An odd combination of boiler plate fairytale and specificity.
The "proud towers rising from the sea"--that reminds me again of Melisandre's vision of the towers by the sea. I'd thought it might be Ten Towers. But I'm thinking it might be Pyke.
I have to go back through the chapter. Seems like there might be a lot there, even if I'm not sure what to make of it.
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?
“Lordsport has no lack of strong arms.” Theon had given the matter no little thought. It was fighters he wanted, and men who would be loyal to him, not to his lord father or his uncles. He was playing the part of a dutiful young prince for the moment, while he waited for Lord Balon to reveal the fullness of his plans. If it turned out that he did not like those plans or his part in them, however, well …
Theon quickened his stride as they neared the Myraham, rocking high and empty by the quay. Her captain had tried to sail a fortnight past, but Lord Balon would not permit it. None of the merchantmen that called at Lordsport had been allowed to depart again; his father wanted no word of the hosting to reach the mainland before he was ready to strike. “Milord,” a plaintive voice called down from the forecastle of the merchanter. The captain’s daughter leaned over the rail, gazing after him. Her father had forbidden her to come ashore, but whenever Theon came to Lordsport he spied her wandering forlornly about the deck. “Milord, a moment,” she called after him. “As it please milord…” “Did she?” Esgred asked as Theon hurried her past the cog. “Please milord?” He saw no sense in being coy with this one. “For a time. Now she wants to be my salt wife.” “Oho. Well, she’d profit from some salting, no doubt. Too soft and bland, that one. Or am I wrong?” “You’re not wrong.” Soft and bland. Precisely. How had she known?
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?
But Theon had spent ten years in Winterfell, and did not intend to go to war without a good mount beneath him. Lord Botley’s misjudgment was his good fortune: a stallion with a temper as black as his hide, larger than a courser if not quite so big as most destriers. As Theon was not quite so big as most knights, that suited him admirably. The animal had fire in his eyes. When he’d met his new owner, he’d pulled back his lips and tried to bite off 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?
“I like a woman with a good tight grip.” She snorted. “I’d not have thought it, by that wench on the waterfront.” “You must not judge me by her. She was the only woman on the ship.” “Tell me of your father. Will he welcome me kindly to his castle?” “Why should he? He scarcely welcomed me, his own blood, the heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands.” “Are you?” she asked mildly. “It’s said that you have uncles, brothers, a sister.” “My brothers are long dead, and my sister … well, they say Asha’s favorite gown is a chainmail hauberk that hangs down past her knees, with boiled leather smallclothes beneath. Men’s garb won’t make her a man, though. I’ll make a good marriage alliance with her once we’ve won the war, if I can find a man to take her. As I recall, she had a nose like a vulture’s beak, a ripe crop of pimples, and no more chest than a boy.” “You can marry off your sister,” Esgred observed, “but not your uncles.” “My uncles …” Theon’s claim took precedence over those of his father’s three brothers, but the woman had touched on a sore point nonetheless. In the islands it was scarce unheard of for a strong, ambitious uncle to dispossess a weak nephew of his rights, and usually murder him in the bargain. But I am not weak, Theon told himself, and I mean to be stronger yet by the time my father dies. “My uncles pose no threat to me,” he declared. “Aeron is drunk on seawater and sanctity. He lives only for his god—” “His god? Not yours?” “Mine as well. What is dead can never die.” He smiled thinly. “If I make pious noises as required, Damphair will give me no trouble. And my uncle Victarion—” “Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, and a fearsome warrior. I have heard them sing of him in the alehouses.” “During my lord father’s rebellion, he sailed into Lannisport with my uncle Euron and burned the Lannister fleet where it lay at anchor,” Theon recalled. “The plan was Euron’s, though. Victarion is like some great grey bullock, strong and tireless and dutiful, but not like to win any races. No doubt, he’ll serve me as loyally as he has served my lord father. He has neither the wits nor the ambition to plot betrayal.” “Euron Croweye has no lack of cunning, though. I’ve heard men say terrible things of that one.” Theon shifted his seat. “My uncle Euron has not been seen in the islands for close on two years. He may be dead.” If so, it might be for the best. Lord Balon’s eldest brother had never given up the Old Way, even for a day. His Silence, with its black sails and dark red hull, was infamous in every port from Ibben to Asshai, it was said. “He may be dead,” Esgred agreed, “and if he lives, why, he has spent so long at sea, he’d be half a stranger here. The ironborn would never seat a stranger in the Seastone Chair.” “I suppose not,” Theon replied, before it occurred to him that some would call him a stranger as well. The thought made him frown. Ten years is a long while, but I am back now, and my father is far from dead. I have time to prove myself.
