#“If cows and horses or lions had hands and could draw; then horses would draw the forms of gods like horses; cows like cows”

[veiledinviolet]

Cow gods

#philosophy memes #context: xenophanes criticized anthropomorphic conceptions of divinity as mere self projection; arguing that #“If cows and horses or lions had hands and could draw; then horses would draw the forms of gods like horses; cows like cows” #– G. S. Kirk; J. E. Raven; and M. Schofield (eds.); The Presocratic Philosophers; 2nd edn. (1983); fragment 169 #via A. Kenny; A New History of Western Philosophy; 1st edn.; vol. 1 (2004); p. 289

[docholligay]

The Metal Meddles

Hello! I wrote a fic for the @keyofjetwolf Lesbians with Swords game, and my rich murder femme Geneviève. It’s your standard Not!Europe type setup for swords and such. 

Geneviève did not, strictly speaking, meddle in the affairs of perfect strangers. This was borne out of no inner respect for people’s right to do as they wished, so much as it was borne out of an inner respect for a life lived without complication. If you intervened once, people expected you to do it over and over again, and there was no hell quite like a good reputation, which, as near as Geneviève could tell, existed merely to be lost. People thought worse of someone who they once thought moral then someone who never claimed the mark, and so it was better not to attempt.

Life, however, is full of exceptions to the rule, and Geneviève found herself in the midst of what she feared was about to be one. 

“You dumb, ugly thing!” Yelled an Albishman who looked as though he was throwing stones in that particular glass house, “Pick that up!” 

A small but sturdy fair haired woman knelt on the ground, picking up the buttons and geegaws that she had dropped in the market, slowly trying to arrange them with the other things in her arms to avoid making the same mistake twice. 

“I’m sorry, my lord.” She continued looking at the ground. 

Geneviève’s eyebrow angled quite against her will as she studied the man. He hardly seemed a lord to her. Those with true power have no need to raise their voices. Hollering and carrying on was solely the province of the weak. She turned her head back to the wine shop she intended to enter, resolving that there was little to be gained from her intervention, only interrupting the public beating that would certainly rise in intensity behind closed doors. Men like him had so little pride that any bruise to it must be paid in blood. 

She heard the smack of his hand, echoing through the market and off the doors of the shops. 

“The damage will be added to your bill,” she could hear the sneer in his voice, “The debt would already be paid if you weren’t such a stupid, clumsy--” 

Geneviève abhorred men who hit women, people who made a spectacle in public, and the Albish, and it was for these reasons that she found herself turning from the door of the wine shop. 

“I confess the mores of Albion are little known to me,” Geneviève tilted her head, “But in Guyenne, it is considered quite gauche to beat a servant for a simple mistake.” 

The man looked over to her. In his eyes, Geneviève saw something worse than temper--there was utterly no rage in them--just a simple, cold cruelty. He enjoyed shaming her, was all, and if a moment or two of temper might be forgiven, Geneviève could not abide the notion of treating one’s servants like whipping boys. 

He said nothing to her. Men like him were always cowed by anyone who appeared to have true backbone. But he was shamed, as people looked on, and so grabbed the woman by the back of her dress and yanked her to her feet. 

Geneviève could not truly be said to have a noble impulse so much as she had the general impulse of all nobles, which is to throw money at anything she found distasteful and assume it would correct itself. 

“What is her debt?” She began to walk over toward the man, the woman looking up at her through stringy hair. “I assume you have paperwork.” 

“She’s not for sale.” He growled. 

“Of course she isn’t, slavery has been outlawed in Guyenne for years, and so, you have no earthly reason to oppose the payment of her debt. As she is not a horse for you to ride and beat,” she gave a delicate curtsey, “Monsieur.” 

She looked over to the little woman. Mousy, yes, but there was a certain strength in her even still, a lion kept on a chain and starved. 

“What is your name?” Geneviève folded her hands neatly, willing the woman to raise her chin and look at her properly. 

The slightest flash of her eyes. “Oksana Petrova, madam.” 

“Ah yes, the Volhynians are quite famous for drinking and gambling their way into these situations,” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly,“Oksana, what is your debt to this man? He must have accessible record of such, and we shall take a glass of wine at my family whilst I have our boy run to the bank.” 

He grabbed Geneviève’s arm, which shocked not her so much out of fear as much as the notion that someone would believe they had any right to touch her. 

“She’s mine!” A bit of spittle flaked from the edge of his mouth. 

Geneviève sighed in annoyance as she took an embroidered silk handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed the corner of mouth, which did nothing to improve his mood. 

“Monsieur, we can go about this one of two ways, and I leave you to decide which is the wiser. On the one hand,” she folded the hanky and put it back in her pocket, “We may have a delightful light lunch at my home, Cook is marvelous, I assure you, and the cellars well stocked, and I shall put money in your hand for this woman’s debt, and we shall all walk away pleased. On the other,” She drew her sword, glimmering in the light, and gave a bit of a smirk, “I can simply take her from you. The choice is yours, Monsieur, though I suggest the day is a bit hot for dueling.” 

He shoved Oksana into the wall and drew his sword, glaring. “You want me to fight a woman?” 

“A bit terrifying for you when she can strike back, I’m aware.” 

He rushed her, fighting in the same way he spoke: Loudly, clumsily, and stupidly. It would be the most gracious of her to defeat him quickly, a few quick touches so that he knew she meant business and had the skill to complete it, and then carry on with their day. It was, truly, the right thing to do. There was no cause to humiliate a man who had already humiliated himself. 

Geneviève never did think much of the right thing. 

She sidestepped him and raised her blade, easily deflecting his attempt, and as he tumbled past, she slashed quickly across the back of his trousers. 

“Touche.” She smiled, stepping back into a fighting stance with all the seeming worry of a ballerina. 

He rushed her again, and the high, tinny clash of swords filled the small street, Geneviève with a hand behind her back as she easily parried him, stepping backwards toward the stands of the market. It was the work of seconds, effortless. 

“I might have thought you would have more training,” she said, “for your swiftness to draw.” 

There is a moment, in every fight, when it becomes clear what the outcome is going to be, and the man seemed to hit this moment as they paused, each in fighting stance, as the carrots and potatoes looked on. His eyes darted from left to right as he desperately looked for a weakness, and opening, any way to prevent the conclusion written, sure as Belshazzar’s, on the wall of the marketplace. 

He swung wildly, and she lazily cuffed it aside. She advanced, a swing narrowly missing his chest, and he ran to the side, huffing.

Geneviève loved this part of the fight, when they realized they were not her opponent so much as her playtoy, when the realization that they never should have drawn in the first place set upon them, when they knew they were vastly outmatched. 

When they knew she could, and would, kill them. 

She took a few more simple advances against him, parried by her allowance of such, and took a few steps back, swinging her sword to and fro like the tail of a cat. It was always a matter of debate, to Geneviève, whether she wanted to kill a man or not. Mama assuredly did not approve, saying killing was unladylike, and caused an unnecessary amount of headache and paperwork besides. And that was, Geneviève allowed, true enough, but she also allowed that killing someone made it quite certain they would not give offense in the future. 

She quickly closed on, her sword twisting and whirling around his, the bright notes of each clang noting each second he had been allowed to live. He foolishly, fearfully, desperately grabbed for her sword, and she drew it up quickly, the blade slicing through his hand wordlessly. He clutched it to his chest without thinking, the blood leaving a mark over his heart as a beacon, crying out for Geneviève’s sword. 

Wild extensions and half-thought lines came from the man, Geneviève easily countering, perfectly calm, her face peaceful as the fight neared its conclusion. Even a cat tires of the mouse eventually, and so, Geneviève plunged forward into a false attack, knowing he would leap forward without thinking. She was not disappointed, and in an instant she made the choice to please her mother and not kill him after all, sending him instead hurtling into a box of cabbages that sat for sale tumbling to the ground along with the man himself. 

He barely had a moment to realize where he was before there was a rapier at his throat. 

“If ever I hear your voice again, or catch sight of your face, or so much as hear a rumor that you still exist,” Her dark hair gleamed in the light, “ I will kill you. This is the absolute end of my patience and the extent of my mercy. You would do well to leave Guyenne entirely, and hie you back to Albion. But you will be leaving Mademoiselle Oksana here, as her debt is repaid,” she pushed the sword, just a little, and a tiny tear opened at his throat, “with your life. I trust we have an understanding?” 

He nodded, and Geneviève withdrew her sword, popping her foot under his sword and sending it into the air, where she nimbly grabbed it with the other hand. Sheathing her sword, she considered the other one, and began to walk away when there was a small but sturdy voice behind her. 

“My mistress!” Oksana rushed to her and gave a bow. 

“Oh no, that’s entirely unnecessary,” she shook her head, the scent of roses and jasmine shaking into the air, “You are free to…” she waved a hand, “Do whatever it is people of your station do, I suppose. Marry. Have several fat babies. Grow cabbage.” 

“Please, madam,” she looked up into Geneviève’s eyes, and she noted the steely blue of them, “I have nothing, and, if only  could be allowed to work--”

“Here,” Geneviève gave her the purloined sword, “Sell it, keep it, whatever you like.” she drew a few coins out of her bag, “For bread.” 

Oksana shook her head and raised her hand. “I will earn my way, madam. I am a fine embroiderer, and accomplished dresser, and I could keep your wardrobe nice as you’ve ever had it. I know all the fine hair braiding of the East, as well.” She nodded. “You saved my life. I would be endlessly loyal to you.” 

It wasn’t often that Geneviève had the humility to reconsider her position, but it was a day of exceptions, and it occurred to her that there might be worse things than to have a deeply loyal and hopefully discreet lady’s maid at her side. If nothing else, she might keep her things in arrangement as she traveled. Mama always was saying it was indelicate for a lady to travel on her own. She had never taken to any of the family’s servants on a personal level. 

Opportunity did not come in every moment. 

“Very well,” she plopped the coins in Oksana’s hand, “an advance on your payment. We shall have to get you a finer dress, as it would be unseemly for me to be seen with my lady’s maid dressed so poorly. A Bourbon-Penthièvre would never allow such a thing.” 

Oksana clutched the coins to her chest and nodded with the assured gravity that Geneviève often found in the Volhynians. An intensity something like the summer sun about absolutely everything. She found it frankly exhausting, but in time it would like rove out its own worth. 

The clutter and clamor of the city surrounded them as they walked toward the dressmaker’s, both somehow knowing they were at the start of a new life.

[sisterofiris]

Everyday life in the Hittite empire

Have you ever wondered what your life would have been like if you had been born in central Anatolia 3500 years ago? No? Now that I’ve brought it up, are you curious to find out?

Well you’re in luck, because that’s just what this post is about. So sit back, close your eyes, and imagine yourself in Anatolia - that is, modern Turkey. Are you ready? Can you see the mountains, the red river and the towering buildings of your capital, Ḫattuša? Can you hear the chariots driving up the road? Can you feel the electric brewing of a storm in the distance?

Then let’s go.

(With a brief disclaimer: while I study Hittitology, this is not intended as an academic-level post. It was written to give general, approachable insights into Hittite culture and can be used as writing inspiration or to titillate curious history nerds around you, but if you’re writing an academic paper on the subject, I would recommend you check out the bibliography instead.)

About you

First things first, are you older than five? If so, congratulations on being alive. Child mortality in this place and time is very high, so you’re one of the luckier ones among your siblings. You probably have at least a couple of those; you may even have as many as six or seven, especially if you come from a well-to-do family with access to good healthcare. When you were little, your parents might have told you the tale of Zalpa, in which the queen of Neša gives birth to thirty sons then thirty daughters who marry each other, but you know this only happens in the stories - not to normal people.

When you were born, your parents rejoiced regardless of your sex, as sons and daughters are equally valued in your society (albeit for different reasons). Your father took you on his knee and gave you a good Hittite name: maybe Armawiya, Ḫarapšili, Kilušḫepa or Šiwanaḫšušar for a girl, or Anuwanza, Kantuzili, Muwaziti or Tarḫuzalma for a boy. Gender-neutral names, such as Anna, Muwa and Šummiri, would also have been an option. Many people around you have Hurrian or Luwian names, even if they are not ethnically Hurrian or Luwian themselves. (This is comparable to the modern popularity of Hispanic names like Diego, or French names like Isabelle.)

It’s hard to say what you would have done during childhood. While your earliest years would have been spent playing and babbling in grammatically incorrect Hittite, by the age of six or seven you may well have already started training in the family profession. If a girl, you would have been taught to weave by your mother; if a boy, you might have helped your father out on the farm, tried your hand at making pottery, or spent long hours learning cuneiform. (There may have been careers requiring gender non-conformity, as there was in Mesopotamia, but as far as I am aware this has not been proven.) You know that even the noblest children are given responsibilities - king Ḫattušili himself was once a stable boy.

Now, as an adult, you are a working professional contributing directly to Hittite society. You look the very portrait of a Hittite: as a woman, you have long, dark hair that you probably keep veiled, and as a man, your hair is around shoulder-length and your face clean-shaven. Ethnically, though, you are likely a mixture of Hittite, Luwian, Hurrian, Hattian, and depending on when and where exactly you live, maybe Assyrian, Canaanite or even Greek. There’s a fair chance Hittite might not actually be your native language. Still, you consider yourself a Hittite, and a subject of the Hittite king.

