And when the bleak dawn broke over an empty horizon, Dany knew that he was truly lost to her. “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east,” she said sadly. “When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before.” Never, the darkness cried, never never never. Inside the tent Dany found a cushion, soft silk stuffed with feathers. She clutched it to her breasts as she walked back out to Drogo, to her sun-and-stars. If I look back I am lost. It hurt even to walk, and she wanted to sleep, to sleep and not to dream. She knelt, kissed Drogo on the lips, and pressed the cushion down across his face.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
As she slept amidst the rolling grasslands, Catelyn dreamt that Bran was whole again, that Arya and Sansa held hands, that Rickon was still a babe at her breast. Robb, crownless, played with a wooden sword, and when all were safe asleep, she found Ned in her bed, smiling. Sweet it was, sweet and gone too soon. Dawn came cruel, a dagger of light. (ACOK, Catelyn)
The sea was black and the moon was silver as the Iron Fleet swept down on the prey. They sighted her in the narrows between the Isle of Cedars and the rugged hills of the Astapori hinterlands, just as the black priest Moqorro had said they would. “Ghiscari,” Longwater Pyke shouted down from the crow’s nest. Victarion Greyjoy watched her sail grow larger from the forecastle. Soon he could make out her oars rising and falling, and the long white wake behind her shining in the moonlight, like a scar across the sea. Not a true warship, Victarion realized. A trading galley, and a big one. She would make a fine prize. He signaled to his captains to give chase. They would board this ship and take her. The captain of the galley had realized his peril by then. He changed course for the west, making for the Isle of Cedars, perhaps hoping to shelter in some hidden cove or run his pursuers onto the jagged rocks along the island’s northeast coast. His galley was heavy laden, though, and the ironborn had the wind. Grief and Iron Victory cut across the quarry’s course, whilst swift Sparrowhawk and agile Fingerdancer swept behind her. Even then the Ghiscari captain did not strike his banners. By the time Lamentation came alongside the prey, raking her larboard side and splintering her oars, both ships were so close to the haunted ruins of Ghozai that they could hear the monkeys chattering as the first dawn light washed over the city’s broken pyramids. Their prize was named Ghiscari Dawn, the galley’s captain said when he was delivered to Victarion in chains. She was out of New Ghis and returning there by way of Yunkai after trading at Meereen. (ADWD, Victarion)
“How will you get stronger unless you eat?” None of them had eaten much at sea, not after Skagos. The autumn gales had hounded them all across the narrow sea. Sometimes they came up from the south, roiling with THUNDER AND LIGHTNING AND BLACK RAINS that fell for days. Sometimes they came DOWN FROM THE NORTH, COLD AND GRIM, WITH SAVAGE WINDS THAT CUT RIGHT THROUGH A MAN. Once it got so cold that Sam had woken to find the whole ship coated in ICE, SHINING AS WHITE (!!!) as pearl. The captain had taken down their mast and tied it to the deck, to finish the crossing on oars alone. No one had been eating by the time they saw the Titan. (AFFC, Sam)
Note the opposing storms here - from the south, we get thunder and lighting and black rains - that's all stuff that comes from the destroyed moon. The lighting, the Hammer of the Waters, the rain of black meteors (aka the Storm of Swords). But from the North, we get... cold and grim winds that cut through a man, and Sam woke (dawn) to find the ship coated in ice and shining like a white pearl. I am seeing two offspring of two moons - black meteors which made black swords from the "south" (think Asshai, and Azor Ahai invading from the south at Oldtown / Battle Isle) and the white icy ones from the north which made Dawn.
Beautiful analysis. I have noticed it, but have never noticed the chiaroscuro before that you point out. Great catch, ser.
Where I'd (predictably) quibble with your analysis is that there is only one moon - who has always been destroyed and reborn. But that is where my quibble ends. I quite agree with the rest of your interpretation.
According to Gared, Samwell's ship has just sank into a sea of warm (nothing burns like the cold) milk. I'd say it's been reforged.
Then, a titan rises from the mist. Unlike Waymar, Samwell does not wish to challenge it.
"I can see it. You have more of the north in you than your brothers."
