sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. she loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than i ever was, you can see that. i often sent away her maid so i could brush her hair myself. she had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft… the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.
Back at Winterfell, they had eaten in the Great Hall almost half the time. Her father used to say that a lord needed to eat with his men, if he hoped to keep them. “Know the men who follow you,” she heard him tell Robb once, “and let them know you. Don’t ask your men to die for a stranger.” At Winterfell, he always had an extra seat set at his own table, and every day a different man would be asked to join him. One night it would be Vayon Poole, and the talk would be coppers and bread stores and servants. The next time it would be Mikken, and her father would listen to him go on about armor and swords and how hot a forge should be and the best way to temper steel. Another day it might be Hullen with his endless horse talk, or Septon Chayle from the library, or Jory, or Ser Rodrik, or even Old Nan with her stories.
Arya had loved nothing better than to sit at her father’s table and listen to them talk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather, courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms. She used to throw snowballs at them and help them steal pies from the kitchen. Their wives gave her scones and she invented names for their babies and played monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure and come-into-my-castle with their children. Fat Tom used to call her “Arya Underfoot,” because he said that was where she always was. She’d liked that a lot better than “Arya Horseface.” (AGOT)
arya underfoot is one of the most important names for arya. she goes through numerous personas and identities but this is one of the first. and unlike most of the others it doesn’t chip away at arya’s sense of self. arya underfoot embraces arya’s true identity. it was given to arya by the smallfolk of winterfell, specifically her father’s men, but even jon and theon think of her as such. they gave her this nickname because she was always so close to them, literally underfoot. she would play, befriend, and socialize with all of her people. regardless of birth or rank or job. arya valued their existence which is more than most highborns who see them as disposable things.
and while arya hasn’t been in the north for years her connection to it’s people has never diminished. arya often remembers the ones she loved from winterfell and even crosses paths with some northern characters both new and old
it’s endlessly amusing that we as readers look at asoiaf, a series of books about how people destroyed their lives and the lives of the people around them by obsessing over prophecies, and decide to obsess over those same exact prophecies
Jaime pulled his bleeding sword free as the body of Aerys Targaryen fell to the floor of the throne room. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and swallowed hard. Elia, was Jaime’s first thought—and then he was running.
Elia Martell had always been kind to Jaime. “A good and gracious woman,” many called her. Though Jaime knew she was more than that, and didn’t deserve the fate she would surely receive if Jaime didn’t reach her in time. He ran from the throne room as fast as his legs would carry him, trying desperately to put dead King Aerys out of his mind. I had no choice, Jaime told himself. Elia will understand. I had no choice.
The gods alone knew if Elia would trust Jaime after he’d just murdered her good-father, but he had to try. And there was little love between Elia and Aerys anyway, Jaime knew. Instead he thought of Elia. Sweet, clever, fragile Elia; the only woman in King’s Landing beautiful enough to tear his thoughts away from Cersei, if only in passing. Though she was ten years his senior, Jaime hardly seemed to notice. Elia had never looked down on Jaime as others did, or treated him as if he were a child. She had always praised him after he’d done well in a tourney, and Jaime often saw her watching him sparring in the training yard with Princess Rhaenys clutching her leg.
With the drawbridge to Maegor’s Holdfast raised, Jaime headed towards the armory, where he would then need to scale the walls in order to reach the Princess and her children before someone else did. Jaime cringed at the realization, but Elia was worth the risk. Though when he arrived at Maegor’s base, Jaime saw two men already scaling its walls perhaps fifty feet above him; men he recognized as Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch.
“Fuck,” Jaime whispered under his breath. I’ll never make it in time. But he had already come this far, he couldn’t give up now. And he certainly couldn’t leave Elia and her children to mercy of Lorch and the Mountain. Jaime looked up at the challenge set before him, took in a deep breath, and began to climb. The going was quicker than he expected it to be, then again this wasn’t the first time Jaime had scaled a wall. He had grown up climbing the walls of Casterly Rock as a child, much to his mother’s dismay. Jaime thanked the gods for his natural swiftness, and for not making him into a huge boulder of a man like Gregor Clegane.
Jaime saw Gregor and Lorch scamper through Maegor’s first available window and quickened his pace as he gritted his teeth from the exertion, sweat beading on his forehead. He reached the same window not long after and hauled himself through, which was no easy task in full plate armor—his snow-white kingsguard armor, now stained with red. As his feet landed on the stone floor, Jaime found himself on a landing between two staircases, one going up and one going down. Fuck, he thought. Which way did they go? The royal apartments seemed the logical destination, so Jaime chose the staircase leading upwards, and ran towards the bedchamber that had been Prince Rhaegar’s.