Well, now you know who you are, let’s get along with your day!

Your home and environment

Your day begins the way most people’s days do: you wake up at home, in your bed. As an average Hittite, you probably sleep on the floor rather than on elevated furniture. Your floor is either paved or of beaten earth, and your house itself has stone foundations and mud brick walls, with a flat roof supported by timber beams. Windows are scarce and small, to keep the indoor temperature stable.

Outside, the rest of the settlement is waking up too. Statistically, you live in a village or small town, surrounded by forest and mountains. Summers here are hot and dry, and winters cold and snowy, with spring and autumn being marked by thunderstorms. Most inhabitants work as farmers, relying on the weather for their survival. Contagious illnesses are a constant threat - under king Muršili II, the land suffered a deadly plague for twenty years - as are enemy invasions. If you live within the bend of the red river, in the Hittite heartland, consider yourself lucky; if not, your settlement could well be shifting from one kingdom’s property to another and falling prey to both sides’ raids on a yearly basis.

Admitting no enemy forces are in the area today, you take your time to get up. You might tiredly stumble to the outhouse to go pee. Eventually, you’ll want to get dressed.

Clothing

As a man, your clothes comprise of a kilt or sleeved tunic, with a belt of cloth or leather. As a woman, you wear a long dress and, if you are married, a veil. All clothing is made from wool or linen, and a variety of dyes exist: red, yellow, blue, green, black and white are all colours mentioned in texts. If you are rich enough, you may be able to import purple-dyed fabric from Lazpa (Greek Lesbos) or the Levant. You will also want to flaunt your wealth with jewellery, regardless of gender.

Of course, your shoes have upturned ends in the Hittite style. Historians will tease you for this. Don’t listen to them. You look awesome.

Mealtime!

It’s now time for one of your two daily meals (the other will take place in the evening, after your work for the day is done). This will be prepared at the hearth, a vital element of every home, and which is likely connected to an oven. The staple of your diet is bread; in fact, it is so common that “bread”, in cuneiform texts, is used as a general term for food. It is usually made from wheat or barley, but can also be made from beans or lentils.

Worried you’ll get bored of it? You needn’t be: your society has enough types of bread that you could eat a different one each day for a whole season. Fig bread, sour bread, flat bread and honey bread are just some of your options, along with spear bread and moon bread... yes, in other words, baguettes and croissants. (Something tells me the Hittites and the French would have a lot to talk about.)

You also have various fruits and vegetables available: cucumber, leek, carrots, peas, chickpeas, lentils, beans, olives, figs, dates, grapes, pomegranates, onions, garlic, and more. Your diet is completed by animal products, including cheese, milk, butter, and meat, mainly from sheep and goats but also cows and wild game. Honey, too, is common.

These ingredients can be combined into all sorts of dishes. Porridge is popular, as are stews, both vegetarian and meat-based. Meat can also be broiled and quite possibly skewered onto kebabs. And of course, food would be boring without spices, so you have a variety of those to choose from too: coriander are cumin are just two of them.

As for drinks, you can have beer, wine, beer-wine (good luck figuring out what that is), milk or water. If you’re well-to-do enough, you may own a rhyton, a drinking vessel shaped like an animal such as a stag or bull. Don’t forget to libate to the Gods before drinking your share.

Daily work

The next thing on your plate, after food, is work. What you do depends on your social status and gender, and most likely, you do the same work as your parents did before you. You could be something well-known like a king, priest, scribe, merchant, farmer or slave, but don’t assume those are all the possibilities; you could also be, for example, a gardener, doctor, ritual practitioner, potter, weaver, tavern keeper, or perfume maker.

It’s impossible to go into detail on every career option you would have in Hittite society, so for the sake of brevity, let’s just discuss four - two male-dominated, and two female-specific.

Farmer

As a farmer, you are the backbone of your society. You and your peers are responsible for putting food on the plates of Hittites everywhere, thus ensuring the survival of the empire.

Like many farmers, you live on a small estate, most likely with both crops (or an orchard) and livestock to take care of. You may own cows, sheep, goats, pigs, horses, donkeys, and/or ducks. Your daily routine and tools aren’t that different from other pre-industrial cultures, though you have it a little rougher than most due to the Anatolian mountain terrain. If you have the means, you hire seasonal workers - both male and female - to help out as farmhands, and you may own a few slaves.

You get up early to milk the cows, and at the onset of summer, you or a hired herdsman may lead your livestock up to mountain pastures to graze. Depending on the season and the work that needs to be done, you may spend your day ploughing the fields, harvesting grain or fruit, tending livestock, shearing sheep, birthing a calf, repairing the barn, or various other tasks. Make sure to take proper care of everything: new animals are expensive, and losing one could get you into a precarious situation. In particular, you’ll want to keep an eye out for bears, wolves, foxes, and even lions and leopards.

Scribe

Few people are literate in Hittite society, and you are one of the lucky ones. You have been learning to read and write in three languages (Sumerian, Akkadian and Hittite) since childhood, and after long years of copying lexical lists and ancient myths, your education is now complete.

As a scribe, you are the dreaded bureaucrat. In a small town, you likely work alongside the town administrator, recording tax collections and enemy sightings as well as corresponding with other towns, and with the capital. You and your peers are the go-to people for officialising marriage agreements and divorces, drawing up work contracts, and creating sales receipts. If not in the town administration, you could also work in a temple, recording the results of oracles, cross-checking the correct procedures for a ritual, and making sure everything necessary for a festival is available. If you are particularly lucky, you may be employed by the nobility or even the palace, and be entrusted with such confidential tasks as writing the king’s annals or drafting an international treaty.

Regardless of where you are, two things are essential to your job: a stylus and a tablet. You may be a “scribe of the clay tablets”, in which case you will need to carry around a bit of clay wherever you go (and some water to moisten it). Otherwise, you are a “scribe of the wooden tablets”, in which case you use a wax tablet in a wooden frame, which requires less maintenance. It’s unclear whether these types of tablet are used for different purposes.

Fun fact: you likely have a few pen pals around the Hittite empire. After corresponding with other scribes for so long, you’ve started writing each other messages at the bottom of your tablets, asking each other how you’re doing and to say hi to each other’s families. Your employers needn’t know.

Weaver

Weaving, to a Hittite like you, is the quintessential female activity, along with textile-making in general. Like farming, this is a backbone of your society: without weaving, there would be no clothes, and without clothes, well, you can’t do much.

As a weaver, you produce textiles for your family and in many cases also for sale. You work in an atelier within your home, along with the other women of the household, keeping an eye on your smallest children as they play nearby. While your husband, brothers or sons may transport and sell your handiwork, you are the head of your own business.

You are skilled in multiple weaving techniques, and can do embroidery and sew fabric into various shapes (including sleeves - take that, Classical Greeks). You create clothing for all sorts of occasions, including rituals and festivals, outdoor work, and winter weather, and if you are lucky enough to be commissioned by the nobility, you put your best efforts into clothing that will show off their status. Don’t try to cheat anyone out of their money, though; prices are fixed by law.

Old Woman

Contrary to what you might expect, you don’t need to be old to be an Old Woman - this is a career just like any other, though it probably does require a certain amount of life experience and earned respect. As an Old Woman, you are a trained ritual practitioner and active in all sorts of cultic, divinatory and magical ceremonies.

Most commonly, you are hired for rituals protecting against or removing evil. Your services may solve domestic quarrels, cure a sick child, or shield someone from sorcery (a constant threat in your society). This is done through symbolic acts like cutting pieces of string, breaking objects, and sacrificing and burning animals, which are of course accompanied by incantations - sometimes in Hittite, sometimes in other languages, like Hurrian.

Far from a village witch, you are high-placed in Hittite society and trusted by the royal family itself. You have taken part in major rituals and festivals, including funerals, and you perform divinatory oracles too. This last responsibility gives you a large amount of influence over the king and queen; if you establish that something should be done, then it almost certainly will be. Use this power well... or not.

Your loved ones

After a long day ploughing fields, writing tablets, weaving clothes or reciting incantations, it’s finally time to reunite with your loved ones. For adults, these likely - but not necessarily! - include a spouse and children. You may just live with your nuclear family, but living with extended family is also common, and there may be as many as twenty people in your household. Siblings, aunts and uncles, parents, grandparents, children and babies all share the evening meal with you, and some nights, you might gather afterwards to sing and dance, tell stories, and play games.

You also have relationships outside of home. Friendship is valued by Hittite society, with close friends calling each other “brother” and sister”. You might meet up with them regularly at the local tavern for a beer and a bit of fun. Someone there might even catch your eye... Interestingly, there are no laws against that person being of the same gender as you. So, same or different gender, why not try your luck tonight?

Greater powers

It’s impossible to spend a day in the Hittite empire without encountering religion. The Land of a Thousand Gods is aptly named: Gods are in everything, from the sun to the mountains to the stream at the back of your house to fire to a chair. You should always be conscious of their power, and treat them with respect. Though there are few traces of it, you may have a household shrine where you make libations or offer a portion of your meal. Your Gods may be represented by anthropomorphic statues, by animals such as a bull, by symbols such as gold disks, or even by a stone. Either way, treat these objects well; the divine is literally present in them.

You should also be wary of sorcery. Never make clay figures of someone, or kill a snake while speaking someone’s name, or you will face the death penalty. Likewise, always dispose of impurities carefully, especially those left over from a purification ritual (such as mud, ashes, or body hair). Never toss them onto someone else’s property. Has misfortune suddenly struck your household? Is your family or livestock getting sick and dying? These are signs that someone has bewitched you.

Some days are more sacred than others. You participate in over a hundred festivals every year, some lasting less than a day, some lasting a month, some local, some celebrated by the entire Hittite empire. The most important of these are the crocus festival and the purulli festival in spring, the festival of haste in autumn, and the gate-house festival, possibly also in autumn. The statues of the Gods are brought out of the temples, great feasts are held, and entertainment is provided through music, dance and sports contests. Depending on how important your town is, the king, queen or a prince might even be in attendance. All this excitement is a nice break from your regular work!

Sleep and dreams

Phew, what a busy day it’s been. The sun, snared in the trees’ branches, has set on the Hittite land, and you are ready for bed. Time to wrap yourself snugly in blankets and go to sleep.

You may dream, in which case, try to remember as much as you can. Dreams can be a vehicle for omens. Maybe, if the Gods are kind, you might catch a glimpse of what the next days, months and years hold in store for you.

Good night!

Bibliography

Beckman, Gary, “Birth and Motherhood among the Hittites”, in Budin, Stephanie Lynn, Macintosh Turfa, Jean, Women in Antiquity: Real Women across the Ancient World, Abingdon 2016 (pp. 319-328).

Bryce, Trevor, Life and Society in the Hittite World, Oxford 2002.

Bryce, Trevor, “The Role and Status of Women in Hittite Society”, in Budin, Stephanie Lynn, Macintosh Turfa, Jean, Women in Antiquity: Real Women across the Ancient World, Abingdon 2016 (pp. 303-318).

Golec-Islam, Joanna, The Food of Gods and Humans in the Hittite World, BA thesis, Warszawa 2016.

Hoffner, Harry A., “Birth and name-giving in Hittite texts”, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 27/3 (1968), pp. 198-203.

Hoffner, Harry A., “Daily life among the Hittites”, in Averbeck, Richard E., Chavalas, Marc W., Weisberg, David B., Life and Culture in the Ancient Near East, Bethesda 2003 (pp. 95-118).

Marcuson, Hannah, “Word of the Old Woman”: Studies in Female Ritual Practice in Hittite Anatolia, PhD thesis, Chicago 2016.

Wilhelm, Gernot, “Demographic Data from Hittite Land Donation Tablets”, in Pecchioli Daddi, Franca, Torri, Giulia, Corti, Carlo, Central-North Anatolia in the Hittite Period: New Perspectives in Light of Recent Research, Roma 2009 (pp. 223-233).

#Hittites #damn i love the hittites #ancient history #anatolia #history #infodump #i put so much effort into this please appreciate it

[empressofmankind]

The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 03. Jaime I

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire Major Character/s: Kevan Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Barristan Selmy, Loren Lannister (mentioned), Tywin Lannister (mentioned), Cersei Lannister (mentioned), Tyrion Lannister (mentioned) Minor Somebodies: Brynmor Royan, Jared Swyft, Berick, Mathilde, Karl, Mirbelle, Clerrance Manning, Florance Manning, Tanda Stokesworth, Falyse Stokesworth, Balman Byrch, Lollys Stokesworth, Jacyntha Bywater, Jocelyn Bywater (mentioned), Lloyd Royan (mentioned) Location/s: King’s Landing Premises: King Robert insisted he throw little Kevan a party for his squiring, and what a party it is Mood: Jaime vicariously living through his little brother Warnings: On-the-nose allusions to sex / sexual innuendo (conversation with the Household guards at the barracks), Teen appropriate NOTE: Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert Baratheon, Queen Cersei Lannister and their family set out for Winterfell. It therefore takes place a little bit before the start of the first book, ‘A Game of Thrones’. The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I //  

O   O   O

Jaime took Kevan back to Maegor’s Holdfast and the royal guest quarters. The grand, red-stone stairway to those lofty third-floor private spaces was worn from thousands of feet across hundreds of years. Carved stone pedestals draped with the battle standards of the Great Houses lined it on either side. Jaime remembered how they had borne statues of dragons on top of their ancient folds.