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?
“I will speak to Helya when we reach Pyke, and see that you have an honored place at the feast,” he said. “I must sit on the dais, at my father’s right hand, but I will come down and join you when he leaves the hall. He seldom lingers long. He has no belly for drink these days.” “A grievous thing when a great man grows old.” “Lord Balon is but the father of a great man.” “A modest lordling.” “Only a fool humbles himself when the world is so full of men eager to do that job for him.” He kissed her lightly on the nape of her neck. “What shall I wear to this great feast?” She reached back and pushed his face away. “I’ll ask Helya to garb you. One of my lady mother’s gowns might do. She is off on Harlaw, and not expected to return.” “The cold winds have worn her away, I hear. Will you not go see her? Harlaw is only a day’s sail, and surely Lady Greyjoy yearns for a last sight of her son.” “Would that I could. I am kept too busy here. My father relies on me, now that I am returned. Come peace, perhaps …” “Your coming might bring her peace.” “Now you sound a woman,” Theon complained. “I confess, I am … and new with child.” Somehow that thought excited him. “So you say, but your body shows no signs of it. How shall it be proven? Before I believe you, I shall need to see your breasts grow ripe, and taste your mother’s milk.” “And what will my husband say to this? Your father’s own sworn man and servant?” “We’ll give him so many ships to build, he’ll never know you’ve left him.” She laughed. “It’s a cruel lordling who’s seized me. If I promise you that one day you may watch my babe get suck, will you tell me more of your war, Theon of House Greyjoy? There are miles and mountains still ahead of us, and I would hear of this wolf king you served, and the golden lions he fights.” Ever anxious to please her, Theon obliged. The rest of the long ride passed swiftly as he filled her pretty head with tales of Winterfell and war. Some of the things he said astonished him. She is easy to talk to, gods praise her, he reflected. I feel as though I’ve known her for years. If the wench’s pillow play is half the equal of her wit, I’ll need to keep her … He thought of Sigrin the Shipwright, a thick-bodied, thick-witted man, flaxen hair already receding from a pimpled brow, and shook his head. A waste. A most tragic waste. It seemed scarcely any time at all before the great curtain wall of Pyke loomed up before them. The gates were open. Theon put his heels into Smiler and rode through at a brisk trot. The hounds were barking wildly as he helped Esgred dismount. Several came bounding up, tails wagging. They shot straight past him and almost bowled the woman over, leaping all around her, yapping and licking. “Off,” Theon shouted, aiming an ineffectual kick at one big brown bitch, but Esgred was laughing and wrestling with them. A stableman came pounding up after the dogs. “Take the horse,” Theon commanded him, “and get these damn dogs away—” The lout paid him no mind. His face broke into a huge gap-toothed smile and he said, “Lady Asha. You’re back.” “Last night,” she said. “I sailed from Great Wyk with Lord Goodbrother, and spent the night at the inn. My little brother was kind enough to let me ride with him from Lordsport.” She kissed one of the dogs on the nose and grinned at Theon. All he could do was stand and gape at her. Asha. No. She cannot be Asha. He realized suddenly that there were two Ashas in his head. One was the little girl he had known. The other, more vaguely imagined, looked something like her mother. Neither looked a bit like this … this … this … “The pimples went when the breasts came,” she explained while she tussled with a dog, “but I kept the vulture’s beak.” Theon found his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Asha let go of the hound and straightened. “I wanted to see who you were first. And I did.” She gave him a mocking half bow. “And now, little brother, pray excuse me. I need to bathe and dress for the feast. I wonder if I still have that chainmail gown I like to wear over my boiled leather smallclothes?” She gave him that evil grin, and crossed the bridge with that walk he’d liked so well, half saunter and half sway.
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?
“Victarion,” Lord Balon said to his brother, “the main thrust shall fall to you. When my sons have struck their blows, Winterfell must respond. You should meet small opposition as you sail up Saltspear and the Fever River. At the headwaters, you will be less than twenty miles from Moat Cailin. The Neck is the key to the kingdom. Already we command the western seas. Once we hold Moat Cailin, the pup will not be able to win back to the north … and if he is fool enough to try, his enemies will seal the south end of the causeway behind him, and Robb the boy will find himself caught like a rat in a bottle.” Theon could keep silent no longer. “A bold plan, Father, but the lords in their castles—” Lord Balon rode over him. “The lords are gone south with the pup. Those who remained behind are the cravens, old men, and green boys. They will yield or fall, one by one. Winterfell may defy us for a year, but what of it? The rest shall be ours, forest and field and hall, and we shall make the folk our thralls and salt wives.”
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?
