#this idea that the stars have to align for Sansa to do anything is just y'all refusing to admit she's a passive character

[fromtheseventhhell]

Sansa being a more passive character than Arya doesn't mean she has less agency than her and her options not being "favorable" in your opinion doesn't mean she doesn't have a choice 🤷🏾‍♀️. If Arya leaving Westeros after the death of her mother + brother and being unable to reach Jon at the wall denotes agency, then that same logic means Sansa has plenty of options. She was able to move around the castle alone and meet with Dontos several times, she was able to meet with Margaery + her cousins and even go out hawking, and she had limited freedom to move around the castle. Arya was able to navigate her circumstances as a lowborn servant (basically a slave), and Sansa was in a much better position as a highborn hostage. She could've done a lot more and she just...didn't, but that doesn't mean she's "immobilized in her story".

She could've refused to meet with Dontos again. She could've left with the Hound when he offered, which would've given her an escape from KL and some level of protection (she herself reflects on this). She could've kept the information about the Tyrell's plan to herself, which would've meant that she could escape KL and avoid a marriage to Tyrion (going to Highgarden would've opened up a whole new set of options). She could've refused to wear the hairnet to the wedding since Dontos wasn't there to force her into doing so. She could've refused to go along with LF's lie about Lysa's death, especially considering there was an audience and she had to repeatedly lie. She could've listened to Maester Coleman and not insisted that SW be given Sweetsleep since LF wasn't around to insist she did. She could've revealed her identity to the remaining inhabitants of the Eyrie while LF wasn't there. She could've resisted following his plans of seducing Harry, or intentionally sabotaged her chances. She could've taken any number of opportunities where she wasn't in LF's presence to do something. All of these options have their pros and cons (as with every character's decisions), but to pretend she has no choice is ridiculous. Sansa not being savvy enough to navigate her situation and think more than two steps ahead isn't an issue of agency.

Asoiaf fandom be like: let's make fun of Arya and Jon for being snob while doing chores.

Meanwhile those two are the only Stark kids who have done labor in their lives and are okay with it. I dare to say that 95% of the rest POV characters would endlessly complain if they were in Arya and/or Jon's shoes.

[daenerysstormreborn]

@cleverelaena88 hi I was the anon in the post this is from. I wanted to start a new thread instead of clogging the notes of someone else’s post. I wrote up an essay explaining it under the cut if you’re interested but it boils down to this:

1. I started thinking for myself about her place in the narrative.

2. I let go of petty feelings coming from my wounded inner child.

3. I realized I could continue to think for myself and that liking this characters doesn’t mean I’m aligning myself with objectionable things other fans of the character have said.

The way I feel about Sansa changed for a lot of reasons. I walked back on my stance that she isn’t important because I realized I wasn’t really thinking for myself and was just going along with the things often said by other fans of my favorite characters. If I remember correctly, she has as many POV chapters as Bran. The Vale plot is important to the story and it’s clearly not just relevant to Littlefinger or else… why would Sansa be involved? She didn’t need to be a POV character for the story to work but she is because she’s important. If Sansa was just supposed to be a “camera” to show the viewer what’s happening in KL and later the Vale, why did start off as a POV character in places where other POV characters were as well? She’s the only POV character in the Vale in AFfC, but if that was her only importance, why was she a POV character prior to going to the Vale?

Currently, she does feel pretty “cut off” from the main plot threads—the IT, the Others, and the dragons. At least where I’m at, halfway through AFfC. And I think that’s what makes some people think she isn’t important. But I kind of thing that’s evidence that she IS. She’s away from all of these major plot elements and is not in close proximity to other POV characters who are involved in these three elements, unlike characters like Arya, who are technically disconnected from those three elements, but are in close proximity to other POV characters (i.e., Arya encounters Sam in Braavos). Given that, why on earth would George continue to feature her POV if her story specifically was not important?

As for why she’s become one of my favorites, that’s a bit different. This is a bit personal, so forgive me for it, but I think it’s interesting insight. I had to get past this wounded inner child aspect of myself, for one. I was an ugly duckling. I grew up being mocked for being a chubby, socially awkward kid with a snaggle tooth and a lisp. I internalized the idea very early that in order to be loved and socially accepted, I must be beautiful. I have auburn hair and amber eyes. I also received this message that to be beautiful, I should be blonde and more importantly have blue/green eyes. Seeing how just about every example of beautiful women in media were blonde with light eyes, and how the vast majority of female protagonists were beautiful, I developed quite the complex about this. It started sending a message to me that these stories were not for me. The romance, the fantasy, everything these characters got was not and never would be for me because I wasn’t beautiful like them. I resented any female protagonist for which their beauty was a huge focal point because of a deep envy. I wished more than anything to be beautiful. Every birthday, every star, every dandelion. What I really wanted was love and social acceptance, but I was too young to understand that.

