution in Sansa’s understanding is never clearer than in her interactions with Dontos. The parts of his appearance that Sansa finds unattractive are his blotchy skin and broken veins, which are both symptoms of his constant drinking. It’s his drinking that bothers her:

“I prayed and prayed. Why would they send me a drunken old fool?”

. . .

This is madness, to trust myself to this drunkard

But Sansa manages to look beyond that as soon as Dontos invokes Florian the Fool. As much as Sansa understands that the songs aren’t true, the idea still appeal to her. When Dontos says he wants to make amends and become a true knight, in spirit if not name, Sansa treats him as if he actually were a knight:

“Rise, ser.”

. . .

Sansa took a step . . . then spun back, nervous, and softly laid a kiss on his cheek, her eyes closed. “My Florian,” she whispered. “The gods heard my prayer.”

Sansa’s growing understanding of the world around her also changes the way she thinks of class. To some extent in A Song of Ice and Fire, every single character is classist because they’re all rich people in an extremely hierarchical society. The entire structure of kings, lord paramounts, lords, knights, and peasants requires you to be classist; if you believe everyone in Westeros is equal, the entire structure of the society crumbles. While some of the POV characters like Jon and Davos make great strides in understanding how bankrupt the Westerosi class structure is, they’re still generally classist; it’s almost impossible not to be when you grow up in the culture they did. Davos grew up poor, but the indoctrination of classism has given him an almost religious fervor to follow Stannis as the “true” king.

Sansa especially had a very rigid understanding of class in A Game of Thrones; Arya making friends with the butcher’s boy was anathema to her. But the more that Sansa sees the people in power as the monsters they really are, the more sympathy she has for the people below her. In the sept praying before the Battle of the Blackwater, she holds hands with a washerwoman:

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 more Cersei and Joffrey try to isolate Sansa, the more they try to snuff out any feeling of goodness or loyalty she had, the more Sansa reaches out to connect with people. Everything bad that happens to her makes her feel more connected to the people of King’s Landing. She’s too young and privileged (class-wise) to have a fully functioning understanding of the true evils of hierarchy, but she fundamentally understands something most of the aristocracy do not: that the common people are people and should be treated with respect.

She knows the common people will suffer the most if Stannis breaches the city walls, and prays for theme:

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

Sansa gladly positions herself alongside the working people, not offended to be among them the way the Lannisters certainly are.

Sansa’s deepening worldview also gives her an incredibly complex relationship to the songs and stories she used to love. As I’ve already mentioned, she doesn’t disown them entirely; the high ideals of the songs are still very important to Sansa. The concept of a true knight, who would actually defend the defenseless, is the cornerstone of Sansa’s belief system, and she doesn’t need that person to actually be a knight – as long as they fulfill the moral obligation of being good. (Little does she know that very person is later tasked to find her.)

But now she knows that the stories lie. She understands their role as propaganda; when Arys Oakheart tries to say the peasants believe the comet heralds Joffrey’s reign, she doesn’t believe him:

“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey’s Comet.”

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure.

And she can’t even finish a sentence defending knights without realizing it isn’t true:

“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.

The words ring hollow in her ears because Sansa does know what happens when a city is sacked; earlier in a previous chapter, she thinks this:

The whole city was afraid. Sansa could see it from the castle walls. The smallfolk were hiding themselves behind closed shutters and barred doors as if that would keep them safe. The last time King’s Landing had fallen, the Lannisters looted and raped as they pleased and put hundreds to the sword, even though the city had opened its gates. This time the Imp meant to fight, and a city that fought could expect no mercy at all.

Cersei underestimates Sansa, assuming everything she knows is from a song, but here we see that Sansa knows that the songs don’t tell the whole story. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, she no longer holds them in complete reverence. The Sept used to represent everything beautiful about the songs to her:

Sansa had favored her mother’s gods over her father’s. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli.

It was the song’s come to life. But after Ned’s death, she hates it:

When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she’d thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. “I want it burned.”

She literally wants to set fire to the things that used to represent the songs.

But songs and stories are the foundation of Sansa’s world; even though she doesn’t believe in them the way she used to, they still shape her perception. She doesn’t want to let them go:

There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can’t be lies.

She still uses the template of songs and stories to interact with the world, but now with the understanding that the world is so much more complicated. Whereas before, the songs represented a sanitized version of war, Sansa begins to understand it in its entirety:

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.

Thinking about something through the lens of a song no longer represents a childish fantasy for Sansa. Her conception of them is no longer permanent; her view of the songs has changed to fit with her new reality, but it’s still a comforting way for her to make sense of the world around her.

She even incorporates her love of the songs into her political manipulations:

"You're lying," Joffrey said. "I ought to drown you with him, if you care for him so much."

"I don't care for him, Your Grace." The words tumbled out desperately. "Drown him or have his head off, only . . . kill him on the morrow, if you like, but please . . . not today, not on your name day. I couldn't bear for you to have ill luck . . . terrible luck, even for kings, the singers all say so . . ."

Her use of the songs nearly saves her life here. Joffrey doesn’t know enough to be sure that she’s lying, so once the Hound corroborates her story, he has to believe it’s true.

Sansa’s attachment to the stories is integral to her character, and GRRM does a tremendous job of making it important to the arc she starts in this book, which is her continued journey from pawn to player in the Game of Thrones. Sansa’s perspective as a political actor is entirely unique from anyone else for many reasons, and one of those is her connection to the ideal version of Westeros that lives in the songs. Even as Sansa realizes the songs are lies and that the world is so much darker than she thought, she never gives up on the hope that it could be good. Her unwavering optimism for the world, in the face of so much trauma, means that she will never stop trying to make the world better.

Flowering

Throughout her time in King’s Landing, Sansa’s experiences with sexuality are inextricably linked to violence. The way Joffrey physically abuses her comes with a nasty undercurrent of sexual violence. The total control he exerts over her means she has to let him do what he wants:

The king settled back in his seat and took Sansa's hand. His touch filled her with revulsion now, but she knew better than to show it. She made herself sit very still.

The subtext of that scene is drawn to the forefront when Joffrey has Sansa beaten after Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like her pretty.”

. . .

“Boros, make her naked.”

Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel.

This is one of Sansa’s first experiences with sexuality, and it is nonconsensual and done specifically to humiliate her.

The relationship between sex and violence is never clearer than at the start of the Blackwater:

"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

Joffrey is asking Sansa to kiss his sword; the metaphor here is not exactly subtle. To Joffrey, sex and violence are one in the same; having power over someone, hurting someone, turns him on as much as physical attraction. And as his betrothed, Sansa is on the receiving end of his sexually charged violence.

Unlike Joffrey, Sansa’s not turned on by violence, seeing it and sexuality as two separates things. And she would rather suffer through the violence, thinking to herself she would rather kiss the sword than kiss Joffrey. Her experiences with being found attractive to someone have all been so traumatic that actual violence scares her less.

Arguably the most traumatic experience she has is during the bread riot:

Sansa dug her nails into her hand. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every day. Nightmares of the day Princess Myrcella had sailed still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side. They had torn the High Septon to pieces and smashed in Ser Aron's head with a rock. Try not to be afraid! he said.

In the nightmares she has of that day, she dreams of being murdered; a knife cutting through her stomach until she’s left in bloody ribbons. It’s not hard to see the violent sexual imagery in that description. Sansa knows what those men planned on doing to her, and the memory haunts her. It’s no coincidence that she wakes from those nightmares to her first period:

“No, please,” Sansa whimpered, “please, no.” She didn’t want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now.

The way GRRM writes her reaction is so visceral. As tears streams down her cheeks, she tries to wash herself, cuts apart her sheets, burns them, and tries to drag her entire bed into the flames as well. And the whole time she does this, she keeps thinking They’ll know or What will I tell them? or I have to burn them. She’s so completely and utterly terrified that anyone could ever know, she’s hardly even thinking. It’s just sheer, overwhelming panic.

This line in particular stands out:

The bedclothes were burnt, but by the time they carried her off her thighs were bloody again. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see.

Down to jewelry she wears and the way she styles her hair, Sansa’s body belongs to Joffrey. Her job in King’s Landing is to look pretty for him in the hopes that it will save her from his wrath. Her body exists solely to please him. She’s literally stripped of her own agency and control.

Flowering is the last straw for Sansa because it means she can be tied forever to Joffrey through marriage, and he’ll be free to rape her and force her to have his children. And there’s nothing Sansa can do to stop it. Her own body has betrayed her by merely existing.

Sansa’s period is again equated to physical violence during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“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.”

Then a second time, Cersei compares sex to violence:

“You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it.”

Through Cersei’s eyes, we get the clearest summary of the point GRRM is trying to make. Existing as a woman in Westeros is inherently oppressive to the point of smothering the life out of her. Where the men are given swords, women are given marriage and childbirth; but the latter is no less violent than the former. In Cersei’s words:

“We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood.”

“But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa said.

“When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after all.”

In many ways, Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is centered around this idea; the violence of femininity in Westeros. Being a child isn’t enough to spare Sansa the horrors. The whole reason she’s trapped in King’s Landing to begin with is because of her body; the Lannisters want to use her like property – a broodmare to sire them sons to inherit Winterfell.

It’s no surprise the climax of Sansa’s chapters in A Clash of Kings pushes this concept to its furthest bounds . . .

Ser Dontos and The Hound

Throughout Sansa’s chapters in King’s Landing, GRRM is deconstructing the trope of the Princess in the Tower. Sansa more than any other character is aware that her life takes place within a story, and she prays to the gods to send her a hero to save from the Red Keep. GRRM had already subverted the idea of a charming Prince with Joffrey in the first book, so A Clash of Kings subverts the trope of a knight coming to save her. That’s why her two protectors in King’s Landing are Dontos and Sandor Clegane – two men who aren’t quite knights.