Lady Dyanna--Are you seeing Theon as being like Rhaegar? Going to his mad father for support? Only to have it all go to hell?
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.
Lady Dyanna--Are you seeing Theon as being like Rhaegar? Going to his mad father for support? Only to have it all go to hell?
Definitely Rhaegar. It's making me wonder if Aerys had some crazy plans of his own to start a war that he was trying to hide? The only other possible parallel to Balon that just came to mind when typing this would be Tywin, but I haven't looked at the quotes from that point of view as it just dawned on me right at this moment. But definitely Theon as Rhaegar.
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?
Definitely Rhaegar. It's making me wonder if Aerys had some crazy plans of his own to start a war that he was trying to hide? The only other possible parallel to Balon that just came to mind when typing this would be Tywin, but I haven't looked at the quotes from that point of view as it just dawned on me right at this moment. But definitely Theon as Rhaegar.
YUP!!!!
You know my take on the possibility of Aerys as plotter that Rhaegar got stuck with.
And Balon seems much less Tywin than Aerys--much less practical. And Tywin may be vicious, but he'd much more practical than Balon.
Throw in the fact that Balon's plan with Theon in it eventually leads to Bran and Rickon's fake deaths while Aerys and Rhaegar's actions eventually lead to Rickard and Brandon's real deaths--oh yes. Bacon is echoing Aerys pretty loudly.
And Theon is the non-prophecy version of Rhaegar.
I'm now wondering if Rhaegar had a similar convo with daddy re: the Starks: Theon and Robb are besties. Rhaegar and Arthur are besties. .. .did Rhaegar and Arthur have a plan just like Theon and Robb did? Seems very likely.
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.
Makes we wonder if Sansa will be the unlikely queen at the end of the novels since her parallel Aegon become the unlikely King. Or is it a further hint to Sansa and Aegon ending up together as per the Ashford Theory.
Darkstar will be the next Vulture King.
Craster has 19 daughters and there are 19 castles on the Wall, coincidence I think not!
Makes we wonder if Sansa will be the unlikely queen at the end of the novels since her parallel Aegon become the unlikely King. Or is it a further hint to Sansa and Aegon ending up together as per the Ashford Theory.
I'm not a big fan of the Ashford theory--partly because I don't think Aegon will end up being anything other than dead. Poor boy.
But I had not thought of the Duncan parallel as being tied to who ended up king/queen. . . in the books, wouldn't that be Pod???
Still, one thing I was thinking of re: the show: Sansa and Brienne are arguably two of the most idealistic people in the novels. The believe and live for the the civility and grace of the civilized world. They believe in knights and all that goes with it.
Putting them together to restore each other's faith. . . works.
And I can definitely see Sansa as Queen in the North.
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.
Lancel was pacing before the ashes of the hearth, garbed in slashed red velvet with black silk undersleeves, a jeweled dagger and a gilded scabbard hanging from his swordbelt. “Cousin,” Tyrion greeted him. “Your visits are too few. To what do I owe this undeserved pleasure?” “Her Grace the Queen Regent has sent me to command you to release Grand Maester Pycelle.” Ser Lancel showed Tyrion a crimson ribbon, bearing Cersei’s lion seal impressed in golden wax. “Here is her warrant.” “So it is.” Tyrion waved it away. “I hope my sister is not overtaxing her strength, so soon after her illness. It would be a great pity if she were to suffer a relapse.” “Her Grace is quite recovered,” Ser Lancel said curtly. “Music to my ears.” Though not a tune I’m fond of. I should have given her a larger dose. Tyrion had hoped for a few more days without Cersei’s interference, but he was not too terribly surprised by her return to health. She was Jaime’s twin, after all. He made himself smile pleasantly. “Pod, build us a fire, the air is too chilly for my taste. Will you take a cup with me, Lancel? I find that mulled wine helps me sleep.” “I need no help sleeping,” Ser Lancel said. “I am come at Her Grace’s behest, not to drink with you, Imp.” Knighthood had made the boy bolder, Tyrion reflected—that, and the sorry part he had played in murdering King Robert. “Wine does have its dangers.” He smiled as he poured. “As to Grand Maester Pycelle … if my sweet sister is so concerned for him, I would have thought she’d come herself. Instead she sends you. What am I to make of that?” “Make of it what you will, so long as you release your prisoner. The Grand Maester is a staunch friend to the Queen Regent, and under her personal protection.” A hint of a sneer played about the lad’s lips; he was enjoying this. He takes his lessons from Cersei. “Her Grace will never consent to this outrage. She reminds you that she is Joffrey’s regent.” “As I am Joffrey’s Hand.” “The Hand serves,” the young knight informed him airily. “The regent rules until the king is of age.” “Perhaps you ought write that down so I’ll remember it better.” The fire was crackling merrily. “You may leave us, Pod,” Tyrion told his squire. Only when the boy was gone did he turn back to Lancel. “There is more?” “Yes. Her Grace bids me inform you that Ser