Then something weird happened as I grew up. I became beautiful. I don’t want to sound vain or self-congratulatory, but it’s relevant here. The vast majority of people now consider me to be extremely good-looking. This started around age 16. I got what I wished for. People started treating me differently. I got what I wished for. And it sucked. I’ll get back to that. But I did and still do feel like that little ugly duckling. I’m slowly healing, but it’s hard. I still felt this deep resentment and envy. It is starting to go away but comes up now and again. And as petty as it sounds, yes, part of me resented this character for being beautiful. Of course, I think every single female POV character is called pretty or beautiful aside from Brienne. Daenerys and Cersei are also considered to be extremely beautiful, but it’s not as relevant to Dany because the whole dragon thing takes more precedence and Cersei’s envy and vindictiveness are more prominent me (plus she’s an overt antagonist, and I don’t mind so much when the character is one of the bad guys, for some reason). But for Sansa, her beauty and grace seem to be major focal points in how other characters see her.

I said before that becoming beautiful sucked. I resented everyone around me for treating me differently because I was beautiful. And I realized that it does NOT offer me the guaranteed acceptance and love and safety that I believed it would as a child. Men will behave in different evil ways to both ugly and beautiful women. Being beautiful started to feel like this curse. It became a performance that I have to maintain because deep down I fear that beauty is all I have and/or that it’s the only reason anyone really values me. I developed an eating disorder about it. I got exactly what I wished for but not what I wanted.

Here’s how that’s relevant. I started drawing parallels and antiparallels between Sansa and Dany. I think it’s very interesting to compare the two but I seldom see that discussed unless it’s to pit them against one another. As I started to make these parallels I realized that many of the reasons I connect with Dany also apply to Sansa and started doing some self-analysis about why I didn’t connect with Sansa in the same way. I started to sort out the whole wounded inner child thing and realized it had been preventing me from acknowledging and appreciating any depth in Sansa’s character and really feeling for her. I realized that she too wished for something so very badly when she was a naive kid. Something she thought she wanted desperately. And she got it, and it was horrible. I found that I can now really emotionally connect with this character. Perhaps she too fears that her beauty and grace are the only reasons people like her. And I can definitely relate to the feeling of being sexualized and objectified by adults and peers alike. I know how it feels to have to smile and nod and lie to appease poisonous men. I really can connect with her emotionally in ways I couldn’t before because of my own personal hangups.

Finally, I just stopped caring about what other fans think. I have seen Sansa fans saying things I find objectionable, like proclaiming that Daenerys and Arya’s arcs are patriarchal or excusing the way Sansa treated Arya (although I don’t think their relationship is as cut and dry as “they simply don’t love eachother”). Plus there’s just a lot of infighting between Sansa fans and Dany and Arya fans and it made me keep my distance. I also am not a Jonsa fan and it seems many Sansa fans are in fact Jonsa fans. I used to hate the ship but was just being immature honestly. I’m neutral now and I think it’s interesting to read Jonsa metas because they present an entirely different way to interpret the story. It is fun for me to see what other people take away from the text. I was also holding myself back because I’ve seen Jonsas misconstrue the text and omit parts of passages and important context in ways that seem intentionally misleading, which really bothers me. But I realized I’m biased. We all have our own confirmation biases when reading the series and I’m sure other fans do the exact same thing. I was just noticing it more with Jonsa because it’s not a theory I subscribe to. But enjoying Sansa’s character does not mean I need to align myself with every single other Sansa fan, which seems obvious when said so plainly, but we often subconsciously develop this sense of group microidentities that we fear betraying.

This is all very specific to me as an individual of course but I had fun with all the introspection and think it’s an interesting case study about why a person may resent a specific character and why they might change their minds. Thanks for reading!

[cherryplasmids]

☆ still my dove ☆

pairing: sandor clegane x reader fandom: game of thrones—season 8 anon request: Sandor x Reader where they’re involved in some sort of battle or they’re attacked by some bastards and the reader is greatly injured, losing an arm or a leg? “What use am I to you now?” notes: mentions of blood and violence and death.  — I am in no way an expert on disability. I don’t know the science behind having a leg chopped off or anything. I do not mean to offend anyone.