Beautiful analysis. I have noticed it, but have never noticed the chiaroscuro before that you point out. Great catch, ser.
Where I'd (predictably) quibble with your analysis is that there is only one moon - who has always been destroyed and reborn. But that is where my quibble ends. I quite agree with the rest of your interpretation.
According to Gared, Samwell's ship has just sank into a sea of warm (nothing burns like the cold) milk. I'd say it's been reforged.
Then, a titan rises from the mist. Unlike Waymar, Samwell does not wish to challenge it.
There are certainly some Others clues around the Titan - we talked about Arya's trip to Bravos I believe in regards to cold forging. In particular, the arsenal seems notable, as it is like a fist:
Ahead rose another sea mont, a knob of rock that pushed up from the water like a spiked fist, its stony battlements bristling with scorpions, spitfires, and trebuchets. “The Arsenal of Braavos,” Denyo named it, as proud as if he’d built it. “They can build a war galley there in a day.” Arya could see dozens of galleys tied up at quays and perched on launching slips. The painted prows of others poked from innumerable wooden sheds along the stony shores, like hounds in a kennel, lean and mean and hungry, waiting for a hunter’s horn to call them forth. She tried to count them, but there were too many, and more docks and sheds and quays where the shoreline curved away.
Now, thing is, scorpions spitfires and trebuchets all sound like fiery meteor flinging action. And the hellhounds, when we've seen them, always have fiery eyes. Green fire occurs twice, once with the Hound in Sans's room during the Battle of the Blackwater, and Shaggydog's eyes of green fire when literally plays the hellhound / guardian of the dead role in the crypts. That also might be an example of "the hellhounds fighting" such as in Simeon Star Eyes's story. Anyway, I'm not sure if this is an Others double entendre or not. The horn wakes the sleepers, but which sleepers? The NW oath suggests that's a good thing, like either waking the NW itself or perhaps the sleeping dead (Stark dead?) that might fight against the Others (entirely hypothetical). So what I am getting at is the symbolism of the rising fist that we see here and at the Fist of the First Men, Storm's End, and the little island outside White Harbor. What is it exactly? I have a few ideas, but I am far from certain.
I will briefly tell you that I think the fist rising from earth represents the moon's revenge on the sun. The smoke of the meteor impacts rose up to cloud the sun. First the sun kills the moon, then the moon falls to earth, then the moon has its revenge is it reaches up to "kill" (blot out) the sun. Consider the Oberyn / Mountain duel. Oberyn is the solar character and Gregor the lunar. After Oberyn spears Gregor in highly symbolic fashion (there's an eclipse, the spear flashes like lightning, its covered in black oily poison, etc), but then as Gregor lies on the ground with a column of ash rising from his chest (ash wood spear haft), his bloody, smoking fist reaches up and pulls down the solar character. It was the fist "smoking" combined with the ash wood spear stuck in his chest which tipped me off as to what this rising fist might mean. The rising, dark smoke motif appears often, and always right after a LB forging, so that I had down, but I had not connected it with the fist until a few days ago.
Now, thing is, scorpions spitfires and trebuchets all sound like fiery meteor flinging action. And the hellhounds, when we've seen them, always have fiery eyes. Green fire occurs twice, once with the Hound in Sans's room during the Battle of the Blackwater, and Shaggydog's eyes of green fire when literally plays the hellhound / guardian of the dead role in the crypts. That also might be an example of "the hellhounds fighting" such as in Simeon Star Eyes's story.
Anyway, I'm not sure if this is an Others double entendre or not. The horn wakes the sleepers, but which sleepers? The NW oath suggests that's a good thing, like either waking the NW itself or perhaps the sleeping dead (Stark dead?) that might fight against the Others (entirely hypothetical).
Well first of all, another tip of my hat for finding yet another needle in a stack of ship prows. Well done again ser. You'll have little trouble convincing me that such passages denote an impending doom that rises from the mists carrying cold and implacable cutlery.
But yes, which sleepers? And, which horn?
So much knowledge has been lost over the millennia that it is difficult to know what the Oath is really about. It seems there were once many walls, where now there is one. We now have many horns. Was there once but one?