But when he burst through the oaken doors, there was no one to be found. Where is she? Jaime wondered, panicking.
“Elia!” Jaime shouted. “Elia, are you in here?”
“Ser Lion?” called a small voice. Jaime’s head turned towards the bed, where he saw a head of messy black hair peak out from underneath it, and two small dark violet eyes staring up at him.
Jaime let out a sigh. “Rhaenys,” he said gently. “Where’s your mama, little dragon?”
Rhaenys shook her head as she crawled towards him. Jaime lifted her up off the ground and into his arms. “I don’t know,” she whispered into his neck. “Mama said to hide and took baby brother away.” The nursery, Jaime realized. Fuck.
“Alright, little one, we’re going to see Mama now, and then you, her, baby Aegon and I are going on a journey together,” Jaime told Rhaenys, stroking her hair to soothe her. “You must be very quiet now, Princess, okay?”
“Okay, Ser Lion,” Rhaenys whispered, burying her head into Jaime’s shoulder. He turned and left the bedchamber with Princess Rhaenys in tow, and headed back down the staircase the way he had come.
Jaime had just reached the bottom of the second staircase when he heard the screams.
“No!” Jaime yelled, pulling his sword from its scabbard, still stained with Aerys’ blood. He burst through the nursery door just in time to see Gregor Clegane dash baby Aegon’s head against the stone wall. Jaime’s mouth fell open, stunned.
“Lannister,” Amory Lorch sneered. “I see you’ve brought us the other dragon-spawn. Be a good lad and hand it over.”
And so Jaime Lannister, with a princess in one hand and a sword in the other, moved to position himself between Elia Martell and her assailants. Jaime’s mouth curled into a smile, as if often did when he faced down an opponent, and he straightened his back.
“If you want them, come and claim them,” he said, not breaking his gaze from Amory’s.
Gregor laughed. “You fool,” he growled. “It was your father who bid us slay this lot.”
“Fuck my father,” Jaime said. “You’ve already butchered Rhaegar’s heir. Leave now, or I will show you no mercy.”
This time Amory laughed as he took a step towards Jaime. “You’re way out of your depth, boy,” he said, gripping the hilt of his sword, still in its sheath. Jaime slowly slide his blade towards Amory’s throat and placed it gently against his skin.
His smile widened. “I’ve already killed the king,” said Jaime coolly. “What do you think I would do to scum like you?”
Amory’s eyes widened as Gregor’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.
“You didn’t,” said Gregor, holding his ground.
“I did,” replied Jaime, without a hint of dishonesty in his voice. “Do you want your friend to live, Clegane?”
Gregor’s eyes narrowed, knowing he’d been had. He stepped forward and grabbed Amory by the shoulder. “Let’s go, Lorch,” he said. “The lion’s not worth it. His father would have us skinned if we harmed his golden son.”
Jaime slid his blade away tentatively, allowing Gregor to jerk Amory away. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Lannister,” Amory called as the pair left the nursery. Jaime sheathed his sword and quickly barred the door. He only now allowed himself to notice the way Rhaenys’ nails were digging into his neck as she choked out muffled sobs. Elia was crazed. She had scampered across the room the moment Jaime shut the door, and was now clutching the body of baby Aegon to her chest, sobbing hysterically.
“Elia,” said Jaime softly, walking towards her. “Elia, we have to leave.”
“My baby… my sweet boy… no, no, no… not my baby,” Elia whimpered, rocking her dead son in her shaking arms. Jaime knelt down beside her and placed his free hand on her shoulder. Elia shrugged it off and began to sob even louder. “No!” she cried. “I won’t leave him!” Jaime felt tears stirring in his eyes, and he blinked them away. He had to remain strong. For her.
“We won’t, Elia. We won’t, I promise. We can bring his body, but we have to go now, before the Mountain tells my father what I’ve done,” Jaime urged her. “Elia, look at your daughter, look at Rhaenys. We have to save her.”
Elia looked up then, and saw her daughter safe in Jaime’s arms. “Rhaenys,” she muttered. “My sweet girl.”
“Yes, Rhaenys,” Jaime echoed. “You still have Rhaenys.”
Jaime grabbed Elia’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her face to meet his. He looked into her black eyes, red and raw and full of hot tears that would not stop falling, then rubbed her jaw with the side of his thumb.