—check out my other works; masterlist

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

         The heavy bodies of four wights that struggled to desperately end your life, suddenly vanished, leaving your arms to drop at your sides. Besides immediately confusion—how in the actual fuck did they just disappear—soreness filled your body and you could finally breathe; inhale without fearing it would be your last.

After the initial shock, people began yelling out names or screaming in pain or crying when they stumbled upon dead loved ones or maybe all of the above. You wanted to feel emotional agony because you are certain you’ve lost someone in the battle but the exhaustion overwhelmed you, silencing any type of feeling besides content. Even when you heard your name being yelled, you just lied there waiting for someone to find you while thinking of a downing cold ale, kissing Sandor because you know your tall, brute lover survived, and sleeping for three days.

Whoever shouted for you came close and quieted down. Despite all the smoke in the air, temporarily disrupting your vision, Necalli’s distinct appearance captures your attention. He leans over, placing his hands on his knees and begins panting. His face is covered in a thick coat of blood and ash with streaks of sweat on his cheeks. Armor no longer rested on his chest or shoulders, instead, the thin olive tunic dangled loosely off his collarbones. Thankfully, you couldn’t find any major wounds, just little scratches decorating his tanned flesh.

“Y/N,” Obvious relief spilled out of him. He drops down to his knees and removes his Unsullied combat helmet which immediately makes you sad.

“I’m sorry about your friends.” You pointed at the helmet. “They nor the Dothraki should have died first. That’s just disrespectful.”

“Perhaps we were taken for granted.” He shrugs even though sorrow fills his eyes. “But we do what she asks of us with no question. If her intent was for us to die, I think we did a good job.”

It’s a poor attempt of a joke but you crack a smile anyway. “Is Grey Worm—”

“Alive, searching for Missandei. I looked for you as soon as the battle was over.”

You lift a hand up to touch his cheek. “Thank you, raqiros.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Good...I think? Just lightheaded.” You stop for a moment, pausing in order to take a deep breath. “Tired, really damn tired.”

Necalli doesn’t speak and looks you over, assessing your condition. He moves your head side to side, wiping away blood from your warm cheeks. You’re delirious to his ministrations because the exhaustion hits you. Hard. Like a sudden rainstorm or the Sept of Baelor blowing up.

Sleep; it’s alluring and the best idea you’ve had in ages. You just need uninterrupted sleep..forever. You, Sandor and the comfy beds filled with cozy furs that Winterfell had in abundance. Necalli is keeping you from fulfilling that desire. He needs to stop worrying—you’re completely and utterly fine, just exhausted. Nothing more and nothing less.

But then he starts shouting causing your ears to start ringing. You close your eyes and push your hands to close anymore sound from going into your ears. He’s screaming bloody murder for what? He needs to leave now because he’s being extremely rude now.

Despite his incessant screaming, sleep calls out to you—sending soft murmurs of delicate yearning. Your eyes close even further, darkening the outside light from penetrating your eyelids. It feels warm.

It doesn’t last long because you begin involuntarily shaking—violently as if you’ve basked in ice cold water. Eyes snapping shut, you see Necalli shaking you, his face filled with the utmost concern and worry.

“Necalli?” Then you feel a jolt in your lower region, shocking you into an upright position. There are so many people crowding you, all shouting incoherent nonsense. Sansa is there, tears spilling, and head shaking. Everything is suffocating, too hectic for you to focus until you notice her eyes shooting back and forth from your own gaze to your legs.

So, you look.

Blood gushes from your left leg, dark red, almost black, but that isn’t the worst part about it.

It was gone.

Your left fucking leg from the knee down wasn’t there—just empty space where the shin should be. Your mouth opens up, but nothing comes out—or maybe it did but you couldn’t tell because of the high volume ringing in your ears.

The pain hits you now, shooting through your body like fire. Somehow, at the same time, it felt like ice and electricity replaced your veins, throbbing at rapid a pace that seemed to quicken your heart rate. It makes you reel, sending you back to your previous lying position, head thudding against the wet dirt which is the worst thing you could have possibly done. An explosion of blinding whiteness blows up in your head and the last thing you could remember is watching Sandor race towards you before your consciousness simply vanishes into darkness.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 

          Beric’s death struck sorrow in Sandor. After all, the two men have spent many hours together, trying to survive all the obstacles life has thrown at them. They prevailed together, came to the North together, fought alongside each other, and buried comrades together. Although Sandor’s never been one for sentiment, there’s a bit of nostalgia coursing through him as his eyes wander out to the vastness of the North. Beric, an oddball, surrounded himself with other oddballs like Thoros, made Sandor feel welcomed. Not a hound—a brother who’s destiny is to survive. He’s not heartbroken, far from it, but he is sad.