And if so, does the number of blows of that horn wake different things? It seems to me but one blast wakes the Night's Watch to the return of brothers. Two blasts seems to denote the return of hostile non-brothers. Three blasts is of course for close encounters of the third kind. That Other form of life.
Isn't the true the Horn of Winter but the Wind itself?
Anyway, back to your questions. Beyond sleeping Starks, I'm also reminded of those 79 Sentinels. Who know what all might awaken now that Winter is Come. Winterfell's heart-water is acting peculiar. Hardhome is a turmoil. It seems things are coming to a head.
So what I am getting at is the symbolism of the rising fist that we see here and at the Fist of the First Men, Storm's End, and the little island outside White Harbor. What is it exactly? I have a few ideas, but I am far from certain.
I will briefly tell you that I think the fist rising from earth represents the moon's revenge on the sun. The smoke of the meteor impacts rose up to cloud the sun. First the sun kills the moon, then the moon falls to earth, then the moon has its revenge is it reaches up to "kill" (blot out) the sun. Consider the Oberyn / Mountain duel. Oberyn is the solar character and Gregor the lunar. After Oberyn spears Gregor in highly symbolic fashion (there's an eclipse, the spear flashes like lightning, its covered in black oily poison, etc), but then as Gregor lies on the ground with a column of ash rising from his chest (ash wood spear haft), his bloody, smoking fist reaches up and pulls down the solar character. It was the fist "smoking" combined with the ash wood spear stuck in his chest which tipped me off as to what this rising fist might mean. The rising, dark smoke motif appears often, and always right after a LB forging, so that I had down, but I had not connected it with the fist until a few days ago.
Thoughts?
While I like your pupil idea, the Isle of Faces might be another. It certainly seems to push people away like a fist.
Beyond that, I think the one and only LB is dawn itself (the sword is but a reminder of it). The sun is killed and fallen every day, only to return the next. These are not singular events, but eternal ones. Mountains will always obscure the sun - that's dusk. Dondarrions will always crash against it in protest - that's lightning. Daynes alone seem those destined to bring its return - with Dawn.
The comet’s tail spread across the dawn, a red slash that bled above the crags of Dragonstone like a wound in the pink and purple sky.
The maester stood on the windswept balcony outside his chambers. It was here the ravens came, after long flight. Their droppings speckled the gargoyles that rose twelve feet tall on either side of him, a hellhound and a wyvern, two of the thousand that brooded over the walls of the ancient fortress. When first he came to Dragonstone, the army of stone grotesques had made him uneasy, but as the years passed he had grown used to them. Now he thought of them as old friends. The three of them watched the sky together with foreboding.
The maester did not believe in omens. And yet… old as he was, Cressen had never seen a comet half so bright, nor yet that color, that terrible color, the color of blood and flame and sunsets. He wondered if his gargoyles had ever seen its like. They had been here so much longer than he had, and would still be here long after he was gone. If stone tongues could speak… Such folly. He leaned against the battlement, the sea crashing beneath him, the black stone rough beneath his fingers. Talking gargoyles and prophecies in the sky. I am an old done man, grown giddy as a child again. Had a lifetime’s hard-won wisdom fled him along with his health and strength? He was a maester, trained and chained in the great Citadel of Oldtown. What had he come to, when superstition filled his head as if he were an ignorant fieldhand?
And yet… and yet… the comet burned even by day now, while pale grey steam rose from the hot vents of Dragonmont behind the castle, and yestermorn a white raven had brought word from the Citadel itself, word long-expected but no less fearful for all that, word of summer’s end. Omens, all. Too many to deny. What does it all mean? he wanted to cry.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
The maester did not believe in omens. And yet… old as he was, Cressen had never seen a comet half so bright, nor yet that color, that terrible color, the color of blood and flame and sunsets.
Okay--I have about 5 minutes, but this struck me:
So, the omen of dragons is like sunSET. Like the Others' swords (so far) are only seen after dark? Like Valyrian steel is dark and drinks light in? Like Dany only consumes and tastes ashes after her glorious dragon flight. SunSET--even at dawn, the comet/red-sword looks like sunset.