For most of the book, the narrative treats Dontos and Sandor as foils. The story of why either one is not a knight puts them on two opposite ends of a spectrum. Dontos has his knighthood taken away from him because he’s too soft. He would rather drink and let people laugh at him than fight with a sword, which is why Joffrey makes him a fool. On the other hand, the Hound likes killing too much to be a knight:

“Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers.” Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. “So long as I have this,” he said, lifting the sword from her throat, “there’s no man on earth I need fear.”

This dichotomy between them is made clearer in the way Sansa has to escape their advances. Around Dontos, she’s dodging kisses:

"Give your Florian a little kiss now. A kiss for luck." He swayed toward her.

Sansa dodged the wet groping lips, kissed him lightly on an unshaven cheek, and bid him good night. It took all her strength not to weep.

But it’s a steel kiss she has to dodge from the Hound:

He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel.

The idea of Dontos and Sandor as opposites is driven home further by their different approaches to Sansa’s love of stories; Dontos uses it to win Sansa’s trust:

“I think I may find it in me to be a knight again, sweet lady. And all because of you . . . your grace, your courage. You saved me, not only from Joffrey, but from myself." His voice dropped. "The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all . . ."

"Florian," Sansa whispered. A shiver went through her.

"Sweet lady, I would be your Florian," Dontos said humbly, falling to his knees before her.

The Hound uses it to berate and belittle her:

“There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.”

Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.”

“I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”

But underneath the superficial differences, Dontos and the Hound have the exact same relationship to Sansa. When Joffrey is having her beat after Robb’s victory at Oxcross, both make efforts to help her – Dontos volunteering to hit her with a melon instead of a sword, and the Hound telling Joffrey “enough” – but stop short of doing anything that would put themselves in danger. They both make advances on Sansa against her will – Dontos with kisses and the Hound with knives, but the overt sexual nature of both cannot be denied. They both position themselves to Sansa as a sort of mentor figure, telling her how to act and what to believe, with the implicit (and often explicit) message that she’s not smart enough to think for herself and it would really be in her best interest if she just trusted them instead. Both men position themselves as Sansa’s “protector”, but they never protect her from much of anything; in the few moments they’re actually given the opportunity, like during the Battle of the Blackwater, they both panic and leave her to fend for herself.

What really connects the two men is how they use Sansa. To them, she’s the paragon of youth and innocence; the way she believes in the stories reminds them both of what they used to be like before the world beat them down. Sandor was a boy who played with toy knights before Gregor burned his face, and Dontos was saved as a child by the knight of knights Barristan Selmy.  While they’ve both grown jaded, Sansa brings out the parts of them that still believe in the stories. That’s clear from the way Dontos reacts to the Lannisters winning the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Oh! the banners, darling Sansa! Oh! to be a knight!”

And even though the Hound claims to hate the stories, it’s a song he wants from Sansa:

“Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids.”

Sansa as the princess in a tower appeals to the fantasy of both men to be her hero.

But this is a subversion of that trope, not a straight retelling. Particularly in regards to Sandor, GRRM really deconstructs the destructive nature of this male fantasy. Before Sandor asks Sansa to sing him a song, he comments on her body:

“You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you’re taller too, almost . . .”

Sandor wanting to play the knight with Sansa is always tied to his sexual attraction to her; in every single instance, GRRM always ties them together. There is never one without the other. It should go without saying that this is not good; Sansa is barely twelve, and hasn’t even had her first period when Sandor’s sexual advances start. She is a child. In Maegar’s Holdfast, she’s shocked that men would view her sexually:

“Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.”

“Me?”

“Try not to sound so like a mouse, Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember?”

This passage also very clearly draws the connection between Sandor’s relationship to Sansa and violence. Cersei explains to Sansa the way battle makes men into monsters around women, and then the next chapter Sandor appears in Sansa’s bedroom with a knife. This is not meant to be a romantic scene, or else GRRM would not have framed it with threats of rape and violence.

This is further re-enforced by the song Sansa sings to Sandor. When he holds the knife to her neck, he demands she sing the song of Florian and Jonquil:

He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

But Sansa can’t remember the words, and instead sings the Mother’s Mercy hymn:

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, sooth the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

It is incredibly symbolic that the Hound demands Sansa sing him a song of romance, but she physically can’t; the only song she can remember the words to is one of forgiveness.

So much of Sansa’s narrative in A Clash of Kings is people demanding things that she can’t give them. Joffrey wants her loyalty, Cersei wants her words, Tyrion wants her trust, and Dontos and Sandor want her love. Everyone is pulling her in different directions, and her entire personality starts to crumble under the pressure; there’s no way she can give all of these people everything they want. Something has to give.

And when Sansa can no longer play her role, when the fear of dying is too visceral for her to wear her courtesy like an armor, the one thing Sansa can still give Sandor is her mercy. . .

Radical Empathy

The running thread that connects all of the themes in Sansa’s chapters is her being trapped. Physically through Joffrey’s abuse, emotionally through Joffrey, Cersei, Dontos, and Sandor, and even by herself mentally as she begins to internalize the abuse. Everything about the Red Keep is meant to turn Sansa cruel and self-interested, just like everybody else; even if they aren’t intentionally cruel like Joffrey, they’re okay with Sansa being hurt because that’s just how life is, like Cersei. Or Dontos and the Hound, who don’t intend to hurt Sansa but do because they’re too caught up in their own narrative to acknowledge her humanity. Even Arys Oakheart, who really doesn’t want to hurt her, but is too afraid to say no and defy the class structure of Westeros.

That makes Sansa’s defiance through empathy stand out in such radical contrast. The kindness Sansa shows everyone, even those who hurt her, is how GRRM brings the songs to life. Sansa doesn’t love those stories because she’s silly and naïve; she loves them because they justify her belief in the inherent goodness of being kind.

Empathy and kindness are Sansa’s defining character traits, and that’s why her arc in A Clash of Kings opens with her saving Dontos’ life:

Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”

Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court? She hadn’t meant to say anything, only . . . Ser Dontos was drunk and silly and useless, but he meant no harm.

Even though just moments earlier she had noted Joffrey’s mood was turning dark:

The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.

The way Sansa stands up for Dontos is particularly notable because he had the chance to do the same for her in A Game of Thrones, but chose not to:

Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when funny drunken Ser Dontos started to hail her, Ser Balon Swann whispered in his ear and he turned away.

- Sansa V

Dontos wouldn’t even risk treating Sansa with basic courtesy, yet she risked her live to save his.

And that’s not the only time Sansa stands up to Joffrey to save someone:

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag.

- Tyrion IX

The only other character we ever see move to actually stand up to Joffrey is Tyrion, who is also the only person in court who doesn’t have to be afraid of Joffrey’s retaliation. Everyone else sits by day after day and watches as Joffrey abuses Sansa and says nothing; or worse, they actively participate. But whenever Sansa sees Joffrey hurting someone, she risks herself to make him stop.

Sansa also uses her kindness to give herself courage:

Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage. “You should go with her,” she told the king. “Your brother might be hurt.”

Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is?”

“You should help him up and tell him how well he rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.

She’s too afraid to speak back at Joffrey when he’s abusing her, but as soon as she sees him mistreat Tommen, she finds the courage to stand up for others.

Kindness is almost an involuntary reflex for Sansa:

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

Lancel Lannister, who stood by and egged the crowd on as Sansa was stripped and beaten after the Battle at Oxcross. She has every reason not to help him; she knows if she stays in that room, with the battle all but lost, Ser Ilyn is going to kill her solely because of the Lannisters’ spite. She has no reason to stay and help Lancel. But she can’t stop herself.

The moment where Sansa’s kindness stands out the most, though, is when the Hound comes to her room during Blackwater:

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps.

I think reading this passage out of context is what allows certain fans to paint this scene in a romantic light. The softness of Sansa reaching out to touch Sandor is an indelible moment. But it does the moment a disservice to read it that way. This scene is so well written because of what comes before it:

“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. “Still can’t bear to look, can you?” he heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

Afraid for her life, Sansa closes her eyes. But Sandor is too bitter, jaded, and wrapped up in his own self to realize that’s why she closes her eyes; he thinks it’s because she still can’t look at the burned ruin of his face. He came to her room with kindness the furthest thing from his mind; the flames dancing on the Blackwater Rush made him scared like a wild animal, and he’s come here to get something from Sansa – whether she wants to give it or no.

(And while certain people are interested in carrying a lot of water to redeem this character, GRRM has really left no ambiguity in Sandor’s intentions. The passage He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed, taken in tandem with his confession to Arya, I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf, make it very clear that Sandor intended to rape Sansa. That is not up for debate.)

Sansa singing the Mother’s Mercy hymn is the last thing Sandor expected. The idea that in this moment, as Sandor becomes all of the worst things he’s ever believed about himself, about to do one of the most monstrous acts a person can do – that in that moment, Sansa could still show him mercy, is enough to stop him. He can no longer pretend that all the songs are lies and that everyone is only pretending to be good, because in this moment Sansa is still somehow capable of showing him kindness. 

Sansa’s ability to have empathy for seemingly irredeemable characters is not limited to Sandor (though certain shippers would like to pretend that’s some unique characteristic of their relationship, it most certainly is not). The dynamic between Sansa and Cersei is so rich because of Sansa’s inability to hate her, even though Cersei is responsible for pretty much every bad thing in Sansa’s life.