“Did that standard belong to King Loren?” Kevan had halted beside a pedestal on their left hand. Amid folds of fragile, scorched crimson a familiar cloth-of-gold lion glistened despite its great age.

“It did.” Loren the Last. The King of the Rock who had bend the knee and risen a Lord. He had lived, though, unlike plenty others. Jaime had never taken much note of the old standards, they’d been a backdrop to his daily routines as much as the throneroom’s dragon skulls had been. Yet his chest swelled with pride when he saw Kevan gingerly touch the lion and felt the chasm to the distant past bridged by that simple gesture. Loren may have been the last King, but he hadn’t been the last Lannister. “I believe your Mother was named for him.”

“Mother wouldn’t have minded being a Queen,” Kevan said. Jaime didn’t doubt that neither would their Father being a King. Kevan turned to him, a grin on his face. “Helaina would have loved being a real princess.”

Jaime chuckled. “She would have, wouldn’t she?”

They continued their way up the stairs and then down the wide corridor at the top, to the bedroom Kevan shared with their little sister.

“A light tunic and sturdy trousers will do,” Jaime said as they entered. The two Lannister household guards that accompanied them filed in after, taking up positions on either side of the door. Jaime saw Helaina’s bed was empty, the sheets tucked in almost straight. She couldn’t have gone far as her toy horse sat on her pillow.

“Helaina?” Kevan called.

“She must have gone to your Mother,” Jaime said. Unlike Kevan, the little girl tended to stay put. Kevan looked from her bed to the open door and back, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Kevan.”

“Yes, Ser.” Kevan dutifully went to the hutch chest at the foot of his bed. It was a sturdy, wooden affair with a raised bottom. A pride of frolicking lion cubs decorated its lid, their goldwork scuffed and dented. Kevan pushed the lid up, knocking it against the foot of the bed. Jaime waited as his little brother rummaged for clothes and put them on.

When Kevan was finished, Jaime beckoned him to follow. Once more they crossed the covered bridge over the dry moat out of Maegor’s Holdfast. “From now on, you’ll don your armour where our sworn swords do.”

“The barracks?” Kevan’s tone pitched as his eyes widened. He glanced at the man and woman walking behind them, dressed in the boiled leathers and red cloaks typical of their household guard. The woman winked, drawing a grin from the boy. Jaime put a hand on his shoulder, turning him in the right direction before descending the serpentine steps to the lower bailey. The Red Keep was waking up around them. Servants went about their tasks and men-at-arms set to their duties. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted towards them, drawing an emphatic growl from Kevan’s stomach.

“I wonder if there are any bread crusts left?” Jaime said.

Delight lit up Kevan’s boyish face, dimpling his rosy, freckled cheeks. He glanced up and the morning light hit his green eyes just so, setting a sparkle to them as if flecked with gold. Jaime could barely recall the last time his Father’s eyes had smiled at him like that. A small hand touched his lower arm, and he flinched out of his thoughts.

“Jay?” Kevan looked at him, and the thoughtful squint of those eyes made their likeness worse still. 

Jaime forced a smile. “Just the thought of those crusts is enough to stun me.”

Kevan nodded, but the frown remained.

“I wonder what kind they might have?” Jaime stifled the urge to look away. “Maybe there’ll be cake crusts too.”

“Ma doesn’t approve of sweetcakes before breaking my fast.” Kevan’s tone was solemn, and Jaime wanted it to go away.

“Ah, but they aren’t sweetcakes, are they? They are crusts.” To his relief, Kevan’s frown disappeared when his words sank in, and a grin returned in its place as they walked onto the kitchen courtyard. It was busy here already. A butcher’s boy struggled with a hog intent on the garbage two young men were piling onto a cart. Three milkmaids stood giggling further along, evidently as intent on one of the young men as the hog on the trash. Porters carried caskets of Southeron wine, no doubt for the King’s unquenchable thirst. And a young girl, not much older than Kevan, stood with a basket of sweetcakes looking rather lost. No one took note of them, except a scrawny dog that knew a source of pets when she saw one.

The mutt jogged towards them, tail wagging half-mast. She had a dirty beige and white coat spotted like a cow. One ear stood up while the other flopped down, making it seem as if she were surprised. 

“Are you hungry too, Snout?” Kevan let her press her wet nose into his palm and then petted her snout. 

Jaime wasn’t sure if the dog was a stray or belonged to a servant. He looked about the courtyard as Kevan played with the animal. Some distance away, he spotted who he’d been looking for and started towards them. “Come with, Kev.”

Kevan patted his thigh, making the dog bark and bound after him as he ran to catch up with his big brother. 

As they approached, they overheard the royal larder steward scold a kitchen boy. The basket by his feet and the mess of quail scales and egg yolk on the cobbles made it clear what the problem was.

“—for egg-in-a-crust for the Queen herself, young man.” Mirbelle was a short, lean, pale woman in her mid thrice twenties who favoured sturdy trousers over the skirts usual for women of the kitchen staff. She reminded Jaime of the septa Loren had brought with her to Casterly Rock. 

The boy hunched his shoulders. He couldn’t be more than six or seven. “S’cuses ma’am,” he peeped in the smallest of voices.

“That will not unbreak the eggs, Sten.” Mirbelle pursed her lips. “Mind where you put your feet from now on.”

The boy nodded vigorously.

“Run along, quickly now,” Mirbelle said when she caught sight of the lordlings approaching her.

“Good morning, Mirbelle. Trouble afoot?” Jaime said once they reached her. The thought of his dear sister having to forgo her favoured breakfast, amused him. Pity be upon whoever befell the misfortune of having to inform her.

“A good morn to you too, Ser.” Mirbelle shook her head at the mess on the cobblestones. “And none you need spend your valued time on.”

“Hello!” Kevan popped up between the adults, drawing their attention. “Can we have bread crusts?”

“Kevan.” Jaime’s tone was stern but not unkind.

When Kevan stole a glance at him, he indicated Mirbelle with a small flick of his chin and eyebrows. 

Kevan gave a curt nod, then turned back to Mirbelle. He drew himself up, his expression serious. “Can we have bread crusts, please, ma’am?”

“Mayhap. We must ask Karl.” Jaime could tell Mirbelle was suppressing a smile. She indicated a side corridor and inclined her head. “This way, younger Lord Kevan, Ser Jaime.”

They followed Mirbelle into the warren of close-leaning buildings that formed the kitchens. Boys and girls busied to and fro, most of them a few years older than Kevan. She led them through a dim room where women stood beating grain or sat grounding it into flour with rotary querns. They crossed a narrow alley where men loaded bushels of weed from a cart and passed a butcher’s workshop where a large, heavyset man slaughtered an equally large deer. 

Kevan stopped, perhaps wanting to take a closer look. 

Jaime grabbed his shoulder and steered him away. “Ask Lord Tywin if he will show you, next time your parents have gone hunting.”

Kevan dropped his head but said nothing. Jaime wondered if he’d already asked and received a resounding ‘No’.

The sweet smell of sugar and the spiced scent of baking bread reached them long before they entered the bakery. An older man, thin and corded like a whip, stood before a brick oven turning fist-sized round bread that lay baking. A sleek, black cat sat near his feet, lazying in the comfortable heat.

“Morn, Karl,” Mirbelle said.

Karl glanced up as they entered, then resumed his work. “Breadcrumbs for the princeling, yes?”

“Just so,” Mirbelle said. “Ser Jaime.” She inclined her head and left, no doubt to marshal the contingency plan for his sister’s lost breakfast. Jaime had dropped an egg-in-a-crust once on his way from the kitchen and had given it to her anyway. He smiled. That was years ago, now.

Kevan pulled his head back, a hint of a pout on his lips. “I’m not Prince Joffrey.”

“Aren’t you?” Karl turned the last of the bread.

Kevan shook his head vigorously. “I’m Kevan Lannister!”

Karl cleaned his hands and came towards them. He had a face as thin as the rest of him and his dark hair, tied into a neat bun, was streaked with grey. “You seem to have shrunk, Ser Kevan.”

Kevan’s frown acquired that particular look children got when they weren’t quite sure if you were pulling their leg.

“Let me look at you.” Karl sat down on his haunches to be on eye-height with the boy and overacted a good, examining look at him. “Ah! Now I see the son instead of the brother. Then your height is just about right.”

Kevan beamed.

“Tell me, what can I do for the littlest Lord of Casterly Rock?”

Are you taller than Tyrion yet, little brother? We ought to put you back to back when next we run into the Imp. Jaime struggled to keep his expression neutral. He didn’t want Kevan to think he was laughing at him.

“Can we have bread crusts, please, mister?” Kevan stole a glance at Jaime that reminded him of a dog expecting a pat for good behaviour. He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“You certainly may.” Karl beckoned Kevan and led them to the back of the bakery. A young woman, a little younger than Lady Lynara if Jaime had to guess, sat cutting baked bread into thick slices. She discarded the crust from either end and wrapped the slices into the waxed paper before packing them into a large crate. The bread crusts she tossed into a small, tattered arm-basket that sat next to her on the bench.

“Apologise me courtesies, milords,” Mathilde said as she raised her flour stained hands and indicated herself.

Kevan nodded. “I allow it.”

Jaime suppressed his amusement at the thought of their Father’s face, had he been here. Would you have demanded she gets up instead, little brother?

“Most gracious, weelord.” Mathilde reached for new bread and continued her work. “What can Mathilde do for one so little from up so high?”

“We would like some bread crusts, miss Mathilde.” Kevan’s tone was earnest, but his eyes looked longingly at the fresh, crispy brown crusts piled into the tattered basket. Though it lasted an instant, Jaime caught the look between the kitchen maid and baker. Hers one of displeasure and his rather quelling. She was smiling a heartbeat later, but it no longer reached her eyes.

“And what if I say I have none?” Mathilde looked at Kevan as she spoke, her hands so used to their task they no longer needed her eyes to coordinate.

Kevan frowned and looked from her to the basket with its delicious crusts, and back. “But you do,” he said, his tone indignant. ‘You can give us some!”

Before Mathilde could reply, Karl sat down on the edge of the table and drew their attention away from the young woman. “A bold demand for a Lord so small. Tell me, by what right do you claim these fresh crusts?”

Kevan puffed out his chest. “I am Kevan Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

Jaime and Karl exchanged an amused look. “So you claim,” Karl said.

“So I am! Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard can vouch for me.”

Jaime nodded. “Indeed, this is my younger brother Kevan, son of Lady Loren Lannister of Lannisport and Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

“Ah, Lord Tywin?” Karl frowned as if he had to think very deeply on who that might be. “Warden of the West and liege lord of the Westerlands, yes?”

Kevan nodded vigorously, drawing himself up.

“Though we aren’t in the Westerlands, are we?” A hint of teasing crept into Karl’s tone. “Your Father is no longer Hand to the King. What claim do you have, here, outside your fief?”

Kevan’s expression screwed up in thought. Several moments passed before a grin returned to his small face. “Queen Cersei is my big sister and King Robert is liege of the Crownlands, Storm’s End and all of Westeros. I am the King’s brother-in-law, and you must pay the bread crust tithe, to me, in his name.”

Karl chuckled and ruffled the boy’s tousled curls. “Your Father will be pleased to know you’ve studied your lessons and came up with such a clever riposte so swiftly.” He took a piece of waxed paper and put bread crusts from Mathilde’s basket into it, stacking them end to end. “Here’s your tithe, little Lord.”

Kevan beamed as he accepted the bulging package.

Jaime put his hand on his shoulder. “Come, we must make for the barracks.”

“Ah, it's your big day, isn’t it?” Karl said as he winked at Kevan. “That explains the inordinate amount of fruit cakes on today’s tally.”

At the mention of fruit cakes, Kevan’s grin managed to become a little wider still.

“Go on, now, don’t make Ser Jaime wait.”

Kevan turned to follow Jaime. However, when they crossed the threshold out of the kitchen, Kevan pulled Jaime’s sleeve. Jaime glanced down at him and saw Kevan hold up the package to him. Jaime accepted it from him and meant to remark on making him carry it, but Kevan had turned and ran back into the kitchen. He climbed onto the table and scooted towards Mathilde.

“Many thanks, miss Mathilde,” Kevan said and kissed her cheek before hopping off and hurrying back to Jaime.

Karl and Mathilde watched them leave. “Bread crust tithe? Hah!” Mathilde huffed as she glared at the empty doorway. “Presumptuous little brat, taking what little I have.”

“You’d do better not to say such things out loud.” Karl shook his head. “The boy carries no malice in his heart, but his brother might inform their Father. And very, very, few things in this good world are worth garnering Lord Tywin’s ire over.”

Mathilde packed the last of the bread crusts in her basket, glaring at the dent in the previously modest pile. “I don’t care.”

It reminded Karl she was barely more than a child herself. He took her by the shoulder and caught her gaze. “There is no outcome in these things where you can win, girl. Either you go hungry a day, or you go whipped and hungry a day. Do you understand me?”

She pursed her lips, angry still, but nodded. 

Karl gave a curt nod in return. “Better we amuse the boy, might that something good reach his Father’s ears, too.”

Jaime and Kevan walked by the castle its orchard on their way to the barracks. Women chatted as they picked apples, balancing upon tall wooden ladders with baskets on their arm. Children ran among the trees, chasing a hoop.