Vs. sunRISE (insert Fiddler on the Roof reference here.) Burning light into daylight. Vs. consuming light into darkness.
And--you know this one's coming--Jon sees himself holding "Lonclaw" as it "burns red in his fist" in a dream at the Hour of the Wolf. The darkest hour before dawn. Burning into daylight. Not consuming into darkness. Sunrise, not sunset. There is a difference--at least to Cressen.
All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Oscar Wilde.
The morning of King Joffrey’s name day dawned bright and windy, with the long tail of the great comet visible through the high scuttling clouds. Sansa was watching it from her tower window when Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her down to the tourney grounds. “What do you think it means?” she asked 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. “I’ve heard servants calling it the Dragon’s Tail.” “King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the castle built by his son,” Ser Arys said. “He is the dragon’s heir—and crimson is the color of House Lannister, another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey’s ascent to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over his enemies.” Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother was one of Joffrey’s enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her father had died by the king’s command. Must Robb and her lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden field. Shouldn’t the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
The morning sky was streaked by thin grey clouds, but the pale red line was there behind them. The black brothers had dubbed the wanderer Mormont’s Torch, saying (only half in jest) that the gods must have sent it to light the old man’s way through the haunted forest. “The comet’s so bright you can see it by day now,” Sam said, shading his eyes with a fistful of books. “Never mind about comets, it’s maps the Old Bear wants.”
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
The next day, dawn broke as they were crossing a cracked and fissured plain of hard red earth. Dany was about to command them to make camp when her outriders came racing back at a gallop. “A city, Khaleesi,” they cried. “A city pale as the moon and lovely as a maid. An hour’s ride, no more.” “Show me,” she said. When the city appeared before her, its walls and towers shimmering white behind a veil of heat, it looked so beautiful that Dany was certain it must be a mirage. “Do you know what place this might be?” she asked Ser Jorah. The exile knight gave a weary shake of the head. “No, my queen. I have never traveled this far east.” The distant white walls promised rest and safety, a chance to heal and grow strong, and Dany wanted nothing so much as to rush toward them. Instead she turned to her bloodriders. “Blood of my blood, go ahead of us and learn the name of this city, and what manner of welcome we should expect.” “Ai, Khaleesi,” said Aggo. Her riders were not long in returning. Rakharo swung down from his saddle. From his medallion belt hung the great curving arakh that Dany had bestowed on him when she named him bloodrider. “This city is dead, Khaleesi. Nameless and godless we found it, the gates broken, only wind and flies moving through the streets.” Jhiqui shuddered. “When the gods are gone, the evil ghosts feast by night. Such places are best shunned. It is known.” “It is known,” Irri agreed. “Not to me.” Dany put her heels into her horse and showed them the way, trotting beneath the shattered arch of an ancient gate and down a silent street. Ser Jorah and her bloodriders followed, and then, more slowly, the rest of the Dothraki.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
Pycelle moved so slowly that Tyrion had time to finish his egg and taste the plums—overcooked and watery, to his taste—before the sound of wings prompted him to rise. He spied the raven, dark in the dawn sky, and turned briskly toward the maze of shelves at the far end of the room. The maester’s medicines made an impressive display; dozens of pots sealed with wax, hundreds of stoppered vials, as many milkglass bottles, countless jars of dried herbs, each container neatly labeled in Pycelle’s precise hand. An orderly mind, Tyrion reflected, and indeed, once you puzzled out the arrangement, it was easy to see that every potion had its place. And such interesting things. He noted sweetsleep and nightshade, milk of the poppy, the tears of Lys, powdered greycap, wolfsbane and demon’s dance, basilisk venom, blindeye, widow’s blood … Standing on his toes and straining upward, he managed to pull a small dusty bottle off the high shelf. When he read the label, he smiled and slipped it up his sleeve.