Jacelyn Bywater defied a command issued in the king’s own name.” Which means that Cersei has already ordered Bywater to release Pycelle, and been rebuffed. “I see.” “She insists that the man be removed from his office and placed under arrest for treason. I warn you—” He set aside his wine cup. “I’ll hear no warnings from you, boy.” “Ser,” Lancel said stiffly. He touched his sword, perhaps to remind Tyrion that he wore one. “Have a care how you speak to me, Imp.” Doubtless he meant to sound threatening, but that absurd wisp of a mustache ruined the effect. “Oh, unhand your sword. One cry from me and Shagga will burst in and kill you. With an axe, not a wineskin.” Lancel reddened; was he such a fool as to believe his part in Robert’s death had gone unnoted? “I am a knight—” “So I’ve noted. Tell me—did Cersei have you knighted before or after she took you into her bed?” The flicker in Lancel’s green eyes was all the admission Tyrion needed. So Varys told it true. Well, no one can ever claim that my sister does not love her family. “What, nothing to say? No more warnings for me, ser?” “You will withdraw these filthy accusations or—” “Please. Have you given any thought to what Joffrey will do when I tell him you murdered his father to bed his mother?” “It was not like that!” Lancel protested, horrified. “No? What was it like, pray?” “The queen gave me the strongwine! Your own father Lord Tywin, when I was named the king’s squire, he told me to obey her in everything.” “Did he tell you to fuck her too?” Look at him. Not quite so tall, his features not so fine, and his hair is sand instead of spun gold, yet still … even a poor copy of Jaime is sweeter than an empty bed, I suppose. “No, I thought not.” “I never meant … I only did as I was bid, I …” “… hated every instant of it, is that what you would have me believe? A high place at court, knighthood, my sister’s legs opening for you at night, oh, yes, it must have been terrible for you.” Tyrion pushed himself to his feet. “Wait here. His Grace will want to hear this.” The defiance went from Lancel all at once. The young knight fell to his knees a frightened boy. “Mercy, my lord, I beg you.” “Save it for Joffrey. He likes a good beg.” “My lord, it was your sister’s bidding, the queen, as you said, but His Grace … he’d never understand …” “Would you have me keep the truth from the king?” “For my father’s sake! I’ll leave the city, it will be as if it never happened! I swear, I will end it …” It was hard not to laugh. “I think not.” Now the lad looked lost. “My lord?” “You heard me. My father told you to obey my sister? Very well, obey her. Stay close to her side, keep her trust, pleasure her as often as she requires it. No one need ever know … so long as you keep faith with me. I want to know what Cersei is doing. Where she goes, who she sees, what they talk of, what plans she is hatching. All. And you will be the one to tell me, won’t you?” “Yes, my lord.” Lancel spoke without a moment’s hesitation. Tyrion liked that. “I will. I swear it. As you command.” “Rise.” Tyrion filled the second cup and pressed it on him. “Drink to our understanding. I promise, there are no boars in the castle that I know of.” Lancel lifted the cup and drank, albeit stiffly. “Smile, cousin. My sister is a beautiful woman, and it’s all for the good of the realm. You could do well out of this. Knighthood is nothing. If you’re clever, you’ll have a lordship from me before you’re done.” Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup. “We want Cersei to have every faith in you. Go back and tell her I beg her forgiveness. Tell her that you frightened me, that I want no conflict between us, that henceforth I shall do nothing without her consent.” “But … her demands …” “Oh, I’ll give her Pycelle.” “You will?” Lancel seemed astonished. Tyrion smiled. “I’ll release him on the morrow. I could swear that I hadn’t harmed a hair on his head, but it wouldn’t be strictly true. In any case, he’s well enough, though I won’t vouch for his vigor. The black cells are not a healthy place for a man his age. Cersei can keep him as a pet or send him to the Wall, I don’t care which, but I won’t have him on the council.” “And Ser Jacelyn?” “Tell my sister you believe you can win him away from me, given time. That ought to content her for a while.” “As you say.” Lancel finished his wine. “One last thing. With King Robert dead, it would be most embarrassing should his grieving widow suddenly grow great with child.” “My lord, I … we … the queen has commanded me not to …” His ears had turned Lannister crimson. “I spill my seed on her belly, my lord.” “A lovely belly, I have no doubt. Moisten it as often as you wish … but see that your dew falls nowhere else. I want no more nephews, is that clear?” Ser Lancel made a stiff bow and took his leave. Tyrion allowed himself a moment to feel sorry for the boy. Another fool, and a weakling as well, but he does not deserve what Cersei and I are doing to him. It was a kindness that his uncle Kevan had two other sons; this one was unlikely to live out the year. Cersei would have him killed out of hand if she learned he was betraying her, and if by some grace of the gods she did not, Lancel would never survive the day Jaime Lannister returned to King’s Landing. The only question would be whether Jaime cut him down in a jealous rage, or Cersei murdered him first to keep Jaime from finding out. Tyrion’s silver was on Cersei.