Originally, he just drank a cups of ale in Beric’s honor. However, once he couldn’t find you among the dead or the living, he became inconsolable.

Three days after the battle, he still cannot find you. No one is telling him anything on account of you and Sandor not necessarily being in a relationship. If he specifically asked for you, people would be suspicious and Sandor was not the type to have his personal business under scrutiny by any means. Instead of sacrificing his pride and ask for aid, he helplessly searched for you throughout Winterfell. Every nook and cranny searched and stripped to find you. Three days worth of panic and innocent bystanders being shoved or yelled at and silent tears at night when he’s alone.

It registers after the fourth day that you might not be here. The sudden realization of your clingy self not being there to annoy him, jump on his back, or to play with his fingers when you’re nervous, suddenly slaps him so hard in the face, he physically caught whiplash.

Sandor’s thoughts increasingly became a jumbled mess as he kept drinking with his sight becoming a tad bit hazy. Tipsy is not the word to describe him at the moment. He’s intoxicated and smells like he took a bath in alcohol—not at all how he usually is. Nothing about him is normal anymore, well, as normal as he tried to be. Everything is different; the morning light disrupted by ash polluting the air, the frostiness of the North seems warmer, fewer people roaming around, even the ale tastes different. It’s dreary, dark, and depressing. And the only way he can combat that heartbreak is to drink until he’s dead.

He’s got nothing to live for anymore. He’s done his duty of protecting the Stark girls and without you around, he doesn’t see a future because he planned it with you. The brown cottage with cobble steps and yellow flowers planted beside it that you wanted to live in with him was a far fetched dream that is impossible to realize without you. All the little plans of being farmers and florists and chefs and any other random idea you had would never come true. He did not have the heart to continue, to move on without you because you were everything. How can he move on when you took his heart with you to wherever the fuck you ended up at.

That’s when he knew he could never be happy. The stars would never align for him to set him up with a good life. The one chance he did, the village had been slaughtered and the second time an opportunity came, you were taken from him.

Life’s a cruel joke and Sandor’s been the butt end of the joke since childhood.

So, he takes another gulp of ale, only to find the cup empty. He reaches over to the beer barrel to pour more but nothing comes out of the tap. Just one push of the barrel sends it over. Nothing sloshes inside of it. It’s empty.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

            Something slams heavily against the wall, but Sandor’s eyes are crusted shut. He can’t tell what the noise is and doesn’t want to. The massive pounding in his head makes him feel heavy as if his brain weighs a ton. It’s a heat stroke combined with a migraine, the frigidness of Winterfell doing nothing to cool him down.

Then he’s shaking. A second party is forcefully kicking him but he’s immune, numb. Kicking and stomping, loud slams, gibberish—nothing can shake him out of the thick haze and rut he’s succumbed to.

“Fuck off,” Vomit is on his tongue and it makes him gag.

Whoever is disturbing him speak again, more gibberish followed by another kick to his side. After that, they stop. Instead, freezing water with chunks of ice crashes down on his face, sending his body to jolt forward into a sitting position.

“Fuckin’ hell!”

“It’s about time you woke up.”

Sandor whips his head up despite the throb in his brain to find Arya standing over him, arms crossed over her chest with her eyebrows raised—unamused and certainly unimpressed. Light illuminates her tense silhouette which means it’s still daylight. He’s been sleeping for a few hours instead of a few days like he thought.

“Fuck you,”

She taps her foot and moves to sit on an ale barrel. “You’ve got some nerve.”

Sandor pushes himself to sit against the nearest wall, grunting the entire time. He can’t think straight without pushing his limits, can’t talk without feeling like he licked a shag carpet. Breathing heavily and eyes closed, he takes his time to calm down or else he’ll attack the younger girl. She might beat him, though. After all, he is intoxicated beyond belief.

“All this time you’ve been drinking your arse off for the fun of it and—”

Sandor shakes his head, brain sloshing around in his skull. “Dead,”

“What?”

“She’s dead.”

“Who—” Arya stops herself, sighing deeply before rubbing her forehead. “Y/N?”

“There’s not..nothing left.”