Last Edit: Mar 20, 2016 9:31:55 GMT by Lady Dyanna
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
Sweet it was, sweet and gone too soon. Dawn came cruel, a dagger of light. She woke aching and alone and weary; weary of riding, weary of hurting, weary of duty. I want to weep, she thought. I want to be comforted. I’m so tired of being strong. I want to be foolish and frightened for once. Just for a small while, that’s all…a day…an hour…Outside her tent, men were stirring. She heard the whicker of horses, Shadd complaining of stiffness in his back, Ser Wendel calling for his bow. Catelyn wished they would all go away. They were good men, loyal, yet she was tired of them all. It was her children she yearned after. One day, she promised herself as she lay abed, one day she would allow herself to be less than strong. But not today. It could not be today. Her fingers seemed more clumsy than usual as she fumbled on her clothes. She supposed she ought to be grateful that she had any use of her hands at all. The dagger had been Valyrian steel, and Valyrian steel bites deep and sharp. She had only to look at the scars to remember. Outside, Shadd was stirring oats into a kettle, while Ser Wendel Manderly sat stringing his bow. “My lady,” he said when Catelyn emerged. “There are birds in this grass. Would you fancy a roast quail to break your fast this morning?” “Oats and bread are sufficient … for all of us, I think. We have many leagues yet to ride, Ser Wendel.” “As you will, my lady.” The knight’s moon face looked crestfallen, the tips of his great walrus mustache twitching with disappointment. “Oats and bread, and what could be better?” He was one of the fattest men Catelyn had ever known, but howevermuch he loved his food, he loved his honor more.
Last Edit: Mar 24, 2016 14:55:55 GMT by Lady Dyanna
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
He woke to the sight of his own breath misting in the cold morning air. When he moved, his bones ached. Ghost was gone, the fire burnt out. Jon reached to pull aside the cloak he’d hung over the rock, and found it stiff and frozen. He crept beneath it and stood up in a forest turned to crystal. The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice. So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he’d dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it, but Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?
They stepped out into darkness and the chill of dawn. Loud voices came from the other side of the pavilion. “This way,” Catelyn urged, “and slowly. We must not run, or they will ask why. Walk easy, as if nothing were amiss.” Brienne thrust her sword blade through her belt and fell in beside Catelyn. The night air smelled of rain. Behind them, the king’s pavilion was well ablaze, flames rising high against the dark. No one made any move to stop them. Men rushed past them, shouting of fire and murder and sorcery. Others stood in small groups and spoke in low voices. A few were praying, and one young squire was on his knees, sobbing openly. Renly’s battles were already coming apart as the rumors spread from mouth to mouth. The nightfires had burned low, and as the east began to lighten the immense mass of Storm’s End emerged like a dream of stone while wisps of pale mist raced across the field, flying from the sun on wings of wind. Morning ghosts, she had heard Old Nan call them once, spirits returning to their graves. And Renly one of them now, gone like his brother Robert, like her own dear Ned. “I never held him but as he died,” Brienne said quietly as they walked through the spreading chaos. Her voice sounded as if she might break at any instant. “He was laughing one moment, and suddenly the blood was everywhere … my lady, I do not understand. Did you see, did you …?” “I saw a shadow. I thought it was Renly’s shadow at the first, but it was his brother’s.” “Lord Stannis?” “I felt him. It makes no sense, I know …” It made sense enough for Brienne. “I will kill him,” the tall homely girl declared. “With my lord’s own sword, I will kill him. I swear it. I swear it. I swear it.”
As the long fingers of dawn fanned across the fields, color was returning to the world. Where grey men had sat grey horses armed with shadow spears, the points of ten thousand lances now glinted silverly cold, and on the myriad flapping banners Catelyn saw the blush of red and pink and orange, the richness of blues and browns, the blaze of gold and yellow. All the power of Storm’s End and Highgarden, the power that had been Renly’s an hour ago. They belong to Stannis now, she realized, even if they do not know it themselves yet. Where else are they to turn, if not to the last Baratheon? Stannis has won all with a single evil stroke. I am the rightful king, he had declared, his jaw clenched hard as iron, and your son no less a traitor than my brother here. His day will come as well. A chill went through her.
Why must I always be the isle of crazy alone in an ocean of sensibility? The should to everybody else’s shouldn’t? The I-will to their better-nots?