The Sansa and Cersei dynamic is one of the narrative’s most dynamic and complex, as Cersei represents a dark mirror of Sansa. Both were in love with the idea of becoming Queen as children, but arrived in King’s Landing to find their Prince is not who they thought he would be – Cersei both literally and figuratively, as she realizes she’s not to marry Rhaegar Targaryen but instead Robert Baratheon. They’re both subjected to emotional and physical abuse by the King for things that aren’t their fault – Robert hates Cersei because she isn’t Lyanna, and Joffrey hates Sansa because of his fight with Arya on the Trident.

But Cersei’s Lannister upbringing and life have made her cruel in all the ways Sansa is kind. She can see the parallels between herself and Sansa, but instead of reacting with empathy, she uses it to justify her cruelty:

“You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation. I did.”

Being afraid of the men in her life has taught Cersei that’s the correct way to wield power:

“Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.”

But Sansa reacts the opposite way:

“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

This line has become the definitive statement of Sansa’s character because it so wholly embodies her ethos. Cruelty is not in her nature, and her instinct is always to show kindness. It also ties a direct connection to her own personal experiences shaping how she wants to be as Queen:

“Fear is better than love, Mother says.” Joffrey pointed at Sansa. “She fears me.”

Sansa knows what it feels like to be afraid, and she never wants anyone else to ever feel like that. Where the cruelty Cersei suffered taught her it was normal and good to rule that way, Sansa learns what it feels like to be at someone else’s mercy. If she ever has control over someone, which she will in books to come, she’s learned to always be kind because she knows what it feels like when someone isn’t.

All of her chapters in A Clash of Kings are full of moments that show how much Sansa values kindness. While I’ve already highlighted the life or death examples, she also shines in the small moments, like when she encourages Tommen before he faces the quintain at Joffrey’s name day tourney. And she comforts him when Myrcella leaves for Dorne:

Prince Tommen sobbed. "You mew like a suckling babe," his brother hissed at him. "Princes aren't supposed to cry."

"Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon," Sansa Stark said, "and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound."

- Tyrion IX

She tries to comfort Lollys Stokeworth across the bridge to Maegar’s Holdfast:

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.”

Her prayer in the Sept before the battle starts shows just how much she cares for everyone:

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.

There’s only one person in the whole of Westeros Sansa won’t extend her empathy to:

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.

This line feels especially important. A lesson that’s drilled into Sansa time and time again by Cersei and Sandor is that her kindness makes her weak. It was used against her in A Game of Thrones, where her trust in Cersei and Joffrey left her completely vulnerable to Ned’s death. But this passage shows that it is not weakness that makes Sansa kind - it’s strength. For a character as kind as she is, and subjected to so much abuse, it would be easy to see her narrative as someone repeatedly letting herself be run over. By including this line, showing that Sansa’s empathy is a choice she makes – and making it clear that she chooses not to have it for Joffrey – it shows that Sansa still has control over herself, and will set boundaries. 

Instead of using her experiences in a negative way like Cersei, Sansa learns to carefully apply the lessons of her life; she won’t let abuse stop her from being kind, but she knows when to stop herself from trusting someone again.

Because Sansa’s kindness and optimism are the most important aspects of her character, her arc in A Clash of Kings ends there. Joffrey setting her aside in favor of Margaery is an emotional rollercoaster for Sansa:

Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. “Why so sadface?” Sansa asked him gaily. “You were there, you heard. Joff put me aside, he’s done with me, he’s . . .”

He took her hand. “Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do not understand. Done with you? They’ve scarcely begun.”

Her heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons.”

Throughout A Song of Ice and Fire, the narrative is constantly testing Sansa’s commitment to her ideals. Everything she knows is constantly turned on its head, going from a dream to a nightmare. The momentary joy she feels knowing she doesn’t have to marry Joffrey is only allowed for a second, until it collides with Dontos’ harsh reality.

But instead of ending there, the narrative takes a page out of Sansa’s book and leaves on a vision of hope for the future:

It was a hair net of fine spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. “What stones are these?”

“Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight.”

“It’s very lovely,” Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.

“Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It’s magic, you see. It’s justice you hold. It’s vengeance for your father.” Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. “It’s home.”

[whump-a-la-mode]

more comfort for magician assistant villain please? continuation of that one

Yeah! Of course. Thank you so much!

There’s comfort here just. You gotta squint. Also a dog so its comfort for you guys.

Continuation from here.

CW//Nightmare sequence, scopophobia, stagefright, dehumanization, pet whump, compared to an animal, trauma (soooo much trauma), regretting escape, positive thoughts towards whumper

The laughter of the audience cracked the air like thunder-- shaking the very oxygen with its cacophonous uproar.

Usually, Villain did not join in with the din of the audience, but now, they had no choice. The screams falling from their mouth were not of their own control.

At the very least, their terror made them feel as though there was no control to be had over their own desperate howling. Nor was there any control they could manifest over the quaking shivers that rippled through their body like a disturbed lake’s surface.

No. They had no control, no control at all. Because they were in their kennel.

Hero had found out. Villain knew not how, but they had found out. They knew the terror that the tiny steel box struck through them-- and they found it to be nothing but positively hilarious.

“We’ll just have to abandon our old act.” They’d smirked. “We have something much more entertaining, now.”

A new act. Being wheeled onto the stage in a covered crate, presented like a meal to be feasted upon. And, when the cover was torn away, the laughter began.

Their mitted hands slammed in desperation against the bars, but they did not so much as budge. The solid steel construction was as sturdy as it was minuscule. There was no room to turn around, hardly room to breathe. They couldn’t hide from the thousands of staring eyes, the blaring lights, the screams and the uproar. Even as they shrieked themself, pleaded, pleaded for their kennel to be covered once more, their words were treated as only the comedy act’s cherry on top.

And, beside the cage, Hero drank in the glory. They were speaking, words sizzling through the air as lightning strikes and eclairs, but their words were nothing but noise to their captive.

Because dogs did not speak.

They wanted so desperately to leave, to hide, to curl up in the corner of their cell and sob until the world fell away. But there was no cell. There never had been.

There was nothing. Nothing beyond the stage.

��Come here, buddy. Good boy, c’mere.”

Villain head swiveled on its axis, though the tight confines tried to prevent even as a movement so small. The noise, where was it coming from? It wasn’t Hero’s voice. And how could they be expected to come when they were kenneled?

Were they planning to punish them for failing an impossible task?

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Good dog! Good dog.”

The words made Villain’s mouth grow dry, tongue sticking to the roof of it. Good dog, good dog, good dog...

“Good boy, Hydro!”

At once, the stage lights blinked out. The audience’s shouts too disappeared, though they clung on in the form of ringing in Villain’s ears.

They could breathe. The kennel was letting them breathe.

They couldn’t feel its walls. Where was the kennel? Where was the stage? Where were they?

A single blink, and the world of the show fell away, replaced by hues of blue and off-white, and the feeling of fleece on their skin.

Where were they? Their vision at last agreed to refocus, though it showed them little more than the remnants of a repaired popcorn ceiling. In an instant, however, that too was blocked out by the shadow of a human figure.

“Oh- Good morning. I didn’t realize you’d be waking up quite so soon.”

It wasn’t Hero. Hero would never say good morning. Not to a dog.

“Wh....” They managed, though the scratchiness of their throat made the noise come out as more of a grovel.

“Hey, hun, they’re waking up.”

“Oh, okay.”

With the trodding of footsteps, the owner of the second voice soon emerged. That voice was familiar, somehow, though it did not make them shake like the voices of most of the heroes did.

Villain blinked, once, then twice, until the figures above them became solid. Two people. Two strangers. Neither wore uniforms of any sort, nor any insignias. Not even nametags...

“It’s good to see you awake again.” The second stranger spoke, tone soft.

“How are you feeling?”

Who in the world were these people? They certainly weren’t heroes.

“Mmm... hurts.”

“You got thrown through a river for, like, two miles.” The first stranger commented. “I’m not surprised that it hurts. I have no idea how you didn’t drown.”

A river. The river. The fence. They’d fallen off, because of the gas, and-

Villain jolted upright, only then noticing that they had been lying down at all. Their head spun, but willpower kept them conscious.

A living room. A house, complete with DIY wall decor and an honest mess. It was small. Cozy.

Civilian.

And-

Bark!

The noise made them jump halfway out of their own skin, gaze swiveling to the source.

A dog, in the middle of the room. A real dog, fur and lolling tongue and all. Some kind of retriever, they thought, pelt woven with hues of cream and gold.

“Now, you are going to show me just how well you can obey-- or I will have your stay here extended until, when I take out that gag, you bark. Got that?”

A shiver tore through Villain’s spine.

“I guess we should probably introduce ourselves.” The second stranger began, casting a glance back at the golden-furred animal. “Um, this is our place, by the way.”

“Oh.” Villain murmured, struggling to focus their gaze on the person speaking.

“My name’s Spouse.”

“I’m, um-”

The two figures shared a glance.

“You can call me Civilian. It’s nice to meet you, even though I’m sure this is... a little weird.”

“Mmm.” Villain struggled to hum in agreement. “Where...”

“Well,” Spouse began. “I was just out walking Hydro, that’s the dog, and I kinda found you on the river bank? I don’t know if  you remember that. Anyways, you said not to call emergency services, and I didn’t know what to do, so...”

“I’m a doctor. Kind of. I’m a resident. So we figured we could try to help.” Civilian added. “It’s not a lot, but... You’re alive.”

“Yea....”

“Spouse?” The figure looked to their partner. “I think Hydro is scaring them. Could you take him outside a sec?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” The other nodded, moving to another part of the building. With a click of their tongue, the animal followed them, tags dangling from its-

Collar.