I think that there's something going on in this section, but I have no idea what.
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?
Makes we wonder if Sansa will be the unlikely queen at the end of the novels since her parallel Aegon become the unlikely King. Or is it a further hint to Sansa and Aegon ending up together as per the Ashford Theory.
Just realized that I never answered you. It's hard to say what the parallels will end up being between the books and the show. They seem to be such different monsters any more. I can't say that I've ever really been a fan of the Ashford Theory. I only ever read TMK once, but it seemed to me that if I remember correctly, it felt like it was picking and choosing who amongst the champions it would use. Yes all five of them were champions at different times, but we're they ever all five the champions at the same time?
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?
So, now I've resorted to copying full chapters because I can tell that there's something there, but have no idea what.
The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you,” Sandor Clegane warned her. Sansa tried to hurry, but her fingers fumbled at buttons and knots. The Hound was always rough-tongued, but something in the way he had looked at her filled her with dread. Had Joffrey found out about her meetings with Ser Dontos? Please no, she thought as she brushed out her hair. Ser Dontos was her only hope. I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s always liked me in this gown, this color. She smoothed the cloth down. The fabric was tight across her chest. When she emerged, Sansa walked on the Hound’s left, away from the burned side of his face. “Tell me what I’ve done.” “Not you. Your kingly brother.” “Robb’s a traitor.” Sansa knew the words by rote. “I had no part in whatever he did.” 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 Hound snorted. “They trained you well, little bird.” He conducted her to the lower bailey, where a crowd had gathered around the archery butts. Men moved aside to let them through. She could hear Lord Gyles coughing. Loitering stablehands eyed her insolently, but Ser Horas Redwyne averted his gaze as she passed, and his brother Hobber pretended not to see her. A yellow cat was dying on the ground, mewling piteously, a crossbow quarrel through its ribs. Sansa stepped around it, feeling ill. Ser Dontos approached on his broomstick horse; since he’d been too drunk to mount his destrier at the tourney, the king had decreed that henceforth he must always go horsed. “Be brave,” he whispered, squeezing her arm. Joffrey stood in the center of the throng, winding an ornate crossbow. Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were with him. The sight of them was enough to tie her insides in knots. “Your Grace.” She fell to her knees. “Kneeling won’t save you now,” the king said. “Stand up. You’re here to answer for your brother’s latest treasons.” “Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know that, I beg you, please—” “Get her up!” The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently. “Ser Lancel,” Joff said, “tell her of this outrage.” Sansa had always thought Lancel Lannister comely and well spoken, but there was neither pity nor kindness in the look he gave her. “Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept, without the chance to lift sword. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain.” Horror coiled cold hands around Sansa’s throat. “You have nothing to say?” asked Joffrey. “Your Grace, the poor child is shocked witless,” murmured Ser Dontos. “Silence, fool.” Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. “You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I’ve not forgotten how your monster savaged me.” “That was Arya’s wolf,” she said. “Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway.” “No, your father did,” Joff said, “but I killed your father. I wish I’d done it myself. I killed a man last night who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some baker, but I taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the throat.” “And he died?” With the ugly iron head of the quarrel staring her in the face, it was hard to think what else to say. “Of course he died, he had my quarrel in his throat. There was a woman throwing rocks, I got her as well, but only in the arm.” Frowning, he lowered the crossbow. “I’d shoot you too, but if I do Mother says they’d kill my uncle Jaime. Instead you’ll just be punished and we’ll send word to your brother about what will happen to you if he doesn’t yield. Dog, hit her.” “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. He trotted his broomstick around her, shouting “Traitor, traitor” and whacking her over the head with the melon. Sansa covered herself with her hands, staggering every time the fruit pounded her, her hair sticky by the second blow. People were laughing. The melon flew to pieces. Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied. Joffrey did not so much as snigger. “Boros. Meryn.” Ser Meryn Trant seized Dontos by the arm and flung him brusquely away. The red-faced fool went sprawling, broomstick, melon, and all. Ser Boros seized Sansa. “Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like her pretty.” Boros slammed a fist into Sansa’s belly, driving the air out of 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. As he laid the flat of the blade across her thighs, she thought her legs might break from the force of the blow. Sansa screamed. Tears welled in her eyes. It will be over soon. She soon lost count of the blows. “Enough,” she heard the Hound rasp. “No it isn’t,” the king replied. “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. “Beat her bloody,” Joffrey said, “we’ll see how her brother fancies—” “What is the meaning of this?” The Imp’s voice cracked like a whip, and suddenly Sansa was free. She stumbled to her knees, arms crossed over her chest, her breath ragged. “Is this your notion of chivalry, Ser Boros?” Tyrion Lannister demanded angrily. His pet sellsword stood with him, and one of his wildlings, the one with the burned eye. “What sort of knight beats helpless maids?” “The sort who serves his king, Imp.” Ser Boros raised his sword, and Ser Meryn stepped up beside him, his blade scraping clear of its scabbard. “Careful with those,” warned the dwarf’s sellsword. “You don’t want to get blood all over those pretty white cloaks.” “Someone give the girl something to cover herself with,” the Imp said. Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet had ever felt so fine. “This girl’s to be your queen,” the Imp told Joffrey. “Have you no regard for her honor?” “I’m punishing her.” “For what crime? She did not fight her brother’s battle.” “She has the blood of a wolf.” “And you have the wits of a goose.” “You can’t talk to me that way. The king can do as he likes.” “Aerys Targaryen did as he liked. Has your mother ever told you what happened to him?” Ser Boros Blount harrumphed. “No man threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard.” Tyrion Lannister raised an eyebrow. “I am not threatening the king, ser, I am educating my nephew. Bronn, Timett, the next time Ser Boros opens his mouth, kill him.” The dwarf smiled. “Now that was a threat, ser. See the difference?” Ser Boros turned a dark shade of red. “The queen will hear of this!” “No doubt she will. And why wait? Joffrey, shall we send for your mother?” The king flushed. “Nothing to say, Your Grace?” his uncle went on. “Good. Learn to use your ears more and your mouth less, or your reign will be shorter than I am. Wanton brutality is no way to win your people’s love … or your queen’s.” “Fear is better than love, Mother says.” Joffrey pointed at Sansa. “She fears me.” The Imp sighed. “Yes, I see. A pity Stannis and Renly aren’t twelve-year-old girls as well. Bronn, Timett, bring her.” 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. Some serving girls took charge of her, mouthing meaningless comforts to stop her shaking. One stripped off the ruins of her gown and smallclothes, and another bathed her and washed the sticky juice from her face and her hair. As they scrubbed her down with soap and sluiced warm water over her head, all she could see were the faces from the bailey. 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. After she was clean, plump ginger-headed Maester Frenken came to see her. He bid her lie facedown on the mattress while he spread a salve across the angry red welts that covered the backs of her legs. Afterward he mixed her a draught of dreamwine, with some honey so it might go down easier. “Sleep a bit, child. When you wake, all this will seem a bad dream.” No it won’t, you stupid man, Sansa thought, but she drank the dreamwine anyway, and slept. It was dark when she woke again, not quite knowing where she was, the room both strange and strangely familiar. As she rose, a stab of pain went through her legs and brought it all back. Tears filled her eyes. Someone had laid out a robe for her beside the bed. Sansa slipped it on and opened the door. Outside stood a hard-faced woman with leathery brown skin, three necklaces looped about her scrawny neck. One was gold and one was silver and one was made of human ears. “Where does she think she’s going?” the woman asked, leaning on a tall spear. “The godswood.” She had to find Ser Dontos, beg him to take her home now before it was too late. “The halfman said you’re not to leave,” the woman said. “Pray here, the gods will hear.” Meekly, Sansa dropped her eyes and retreated back inside. She realized suddenly why this place seemed so familiar. They’ve put me in Arya’s old bedchamber, from when Father was the Hand of the King. All her things are gone and the furnishings have been moved around, but it’s the same … A short time later, a serving girl brought a platter of cheese and bread and olives, with a flagon of cold water. “Take it away,” Sansa commanded, but the girl left the food on a table. She was thirsty, she realized. Every step sent knives through her thighs, but she made herself cross the room. She drank two cups of water, and was nibbling on an olive when the knock came. Anxiously, she turned toward the door, smoothed down the folds of her robe. “Yes?” The door opened, and Tyrion Lannister stepped inside. “My lady. I trust I am not disturbing you?” “Am I your prisoner?” “My guest.” He was wearing his chain of office, a necklace of linked golden hands. “I thought we might talk.” “As my lord commands.” Sansa