“Can I have a bread crust?” Kevan said.

“They’re your tithe, aren’t they?” Jaime unfolded a corner of the package and held it down.

Kevan chose a large one with a thick crust. He took a bite and smiled in delight. “Don’t you want one?” he said, chewing.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.” Jaime picked a bread crust as well and wrapped the packaged closed again. They were outstanding. Soft and warm still, their crust crunchy and spiced.

“Sorry,” Kevan said, with his mouth full.

Jaime shook his head. Had he been like that? He couldn’t remember. No doubt it had driven their Father up the nearest wall. 

The barracks were located beside the Tower of the Hand. Though Lord Tywin hadn’t been Hand for some time, the Lannister household guards still garrisoned here. Previously, they comprised a twoscore men-at-arms, there for the Queen to call upon should she require them. However, when Lord Tywin and Lady Loren had arrived last week for the tourney on Prince Joffrey’s twelfth name day, their number had quadrupled. Lord Tywin had taken less than a fifth back to Casterly Rock. The building itself was sturdy and ancient, its wooden beams black and hardened with age, its limestone walls plastered many times anew. Some said that the beams had acquired their distinct colour because Maegor Targaryen had kept his mother’s dragon Vhagar here, rather than confine her to the Dragonpit. 

The noise of the old barracks met them halfway across the training yard: the ring of swords wielded in practice matches, the tinkle of chainmail and the clang of armour plates. Talking, too, and laughter. Men in the red of House Lannister sat on benches or stood about, discussing news and sharing bawdy jokes.

“Bloody Seven, lads, my armour shrank! Again!” Ser Brynmor Royan’s roaring laughter carried above all others at his own jest. The halberdier struggled to find the right fit of his breastplate over his ample stomach. He was a man in his middle five-tens, his skin a leathery brown and his dark hair and bushy beard thoroughly greying. Though he had always been large, build like the Westerland hardwood trees, he had gotten near as wide as he was tall since last Jaime saw him. Ser Brynmor was the half-brother of Ser Lloyd Royan, the petty Lord of Westerbridge, a backwater less than a day’s ride north of Castamere.

“Should have left that last shank alone, Brynmor.” Ser Jared Swyft sat on a nearby bench, whetting his blade. He was of an age with Jaime and had been part of the Lannister Household guards stationed here at King’s Landing for as long as he could remember. Pasty, ill-proportioned and as chinless as his uncle, Jared was the younger brother of Jocelyn if Jaime recalled correctly. One of his sister’s insipid ladies-in-waiting.

“Oh, what’s one more shank on half a dozen?” Ser Brynmor guffawed. “Jousting is hungry work! No, it’s the age, you see.” He patted his belly for emphasis. “Didn’t use to get the chance to stay.”

Ser Jared’s hand stilled for a moment, his dull grey eyes almost managing a glimmer of wit as he looked up from his chore. “Age? Lord Tywin’s your age and gaunt as the spikes he loves so well despite dining better than the lot of us combined.”

“Hah! If I had a comely little wifey half my years with a rear like that, I’d be damn lean too,” Ser Brynmor snorted with amusement.  “Berick, give us a hand, boy.”

“She seems happy to polish the rust off his sword,” Berick Vikary said as he assisted Ser Brynmor, holding his breastplate in place. A pock-marked seventeen-year-old with hair the colour and texture of straw, Berick had overstayed his welcome as Ser Jared’s squire for some time, evidently in no rush to be his own man. “What’s his excuse to be choleric with a keen lady warming his bed?”

Ser Brynmor leaned towards the younger man, miming a confidential tone. “Imagine what he was like before.”

“She ain’t no kitty-cat. I saw her make the Queen feel her claws at the tourney, had retracted them before anyone else saw ‘em, too,” Jared said.

“She’s taken right well to the reigns, she has,” Ser Brynmor agreed with a chuckle. He fastened the straps of his breastplate with effort. The way the leather had been stretched thinner where the clasps sat a testament to their struggle to confine his bulk being anything but recent.  “Those of the Westerlands as much as our benign Liege’s.” 

Ser Jared made a derisive noise and resumed his chore. “I bet she rides him sorer than a courier horse and he has nary a say in it.”

“Be that envy, I hear?” Ser Brynmor gave him a shove as he reached for his surcoat, emblazoned with the silver bridge on blue of House Royan. “If seeding her fields gets too much for him, he only need say and I will provide aid to our Liege in his time of need as is my sworn duty as his loyal banner.”

“He’d sooner die trying, tenacious prick,” Ser Jared scoffed.

A tug at his sleeve as they approached diverted Jaime’s attention away from the conversation. He glanced at Kevan, who had halted. A thoughtful frown creased his small face as he chewed the last of his bread crust. “Why is Mother’s butt important?”

Articulated reason flew out the window the second the question hit Jaime’s ears and his thoughts sped back to the tourney of their own accord. She’d worn that dress, the one with the lions salient and the cloth of gold panels winking between the crimson folds of its skirts as she walked. He distinctly remembered the way the sunlight had caught the expensive cloth as it shifted into view with the movement of her rear. He tried to banish the image from his mind’s eye.  What in the Seven was he supposed to say to that? 

“Ser Jaime!” Ser Jared’s hail freed him of the need to answer the question, for now. “Been a while since you graced us here.”

“I can’t seem to get the red dye to stick to this cloak,” Jaime said with good humour as he gave his white cloak a tug. The two men clasped each other’s shoulder in greeting.

“Kill brigands more and guard fat kings less.” Ser Jared grinned. His gaze fell on Kevan then. “There’s the little knight of the hour. Old Bryn wasn’t lying when he said you came out a billet of the old lion’s mold. That’s right lucky for your pretty mama, what with how quick you came, eh?”

Kevan’s frown creased deeper and he pursed his lips in an unpleasantly familiar manner. “Lady Loren,” he corrected, his tone quiet. 

Ser Jared flinched, Jaime caught it, though the knight tried to conceal it. Ser Jared ruffled Kevan’s curls. “Apologies, little Lord.” 

“Is this proud armour I saw yours, then?” Ser Brynmor smiled his wide, genial smile. He indicted the distinctly child-sized armour on a nearby armouring stand. “I thought it’d be a shade short for Ser Jaime.”

Kevan’s eyes widened. “Real armour?”

Jaime nodded. “You’ll be a squire, no longer a child. You’ll need real armour.”

“T’is a fine little suit,” Brynmor said as he made way for Kevan, who had eagerly come forward to see.

Jaime agreed. With its red lacquered lamellae and matte gilded sunburst rondels it was unmistakably a child-sized copy of their Father’s armour and by the look of it every inch as finely made as the original.

“Lord Tywin spared no expense in seeing you properly armoured up,” Jared said.

Kevan beamed, never taking his eyes off the brand new armour sitting on the too large armour stand.

“Aye, that must have cost a pretty penny.” Ser Brynmor inspected it with a critical eye. The Royans were petty Lords, at best, but the coal mine on their modest fief had brought them some wealth carting the black stones to Casterly Rock’s smelters and he was therefor not unfamiliar with steel grades.

“It comes from our own forges,” Jaime replied. Tailyn, Loren’s queer sister, had overseen its forging. He had known she maintained the arms and armour of his Father, Loren and his uncles and had therefor assumed she must be a skilled blacksmith. The fine quality of the small armour before him confirmed that conclusion. How long did you work on that with Father breathing down your neck? Rather you than me, Tay.

“Still, good steel is good steel, and craftsmanship,” Ser Brynmor said.

Father would still forge that little armour if it needed the last scrap of Valyrian steel in the known world, Jaime thought.

“Can I put it on?” Kevan’s hopeful tone made Jaime smile.

“You have to put it on.” Jaime had barely said it or a whoop of cheer left the boy. 

Kevan clambered onto the bench and lifted his arms up. “Ser Brynmor, assist me, please!”

“You almost have it down,” Brynmor said. “Now say it like you mean it, serious as the Grey Plague.”

Kevan’s face screwed up into a frown. When he spoke again, he dropped his tone an octave and sharpened it to a verbal point.  “Ser Brynmor. Assist me.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Brynmor inclined his head, suppressing a smile as he took the small chestplate off the stand. “Much better. Your Lord Father would approve.”

Jaime didn’t doubt it. He wondered if Lord Tywin had arrived yet. He must have.

Kevan grinned at the knight, stretching his arms higher as the chestplate was fitted around him.

“Hold in that fat fruitcake belly of yours,” Ser Brynmor jested as he fastened the equally little arming straps in place. Jaime watched the household knight armour Kevan with practised ease. He must have familiarised himself with the small suit. It was atypical in its fastenings, more sophisticated, like their Father’s.

Kevan gave Brynmor an askance look, though he sucked in his stomach regardless. “You’re fatter than me, Ser Brynmor.”

“Me? Fat? I’m slender as a breeding sow.”

Once armoured, Jaime and Kevan made for the Red Keep’s throne room where the squiring ceremony would take place. A dozen household guards, including Ser Brynmor, Ser Jared and Berick, followed them as a honour guard. Kevan walked beside Jaime, pretty as a picture in his new armour. Under his arm, Kevan held the smallest of great helms. It was crested with a lion, like his Father’s. However, his was a seated, ruby-eyed cub with its first tufts of mane, a paw lifted in defiance.

When they entered the throne room, Jaime was surprised by the amount of people there. At a glance, he recognised several Houses of the Crownlands, both great and small. A banquet had been laid out upon long tables with crimson runners and golden tassels, rampant lions embroidered on their ends. The centrepiece dish was a roasted dragon fashioned from what looked like the rump of a suckling pig and the front of a capon with the wings of larger fowl sewn on. A glazed bread lion cub sat triumphant beside it. Minstrels performed on a dais beside the Iron Throne. It towered over the gathered crowd, its looming shadow not quite dispelled by the festivities. Jaime avoided looking at the empty seat.

“Ser Jaime Lannister and Kevan Lannister, the Younger, of House Lannister of Casterly Rock!” A herald in the yellow and black of House Baratheon announced as they entered. King Robert had insisted he arrange and pay a fete for his littlest brother-in-law in honour of his squiring. Though it would seem he hadn’t hewn particularly close to Loren’s acquiescence of ‘a small feast will more than suffice’. It was small only by the King’s usual standards. The treasury had been overflowing with gold when Lord Tywin resigned but the new King’s extravagance had beggared the realm. Do you know you’re footing the bill for this, too, Father? Jaime thought. No doubt, Lord Tywin had realised it the moment he clapped eyes on this fine spectacle. Though Jaime saw neither his Father nor lady Loren among the gathered crowd. They must have retreated after his arrival and would soon come down. It was still early.

As they walked down the hall, a woman in a blue and argent gown came towards them. She was tall with deep-set eyes amid porcelain skin and raven hair. It took him a moment to recognise her: Jacyntha Bywater, sister to Ser Jacelyn Bywater, an officer of the City Watch. She wasn’t stunning, but there was something about her. The Bywaters had a modest manse up on the High Street near the Old Gate, in the older and stately part of King’s Landing. Jacyntha lived there with her lady-in-waiting. He’d forgotten her name, a dainty Dornish thing of sweet courtesies. The two maids had been close friends for years.

“My Lords.” Jacyntha courtesied. Kevan made a neat bow in turn. “May I be the first to offer my congratulations and a humble gift?”

Kevan glanced at Jaime, who inclined his head. Go on, little brother. These are the shenanigans our Father has so diligently heeled you for. Show them you’ve learnt, even if they aren’t here yet. 

“You may,” Kevan said.

Jacyntha beckoned forth a servant, who carried a pillow covered by a silk kerchief with the Bywater arms of argent fish above alternating bars of argent and azure. The servant bend his tall frame deeply and humbly to hold it at eye-height for Kevan. Jacyntha whisked the cloth aside with a flourish of her painted nails. Upon the pillow laid a castle-forged dagger, its wooden hilt inlaid with an enamel lion rampant and its keen edge catching the light. Beside it, a scabbard of tooled leather.

A fine gift, no doubt forged to order. Jaime thought as he watched Kevan pick it up and weigh the blade. That will have cost Jacelyn his pay twice over.

“Do give your Lady Mother my best wishes, and those of my brother, Ser Jacelyn,” Jacyntha replied, lightly stressing her brothers name.

Kevan gave a curt nod. “Many thanks, miss Bywater.” As she left, Kevan turned to Jaime. “Can I wear it?”

“You may.” Loren might not approve of live steel, but Kevan was nearly ten and the dagger but a small blade. Jaime didn’t see any harm in it. Berick helped Kevan secure the scabbard properly to his belt as a rotund man in his middle fourties with a whisp of a woman at similar age came towards them. They were followed by a young girl approximately Kevan’s age. She wore a splendid crimson dress with red on red sealions. For an instant, Jaime thought them relatives of Loren’s that he hadn’t met before. However, when they properly stood before them he saw it wasn’t the golden sea cat of Lannisport that greeted him.

“Lord Clerrance Manning,” the man said with a bow so deep and fluid you’d wonder how a man his circumference managed to bend that well at the waist. “And my dear lady and daughter.”

Manning of Clearwater Breach. A fortified watchtower, and that was being generous. Jaime wondered why they were so keen. The old tower keep sat in an inlet of Blackwater Bay, due south of King’s Landing, at the mouth of the Wendwater river and the edge of the Kingswood. A bay within the bay. In older times, it had been a harbour point but had long since been overshadowed by King’s Landing. 