"Good. Now, good dogs don't need to be dragged. Heel."

Villain’s hand jolted to their neck, feeling the cold of their mitts directly on their skin.

Their collar was gone.

But the mitts...

“I didn’t know if you wanted those off or not.” Civilian spoke, now that their partner had left. “Do you?”

Their gaze cast downwards. The leather was torn and pockmarked, now, but still holding up. Still restraining...

Villain scanned the room.

In the corner, a wire kennel sat. Larger than their own, with its base laden with blankets and plush toys. In another room, its floor made of tile, a pair of bowls sat. Near the couch, a hair-covered dog bed lay.

There was a dog here, too. But it behaved.

And, for that, it was adored.

A shiver ran through them, once more. But this one did not originate from fear.

They’d run from their owner. Their owner who cared about them!

Oh, god. They’d made a terrible mistake. And, why was their head so foggy?

“No. Um, they can... they can stay on.”

“Okay.” Civilian shrugged. “You sound like crap- no offense. Um, I think I’m gonna go grab some water. You want some water?”

“Please.”

“Alright. Just hold still for me, okay?”

“‘K.”

Yet, despite their promise of remaining in place, they could not manage it-- their bones were made of lead, and their head somehow wrought of something even heavier.  Like a stone to a river, they fell back onto the couch, feeling as though they were melting into the plush.

But unconsciousness did not claim them. Not immediately.

Before it did, they heard the words of Civilian, as they moved towards the kitchen:

“Damn, I wish Hero would stop using those gas guns.”

[whumpcollector]

Lucas pt.1: The Carnival

This is the first piece of writing I’ve put out for others to read, so please tell me what you think! Also if this post seems familiar I posted it on a sideblog I had meant to be a main blog, this blog, so I’m reposting it here. Sorry if you’re seeing this for the second time.

Thanks to @haro-whumps for beta-ing

Content Warnings: Blood, torture, whipping, magical backlash, dehumanization, forced to perform, burns, painful healing. Not really sure how to do content warnings so if I missed something or you want something added please let me know.

--

The carnival grounds were bustling with excitement as numerous people meandered about from attraction to attraction. Stalls peddling food and trinkets were dotted about, with various entertainers filling any empty space. Sword swallowers and jesters wooed crowds with dazzling acts while bards sang songs of old glories and heroes to enthralled bystanders. Food, drink, and merriment alike flowed freely all across the carnival. At the center of it all was a stage, where the biggest and best acts were to be performed. Getting on to the center stage was expensive, but the potential reward was worth it. Impress the hundreds of people that were watching, and you’d be thrown enough coin to bury a horse. The center stage of the carnival is where dreams and money are made, and where failure is not an option.

    Lucas knew that failure wasn’t an option. That had been drilled into his head for years. He needed to impress the crowd, or there would be harsh consequences. On paper that should be easy enough, he was a mage. Odds were that only five other people on the continent knew how to do magic, and none of them would be near a small rural village like the one the carnival was held at. As long as he didn’t screw anything up he would be the crowning jewel of every act on the main stage. Unfortunately Lucas was very good at screwing things up. It was all he was good at if his masters were to be believed.

    He looked down at the manacles binding his wrists together, rubbing them absentmindedly. They were heavy hunks of iron that chafed and tore his skin when he moved his arms. They were also enchanted, numerous warding runes had been etched into them to prevent those wearing them to perform any magic whatsoever. An expensive process, but one that Lucas’ masters believed to be necessary. He wore them all the time, only ever being freed when he needed to perform. That time was coming soon, and we didn’t know if he was excited or not. If he did well it would mean hot meals, a few days rest, maybe even some fresh clothes. If he screwed something up it would mean punishment, a lot of it. 

    “Hey rat! It's time, get your ass over here.” The rough voice of master Devran called out from the other side of the room. 

Devvran was the one that spent the most time with Lucas. He was responsible for getting him ready for any shows and making sure he didn't keel over during the journeys between cities. He also hated Lucas’ existence and took every opportunity he had to make him miserable. 

“I’m not going to ask again, rat! Get over here!”

Lucas obeyed, walking over to the larger man and presenting his wrists. Devran took the key from his belt and unlocked the manacles. They fell to the floor with a loud thunk, nearly crushing Lucas's feet. Jumping back a bit he took a moment to rub his now free wrists. He could already feel the magic flowing back through his body. It was an odd feeling, not a good one, but not necessarily painful. No, the pain would come later when he actually tried to use it. 

The crowd outside was beginning to gather, and Lucas took a moment to peak outside the curtains dividing the main stage from the preparation area. There were almost a hundred of them, with more gathering on the peripheries. It was one of the bigger crowds Lucas had seen lately. Bigger crowds meant a bigger payout, or a bigger potential mob if things went wrong. All sorts were gathered around the stage. Men, women, children, farmhands, guards, even the odd merchant or two. All of them were expecting a good show, and even though he was well hidden from their sight Lucas could feel their eyes boring into him. The unintelligible din of the crowd was roaring in his ears like a thunderclap, and his grip on the curtain tightened as he closed his eyes and tried to push down his growing panic. 

A hard backhand slap to the side of his head broke through his mental haze. Stumbling back a few steps Lucas shook the stars from his eyes and saw Master Harold looking down at him, annoyed. Haold was the showmaster, and while he didn’t hate Lucas as much as Devran did he still looked at the boy with open distaste.

“Stop daydreaming boy!” his voice came out hard like cold steel and Lucas had to force himself not to flinch away. That always angered Master Harold for some reason. “I’m ‘bout to go introduce your act, so get your head together and be ready. I expect a good show or else…” He grabbed Lucas by the collar of his shirt and lifted him up a few inches off the ground so their eyes met. “Or else you’ll be hobbling to our next stop on broken feet. Ye got that?”

Lucas didn’t bother responding, simply offering a small nod of confirmation. Harold sneered and dropped him to the floor before turning away and facing the curtain. He sighed softly, as if readying himself, before almost jumping through the curtain on to the main stage. He marked his entrance with a flourish, a wide stage smile plastered on his face as he looked towards the excited crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen it is a pleasure to see so many good people here to see my show today. I promise you that what you’ll experience today will stay with you for the rest of your life!”

Lucas had heard this spiel more times than he could count. Had he been a bit braver he would almost be tempted to mock Harold’s manufactured words behind the curtain. Still, he needed to pay attention. The important part of the opening was coming up soon. 

“Today my friends I offer you a display of wonder and magic. And no, I don’t mean that metaphorically. You see fine people today I will bring before you a genuine, honest to gods mage! And you will get to witness first hand nothing short of breathing acts of true magic!”

There it was. Once Lucas heard the word mage from Harold's lips his eyes began to scan the crowd. What he saw made his heart sink into his stomach. Looks of surprise and curiosity were found throughout the people, but they were far outnumbered by the looks of anger, fear, and disgust. Lucas held in a whimper. Great, this was one of those towns that hated mages and the magic they brought. These crowds were always the worst, near impossible to please and liable to try and stone or beat him after the show was done. He would need to be nothing short of perfect, and the thought alone was almost enough to make him crumple to the floor.

“Now now ladies and gentlemen I assure you that this mage is entirely under control. There is no danger of any of you getting hurt, I promise.” Harold punctuated that by placing his hand on his heart and dramatically looking to the sky. “Now I’ve kept you all waiting long enough. Behold! The magnificent mage Lucas!”

Right on cue Lucas left the safety of the back stage and walked into view. He offered a small nervous smile and a shaky wave to the crowd, trying to in some way endear himself to them. It wasn’t working, almost everyone in the crowd glared at him with suspicion or contempt. One rather intoxicated looking man towards the front of the crowd looked like he was ready to jump on stage and pummel Lucas to death at the drop of a hat. The mage tried to push it out of his mind and keep up even a flimsy illusion of confidence, but he could already feel his heart racing and sweat bead down his forehead. 

“Now I know he may not look like much,” Harold started, grabbing Lucas’ shoulder and pulling him to the center of the stage. “But trust me when I say that what this scrawny little kid can do will do nothing short of amaze you. Go ahead show them what you can do.” He ended his introduction by gesturing towards Lucas, a very clear threat in his eyes promising what would come if Lucas were to fail.

The mage took a moment to ready himself, before he began to channel the magic in his body towards his fingertips. The energy burned like fire in his veins, the only intensifying as he pushed it out into his palms. After a few moments a fireball the size of a small cannonball was floating just above his hands, the heat charring Lucas’ skin as he held it up to the crowd. Some members of the audience were impressed, letting out soft oohs and awes at the magical fire. The rest were eyeing it and Lucas warily ,as if waiting for him to chuck it into the crowd. After taking another moment to prepare Lucas willed the fireball to ascend slightly into the air before moving it around in a simple oval pattern. As he began to gain momentum the pattern became more and more complex, as Lucas moved the fireball in spirals and figure-eights through the air before making it zip back the other way like a shooting star. Each movement made his arms burn like they were being branded, and the increased focus required to sustain the ball’s movements at longer distances led to his head feeling like it was being crushed between two large boulders. Despite the pain Lucas pushed forward, forcing himself to not lose focus on the fireball or slow down his performance.

As he continued to make the fireball dances through the air more and more of the crowd began to get into his performance. Small cheers popped up from time to time and many of the children in the crowd laughed giddily at the fire’s movements. Through the tears building in his eyes Lucas could see the crowd come around, and he was filled with a newfound vigor. He was winning them over, he could do this! Inspired at the prospect of a good show and the following rewards the mage put the pain to the back of his mind and focused on his magic. He funneled more magic into his hands, splitting the fireball into two and having them dance around each other. As he continued to manipulate the magical orbs Lucas saw the skin on his fingers begin to split, the magic being funneled into them pushing his body past its limit. Gritting his teeth Lucas ended the display by having both of the fireballs spiral around each other into the air before exploding, safely above the crowd, into a wave of magical sparks. The crowd cheered loudly at the spectacle, their fears surrounding magic being overcome by the wonder of the performance.