found it hard not to stare; his face was so ugly it held a queer fascination for her. “The food and garments are to your satisfaction?” he asked. “If there is anything else you need, you have only to ask.” “You are most kind. And this morning … it was very good of you to help me.” “You have a right to know why Joffrey was so wroth. Six nights gone, your brother fell upon my uncle Stafford, encamped with his host at a village called Oxcross not three days ride from Casterly Rock. Your northerners won a crushing victory. We received word only this morning.” Robb will kill you all, she thought, exulting. “It’s … terrible, my lord. My brother is a vile traitor.” The dwarf smiled wanly. “Well, he’s no fawn, he’s made that clear enough.” “Ser Lancel said Robb led an army of wargs …” The Imp gave a disdainful bark of laughter. “Ser Lancel’s a wineskin warrior who wouldn’t know a warg from a wart. Your brother had his direwolf with him, but I suspect that’s as far as it went. The northmen crept into my uncle’s camp and cut his horse lines, and Lord Stark sent his wolf among them. Even war-trained destriers went mad. Knights were trampled to death in their pavilions, and the rabble woke in terror and fled, casting aside their weapons to run the faster. Ser Stafford was slain as he chased after a horse. Lord Rickard Karstark drove a lance through his chest. Ser Rubert Brax is also dead, along with Ser Lymond Vikary, Lord Crakehall, and Lord Jast. Half a hundred more have been taken captive, including Jast’s sons and my nephew Martyn Lannister. Those who survived are spreading wild tales and swearing that the old gods of the north march with your brother.” “Then … there was no sorcery?” Lannister snorted. “Sorcery is the sauce fools spoon over failure to hide the flavor of their own incompetence. My mutton-headed uncle had not even troubled to post sentries, it would seem. His host was raw—apprentice boys, miners, fieldhands, fisherfolk, the sweepings of Lannisport. The only mystery is how your brother reached him. Our forces still hold the stronghold at the Golden Tooth, and they swear he did not pass.” The dwarf gave an irritated shrug. “Well, Robb Stark is my father’s bane. Joffrey is mine. Tell me, what do you feel for my kingly nephew?” “I love him with all my heart,” Sansa said at once. “Truly?” He did not sound convinced. “Even now?” “My love for His Grace is greater than it has ever been.” The Imp laughed aloud. “Well, someone has taught you to lie well. You may be grateful for that one day, child. You are a child still, are you not? Or have you flowered?” Sansa blushed. It was a rude question, but the shame of being stripped before half the castle made it seem like nothing. “No, my lord.” “That’s all to the good. If it gives you any solace, I do not intend that you ever wed Joffrey. No marriage will reconcile Stark and Lannister after all that has happened, I fear. More’s the pity. The match was one of King Robert’s better notions, if Joffrey hadn’t mucked it up.” She knew she ought to say something, but the words caught in her throat. “You grow very quiet,” Tyrion Lannister observed. “Is this what you want? An end to your betrothal?” “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.” “We’ll have that soon enough. There will be another battle, between your brother Robb and my lord father, and that will settle the issue.” Robb will beat him, Sansa thought. He beat your uncle and your brother Jaime, he’ll beat your father too. It was as if her face were an open book, so easily did the dwarf read her hopes. “Do not take Oxcross too much to heart, my lady,” he told her, not unkindly. “A battle is not a war, and my lord father is assuredly not my uncle Stafford. The next time you visit the godswood, pray that your brother has the wisdom to bend the knee. Once the north returns to the king’s peace, I mean to send you home.” He hopped down off the window seat and said, “You may sleep here tonight. I’ll give you some of my own men as a guard, some Stone Crows perhaps—” “No,” Sansa blurted out, aghast. If she was locked in the Tower of the Hand, guarded by the dwarf’s men, how would Ser Dontos ever spirit her away to freedom? “Would you prefer Black Ears? I’ll give you Chella if a woman would make you more at ease.” “Please, no, my lord, the wildlings frighten me.” He grinned. “Me as well. But more to the point, they frighten Joffrey and that nest of sly vipers and lickspittle dogs he calls a Kingsguard. With Chella or Timett by your side, no one would dare offer you harm.” “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.”
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?
OK. So, prepare to enter crazy town with me. I was reading through this Theon chapter yesterday, and, I swear it's an echo preparing for Lyanna's kidnapping.
Theon bent the bow and slipped the string into its notches as Todric knocked down the Botley boy and flung ale into his eyes. Fishwhiskers leapt up cursing, but Theon was quicker. He drew on the hand that clutched the drinking horn, figuring to give them a shot to talk about, but Todric spoiled it by lurching to one side just as he loosed. The arrow took him through the belly.
This reminds me of Hightower getting shot in the hand by the Kingswood Brotherhood.