“We too, humbly seek to honour,” Lord Clerrance said. As on cue, the girl who must be their daughter stepped forward from between her parents, carrying a polished wooden box. She made a careful courtesy, holding the box level as she did. She smiled very sweetly when Kevan bowed in turn. Jaime didn’t like the smug look on her Lord Father’s face.

“My name is Florance and I am honoured to meet you and present this gift, Lord Kevan of Casterly Rock.”

Berick appeared at their side once more, this time to accept the box. He sat down on his haunches, level with both children. Florance showed how to open the box. Within it sat a toy model of a trading ship, finely crafted. It had two little flags on the stern. One, clearly the pennant of House Lannister of Lannisport. The other, no doubt of House Manning, with its proud, red sealion on argent.

“Can it sail?” Kevan’s tone was serious, as if discussing a real vessel. He gave Florance a look that expected an answer, rather than her Lord Father.

“Certainly, milord. It’ll float where you will, its sails set proper.” Florance indicated points where the miniature riggings might be adjusted.

“I like it,” Kevan decided with a smile as he closed the box. Berick rose but kept standing beside them.

“We are humbly pleased you do, my Lord,” Lord Manning said. “We are most honoured you allowed us your time. Come, Florance.” They all but bowed their way back into the crowd before turning and leaving. As they left, Jaime noticed Kevan’s gaze trailing the young Lady’s. She stole a look over her shoulder at them.

“Maybe Mother can invite them for supper, some time.” Kevan glanced up at him.

Not bloody likely, Jaime thought. Your Mother will run them off the grounds faster than our Father can hang them for the insult. He better find a moment to inform Loren. Unwilling to dunk Kevan’s mood, he said: “You never know.”

The woman that approached them next, Jaime knew well. It was Lady Tanda Stokesworth and her daughters, and what must be her son-in-law Ser Balman Byrch, a renowned tourney jouster. No children with them. How long had Lady Falyse and Ser Balman been married? Two-years-and-ten? There’d been some noise when Elvia Lantell, a maiden cousin of Loren’s, had a bastard boy. It had put a mark of Loren’s two-score-and-ten nameday tournament and overshadowed her own daughter’s birth.

“Ser Jaime, little Lord Kevan.” Lady Tanda’s tone was genial and familiar, as if she were their grandmother. In keeping with that, she carried a delicate golden basket with hard candy. Caramel drops from far Essos. Easily more expensive than the basket they sat in. Some of Kevan’s favourite, too. Jaime eyed her and then Lollys. Right away, Lady Tanda ushered her youngest daughter forward. It was no secret his Father didn’t want him in the Kingsguard. Would you agree to the match if you learned Cersei schemed to bleach my cloak to white? Jaime thought, amused, as he regarded Lollys. A sharp lesson, indeed.

Kevan’s bow was stiff and his stern expression made him seem older than he was. Jaime didn’t think his little brother had met the Stokesworths before but it seemed he’d caught the scent of incompetence cleaving to them.

“Our beloved Queen once mentioned that you were very fond of these,” Lady Tanda said. Cersei would sooner suck a steer than suffer your company. Lady Tanda held the basket out to Kevan, who didn’t move a muscle, every inch their Father as he watched her face fall. Berick accepted the gift in his stead. 

“How is your dear Lady Mother? And your uncle?” Lady Tanda enquired.

“Lady Loren is well.” Kevan’s tone was measured, reserved. Kevan had many uncles; some as old as his Father, some younger than Jaime himself. However, the boy seemed to know precisely which uncle was meant: the unwed one. “Uncle Damon is sailing the trade routes north.”

Lady Tanda didn’t give up yet. “When might he return?”

Kevan remained silent.  

Trade routes north? Did your Mother say that? It sounded like something Loren would say to as presumptuous a question as this.

“I would love to invite him for dinner.” Lady Tanda added as she clasped her hands together. “Lollys would love to hear his tales of bravery and adventure, wouldn’t you, Lollys?”

Lollys took a timid step forward and courtesied to Kevan. “I would, very much, my Lord.”

Jaime struggled to hide his amusement. No doubt he’s sticking his sword in every bear and wolf he comes across, and them in him. Mighty fine tales for a lady, those will make. 

Kevan observed them and the silence stretched on.

“It was a delight to meet you, Lord Kevan,” Lady Tanda said as she took her daughters by the arm and slunk away. Jaime fondly imagined them as curs with their tails thoroughly between their legs.

Kevan’s gaze wandered to the great wooden doors of the throne room before he turned to Jaime, his hands clasped behind his back. “I didn’t know I would receive gifts.”

“You did well,” Jaime said. Except for that slip of a girl, he thought. Kevan wouldn’t be a boy forever. The look of budding interest on his small face had been unmistakable.

Kevan turned to Ser Brynmor next. “Ser Brynmor, find Lady Florance Manning. I should like to spend time with her.”

Damn it, there you had it. Think quick, Jaime. Jaime’s gaze hunted around the room. Lord Guncer Sunglass. Jenia Buckwell. Ser Trystane Velaryon. Where by the Seven were his Father and Loren?

“Can do, Lord Kevan,” Ser Brynmor said and turned to look for the girl.

Jaime considered outright overruling his younger brother’s command. Lord Tywin disapproved of public dissent. Jaime caught sight of Ser Barristan Selmy just as he was about to countermand. He raised his hand to hail the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. “Look, Kevan. Ser Barristan is here as well.”

Kevan’s eyes lit up as he turned to look. Jaime caught Brynmor’s gaze and shook his head, barely more than a chin movement. The household guard inclined his head and fell back in line.

“Ser Barristan!” Kevan called and waved. He looked back at Jaime with a broad grin.

Jaime smiled, pleased with himself. Not quite big enough yet for girls to eclipse everything else. He should tell Loren. Let her handle their Father.

“Ser Jaime, younger Lord Kevan.” Ser Barristan was a tall man, his long hair and neat beard cloud white since as long as Jaime could remember. His eyes were pale blue as a summer sky, his face creased with age. Though he was only a few years older than Lord Tywin, it made it seem more. The latter’s bushy side whiskers yet retained the ochre hue they’d always had. Though he’d kept his head clean shaven ever since his golden mane had started to thin. A problem Ser Barristan evidently didn’t face.

Kevan’s bow was precise. “Ser Barristan.”

“You look ready for battle.” Ser Barristan smiled as he looked Kevan up and down, appraising his new armour.

“I wish there was a battle. Nothing has happened in an age.” Kevan’s lip puckered as he fingered the pommel of his new dagger.

Barristan and Jaime shared a look. “Take it from an old man who’s seen one too many,” Ser Barristan said. “T’is a poor thing to hope for.”

Kevan’s brow furrowed, his gaze moved to the throne room’s massive doors. “Father says wars are necessary.”

“He’s not wrong,” Ser Barristan agreed. “Sometimes, they are, but they are a sad occasion, always.”

“Yes, smallfolk go hungry,” Kevan said after a moment. “Or die.”  

Kevan’s frown creased deeper at Ser Barristan’s curt nod. Jaime didn’t like how Kevan’s somber mood lingered. I wanted you to distract him, not depress him, Jaime thought. “A diligent squire might win honour at a tourney,” Jaime said.

Kevan’s eyes widened and the eager sparkle that Jaime loved so well returned. “Mother’s nameday is in less than a year.”

Lord Tywin hosted fetes at Lannisport for all their namedays but across the past decade Lady Loren’s had gained pre-eminence.  It was popular with the smallfolk for its public banquet and rich pageantry, and the jousts held in her honour attracted knights from across the Seven Kingdoms. It also featured a grand melee for squires.

“A tight training regime will see you do well in it,” Ser Barristan said. Jaime had no doubt that their Father had already drawn up a schedule.

“Can you teach me?” Kevan’s voice was full of hope as he looked up at the old knight. 

“Kevan.” Jaime caught his gaze.

“I’m flattered, don’t worry, Ser Jaime.” Ser Barristan gave Kevan’s shoulder a squeeze. “Though very busy, as well.”

Kevan’s face fell. “Please?” The shimmer appearing in his eyes reminded Jaime that he was only nine, and that their Father had not quite heeled children’s tendency to beg out of him.

“I have a gift instead, if you’ll accept it,” Ser Barristan said.

Kevan’s expression lit with curious surprise. It seemed to Jaime that he’d forgotten all about training at the mention of a gift from his hero. 

Ser Barristan produced a small pouch, its once rich velveteen worn with age. There was a design on the cloth though Jaime couldn’t tell what it was. Barristan emptied it unto his palm with care. A pendant fell from it, followed by a thin, discoloured chain. “It’s not much but I like to think it served me well,” Ser Barristan said as he lowered his hand to give it to Kevan.

Not much? Jaime stared at it. On the knight’s palm laid a strip of Valyrian steel, its vertical edges irregular. Fitted crookedly in it sat a square cut ruby, larger than a thumbnail and alight with the firelight around them. That is a princely gift, no matter how poor its fitting, Jaime thought. It would easily pay for this modest fete five times over. Surely, he knows? 

Kevan touched it gingerly, a fingertip at a time. “It’s pretty.”

Jaime couldn’t tear his gaze away. Its pidgeon blood luster sparkled with promise. It was almost as large and fine as the twin rubies set in the lioness pendant. It probably came from a hilt or scabbard, by the look of those jagged edges. Jaime tried to imagine the whole piece it might have come from. Small wonder it had been pried into pieces.

“That it is.” Ser Barristan smiled. He went down on a knee to hang the pendant around Kevan’s neck. “Perhaps, it is old wives’ tales, but I like to think it has kept me on the lucky side of safe a few times.”

Kevan pressed his chin against his chest to be able to see the pendant.  “Don’t you need it?”

“I am an old man, Kevan. I’ve lucked out enough. You are young yet, with many a danger before you.”

Jaime squinted. From anyone else, that would have been a threat. However, the old knight smiled still and seemed genuine enough. His stance was open, not just to Kevan but to Jaime, too. Knelt as he was, there was no way he could draw his blade before Jaime was at his throat.

Kevan took the pendant in his hand, watchingt it wink as he held it upside down, tilting it this way and that. “Rubies are Pa’s favourite earthbones.”

Kevan’s understatement twitched the corners of Jaime’s lips up. He remembered well the fool that had given Lady Loren a fine diamond pendant when she wed his Father. Lord Tywin had rather famously remarked that ‘the only use for diamonds was to see if rubies were real.’

A curious look appeared on Ser Barristan’s weathered face at the boy’s choice of words but he didn’t ask. “Wars may be fought for diamonds but the ruby is the king of precious stones.” He mused up Kevan’s hair as he rose. “A gemstone suited to a lion, I should think.”

Kevan puffed out his chest, the ruby gleaming in its queer setting. The dark reds and muted gold of his armour seemed to funnel all light to it.

“It looks splendid on you, little Lord,” Ser Barristan added.

The heavy croak and scrape of massive wooden doors sounded above the murmur. Kevan glanced up as the throne room’s great doors sighed open. His face lit up as he turned to them, and fell so abruptly and completely a moment later that Jaime felt his heart plummet into his guts. He turned just as the herald called:

“His Splendid Majesty, King Robert Baratheon,  First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Roynar and  First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Her Grace, Queen Consort Cersei Lannister, First of Her Name, Light of the West and Grace of the Realms.”

Jaime tuned out as she started listing the children, all their titles, and no doubt a score of prominent courtiers after, and turned his attention back to Kevan. Kevan’s shoulders sagged, his gaze dropping to the floor as his hand fell from his dagger to hang listlessly alongside him.

“Kevan?”

When Kevan looked up moist gathered around his green eyes, making their light flecks wink as finely as the ruby around his neck. The dissonance of seeing tears gather in his Father’s eyes twisted Jaime’s gut. He pushed the discomfort away for his little brother’s sake. Kevan was barely ten. Jaime put a hand on his slim shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. His little brother. “He’ll be here.”  

O   O   O  

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#jaime lannister #gotfic #lannisters #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #a saga of bears & lions #imperial fiction

[carbonitekisses]

Unfinished.

Cersei’s fingertips thrum against the table. Her nails click against the dark wood. She is tired of waiting for men. The world would be better off without them, she thinks. They’re all treacherous scum seeking to feed off of the fairer sex. And once their appetite has been satiated they leave in search of something new. 

But a queen? A queen is so much more than a woman. A queen is power. And Cersei will burn anyone who stands in her way.

The Mountain’s towering presence draws her eyes to the door of her solar. Just behind him stands the sorry excuse of a pirate who would call himself her king. As if I would ever suffer another fool by my side. I’ll have the Mountain snap his neck before his breath ever so much as touches me.

“You’re back. Good. Am I to assume you were successful?” 

Euron Greyjoy tries to saunter towards her. He only succeeds in repulsing her. The weeks he spent away have diluted her memory of him. He is fouler than she remembered. The odor of stagnant ocean water can not be masked by the, rather obvious, perfumes he has brought back from across the Narrow Sea. Cersei looks towards her shield.

The Mountain strikes out a thick arm to stop his advances. Greyjoy lifts a dark eyebrow at her but doesn’t move any further. Cersei likes this. Who knew she would one day be able to command men with a simple tilt of her head? The Mountain drops his arm but stays standing next to Euron. 