Lucas wished he could share their jubilence. His arms and hands were burning from his exertion. The pathways the magic took through his body left red streaks from his neck all the way to his fingertips that stung when he moved. His vision swam and pain shot through his head at short intervals due to the mental strain the magic required. Still, Lucas wasn’t allowed to stop yet. After a few seconds rast the crowd began to all out for more, and Lucas saw Harold gesture with his head to continue. Taking a deep breath he stood back up straight before once again channeling his magic

The pain returned immediately as the already tender magical pathways were flooded with energy. Lucas gasped, his vision blurred and he could feel blood flowing from the gashes on his fingers. Shaking his head to clear his vision he began to focus the energy in his hands. Now instead of a fireball he created small bolts of lighting that arced from fingertip to fingertip, shocking him harshly every time. Pushing his hands together Lucas forced the various arcs of lighting to merge, creating a sort of bridge that grew as he pulled his hands apart again. Fighting the muscle spasms that came with the electricity Lucas began to move around the stage, weaving the lighting around him like a dancer would a sash. Each step was a trial as his legs began to feel like lead, and he hoped that the crowd either didn’t notice the smell of burning flesh or weren’t bothered by it. 

He continued to dance around the stage, snaking the lighting around his body before lashing it outwards like a bullship and coiling it back around himself. The crowd were enraptured, with some even chanting his name and others trying to physically follow him as he moved across the stage. Having reached his limits Lucas ended the dance by breaking the lighting into two streams again before jumping into the air. As he jumped he spun around, the two trails of lighting spinning around him like ribbons. As he landed he pushed his arms outwards before unleashing the lighting in his hands. The bolts shot outwards, zig-zagging through the air briefly before dissipating with a crack. After he had finished his dance Lucas immediately dropped to his hands and knees, his entire body in agony and his vision going black. Still, he could hear the crowd cheering and he took solace in the fact that it was all over and he had earned himself a few days of genuine rest. 

“Did you like that ladies and gentlemen?” Harold cried out to the crowd. His question was met with applause and cheers. “Well hold on because we’re not done just yet!”

What? No! Lucas began to panic. What did he mean? Hadn’t he done enough? Surely Harold didn’t mean...oh gods no. Lucas looked up at the man, pleading with his now tear filled eyes. He couldn’t handle anymore. The crowd was happy, he would make his money, please just let it be over. All Lucas was met with was a cold expectant stare. They both knew what Lucas needed to do, and Harold wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Lucas let out a small sob before once again standing up. He was hunched over, his body close to giving out entirely, but he still had work to do. Once again he channeled the magical energy in his body towards his fingertips, his veins boiling and skin blistering as he did so. The magic pooled in his fingers once more, and Lucas could feel one of his finger’s break from the strain. Letting out a scream of pain, exertion, and determination he pushed the magic outwards into the air. A giant pillar of fire shot out from his hands, making the people in the front of the crowd jump back as the intense heat reached their faces. Slowly, excruciatingly, Lucas manipulated the fire, willing it to take shape. The pillar morphed, first into another ball, then into a rough indiscernible shape. Eyes watering and mouth bleeding Lucas put all his energy into manipulating the magic. With a burst of light the magical fire became a rough but recognizable approximation of a phoenix. 

The crowd gasped in wonder, as the bird began to spread its wings and take flight. Swooping above the crowd the phoenix began an aerial dance before suddenly stopping mid air. Lucas was losing control, and all at the once the magic he was holding in his hands backfired. Lucas felt his entire body convulse as magical energy forced its way back through him. His veins felt like they were boiling and his fingers broke with audible snaps. He let out a wail of agony and fell to the floor, gasping for breath. The magical fire having suddenly lost its source of fuel and control collapsed, and instead of harmlessly dissipating exploded in a fireball that rained cinders down on the now streaming crowd. 

Lucas could hear the screams, he could somewhat see the carnage a s several people clutched burned arms or legs and others ditched bruning clothing but all he could think about was what was coming next. As if on cue a boot slammed itself into his stomach, making him cough up more blood and look up at his assailant. Harold stood over him, rage clear on his face. WIthout a word he brought his foot up and slammed it down onto Lucas’ head, knocking into the merciful embrace of unconsciousness. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Lucas woke up the first thing he noticed was the sharp aching all over his body. The second thing he noticed was that he was chained to somethin, and that he was still on stage. Shaking his head and gathering his bearings Lucas looked around and saw a crowd in front of him. It was the same crowd as earlier, but their rage and anger was far more explicit, contempt towards him radiating like heat from their eyes. Lucas whimpered, trying to shield himself behind the post he was tied to. His shackled were back on his wrists and secured to the top of the post, pulling his arms upwards. His wrists stung from being forced to hold his weight while unconscious, and the boy attempted to stand up and relieve the pressure. He was stopped by a sharp kick to the leg that made him fall back down to his kneeling position. He looked up, seeing the angry face of Harold looming over him.

“Ye had one fucking job you useless little shit! All you had to do was put on a show. What did you do instead? You lose control, burn some of the patrons, and you made look like a fucking liar.” He finished his sentence by spitting on Lucas' face, causing the boy to flinch back to keep it out of his eyes. “The people are pissed and so am I. There’s no way we’re making close to a profit, had to pay off some of the victims to keep them from lyncing all of us. But you may be able to help us make some of it back up. They aren’t going to pay us for the magic show, but they might toss us a couple coins after they watch me whip the skin off your back.”

Lucas whimpered, the prospect of even more pain filling him with panic. “P-please ma-”

“Shut up!” Harold snarled, smacking Lucas’ head into the post. “You’ve caused me enough trouble today. I warned you what would happen if you fucked up. Now, try to hold in your wailing for a while. There’s a betting pool on how long it’ll take for you to scream and I’ve got twenty crowns on you making it to ten lashes. Don’t disappoint me again boy.”

    With that Harold walked away, moving behind Lucas and slowly unfurling a long bullwhip. Lucas just closed his eyes and grit his teeth, readying himself for what was to come. Time slowed as he waited for the first strike, his whole body tense. A moment passed, and then another. Lucas hated this. Hated these games his master’s liked to play. He knew it was coming, why did they have to make him wait for it? Why wouldn’t Harold just get it over with already?

    A sharp whistle pierced the air, and Lucas’ back erupted with pain as the whip struck with a loud crack. Lucas managed to bite back any screams, he didn’t want to make Harold even angrier. The crowd cheered after the first lash landed. Cries about ‘putting the mage in its place’ and ‘teaching the rat a lesson’ emanated from the people watching. He tried to tune them out, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before. 

Another loud crack rang out and another wave of pain shot through Lucas’ body. He grit his teeth, tears swelling in his eyes as he bit back any noise he could. His body tensed as he waited for the next strike. Seconds passed and just as he started to relax the whip struck again, almost forcing out a scream. Harold was good at this. He knew just how long to wait so Lucas couldn’t predict when it would come, but also how to keep a fast enough pace to deny any real respite. He had years of experience, experience that Lucas could attest to personally.

    The fourth lash rained down on Lucas’ back, cutting a large gash horizontally along his lower back. The fifth lash was aimed upwards, slicing into the flesh right along the spine. The sixth and seventh were done in close sequence with each other, drawing a bloody ‘X’ in Lucas’ skin. The eighth lash slashed beneath the mage’s left arm, the ninth was aimed at his legs and cut into his calves. Each one sent sharp pangs of agony through Lcuas’ body, each one slowly chipped away at what little resolve he had.

    Lucas finally screamed on the tenth lash, taking some miniscule comfort in the fact that Harold wouldn’t have further reasons to hurt him. Not that he needed any at this point. The crowd went into an uproar at Lucas’ cry. Some cheered and others let out cries of disappointment as money exchanged hands and bets were won and lost. People in the crowd also began throwing rocks and rotten fruit, apparently waiting until Lucas screamed in order to not influence how the wagers went. 

    The lashes falling on Lucas began to blur together, and as the rocks and rotted tomatoes and apples hit his body the boy lost what composure he had left. He began to weep openly, the pain and humiliation pushing him past his limits. He turned back to Harold, silently pleading with him to at least stop the crowd. Harold himself had been caught in the crossfire, his jerkin stained red from a stray tomato, but he didn’t mind. He could take a few hits if it meant causing the boy more pain, more anguish. In desperation Lucas tooked towards the crowd. His eyes scanned for a single person not reveling in his torture, a single shred of sympathy or even pity he could cling to. He found nothing, everyone in front of the stage either laughed at his pain or stared at him with pure contempt. Defeated and alone Lucas simply buried his face in his arms and tried his best to hide behind the pillar, wailing and waiting for everything to please, please, just end.

    ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

    It was well past midnight and Lucas was still tied to the pillar. The carnival had ended hours ago, with the patrons going home and the peddlers and entertainers packing up and leaving the grounds. Trash and refuse littered the area, most of which was concentrated on or around the stage where Lucas hung limply from his chains. His entire body ached, he hadn’t stopped hurting since the show began, and yet another layer of pain began to make itself known. The magical energy inside of his body began to heal Lucas’ wounds. Skin and flesh melded back together before being sealed over and bones snapped themselves back into place. It was an agonizing process, one that Lucas was both grateful for and resented. His wounds would heal almost completely overnight, but all that accomplished was allowing his masters to keep hurting him without needing to let him recover. He could take nearly lethal amounts of punishment and still be fine by the next day, the only times he was allowed any rest was when he performed well on stage.