The young Stark girl gets down on her knees, leaning forward to meet his gaze. “You idiot!” Sandor’s eyes flare up in anger. She’s pissed too.  “While you’ve been here feeling sorry for yourself, mourning over her for no reason, she’ been screaming day and night about missing you.”

His eyes perk up, his body physically straightening as her words finally have some clarity. “She’s alive?”

Arya rolls her eyes and stands up. “Yes, been asking for you.”

Scrambling to get up, Sandor stumbles and trips over his own feet several times before standing properly, but his feet don’t have stability. Suddenly, he tilts backward, falls back and hits his head on a wooden barrel. It smashes and ale seeps out.

Arya remains unimpressed at the sight, offering no help to the groaning and probably concussed Hound. “Shower and sober up or she’ll have your head for smelling like an alehouse.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

            By the time Sandor sobers up, takes a shower, and actually attempts to groom a bit, it’s the next night. He didn’t think it would take him that long, obviously underestimating how fucked up he was. The hours leading up to the very moment he entered the makeshift hospital wing in the castle was filled with extreme anxiousness. It’s been five, almost six days, since the battle—fours days he deemed you dead. All the nasty thoughts of his lonely future remained in his head. Surely you wouldn’t want to be with him after he left you to deal with your injuries alone.

He assumed they were horrific since Arya refused to speak about them and even got a little teary-eyed mentioning it. Did you look like him now? Scarred flesh and ugliness tainting your features? No, no matter what happened to your face, he would still love you. It couldn’t be that. When Arya’s eyes got misty and somewhat pitiful, it reminded him of how she used to look when he brought up a specific topic on one of their adventures years ago. For the life of him, though, he couldn’t remember the subject.

When he reaches the wing, there are three Unsullied men guarding your door. They glare at him as he approaches. He expects them to part but they remain still, speaks held up high with their hands tightening their grips. He’s feeling particularly nasty at the moment and opens his mouth to swear but is cut short by your room door opening and swinging shut.

Necalli, your best friend, looks tired with bags under his eyes and terrible posture. His head is low even when one of the Unsullied guards speak to him. It’s in Valyrian, a language Sandor never heard of until the Targaryen girl invaded Westeros. You know it, though. You gave him cute nicknames and compliment him using that language. He never knows what you’re saying, but the little smile on your lips makes it okay.

“Sandor,” Necalli’s accented voice calls out to him, removing him from his memories. The tanned man looked a little pale but he smiled up at him anyway. He didn’t think the Unsullied were allowed to smile. “It’s really great to see you.”

He grunts and nods.

“Y/N has been in and out of sleep. She is awake now but might fall asleep on you. Just don’t do anything that causes her heart to quicken.” The sly bastard winks at him talk Valyrian to the guards before all four Unsullied members leave the wing.

As soon as he sees their bodies turning at the end of the hall, he pushes the door open. Firewood and lavender waft throughout the room, reminding him of his smell and your body scent mixing together. His boots noisily alert you of a new presence and before you can call out, Sandor is standing a few feet away from your bed.

Your breath hitches and hands tighten around the snow-white sheets.

“What—” You audibly gulp. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Well, I’m not. Off you go.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t want you here.” Your voice is tight, eyes filled with terror.

Visibly caught off guard, Sandor takes a step back at your words. Not even a week ago were you declaring your love for him, begging for him to fuck you, preparing all these future plans with him. Now you’re telling him to leave as if that hadn’t happened? Had he done something wrong? Why do you look terrified?

“What the fuck do ya mean?” He snaps at her, anger taking ahold of him.

You match his ferocity. “Are you deaf now? I said get the fuck out!”

Sandor stares at you for a long time, causing you to shift. He always does that to you when he knows there’s an underlying issue. And you’ve just outed yourself out by swearing at him, something you rarely ever do.

“The Stark girl told me you were hurt.” Again, he stares, searching for something. “I don’t see anything.”

His lingering eyes sends anxiety through your body and you feel panic welling up in your throat. Again, you tighten your hands around the sheet, bringing it up toward your body.

“Please, Sandor, just go.”

Your whispered words do nothing to ease the giant man and he moves toward you. Your eyes shut when he gets near you, attempting to hold back the tears threatening to cascade downward. Each shuffle, creak, and any other movements cause you to tense up because Sandor will inevitably find out what’s wrong. Of course, it terrified you.

He kneels down beside you and gently tugs the sheet out of your hands. You whisper in disagreement and for a moment, he stops. Eyes intense, you could feel his stare at you and eventually, you relent, completely releasing the sheet.