“Yes, my queen,” his leer is more than evident in his voice, “I’ve brought back the Golden Company just as we agreed. Now, I expect to be properly compensated.” 

Cersei leers back. She is queen, and a lion. She will not be cowed by an irreverent squid. 

“Ah, yes. Your compensation...”

// 

It’s certainly not what I was expecting. Not that I know what I was expecting  to begin with but... Dany accepts Jorah’s hand as he helps her dismount the finicky Northern mare. Her eyes wander to Jon who is looking towards Winterfell. Nevermind that. I’m sure it is more inviting, warmer, on the inside. Much like its former king. 

“It is a sight I did not think I would ever see again. You have made one of my greatest dreams possible, my queen.”

Daenerys turns towards the old bear. She can see true thankfulness in his eyes. It is a homecoming for more than one northerner, today. In the flurry of action she had forgotten that Jorah would most likely be reuniting with family. She is glad one of her oldest supporters will soon fulfill their biggest wish because of her. 

“My dear friend, it has been a long journey but you are finally back home in the north.” She clasps his arm. “Mayhaps the north will become a home of sorts for me as well.” Underneath her hand she can feel him tense at her words. She knows her bear holds no love for the wolf that is slowly, but surely, melting the ice around her heart. Jorah’s jealousy is flattering but she knows what she wants. 

With a smile Daenerys leaves Jorah and walks towards Jon. The white landscape and the cold makes her uncomfortable but she will never admit it. What is a little snow and winter wind to a dragon made of fire? Jon remains facing towards Winterfell when she finally arrives at his side.

“We are almost there. I am eager to meet your family, Jon Snow.”

Jon hums his agreement. 

They’ve stopped to arrange any last minute details before arriving at Winterfell. Her children were sent somewhere close to the keep but far away enough to not cause panic. Jon had insisted. She was loathe to part from them but ultimately yielded. He probably knows the northerners better than she. Tyrion, and Varys are discussing some trivial matters with the Unsullied about what to expect in regards to their welcome. Details, details, details. I’m tired of waiting. 

Daenerys touches Jon and gently turns him away from Winterfell and towards her. He moves stiffly in the cold. I will be sure to warm him up later in his Lord’s chambers. “You have been awfully quiet. More so than usual. Should I be worried?”

Jon’s eyes slowly warm at her words. The corner of his lips upturn in a reassuring smile. No wonder Jorah is jealous. His worry over her is obvious now. In her very rare moments of worry, or anxiety he is always there to reassure her. She is quite sure he is in love with her. She herself doesn’t love him. Yet. I could. I am in danger of it. I feel it.

“No. There is nothing to worry about. I will speak with the Northern lords and make them understand that you are here to fight with us.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. “They will see you for what you are.”

Those words again. Just like before they light a fire within her. He sees her for what she is. A liberator. A savior. A queen.

His queen. 

The breaker of chains looks up at the last King of the North. He looks like he is holding himself back from a great emotion. He must want to hold me now. Daenerys wouldn’t care but he has been adamant in avoiding any kind of public intimacy for fear of repercussion to their political alliance. She admires his patience and fortitude. As mother of dragons she forgets how it must be for the rest of the world. To always have to care what others think or do. To not take without asking. Always waiting for permission. What a bleak existence that must be. 

A shout from behind breaks their tension. It is time to move again. Jon nods at her and leaves to mount his horse.

Daenerys watches his cloak flap behind him like  black wings. Soon she’ll meet his people. His family. Soon she’ll learn more about the king who gave away his kingdom for love. For me. 

//

It’s cold and the days are getting shorter. Gilly is used to it so she doesn’t complain. Everyone is in a frenzy. A horn of some sort is signaling the arrival of Jon Snow and his aunt. Daenerys Targaryen. The name sounds funny to her but what does she know of queens and dragons? 

“Gilly, come! He’s here!” 

Gilly looks at Sam in mild bemusement. He sounds like a child in his excitement. Gilly adjusts Little Sam on her hip and follows him to the railing that overlooks the courtyard. There is so much noise that Little Sam squirms in curiosity but Gilly strengthens her hold. It wouldn’t do for him to leave her arms. Not with soldiers and dragons in their midst. 

“Where are the dragons, Sam?”

His eyes never waver from the action underneath. “Eh, I don’t know. Perhaps they’re waiting somewhere in the Wolfswood?”

Sam’s words do nothing to assuage her concern. She has never seen a dragon. But she has seen creatures of ice. She isn’t sure that creatures of fire are any better. 

There is a change in the air and Gilly focuses on the men and women in the courtyard. There are soldiers in black leather with dark, sun-kissed skin she has never seen before. Exposed skin and no furs? How are they not freezing? Their armor is useless this far north. 

A head of white, yellowish hair stands off by the entrance to the keep. She, for Gilly can see her fair features, is surrounded by guards. That must be the dragon queen. Then where is Jon Snow...

Gilly finds him. His head of black hair is walking towards Sansa Stark. Gilly inhales her surprise. The Lady opens her arms and holds Jon Snow in a welcoming embrace. In the small amount of time Gilly has been in Winterfell she has noted how restrictive Sansa Stark is with her affection and touch. Gilly brushes Litte Sam’s hair back. She doesn’t think she has ever seen the Lady of Winterfell touch someone so intimately before. 

She wonders where Lady Arya is. If Sam is correct, she was the sibling Jon Snow would talk about the most during their time at the Night’s Watch. It seems she is not here to welcome her cousin home. 

“...queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Oh.” Sam mutters. “Oh, no.” No one is kneeling in the courtyard. Isn’t it part of their customs? To kneel? She read that somewhere, she is sure of it. But no one is kneeling when Jon Snow introduces his aunt to the people of Winterfell.

Gilly is confused. Is he no longer king?

Little Sam pulls at his father’s cloak until Sam relents and carries him.

Daenerys Targaryen walks towards Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. Unlike her soldiers, the queen is dressed in thick white furs that surely keep her warm. Gilly feels sorry for the men. 

“Winterfell is yours, your grace.” Sansa Stark’s voice carries in the stillness of the moment. 

Gilly doesn’t believe her. She has seen this woman care for her keep like Gilly herself cares for Little Sam. Daenerys Targaryen seems pleased, though. “Is Winterfell no longer the Starks’? What is going on, Sam?”

Sam continues to look at Jon Snow as he leads his aunt to the inside of Winterfell. “I‘m not sure, Gilly. All I know is this complicates everything.” Gilly and Sam watch  how the dragon queen’s eyes follow Jon Snow everywhere he goes. “Jon, what have you done?”

//

“He’s almost here.” Bran says. “Observe and take in as much as  you can. Go.”

//

The serving girl leaves the godswood behind her. She picks up her drab skirts and makes her way toward the courtyard. The king is come back with a Targaryen. Her curiosity makes her run fast and nimble as she weaves her way through the soldiers and serving folk. 

“Watch it, girl. You near ran me over!”

Anis doesn’t stop. Her hazel eyes drink in everything they can. The horses, the people, the carts. She perched herself atop a stack of empty vegetable crates to get a better view. She anxiously awaits for a sign of dragons in the overcast sky. The Lannister imp is here, as is a bald plump man.

Varys. His name is Varys. 

Anis has never met them before. But names are easy to come by. She notices the soldiers are well trained. Even in their poorly made winter garb they show no signs of discomfort. 

That must be the Unsullied. 

There is another kind of soldier in the courtyard. They are quite different and seem to be faring worse than the Unsullied. Dothraki. They are speaking a strange mixture of the common tongue and a language Anis has never heard before. Nevertheless, she listens and understands a few phrases.

“Cold...Khalessi...Snow”

“...Gold...lions...burn”

“...food...food...food...”

Anis turns her attention towards the king. He has finally returned to Winterfell. 

He’s finally here. Will he recognize me after all these years? Do I want him to recognize me?

Anis pushes these strange thoughts away. She is a simple serving girl. She has no ties to the king. She is only here to watch and observe. And so she does.

[ These are little snippets from a s8 fic idea. I don’t know if I’ll ever get around to writing it. But I’ve had it in my drafts for the past couple of months so I might as well post some of it, lol. They haven’t been edited or anything so sorry for any and all weirdness! ]

#Jonsa #jonsa fic #Jon Snow #Sansa Stark #Cersei Lannister #Samwell Tarly #Gilly #Daenerys Targaryen #Not really anti but it hints at pol!jon so #just to be safe #anti daenerys #anti targaryen #anti-jonerys #anti-daenerys #POV trap #S8 fic

[whiskeyslick]

Anne Baring - Kosovo Easter 1999

Warning: graphic images of rape and atrocity. Kosovo Easter 1999 Anne Baring Listen to the Good News, they said… Then, over the mountain pass, deep in snow, we watched those who had lost all except life stumble towards hope, carrying infants, dragging children, old people wrapped in plastic like loaves of bread, so they could be pulled more easily over the icy surface. A woman tall and cragged as an oak leads a line of survivors. Some can walk no further in the heavy snow and die where they fall. A young girl holds her mother in her arms as life ebbs from her body. This time we saw the face of barbarism. This time we saw them: people like us, in clothes like ours, arriving in shock, avoiding the mined land, trudging the last miles along the rail track to the frontier; faces contorted with grief, women, men, children weeping uncontrollably, having lost everything save each other. Day after day we saw a human flood pouring across frontiers: lines of wagons, carts, tractors, trailers, a horse, a donkey; the old in wheelbarrows, and people walking, walking, soaked in icy rain through days and nights of anguish, carrying the old and young so dear to them. We saw bewildered people forced onto trains trying to hold families together, women giving birth alone driven trembling with their new-born into the maw of that suffocating mass. Helplessly we wept with them, seared by their suffering, longing to help, to put our arms around them, comfort, warm them; but we could only send money, food, love, and hope that they would reach shelter from that relentless rain. There was no time to gather children gone to play with friends, no time to warn others, no time to feed the animals, milk the cows, or say goodbye to the dear land, home for centuries. There was no time to gather provisions for the journey: milk for babies, food for toddlers, shoes, nappies, warm clothing. Women made knife-sharp choices - what to take, what to leave - choices to make the difference between life and death for those too young to know what was happening. Women who had seen husbands, sons, fathers shot before their eyes, kneeling, hands clasped behind heads, knowing they had only seconds to remember everything they loved, to treasure the precious life that would soon, so soon seep into the ground. Listen to the Good News, they said… Can this be happening still? This time we saw the face of barbarism. Men obeying orders. They took the young girls away out of the cars, out of the trailers. Everyone knew what would happen. Girls too young to imagine the coming thrusts tearing their soft skin, the rank smell of masked men crazed with blood lust, and hatred for the innocent girl, mother of tomorrow's enemy. Some they shot, some returned to the convoy hours or days after the rape. How could they hope to find their families, comfort for soul and body in that mêlée of desperate humanity? What solace could they find among people for whom rape is defilement, a shame to be hidden? How could this further pain be endured by those who had already known annihilation? If I had seen my daughter taken, her still fragile body shrinking with fear, her eyes pleading for help I could not give, my heart flayed by feeling, my scream would sound through centuries. Even now I hear it torn from my gut for those young lives blighted by the encounter with beasts. Century by century men have tracked each other through greening forests blessed with birdsong. Intent on killing, could they see or hear the marvel? Could they stop in wonder at the sound? How does a man become a predator, able to kill, rape, mutilate? Surely it is time to ask. Surely it is time to enquire. Surely it is time to search for answers. All this has happened so many times before. Is it the old herd instinct that binds together the men of a tribe? Is it the territorial instinct that attacks the stranger? Is it the memory of the primordial clan bonded together in the hunt? Is it the warrior ethos passed from father to son? Or the secret vengeance of mothers who have lost their sons? Is it the brutality endured by children who grow up to brutalise others, avenging impotence with omnipotence? Or is it the hatred nurtured by priests who, century by century, have called in God's name for the extermination of those they demonised, anathematised, banished from the circle of God's love? "Malignant Aggression" Fromm called it. Malignant is a strong word, an appropriate word for the kind of barbarism we have seen and heard. Men are trained to obey orders reflexively, without thinking. Obedience to tribal leaders, military leaders, religious leaders, has conditioned them to obey the call to kill, fearing shame, rejection, numbed to the pain of the other. "To be a man I have to kill. To be a patriot I have to kill. I wear a mask to inspire terror. I wear a mask to hide from myself. I do not know that I am mad. My orders are to kill, rape, destroy: My orders are to kill because the others are a different race. My orders are to kill because the others profess a different belief. My orders are to kill because the others are the enemy. Killing is easy - as easy as saying 'Good Morning'." What does it feel like to be this man? Does he ever ask himself: "What am I doing as I raise my gun to murder my brother? What am I doing as I violate and mutilate his body? What am I doing as I force my body into the violently trembling body of his wife or his daughter? What am I doing as I kick the head of a decapitated man around the yard of his home while his children vomit? What am I doing as I shoot the young child at his grandfather's knee? What am I doing as I slowly sever the ear of my brother and throw it to a dog to eat? What am I doing as I destroy his home? What am I doing as I rob him of all he has left? What am I doing as I tear him from all he holds dear? What am I doing as I allow hatred to corrode my soul?" I cannot escape the guilt of what I have done. I have obeyed orders; I have lost my soul." And what of the men who shrink from barbarity yet must kill or be killed for that is the law of the tribe? And what of the conscripts, who cannot endure the killing? And deserters on trial for their lives, they cannot forget the eyes of those they murdered, pleading for life; the rigid bodies of girls taken away to be raped, homes burnt to bone, orphaned children screaming for fathers, mothers; the eyes of the dying, the eyes of those who, like themselves, knew fear for the first time. And what of the mothers who see the life they have loved and nourished and cherished through hours, days, years of growth destroyed in a second by a bullet, a knife, a bomb? For nothing. Can this be happening still? In the camps thousands crowd together in the mud, the faecal stench, struggling for a patch of earth, a tent, water, blankets to survive the freezing night. Mothers searching, searching for a child lost on the journey who sobs somewhere, lost, alone. Some children cannot speak of what they have witnessed. They draw pictures to tell the story of what they have learned from us who, in spite of saviours, religions, belief in redemption, higher standards of living, endlessly re-enact the habits of the past. We have taught them hatred, cruelty, fear. A father asks his son what he will do when he meets the enemy. The boy, loving his father, hesitates, uncertain. He cannot imagine the answer expected: "You will kill him." That is the legacy of father to son in a warrior culture: the soul's innocence and trust raped by indoctrination. Why is this happening still? And the bombs rained down night after night upon the "enemy": the "intelligent" missiles aimed to destroy the infrastructure of the military machine, hurled from planes painted with images of scythe-wielding death and the word "Apocalypse". How appropriate that word. Missiles tipped with depleted uranium, radioactive ceramic designed to bring slow death years later; Missiles targeting oil refineries, bridges, communications. "You cannot have war without casualties." Immaculate objective words - remote from the experience of being in the path of a missile: a lion leaping upon you, no time to prepare for extinction. We cannot yet see our shadow. We cannot yet see that the continued invention of ever more terrible weapons perpetuates war. We cannot yet see that the proliferation of demonic agents of death ultimately invites our own destruction. The people of the world ache for deliverance from belligerent, psychopathic leaders, from servitude to the ancient belief that there are only two alternatives: power or powerlessness; victory, defeat. And the dead? Prisoners between dimensions the dead ache for release from the cycle of vengeance so they do not have to return to ancestral soil to repeat the bloody pattern of sacrifice, the hatred between peoples who could have been reconciled centuries ago, but for their leaders, but for their priests, but for their inability to renounce the evil of killing the other who is also the brother. Listen to the Good News, they said… How foolish we are to believe that we are redeemed. Surely we must accomplish our own redemption by renouncing the illusion that some of us are closer to God than others. Surely we must redeem Christ from the crucifixion continually re-enacted in the rape of our sister, the murder of our brother, before we speak of redemption, before we speak of the Good News, before we, the dead, can hope for resurrection. [No Easter Cease-fire In Kosovo, April 09, 1999]