    A cold gust of wind blew through the air, causing the mage to shiver. He was exhausted, but the feeling of his body knitting itself back together prevented him from lapsing into sleep. All he could do was dangle from his chains and dread what was to come tomorrow. He had no reason to believe that Harold wouldn’t keep his promise of making him walk on broken feet to their next destination. Odds were that wouldn’t be all he had to look forward to tomorrow. Lucas wondered if all of this was the only thing he had to look forward to. A perpetual cycle of pain and anguish broken up by oh so brief moments of rest. Pain and hatred and humiliation without any real end. Was this what his life was going to be? Was he going to die chained to a wooden pole in the middle of an empty stage, finally succumbing to wounds that even his magic couldn’t heal? 

    The answer Lucas came to was ‘probably’, and all he could do was sigh and sink further to the ground. This was all that he had, all that he was. His sole purpose to be beaten and broken over and over again for the entertainment of others. Even the days of rest he could win himself came at the cost of his own agony. Pain was his life, and all he could do was try and mitigate it when he could.

    After a while his body was finished healing. Most of the wounds were gone without any marks left, only the faintest of scars from the gash along his spine being left. Exhaustion overtaking him, Lucas could finally feel himself drift into unconsciousness. As he did he wished, not for the first time, that we wouldn’t wake up when morning came.

[zankivich]

A few honest questions: if you believe that Shawn is racist and is willfully surrounding himself with other racists, why not leave this fandom? Why reblog photos of him praising his appearance? Why use him as a face claim in your fanfiction? Why not devote your time and energy to someone else?

ayo these are wonderful and absolutely fair questions to ask. I wasn’t in a mental space to answer them when I initially asked this, and I’m still really not doing well but I guess I’ll give it a go anyway. I can understand how on the basis of a lot of my posts it may appear that I hate Shawn, or that I have some deep ill will for him. I think what’s important to recognize from my posts and my debates that I end up having with people is that I am usually stepping in to defend and rationalize hurt. Like all day on my dash I see white Stans attacking my black counterparts for genuine and deep hurt. The shit with Camilla, the shit with the tweets and the sweeping it under the rug, these are incidents of vulnerability for people. And the vast majority of you do not have the tact or the heart or the ability--I genuinely do not know which it is--to empathize with us, to sympathize with the pain of an artist that has brought you joy and pleasure situating themselves in anti-black rhetoric. And I know that I’m very privileged to be able to voice my opinion in a way that comes across articulate, in a way that many can understand, and that is not a privilege that I take likely. So, I do speak out. I speak out loudly and proudly and I fight for the ability for black people to feel emotions, because at the end of the day some of y’all really need to hear shit like that. And there are times that are absolutely random where I get PISSED. Where I get SAD. Where I get LIVID. And that is valid. There is no script for me that states that I have to hold onto those emotions 24/7 though. I am allowed to be absolutely pissed at Shawn for the shit he’s done, AND I am allowed to continue to support him. These two things aren’t mutually exclusive. And while I can understand why it might be a difficult concept to understand how those two things can exist right next to each other, I truly do find myself in that head space. Please let me try and explain why. 

My studies in university and my life experience and my understanding of the creation of whiteness and thus the creation of a hierarchy of race in which white supremacy becomes the dominant ideology for essentially all of culture (and please really think about this and revel in this because it is not a matter of opinion here. This one is just simply a fact) tells me that all white people are born into white supremacy. This is not something that can be helped. This is not something that they ask for. But our world and our societal discourse has historically, and continues to as well, perpetuated the understanding that white people are superior, are God-lier, are smarter, are more moral, are more intelligent, etc. etc. And I don’t mean to give you a critical race theory lesson, but I ask that you understand what this looks like in practice. It means that all white people are racist because they are born into a society that creates them to be. (and this is a startling concept and it’s not necessarily popular in the larger discourse) And so I actually believe that to use the word racism anymore to describe what are actually perpetuations of the white supremacist agenda that is again engraved into the very fabric of our nation and our world, isn’t actually a meaningful use of the word anymore. It means nothing for me to say you’re being racist, because lowkey you are probably being racist on a daily basis just from the culture alone. What is actually probably more useful, at least in my opinion is to determine what are acts of terror or violence, and then what are the more minute day-to-day acts of aggression that perhaps can be moments of opportunity for growth and education. It is a lot more complicated than this, and there is so much grey area but this is the way in which I kind of situate it in my mind. 

Essentially what I think is that Shawn is racist. Shawn is racist in the way that Justin Bieber was racist when I stanned for him, in the way that Jesse McCartney was before that, in the way that Ariana is, or Harry Styles, or Taylor Swift, or literally any white fave that one might have. What I as a black person have to decide, and have to wrestle with on a daily basis, is the distinction between the assimilation into a racist society that prioritizes whiteness above all else, and a deeper more vile attack against my humanity. So Shawn said the n-word years back and gave a really shitty apology for it. But, does he support policy that goes against my ability to live. (This is where for me there’s a difference between someone like Shawn and someone like Stirling for example). Does he actively participate in discourse that negatively impacts my livelihood or other black people’s livelihoods? So, yes he’s racist but did he in a sense create a culture within his own fandom to viciously attack and dehumanize a black woman every second of every day continuously (and yes this is a direct comment towards Camilla, bite me) These aren’t easy decisions to make, and my decision is gonna be different from one person’s decision to the next and so on and so forth. 

Ultimately for me there is still a really deep connection to Shawn on the basis of music. His music and his energy around music make me feel a way that is comforting, that is uplifting, that makes me happy. And that is worth it to me in this particular moment, which is not to say that it might not change one day. But it is also worth it to call him out on his behavior, to push him a direction of social justice and equity. I LOVE writing for Shawn because I get asks on a daily basis saying that people had literally never thought they would read a story where someone like him could love a fat woman. A black woman. Can you imagine that? That before I started writing there were people who thought these stories would never exist? I believe deeply in the humanity of people and I care so deeply about those around me that it is engraved into every fiber of my being. I want to educate. I want to destroy the status quo. I want to elevate us to a better place, because I think we deserve it. I think Shawn deserves it. I think Black women deserve it. I think we all deserve that shit. And honestly stepping into white dominate spaces is the exact place where the discourse has to change, and the conversations have to be had. So, I’m here. For now. And I really enjoy the content that I create and the people I create that content for. And I genuinely do really still enjoy Shawn. But please don’t ever ask me to separate my experience as a human being from being a fan of blind negligence and unwavering support. I can’t do that. I won’t. And I don’t think Shawn, or anyone else deserves that tbh. 

This feels like an inadequate attempt to answer your questions and maybe you got bored and left already. But I hope It makes a little more sense. I really did try. Thank you for your honesty. I hope you can accept mine as well. Have a lovely day. 

[searchingforsignal]

Loving thy Enemy: Lessons from Children’s Books

In the last month, I have found more meaning in a decades old book series for children than in the thousands of pundits claiming to have astute commentary. Allow me to explain:

I love politics. Well… that’s not entirely true. I love the procedure, the decorum, the gavels. I hate watching slimy politicking and discussing politics, especially now. Recently I’ve found that most people who want to talk about politics are angry (yes, I’m talking about both “F*** Trump!” and the “Trump is God-Emperor and anything he says is divinely inspired” camps). To make matters worse, they expect me to agree with them and be just as angry. I’m not -- I don’t have it in me to be angry and, in fact, I get more frustrated seeing everybody being so self-righteously angry all the time. I’m not saying that I don’t have things I care deeply for, I most certainly do, I’m just saying that anger doesn’t often enter into my emotional range when discussing them.

What does this have to do with a series of children’s books?

Last week at work, I revisited one of my favourite childhood novels by listening to the audiobook of “A Wrinkle in Time” by Madeline L’Engle. I fell in love so wholly with the novel again that I started re-reading/listening to the rest of the quintet. If you haven’t read the series they’re a pretty quick read and totally worth it. L’Engle’s books are so ripe with meaning that I could re-read them over and over and never get bored.

 I NOW WARN YOU: MINOR SPOILERS LIE AHEAD!

L’Engle’s first book in the Quintet, “A Wrinkle in Time,” is the most famous and is totally deserving of the praise it receives, but the book that I found most meaningful was the second book, “A Wind in the Door.” This entry depicts the protagonist Meg Murray fighting the Echthroi (Greek for Enemies), forces of evil who exist to “X” the universe. In the book’s mythology they are the cause of all war and suffering. They are who make people feel less than human, “un-Namers”. Our protagonist, Meg, is a “Namer,” she is supposed to make people feel more human, more loved, more valued.

Towards the middle of the second book, Meg is tasked with naming the one person she dislikes the most, the one person who made her life the most miserable, a person who dislikes her as much as she dislikes him, her old principal Mr. Jenkins (it’s a children’s book, Meg’s nemesis has to be relatable). To do that she has to love him. The beauty of Meg’s character is that she is painfully human and that shines through here. She fights and struggles, refusing to see any good in the man. In a moment of desperation, Meg cries “How can I feel love for Mr. Jenkins!” The answer comes from her partner, a cherubim named Proginoskes (or Progo), who replies “Idiot … Love isn’t how you feel. It’s what you do.” (Emphasis added)

Ultimately, Meg succeeds, but Progo’s line contains a valuable lesson that Christians have been struggling with for a couple thousand years. After all, Jesus said “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” How can we love those who do us harm? The answer is we act as if we love them and our heart will follow. It’s not easy, I know I struggle with it, but often the things that are good are not easy.