Agonizingly slow, Sandor peels the cloth off of you, bare flesh gaining goosebumps. He stops when he reaches your knees. Realization stuns him, causing him to release the sheet.

Tears slip out underneath your closed eyelids. Before you know it, you’re sobbing and shaking.

Sandor feels his heartbreak at the sight of you completely and utterly devastated. He understands now. Why you didn’t send someone to get him, why he wasn’t by your side. You’d rather have him think you’re dead than in this condition.

“Oh, Sandor,” He leans forward, tugging you into his chest and you awkwardly grab onto him, twisting your body enough to be practically on him.

“I love you.”

Somehow you cry harder, chest heaving. You shake your head at his words and look up, eyes shining with tears with absolute sorrow leaking.

“What use am I to you now?”

“Listen to me, dove.” Voice gruff and stern, he pulls you further to him. “Nothing has changed. You’ll still be annoying and clingy and will still jump on my back. We will get that cottage with yellow flowers and cobblestone steps.” You cry even more. “Everything is the same. Legs or no legs, you’ll still be my dove.”

He pulls you into him again, smelling your lavender scented hair and lets you soak his shirt in tears. You try to talk but he hushes you, knowing that you’ll need sleep soon. So, he climbs onto the bed. Like routine, you curl up to his side and grip onto his shoulders. It’s silent after that, just you two together with bodies pressed against each other and breathes mingling—thinking about life together away from all the deaths and injuries and wars. Sandor kisses your head and you know you’re safe and absolutely loved at that moment.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

word count: 3,034 published: may 16, 2019 edited: n/a

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Hi from 🇧🇷. I searched the tags but found nothing about it, so I ask, using the mundane horoscope, what do you think is the sign of Stannis? (And Jon?) [Sorry my English]

I don’t think I have many posts about ASOIAF characters and astrology, if any at all. For a couple of important reasons:

They don’t have the same constellations on Terros as we do on Earth. You can see the constellations we know of in ASOIAF here, and they really don’t resemble the zodiac much.

While the maesters study astronomy, the concepts of astrology don’t seem to be a part of regular life in Westeros. Other than a few brief mentions like how the wildlings believe that when the Red Wanderer (a planet that in southern Westeros is sacred to the Smith, but which the wildlings call the Thief) is in the constellation of the Moonmaid, it’s a good time for a man to steal a woman, there’s very little else. There certainly isn’t any reference to horoscopes or anything about how someone’s fate can be predicted by the alignment of the stars at the time of their birth.

Even if we knew which Terros constellations were associated with the 12 months of the year, we have very little idea when any of the characters were born during the year. Other than that we know Sansa’s birthday is near the start of the 12th month, as she told Tyrion she’d be 13 at the coming new moon not too many weeks before the new year and Joffrey’s wedding, there’s not much. Although the fanmade calendar tries its best, it’s only worked out birth dates for the kids, not any of the adults.

So I generally find any attempts at ASOIAF and astrology to be fairly pointless fanwankery. And if I’m going to engage in pointless pseudoscientific personality typing for fictional characters, I’d rather work with MBTI (and Hogwarts houses) rather than the zodiac. :)  Those aren’t keyed to specific birthdays, and besides the points above, I get kind of frustrated when someone goes “Sansa can’t be a Saggitarius, because of [stereotype about Saggitarians], so I’m going to totally ignore the book evidence of when her birthday actually is because I want her to be a [sign] because of [stereotype about that sign].” And 99% of ASOIAF/GOT astrology posts I’ve seen put Jaime and Cersei in different signs, often months apart, which, what. Like, pseudoscience I can tolerate (and I actually find so much about astrology very interesting, but more than just sun signs, rather rising signs and moon signs), but hypocrisy? No.

Anyway. If I throw away everything I just said, then, fine, Stannis is probably a Capricorn with moon in Virgo. (See also this combination.) Although I’d prefer to say he’s an ISTJ.

Jon was probably born near the start of the 8th month, if the fan-calendar calculations are correct. That would make him a Leo, which, ok, sure. Give him a moon in Capricorn or Capricorn rising if you like. (Actually the combo really suits Dany, but heck.) (And sorry, I’ve not figured out his MBTI type, I’m sure it’s all over tumblr though.)

But if this doesn’t feel right to you, please feel free to make up anything else. Remember, it doesn’t matter, Jon’s probably an Ice Dragon and Stannis is a King’s Crown or who the heck knows, and who the heck knows what that means for their personalities. Hope that helps!