#Poetry #anne baring #kosovo #war poetry #human rights

[eddycurrents]

For the week of 7 May 2018

Quick Bits:

Accell #10 begins the next arc, largely focusing this issue on Danny trying to get back on his feet, and assess damage and reparations of his personal life. Joe Casey and Damion Scott are still giving us the most traditional superhero book of the line here.

| Published by Lion Forge / Catalyst Prime

Analog #2 is an interesting throwback. I like how Gerry Duggan, in creating this future, has effectively tossed us back to the stylistic action and intrigue of 70s and 80s thrillers.

| Published by Image

Backways #5 is the explosive conclusion to the first arc. The story reveals some of the extremes that Anna can go to with her powers as she attempts to save Sylvia. Eleonora Carlini and Silvia Tidei really shine with the art.

| Published by AfterShock

Despicable Deadpool #300 is a bit of a mess, but I get that was intentional. All of the “Marvel Universe Kills Deadpool” arc has been one failure after another as the assorted heroes and villains of Marvel have been unable to stop Deadpool. The ultimate solution leads to an opportunity for Gerry Duggan to travel through many of the highlights of his run on the series.

| Published by Marvel

Domino #2 continues the fun, action, and weird moments of self-reflection showing the true vulnerabilities and insecurities of tough-as-nails mercenaries of the first issue. Gail Simone is doing a great job at bringing out the depth of Domino’s character and the art from David Baldeón and Jesus Aburtov is gorgeous. I had pretty high hopes for this series, given how entertaining Simone’s previous work on Agent X and Deadpool were, and she’s exceeded expectations. 

| Published by Marvel

Exiles #3 is still following the whirlwind pace set by the first two issues as the team continues racing through the multiverse, gathering new and old allies, as they try to come up with a plan to stop the Time Eater. This, of course, allows Javier Rodríguez to really step up with his designs and layouts for the weird and crazy worlds the team is travelling to.

| Published by Marvel

The Highest House #4 is consistently some of the best art and storytelling in comics right now, with beautiful artwork from Peter Gross and Fabien Alquier, as the intrigue in Mike Carey’s script hits a fever pitch.

| Published by IDW

Hungry Ghosts #4 ends the series on a high note, with stories illustrated by Irene Koh and Francesco Francavilla. Like the previous issues, the stories from Anthony Bourdain and Joel Rose are likely to be familiar to you, especially the Snow Woman as variants of it have been told and retold multiple times, but they’re well told here. And with wonderful artwork, all deftly elevated by José Villarrubia’s colours.

| Published by Dark Horse

Hunt for Wolverine: Adamantium Agenda #1 is the second of these mini-series, this one following a handful of Logan’s New Avengers compatriots. That remit at least makes more sense than the Weapon Lost premise, and leads to a flashback of Wolverine selflessly taking one for the team and thus having Iron Man, Luke Cage, Jessica Jones, and Spider-Man start chasing down a lead for a DNA sequence sale in the present. Tom Taylor’s story gets more interesting from there and I look forward to seeing where this goes. Also, some really nice artwork from RB Silva, Andriano di Benedetto, and Jesus Aburtov. If given the chance, I wouldn’t mind seeing this creative team do more New Avengers, or even Defenders, material once this is over.

| Published by Marvel

Isola #2 is probably the most beautiful thing you’re going to find on the shelves this week, which is saying something since there’s also an issue of Monstress. Karl Kerschl and Msassyk are just raising the bar higher and higher on how gorgeous the comics page can look in the span of two simple issues. Apart from being a visual treat, the story is also captivating. Kerschl and Brenden Fletcher have a fable here that taps into the same kind of magical realism, whimsy, and ephemeral beauty of a Hayao Miyazaki film and it’s incredibly engrossing.

| Published by Image

Medieval Spawn & Witchblade #1 is some decent dark fantasy. Brian Holguin, Brian Haberlin, and Geirrod Van Dyke set up a pretty bleak, undead tainted past to throw what appears to be a new Medieval Spawn into, as much of this issue works to flesh out the mystery of his past and the blight that currently besets the land. No sign of a Witchblade yet. Some nice dark and moody art from Haberlin and Van Dyke.

| Published by Image

New Mutants: Dead Souls #3 is a turning point for the story, giving us essentially a reason for why all of this weird stuff is going on and more particularly why at least some of these former members of different incarnations of the New Mutants are present. All while the team starts turning on itself as Matthew Rosenberg begins to deal with some of the continuity and history of the team members. It’s good. If you’re a long time reader of these characters, you should love this. If you’re not and you’re a newcomer with this series, it’s still fun, with some great Adam Gorham art.

| Published by Marvel

Oblivion Song #3 raises some interesting questions about the people who were transported over into Oblivion. How living through that nightmare for ten years could have changed them, possibly made them go feral, and how troublesome it might be to have them readjust to life in a safe and sane world. Obviously the answer would seem to be to bring them back anyway, but it’s still an interesting question.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Old Man Logan #39 actually has a pretty clever play on one of the X-Men’s most prestigious stories in the title as “Glob Loves, Man Kills”. That should give you an idea as to the content of this issue, but I won’t spoil the surprise if you’re unsure. That said, we get more development on Old Man Logan’s problems with his healing factor, and Glob has a date. Nice artwork from Ibraim Roberson and Carlos Lopez, and it’s welcome again, like his run on Cable, that Ed Brisson is playing with the wider world of X-characters.

| Published by Marvel

Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man #304 reminds you not to mess with the past, even if it’s ostensibly for a good reason. It never works out. Except in the art department. Adam Kubert gets to show off some nice redesigns for the heroes here and a really nice new version of a somewhat surprising villain.

| Published by Marvel

Port of Earth #5 returns us to Mac and Rice’s plight, with Rice not only dealing with the loss of his girlfriend, but finally figuring out what the alien was up to with his stolen badge. This is still a relatively slow moving series, with the issues fairly systematically broken down into an opening section that focuses on a documentary style analysis of the Port, the contract with the aliens, and the ESA and then the action following Mac and Rice, but it’s entertaining.

| Published by Image / Top Cow

Punks Not Dead #4 is still somehow raising the bar on how inexplicably strange this series can get, even as it’s making more and more sense.

| Published by IDW / Black Crown

Resident Alien: An Alien in New York #2 unfurls the mystery further as Harry and Dan try to figure out who wrote an NYC phone number in alien script. Steve Parkhouse’s art, as usual, really draws you in.

| Published by Dark Horse

Rough Riders: Ride or Die #4 is a fitting conclusion to the adventures of Teddy Roosevelt and his band of luminaries, even if we may see a different incarnation somewhere down the line. Adam Glass and Patrick Olliffe created a worthwhile real life analogue to literary supergroups like League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and the three series are worth picking up.

| Published by AfterShock

The Spider King #4 brings an end to this excellent mix of Viking action and weird science. It’s been a great story with amazing art, highly recommended.

| Published by IDW

Venom #1 is pretty damn good. The story from Donny Cates is compelling, building up a mystery for strange behaviour from the symbiote and expanding upon the Venom history, but stealing the spotlight is the art. Ryan Stegman was a good artist, with this issue he’s laying claim to being a great artist. With JP Mayer providing inks over Stegman’s pencils and Frank Martin delivering on the colour work, this is a damn fine looking comic. A great debut.

| Published by Marvel

World of Tanks: Citadel #1 is somewhere between Garth Ennis’ two usual war story extremes; the deeply serious realistic tales of historical war battles and incidents of series like War Stories and the over-the-top dark humour of Adventures in the Rifle Brigade. As such, it’s all right. Most of it is set up, allowing the tank drivers and gunners to get acquainted with their vehicles and crew. The art from PJ Holden and Michael Atiyeh is fairly nice.

| Published by Dark Horse

Other Highlights: Astonisher #7, Barbarella #6, Betrothed #3, Betty & Veronica: Vixens #6, Black Cloud #9, Calexit #3, Dejah Thoris #4, Dissonance #3, Ghostbusters: Answer the Call #5, Ghost Money #10, Green Hornet #3, Incredible Hulk #716, Jim Henson’s Fraggle Rock #1, Maestros #6, Monstress #16, Outcast #35, Planet of the Apes: Ursus #5, Prism Stalker #3, Pumpkinhead #3, ROM & The Micronauts #5, Rose #11, Runaways #9, Savage Tales: Vampirella, Sleepless #6, Southern Bastards #20, Spider-Man vs. Deadpool #32, Star Trek: The Next Generation - Through the Mirror #2, Star Wars: Darth Vader #16, Star Wars: The Last Jedi #1, Star Wars Adventures #10, Star Wars: Thrawn #4, Unbeatable Squirrel Girl #32, Xena: Warrior Princess #4, X-Men Blue #27, You Are Deadpool #2

Recommended Collections: Accell - Volume 2: Pop Quiz, Amazing Spider-Man: Venom Inc., Angelic - Volume 1: Heirs & Graces, Beasts of Burden: Animal Rights, Dark Fang - Volume 1: Earth Calling, Death of Wolverine - Complete Collection, Despicable Deadpool - Volume 2: Bucket List, Hawkeye - Volume 3: Family Reunion, The Shadow: Leviathan, Sheena: Queen of the Jungle - Volume 1, Sherlock Frankenstein and the Legion of Evil

d. emerson eddy cannot be disassembled and reassembled like a Mr. Potato Head. So, please, stop trying.

#This Week in Comics

[benito-cereno]

Santa Claus Letter 2017

So for years, starting in the 1920s, JRR Tolkien would write letters to his children as Father Christmas, including fanciful drawings and tales of FC and his friend, the North Polar bear, exploding the Northern Light gunpowder or fighting goblins.

Upon the birth of my own nephew last year, I decided I would steal this idea. Even though he is only a year and change old, nevertheless I composed a letter for him from Santa Claus. Theoretically, I will continue to do this, making the letters longer and more intricate as he gets older until he decides they’re stupid and that they should stop.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the skill for drawing or fancy lettering that Tolkien did, so I just had to type it up. Maybe future letters can include drawings.

I understand that this is obviously past Christmas and most of you have already thrown out your tree, but I still haven’t seen the neph for Christmas yet, so this got put off a little in favor of other holiday stuff. I hope you will forgive.

Anyway, I thought I would share it with you here under the cut (even though it does give away some of my Santa Claus secrets!). Feel free to reblog this, or if you want, to use it as a template and alter it for use with a child you know and love, but please do not republish this without my permission. Thankssss.

You can read 2015′s letter here and last year’s letter here.

Santa's Workshop

Beyond the Riphean Mountains

Beyond the North Wind

True North Pole

December 20, 2017

My dearest [name],

Here it is, your third Christmas! Amazing! It seems like only yesterday you had your very first Christmas for the very first time, and here we are at three. Three, you know, is a very special number.