Now back to politics. I get it, sometimes the world is terrible, people suffer for no reason and we are obligated to dig in our heels and cry out for justice. I’m not asking you to stop fighting for what you believe in. That would make me a Hypocrite. I am hoping that we can stop hating the people who disagree with us. Of course, there are beliefs that are abhorrent, those that are dehumanizing in their very essence, these beliefs should NOT be accepted into the mainstream, but anger and hate are not the answer either. In the words of Martin Luther King, Jr. “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

On that note, allow me to close with one final point. Being angry is the easiest way to lose an argument. If you call somebody names, belittle them, insult them, you lose. They shut down, become defensive and stop listening. Even if you walk away feeling good about yourself for harassing somebody who you disagree with, you haven’t changed anything. But approach with love, listen to them, and respect their humanity and you have changed the dynamic. It’s no longer losing if they accept your position, there’s no need for them to become defensive and they will truly listen to what you have to say. I say this from experience. Not once have I ever though “Wow! They just called me [insert insult here], maybe I’m wrong about this!” Yet, time and again, I find myself adjusting my beliefs based on honest, thoughtful discussions with friends that disagree with me. That is the power of love, of respect, of abandoning anger.

More and more we find ourselves isolated from those who disagree with us. As a product of that, we end up Xing them like L’Engle’s Echthroi, we make them less than human and fill our hearts with hate and anger towards them. We each need to find the Meg in us, to latch onto love instead of hate, and to make amends with those who we have Xed.

[theloganshannon]

Black LIVES Matter

This title may seem slightly off-base from our country’s latest event of current news in race relations, but this is something I’ve been meaning to put together for quite some time and haven’t been able to until now. Needless to say, this is going to be pretty exhaustive. The latest events that happened in Charlottesville have added some nuance to the situation, as well as deepened my understanding and strengthened my conclusions. There’s a lot to say and a lot of different angles to take, most of which only add fuel to the flame. This is because the issue at hand is so emotionally centered that most people’s initial response is one purely of emotion; though at first hand this seems admirable, because the human heart is so unreliable it is actually just counterintuitive. The people who act out of hate are simply acting on a dangerous emotion of the human heart. Don’t get me wrong, there is great pain when it comes to the topic, but for one to respond with the feelings associated with the natural gut reaction to the horror we see puts one in a very precarious position. Your only logical progression will be for you to end up reacting with the same dangerous emotion. To let your feelings dictate your response leaves you prone to hatred. If you are perpetually emotional towards these scenarios, you WILL hate! And by now the majority of us surely realize just how illogical that is. But as I get started, it sadly appears to me that far too many still just don’t get this.

Now before you question me on how I could so easily separate emotion from this issue, let me stop you, because that’s not what I’m saying at all. In the last paragraph notice how I said, “If you are perpetually emotional towards these scenarios, you WILL hate!” The problem I’m pointing out is not that we get emotional about racism, but that we remain emotional about racism. Out of some self described righteous indignation we feel entitled to rage against the moral failures and despicable acts of others. Yeah, it makes sense, it does. At least in the most juvenile sense possible, it makes sense. But that’s the thing, it’s childish! And it’s foolish! We are going to get upset about bigotry, we will, but we cannot act on that emotion. This is because, as James 1:20 (AMP) says, “The [resentful, deep-seated] anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God [that standard of behavior which He requires from us].” Instead, we can only act on what we know is true. Truth transcends emotion. It’s much more natural for a human to be emotional than truthful. It is so difficult to look at this objectively, but we must view it this way if we want there to be any improvement. In Psalm 11, verse 3 we find these words, “If the foundations are destroyed, what can the righteous do?” The answer to that question is at the beginning of the verse, the righteous must restore the foundations where men have destroyed them. To restore and continue in that which is right we must return to the truth of the matter! So let me share with you a few things that are true.

1.      You are angry! I am angry! Believe me I am angry. We are all angry! Well, anyone with their eyes opened at least a quarter of the way is angry. Here, though wrong (because we are incapable of righteousness on our own), anger seems to be the only reasonable reaction. We find it absolutely ridiculous and unnecessary to rid ourselves of our “admissible” malice, because after all we’re right. The guilty party is wrong. And anyone who doesn’t express how right the people with the right view are and how wrong the guilty are, are wrong too. And anyone who doesn’t express how right the people with the right view are and how wrong the guilty are, in the correct amount or manner that we believe they should, are wrong too. Whoa, that jump was a little extreme, wasn’t it?! And yet, that is it exactly what everyone and his brother, mother, and significant other is doing! Somehow we forget, and even a good number don’t believe, that we ourselves are personally capable of committing the same evil acts that literally every single other human has committed. We are all so much more alike than we are different, and the same goes for this idea of what we’re capable of. Given the correct circumstances, anyone of us could commit crimes the likes of Hitler, Stalin, Mao, etc. Perhaps you find that comparison a bit severe, but I had to take it to the maximum intensity in order for you to get where I’m coming from. Let me start by being honest about myself, and I hope you’ll follow suit. I am completely capable of racism. I am completely capable of bigotry. I am completely capable of favoritism. I am completely capable of divisiveness. I am completely capable of hate. In fact I know I’m guilty of a number of these. In a word, because I’m capable of evil, I am evil. Forgive me if you disagree, but all of this is true for each and every one of us, not just me. We’d like to think that we’re all inherently good, and that doing wrong is the exception, but (without going too far down that rabbit trail) that’s simply not consistent with reality.

“As it is written and forever remains written, “There is none righteous (none that meets God’s standard), not even one.” Romans 3:10

2.      Okay, let’s get back to my title, Black LIVES Matter. I remind you, curb your emotions, because I can see several different groups getting upset about a few of the things I’m about to say. Let me first make it clear, actually, ALL lives matter! This is true; it’s not up for debate. Nor is it shameful to make this statement, as some are making it out to be. It’s true, and it’s okay for you to say, but it does happen to be beside the point. I’ll explain… We need to approach every aspect of existence with the assumption that life is valuable. Whether it’s in correlation to ethnicity, disability, or unborn children. I may have just smacked a hornet’s nest, but I’m still speaking the truth and if you’re peering through the lens of reality, not sentiment, there’s no legitimate rhyme or reason for you to disagree. With that being said, to act like the term “black lives matter” is unnecessary and offensive is completely ridiculous. “All lives matter” and “black lives matter” are virtually interchangeable phrases. As well are the phrases “brown lives matter”, “yellow lives matter”, “red lives matter”, “white lives matter”, and simply “lives matter”. So yes, “All Lives Matter” as well as “Black Lives Matter” are both true and acceptable to say. To get up in arms at anyone for either one, though you have your reasons, is just well, emotional. It’s a symptom of childish offense. Being upset about not being categorically included is petty and pointless. Being upset about people being upset for the previous reason is petty and pointless as well. On top of that, the reason that the term, idea, and even organization BLACK Lives Matter even originated is that systematically, historically a specific group of people, African Americans, has been mistreated and dehumanized throughout our country’s entire existence. That’s undeniably true. A large majority of this group does still feel marginalized and they’re simply attempting to make people aware. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that! Many supporters of this idea are promoting it without violence or emotion. But it cannot be left unsaid that there are certainly organized elements of the movement that are acting on their unreliable emotions, resulting in their commitment of acts of violence. That is uncalled for, unwise, and unacceptable! I, at least at a surface level, get it, but that is not the answer. Because I am not personally experienced here, I’m going to leave that at that. I cannot speak beyond the logic. Have one more look back at my title, Black LIVES Matter, the reason I have “lives” in all caps is that life is what is at stake, which is the important thing! The reason I use the word “black” instead of “all” is because, though all lives matter, it is this people group that have the unfortunate necessity to question whether or not those around them think their specific lives matter!

“Do we not all have one Father? Has not one God created us?...” Malachi 2:10

3.      White supremacist groups exist in our country even to this day. Obviously. And their ideas are still much more alive than many of us of realized. This is what we witnessed in Charlottesville several days ago. Neo-Nazis, the KKK, and their acolytes all gathered together for a protest. What exactly were they protesting? There’s really no answer to that question. This extremely troubled group of people feel like they have been left unheard, and they are angry about it. They have allowed their emotions, fueled by baseless prejudices, to take control of them. Hate has consumed them! Their corrupt notions of racial superiority mingled with their feelings have resulted in a horrifyingly obscene display! What transpired was nothing short of a riot. It got so disgustingly out-of-control that Heather Heyer, an extremely admirable and innocent woman, lost her life at the hands of a rampaging terrorist! The man is deeply troubled, he is so detestably wrong, he deserves justice, but he also needs help. Everyone must do his part to denounce the evil that exists, but as I’ve spoken of before, we must do it with the recognition that it easily could’ve been us! If we’re truly honest with ourselves, we cannot claim to be better. Besides, look what is happening when we respond out of self-righteous rage... Certain people are retaliating with the same type of violence! The people of Antifa, etc. have shown themselves to be no better in the midst of their belief that they are. Violence and hatred toward the violent and hateful is violent and hateful. It feels justified, but it quite frankly isn’t! So yeah, one side is to blame for initializing the incitement and the tragic loss. No one’s arguing against that! But there were certainly several groups that negatively contributed. It’s just true. Yes, motives were different and only one side clearly has race relations right, but angry violence is unacceptable from whoever exhibits it! Now let me briefly address the myriad of people who are criticizing President Trump for not speaking out in the way that you desire… I understand what your plight is, that the leader of our nation ought to immediately, eloquently, and intensely criticize these groups. I agree. But I also do think the president is trying. Feel free to disagree with him, I do on several things, but I don’t think anyone has the right to judge his motives or the state of his heart. According to James 4:12 (AMP), God’s word says, “There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the One who is able to save and to destroy [the one God who has the absolute power of life and death]; but who are you to [hypocritically or self-righteously] pass judgment on your neighbor?” You may not like it, but when it comes to this, that’s the end of the matter. In case I haven’t made it clear enough yet, once again: White supremacy is completely unacceptable! It has no place anywhere! It is inconsistent with reality and completely void of morality! It is awful, nasty, and vile! But there is only one effective response, one of reason and peace. Each one of us is only responsible for our own reaction and subsequent action.