“Do you trust me?” he asked her.
Elia blinked, then reached her hand up to touch his. “Yes,” she whispered.
You Could Be the King, but Watch the Queen Conquer:
Son Ye Jin as Asha Greyjoy; Lucy Liu as Cersei Lannister; Oona Chaplin as Jeyne Westerling; Estella Daniels as Daenerys Targaryen; Jessica Parker Kennedy as Magaery Tyrell; Aiysha Hart as Arianne Martell
I’m interested in the way the word “clever” is used in association with Tyrion. Clever is a word denoting smart or quick wit, but it’s not quite the same thing as intelligence. It’s a word associated with trickster figures, and of course there’s the association with Lann the Clever, who himself is a trickster figure in asoiaf lore. But the way it’s used to describe Tyrion is often a diminutive, appearing in conjunction with references to his dwarfism (clever dwarf, clever imp) denoting a connection with “cleverness” and the trickster / jester figure that dwarfism is so often associated with. Or it’s used as a backhanded insult, to downplay Tyrion’s actual intelligence and pass it off as the kind of cleverness expected of an “imp”.
“Your chain was a clever stroke, and crucial to our victory. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Littlefinger smiled. "My little friend is too kind. All I do is count coppers, as King Robert used to say. Any clever
tradesman could do as well … and a Lannister, blessed with the
golden touch of Casterly Rock, will no doubt far surpass me."
"To be sure. Dragons and stags, that’s very clever. And dwarf’s pennies as well. I have heard of these dwarf’s pennies. No doubt collecting those is such a dreadful chore.”
“It was my belief that the mothers had cooked up this plot
between them. Squire Squishlips and his ilk and the various pimply young
maidens who’d been paraded before me were the almonds before the feast,
meant only to whet our appetites. The main course was to be served at
“Cersei and Jamie.”
“Such a clever dwarf..”
“Let us hope this dream was not prophetic. You are a clever imp, just as Varys said, and Daenerys will have need of clever men about her.
His uncle Gerion liked to set him on the table during feasts and make
him recite them. I liked that well enough, didn’t I? Standing there
amongst the trenchers with every eye upon me, proving what a clever little imp I was.
“I once had a monkey who could perform all sorts of clever tricks. Your dwarf reminds me of him. Is he a gift?”
“They would have laughed at me,” said Tyrion. I made them laugh at Joff instead. And wasn’t that a clever ploy?
The last one is Tyrion being self-deprecating and, like a lot of the instances of this word associated with Tyrion, invokes the performative role, at a stage in the series where Tyrion is self-hating and also forced to take on the role of dwarf jester in order to survive, a role that he previously rejected by pointing out the ableism in the suggestion that such a role is only fitting for a dwarf.
“Clever” is not the same thing as being smart, clever is a performance. Tyrion is smart but rarely does he get to be acknowledged as such, as his intelligence is seen through the lens of his dwarfism.
You couldn’t get the idea of you and Tormund out of your head since the climb. You stared at him all the time and remained close to him for you felt like you owed him your life. He didn’t talk to you much after words, you turn back to see the cold ice wall stand where it’s supposed to be stood.
In which a beautiful
golden man loses his right hand and starts his journey towards redemption; with
the help of a deadly, fearsome warrior who hides a kind soul and a huge crush.
They become very important for each other. Or - in which Brienne is not a huge
woman but a tiny man.
The war had raged for close to a year. Lords great and small had flocked to Robert’s banners; others had remained loyal to Targaryen. The mighty Lannisters of Casterly Rock, the Wardens of the West, had remained aloof from the struggle, ignoring calls to arms from both rebels and royalists. Aerys Targaryen must have thought that his gods had answered his prayers when Lord Tywin Lannister appeared before the gates of King’s Landing with an army twelve thousand strong, professing loyalty. So the mad king had ordered his last mad act. He had opened his city to the lions at the gate.
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- ASOIAF / Game Of Thrones
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- The Defenders, and their individual shows (daredevil, jessica jones, iron fist, luke cage)
- The Punisher (extra points for Kastle)
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The present Lord of Highgarden, Mace Tyrell, fought loyally for House Targaryen during Robert’s Rebellion, defeating Robert Baratheon himself at the Battle of Ashford and later besieging his brother Stannis in Storm’s End for the better part of a year. With the death of the Mad King Aerys II and his son Prince Rhaegar, however, Lord Mace laid down his sword, and is today once again Warden of the South and a leal servant of the Iron Throne.
- [The World of Ice and Fire] The Reach: House Tyrell