His thrice-damned sister was sailing her Black Wind north even now, sure to win a castle of her own. Lord Balon had let no word of the hosting escape the Iron Islands, and Theon’s bloody work along the Stony Shore would be put down to sea raiders out for plunder. The northmen would not realize their true peril, not until the hammers fell on Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin.
We're the Kingswood Brotherhood part of some bigger plan?
“The day is won,” Dagmer called down. “And yet you do not smile, boy. The living should smile, for the dead cannot.” He smiled himself to show how it was done. It made for a hideous sight. Under a snowy white mane of hair, Dagmer Cleftjaw had the most gut-churning scar Theon had ever seen, the legacy of the longaxe that had near killed him as a boy. The blow had splintered his jaw, shattered his front teeth, and left him four lips where other men had but two. A shaggy beard covered his cheeks and neck, but the hair would not grow over the scar, so a shiny seam of puckered, twisted flesh divided his face like a crevasse through a snowfield. “We could hear them singing,” the old warrior said. “It was a good song, and they sang it bravely.”
“They sang better than they fought. Harps would have done them as much good as their lances did.”
Something about all of the smiling brings the Smiling Knight to mind. The talk about singing and harps, Rhaegar...
Eyes pale as sea foam watched Theon from under those shaggy white eyebrows. Was it disapproval he saw there, or a spark of interest? The latter, he thought … hoped … “You are my father’s man.” “His best man, and always have been.” Pride, Theon thought. He is proud, I must use that, his pride will be the key. “There is no man in the Iron Islands half so skilled with spear or sword.” “You have been too long away, boy. When you left, it was as you say, but I am grown old in Lord Greyjoy’s service. The singers call Andrik best now. Andrik the Unsmiling, they name him. A giant of a man. He serves Lord Drumm of Old Wyk. And Black Lorren and Qarl the Maid are near as dread.” “This Andrik may be a great fighter, but men do not fear him as they fear you.”
I'm trying to come up with who we know that has pale eyes. All I can think of are Illyn Payne and Mandon Moore (didn't he try to kill Tyrion?) The Giant of a man, brings to mind the Mountain.
Dagmer’s grin twisted his lips apart and showed the brown splinters of his teeth. “Nor for his trueborn son?” He hooted. “I know you too well, Theon. I saw you take your first step, helped you bend your first bow. ’Tis not me who feels wasted.” “By rights I should have my sister’s command,” he admitted, uncomfortably aware of how peevish that sounded.
Is Rhaegar worried about Viserys? Or Conversely is Theon channeling Tywin here.
“I am no Stark.” Lord Eddard saw to that. “I am a Greyjoy, and I mean to be my father’s heir. How can I do that unless I prove myself with some great deed?”
Again, Rhaegar v. Tywin?
“What would my part be in this scheme of yours, boy?” Dagmer Cleftjaw asked after a long silence, and Theon knew he had won. “To strike terror into the heart of the foe, as only one of your name could do. You’ll take the great part of our force and march on Torrhen’s Square. Helman Tallhart took his best men south, and Benfred died here with their sons. His uncle Leobald will remain, with some small garrison.” If I had been able to question Benfred, I would know just how small. “Make no secret of your approach. Sing all the brave songs you like. I want them to close their gates.” “Is this Torrhen’s Square a strong keep?” “Strong enough. The walls are stone, thirty feet high, with square towers at each corner and a square keep within.” “Stone walls cannot be fired. How are we to take them? We do not have the numbers to storm even a small castle.” “You will make camp outside their walls and set to building catapults and siege engines.” “That is not the Old Way. Have you forgotten? Ironmen fight with swords and axes, not by flinging rocks. There is no glory in starving out a foeman.” “Leobald will not know that. When he sees you raising siege towers, his old woman’s blood will run cold, and he will bleat for help. Stay your archers, Uncle, and let the raven fly. The castellan at Winterfell is a brave man, but age has stiffened his wits as well as his limbs. When he learns that one of his king’s bannermen is under attack by the fearsome Dagmer Cleftjaw, he will summon his strength and ride to Tallhart’s aid. It is his duty. Ser Rodrik is nothing if not dutiful.” “Any force he summons will be larger than mine,” Dagmer said, “and these old knights are more cunning than you think, or they would never have lived to see their first grey hair. You set us a battle we cannot hope to win, Theon. This Torrhen’s Square will never fall.” Theon smiled. “It’s not Torrhen’s Square I mean to take.”
Did the Kingswood Brotherhood go after Elia as a diversion? Was Tywin responsible for putting them into play? Was the ultimate goal to take Lyanna to bring the North into war with the Crown?
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?