“What leads to quarrels and conflicts among you? Do they not come from your (hedonistic) desires that wage war in your members (fighting for control over you)? You are jealous and covet (what others have) and your lust goes unfulfilled; so you murder. You are envious and cannot obtain (the object of your envy); so you fight and battle. You do not have because you do not ask (it of God).” James 4:1-2 (AMP)

4.      Love is rooted in truth. There is only one source of truth. God is the source of truth. God is the very essence of truth. God is truth. God is also love. So love is truth. Throughout the Bible, once you are reconciled to God through his grace, we are shown that to exemplify, extend, and multiply love is what it takes to fulfill the will of the Father. Through a relationship with Christ, God intends and does equip and enable every true follower of His with everything they need in order to walk in love for their Lord and for everyone around them! With that in mind I say the following things: I love white supremacists! I detest what they stand for and do. I love the violent opposers! I detest what they do. I love the violent members of the Black Lives Matter movement! I detest what they do. I love corrupt cops that abuse and misuse their power! I detest what they do. I love those who stand up for what is right! I love those who do this and politically disagree with me! I love the misled with good intentions! I love everyone! I don’t always feel like doing this, nor do I always succeed, but love is the truth so I pursue it. And, though I have the facilities to love, because of the fallibility of man I am unable to accomplish loving anyone and loving them well on my own. As Matthew 19:26 says, “With men this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.” Only through the transforming, restoring, and redemptive power of Christ is anyone ever able to truly love and accomplish the change needed to eradicate the world of hate and all other wicked forms of evil! I choose to love because I choose to be consistent with truth! I will love by listening to all points of view when it comes to whatever issue, correcting where correction is needed, assisting where assistance is needed, and comforting where comfort is needed! So should you if you want to walk in what is right and what is real. Let dealing with the truth in love be what dictates your motives, decisions, and responses.

“Love does no wrong to a neighbor. Therefore (unselfish) love is the fulfillment of the Law.” Romans 13:10

“For the whole Law (concerning human relationships) is fulfilled in one precept, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (that is, you shall have an unselfish concern for others and do things for their benefit).” Galatians 5:14 (AMP)

 There really is only one answer to the issue at hand. His name is Jesus! Even the most optimistic individual is prone to anger, hatred, cynicism, and sharpness. The only thing that will truly satisfy our souls and heal our great divide is a relationship with the God of Love! The one and only Creator of all things. You and I belong to Him and He loves us all equally! May He draw you near and extend His many blessings to you today!

[patrickbaeddman]

btw this wall of text is funny and has jokes so dont be afraid to read it in full♥( like i never read theory posts i just skim cuz they’re usually really boring)

im genuinely asking all you girls lol. i think that theory and stuff is fun but its got a lotta girls caught up in it to where they think all issues are equal. because in theory they are. but this is totally war, like, our numbers are limited. and also we cant afford to make things any easier for people who are invested in killing us.

 like in theory what if we had a utopian capitalist society; trans women would be treated perfect, cis women would be treated perfect, etc, except for that capital would exist lol but im just saying its capitalist because of the epistemological impossibility of describing a post-capitalist society. so cis women would have their uteruses respected and all that stuff (what do cis women care about????? idgi tbh) and trans women would y’know, not be in the absolute shithole. 

so in that situation theory coincides with and applies to society so if a misogynist trend appeared it wouldnt hurt trans women to work with cis women on whatever was an issue with them with that. well the only thing that would hurt would be being seen in public with such unfashionable people. but i digress. 

however in this late capitalist metadata-shaped reality, if we want to really center and support ourselves and our sisters, we have to preform some kind of triage. triage is a practice in medicine and more specifically field, military, and emergency medicine by which doctors quickly determine prognosis (oversimplified: how likely someone is to survive) and more importantly the effect of treatment on said prognosis. and then decide the order to treat injured based on that analysis. so basically they treat the ppl with severed limbs first so they dont bleed out, but the people cut in half last cuz it would be near impossible to save them anyway. you probably already knew all this, like, if you’ve seen apocalypse now or anything but i just really like talking about medical science lmao. humor me. 

so we have to decide where the focus of social and material resources is most important and will do the most good for tw. thats pretty intuitive. i think if i said that to any tw i know shed agree. well tw dont usually agree with my taste in icecream muchtheless politics so maybe not. anyway :p♥

looking at it from a military/conflict analytical perspective, because there’s little difference between physical and emotional conflict and often its helpful to look at them the same, there are a lot of people working on cis womens “rights”. in fact many men also work with cis women on their ~issues~ ; trans guys being especially invested in this cuz its a way to be transmisogynist and gain power 4 free basically. cis women have that shit on lockdown, lemme tell you. they’re bringing their boyfriends and everything. meanwhile our boyfriends or cis girlfriends dont wanna be seen with us. but like i said a bunch already, nobody’s even working for trans womens basic needs (not rights) except ourselves. let me say: every time we go participate in a womens march, in a trans march, we’re getting played hard. 

like hard girls. like major funny business. like serious shenanigans. why? because cis women and trans men use us and our incredible skill, talent, etc, and get us to organize, direct, speak at, etc the march and they get all the benefits. we get none. in fact we usually get sexually assaulted, traumatized, verbally assaulted, et ceteraaaa. like, are you seeing what im seeing? my triage says that thats definitely NOT something i should get within 10 miles of. dont rhetorically defend that, dont go, dont give your labor to ppl who are lookin to simply exploit you and send you home with less that you masked up with. or pussy hatted up. god thats the worst. fashion nightmare. 

everybody has limited resources. it simply doesn’t make sense to spend our resources as tw on stuff which doesnt give back. every time you theoretically defend cis women in even a minuscule way i wonder why?? cuz the problem is you’re not gonna get anything from it! i mean maybe this is too max stirner but not really cuz what i’m saying is that we are small in active numbers, and we dont get any tactical assistance from anyone but our selves, and thus its crucial to focus solely on gaining resources for and preserving our own selves. especially when its not just a waste, its dangerous. the more leeway cis women get from trans women, the more they will exploit that and exploit the trans women in their movements; and use those women to decredit the women outside of their movements. dont be a token! i’m not kidding when i say you won’t get anything out of it.

remember the study that said trans women participating in communities are more depressed than trans women who dont. cis womens movements will suck you dry. okay that sounds kinda hot. they’ll do it in a non-hot way. they will use your brilliance for their own ends and dehumanize your daily life. 

so when you give your energy to them, whether you’re a fulltime h8r like me or you dont really h8 anyone (i bet theres someone you h8 dont lie to yourself, we’ve all got that dark side hatred inside us), its not useful to ever focus on cis women. even if you like them a lot they dont really need your help. unless you’re a hardcore masochist and wanna never focus on yourself and only focus on others, which i get, its kind of a thing with tw, but lemme tell you its the most dangerous goddamn thing when done with cis women. at least if you put the needs of other tw over your own they will prolly help you in return! anyway please become an egoist and put your needs above others. thats not even actually egoism, so dont even worry about karl marx’ ghost coming to haunt you. 

trans women need to use that kind of thinking more than any other kinda people, but we like put ourselves first the least! we are way too selfless. and literally everyone is conspiring to play the fuck out of us so we are sooo vulnerable to being tokens and hurting ourselves by giving energy to communities that just wanna exploit us. it sux!! 

the moral of the story is, please never talk about uteruses and vaginas and reproductive rights and petty acts of misogyny like catcalls ever again lol, cuz the (millions) of cis women who talk about those things have got way more resources to fight those things which are comparatively nothing to what threatens trans women, and they are also 100% invested and complicit in your exploitation and demise! also it makes me sad cuz i want sisters to care about me and focus on me (and themselves) cuz i’m super vain. 

i feel like what politics posts are missing on tumblr is like, honesty! ive become way more honest this year and i dont think it detracts from what im saying to say that posts focusing on trans women and validating us and totally tossing out all the cis bs thats constantly around us make me feel more cared about and more happy. i want people to care about my experiences and listen and share my passionate emotions. im extremely passionate about trans women fucking winning at life. and i know that cis women, men, every non trans woman always tries to stop me and my sisters from winning at every fuckin turn! damn! that sux!! but we have to deal with it, forreal, like, we can and will win by ourselves. nobodys gonna help us, as fucked up as that is, we have to make our own lives and come into our own resources and contacts and happiness and safety. but i know we can. and i know that cis women especially, who are very sneaky and try to pull like 10 fast ones on us a minute, (how do they do that) can be soooo harmful for us. anyway indulge me and just try not really focusing or contributing to cis womens or “transgender” movements et cetera et cetera cuz it’s the way2go. focus on yourself, real life, not theory, (like not theory as a huge major thing in your life its totally fun as a hobby, just dont let it control how you like, relate to people! cuz i see that a lot), your sisters, and winning. dont put your energy towards movements that really, honestly, will never be able to truly see you as human and give you any support or benefit whatsoever. jeez why’d i write this post this is so long wtf i never go on tumblr ok bye girls♥♥♥

dont believe the hype, bitches are the lowkey fbis sis !! ♥♥♥