Three is the number of sisters that I secretly gave bags of gold to when they couldn't afford to get married. I threw the bags of gold through the window (chimneys were not invented yet) and they landed in their stockings, which were drying by the fire. This was the first time I ever gave someone a gift by night and it gave me the idea that I might keep doing it. It's worked out pretty well so far!

Three was also the number of boys whom I saved from a wicked innkeeper who stuffed them in a pickle barrel so that he could steal their money. This is how I was named as a special protector of children, the title of which I am most proud. (The innkeeper works for me now, helping me bring joy to children to make up for being bad many years ago. Don't worry about running into him, though. He mainly helps me visit children in France.)

Three is the number of innocent men I once saved from punishment by catching a sword in my bare hand. Three is the number of generals, also innocent, whom I saved from punishment by appearing to the Roman emperor in a dream and telling him what had really happened. (These stories are not as famous as the other two, but I am still fairly proud of them.)

Three is also the number of gifts brought to the baby Jesus by the Wise Men: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The Wise Men were the very first Christmastime gift-bringers, and all the rest of us, like me or Grandfather Frost, whom I told you about last year, are merely following in their footsteps. In fact, in many countries, children expect to receive gifts from the Wise Men more than they do from old Santa Claus! In these countries, they get their gifts later, on January 5 or 6, which is still a very fine day to receive gifts. This day is called Epiphany, and it marks the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas. Children will set out food for the Wise Men's camels, and the wise old travelers from the East will leave them presents in exchange. You can tell the Wise Men have been to your house because they will write the letters “C+M+B” on your house with chalk. These letters can stand for their names—Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar—or they can stand for words that call for a blessing upon the house in Latin. (I will not make your mommy or daddy have to try to say Latin words out loud to you if they read you this letter. Maybe one day you will learn to read Latin and you and I can write letters to each other in a language that was very common when I was your age, but which is not so common now.)

There is a song I like very much that says that “The past and the present and the future, Faith and Hope and Charity, The heart and the brain and the body give you three as a magic number.” Three is also the number of a mommy and a daddy and a [name]. A magic number.

I can see that it has been much colder where you live this winter than in the other years that I have written to you. That may explain why we have not seen much of Jack Frost and his brother this year, but I can see also that it has been icy cold down there without much snow. I think this is very rude of Jack, to bring cold but no snow. Very inconsiderate. Jack himself would say that it only snows when his grandmother, Holda, shakes the feathers out of the blankets of her bed, so perhaps she has not done much cleaning this year. On the other hand, Jack is well-known as a teller of tales, and I'm not even sure that Holda really is his grandmother. The only grandparent I've ever known him to have was Grandfather Frost, but I do know that he was adopted, so who knows what may be true?

I have also seen that you love animals very much. This is something you would have in common with my friend and helper Rupert, who tends to the animals on our farm. We have a very unusual farm, as I believe I have told you before. We don't raise pigs or cows here. I don't think they would like the cold very much. Instead we of course have reindeer, which are very famous and I suspect already familiar to you. We also have horses, including my most famous horse Amerigo, and donkeys, and goats. These are not so unusual to have on a farm. But Rupert also takes care of moose, alligators that I take to Louisiana, white kangaroos that I take to Australia, dolphins that I take to Hawaii, and even a number of werewolves, though they can mostly take care of themselves. We also receive visits from a very special Camel and Mule, but they don't usually stay long, as they have gifts of their own to deliver. There is of course also Callisto the North Polar Bear, and her cub Arcas, whom I have told you about before, but they really live in the sky and only come to visit us sometimes.

But those are only the farm animals. The True North Pole is also home to a number of wild animals that live in the thick forest of fir trees tended by Mrs Claus and her wood nymphs that surrounds the workshop. These animals are protected by my friend Belsnickel, the fur-trapper who would rather be alone in the woods than live in the workshop. These woods are home to a number of magic reindeer who have not yet been trained to pull a sleigh, as well as animals such as Arctic foxes and Arctic hares, and birds like snow buntings. You should look up pictures of these animals if you have never seen them. They look very different from animals in [state]! I will also tell you a secret about the North Pole: even though many people like to make pictures or movies about penguins at the North Pole at Christmastime, the truth is that penguins live at the South Pole, not the North Pole. It's true! You can look it up. It would be better for people to draw me and my elves being visited by puffins, which is a bird that actually does live around the North Pole. They are just as cute as penguins, if not more so in my opinion, so far as that counts.

If you travel out beyond the silver fir forest, you will eventually hit the Riphean Mountains, which are a very dangerous place to visit, but which are home to our friends the griffins, which are magical creatures that look like they are part lion and part eagle. You can also look up pictures of these if you have never seen one. (There are not many at zoos, so I suspect you would not have seen one there.) The griffins are led by their noble but dangerous king Lunicursor, whose long-standing war against the moutains' one-eyed giants to protect their large hoards of gold has the added benefit of helping keep unwanted visitors out of our workshop on the other side of the mountains.

At any rate, all of these animals—every one of them—says hello and merry Christmas to you. Even King Lunicursor gave a grim-faced but solemn nod of approval when I told him I was writing you this letter. Sometimes when you are older, you may feel lonely or sad, which is okay, but remember that somewhere far to the north some reindeer, some foxes, a bear as big as a dinosaur, the king of the griffins, and a silly old toymaker know your name and hope you have a good Christmas.

Please send my warmest greetings to your mommy and daddy and all your family, and to all your animal friends from all of mine. I will visit soon to fill your stocking as you have been very good this year, as ever. See you soon!

Your dear friend,

Santa Claus

#christmas #santa claus #santa claus letter

[tipsycad147]

Animal Magic: 12 Animals That Can Strengthen Your Craft

SL Bear

Loving animals is easy for most people. When we look at animals, we see the natural order, perfect symmetry of form and function, beauty, strangeness, and the long-dormant wild part of ourselves that many long to reconnect to. We became separate from animals and the natural world at some point, moving down from the trees to the grass, and slowly along the evolutionary path to where we are today. Though modern science and luxuries keep human beings alive longer and give our lives comfort, most of us will never be as free or self-assured as, say, the little birds who visit our backyards.

Cultures around the world include animal symbolism in their religions and systems of belief. In Haitian Voudou, they practice snake worship. Damballa is a serpent and is seen as the creator of all life. Hindus worship the cow in recognition of all the animal offers society. The ancient Egyptians revered cats, and many gods took on the appearance of animals. The list goes on and on; however, most relevant to us are animals associated with witchcraft. These are animals such as cats, birds, bats, toads, and other creatures that get a bad rap. Today, I’d like to share with you some animal associations you can use in spells, divination, talismans, altar-making, and just simple invocations to bring the power of each of these animals into your practice. I’ve only focused on a few animals, so if you need something more specific for your intentions, believe me, all you have to do is do a little digging — there is a perfect animal symbol out there for any need you have!

Wild Witchcraft

1. Bat

To some, the bat is a symbol of evil and death and fear for this animal runs deep. To others, the bat is a symbol of the night and all the hidden mysteries one can learn if they open their eyes while everyone else is asleep. Thanks to echolocation, the bat finds its way through the night with ease. Invoke the bat’s power before a night out by drawing a small bat somewhere hidden on your body to keep your wits about you when the sun goes down. If you’re struggling during a time of confusion in your life, invest in a bat talisman — any little bat figurine you can carry with you — to help find your way in the darkness.

2. Bear

The bear is a warrior. The name Artemis, goddess of the hunt, comes from the root word “artos” which means bear. This animal fittingly represents earth, and in European cultures predating Christianity, where lions are absent, the bear takes its symbolic place as a powerful king of the land it roams. Interestingly, Artemis is sometimes shown with a bear and both have ties to the moon.

Ursa Major and Minor are the constellations associated with this goddess as well — the Great Bear and the Little Bear, respectively. The bear should be summoned when you need strength. If you live in the Northern Hemisphere, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor can be seen year-round, so make a trip outside under the full moon and find these constellations. Draw a bear print on the sole of your right foot or on the palm of your right hand, and light a white candle. Ask for the strength to face obstacles or overcome overwhelming odds. And when the time comes, show no fear!

3. Bee

The symbolism surrounding the bee could fill a book. They are industrious, hard-workers and their symmetrical honeycombs are symbols of perfection and the harmony achieved when a group works as one. They also have mystical links to gods and spirits. Honeybees create honey, a sacred food of the gods, from sunlight and fruits of the earth, and therefore have ties to transmutation and the divine. In literature, you may recognise the name Dumbledore from J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter. This word comes from the Old English form of the word bumblebee and unlike honeybees, these bees spend their time joyfully “bumbling” from flower to flower.

Though they look very soft and fuzzy, bees can sting if provoked and so they are a symbol of mothers protecting their families. Although there are several ways to invoke the bee in magic, I think their most admirable attribute is their singular focus and work ethic, and so if you’re having difficulty staying motivated on a project — especially involving others — use the symbol of the bee as a talisman to remind you hard work pays off. Wear yellow. Light yellow candles. Sweeten your tea or toast with honey. Keep the spirit of the bee close at hand when working on any project to stay “buzzed” about it!

4. Butterfly

Often quite beautiful and less driven than its fellow flower-lover the bee, the butterfly is a symbol of gentleness and innocence. The Greek word for butterfly is psyche, and so we therefore associate it with the soul in many cultures. To others, the butterfly is a communicator between us on earth and the spiritual realm.

The butterfly goes through a striking metamorphosis, changing from a squirming caterpillar to a breathtaking, jewel-bright creature that takes flight! Changing one’s life is no easy task, but the butterfly reminds us that just because something seems impossible doesn’t mean it is. Draw an image of a butterfly in black and white and hang it somewhere near your altar. Every time you actively make a change for the better, colour in a little part of the image and take a moment to reflect on your progress. Take in the whole image instead of just one small piece; see the big picture to stay motivated. Bit by bit and day by day, work at transforming the black-and-white image to one that’s brilliant and bold. It may not be a quick process, but you’ll be amazed at what you can accomplish with perseverance and a state-of-mind metamorphosis.

5. Cat

In ancient Egypt, Bast was the cat goddess, and cats in general were revered. Other religions and beliefs look upon them less favourably, especially black cats, which are seen as unlucky despite their nine lives. Where the dog is man’s best friend, a loyal and obedient sidekick, the cat is picky and will leave a home that doesn’t live up to their lofty standards.

Despite being domesticated 4,000 years ago, cats maintain a feral wildness we’ve bred out of other pets and farm animals. They roam. They can live quite happily without us. Cats are inquisitive, sleek creatures that move where they want and choose who they want. And by all accounts, across many cultures, the cat has chosen the witch. The black cat is a staple of the traditional caricature of a witch, as much as the pointy hat or broom. Like the witch, the cat is mysterious, elusive, and seen as a threat by many a superstitious person. There are many ways you could call upon the cat in your magic, but I suggest channelling their ability to relax and make every space their own. When you are overwhelmed with life, call on the witch’s companion. Things always look better after a good night’s sleep.

6. Dragon

The dragon, like most animals on this list, will mean different things to different cultures. In the East, the dragon means royalty and the word “dragon” can be used instead of emperor. In the Chinese zodiac, the dragon is the fifth sign and aligns perfectly with Leo — the lion being another symbol for kings and queens. The dragon can be fearsome or something marvellous, depending on your point of view, and in stories will often guard over a great treasure or secret.

The dragon is versatile, but one thing is not up for debate: The dragon represents power. While the bear is a warrior, lashing out fiercely at foes, the dragon’s mere presence is enough to instil fear. Keep a dragon symbol over your bed for prophetic dreams and place the dragon’s image on jewellery boxes and other treasures to ward against thieves. Draw or print out an image of a dragon and wrap it around a red candle during protection spells or use in curses to strike fear into your enemies. If you have a secret, no animal will guard it like the dragon.

7. Fox

In stories, the fox is the trickster, the cunning one who uses charm and sly words to achieve goals. In mythology, the fox is a seducer, and in Christianity, the fox is linked to the Devil. So naturally, women described as “foxy” are not just attractive, but devious, ready to lure innocent men to their doom. Misogyny aside, the fox’s ability to outwit its foes with a smile on its face and bushy tail high, make it a symbol of guile and craftiness — the perfect creature to invoke when you need help solving a problem or getting out of a sticky situation. Use the fox’s image covertly — drawing it underneath altars, on the bottoms of candles, or on the reverse side of sigils — when performing spells to add an extra element of cunning.

8. Horse

It’s no surprise that an animal so closely linked to mankind’s success will be spiritually significant to us. Where would we be if we hadn’t had the horse to carry us? On one hand, the horse is tied to the sun, pulling the chariot of Apollo. On the other, the horse is a symbol of the moon and water — just ask Poseidon, the god of the sea and the horse. This animal can stand for gods and goddesses alike, good and evil, life and death. Perhaps this then is the true symbolism of the horse: Usefulness. No matter in which context you see this animal, you’ll see it being put to good use. After all, without the horse, humans wouldn’t have gotten very far. In your magic, invoke the horse when you’re travelling by coupling its image with Raido, the rune for travel, or the Chariot tarot card. Do this before a long trip to ensure safe passage.

9. Owl

It will delight you to learn that Strix is a genus of owls, and another word for witch. They share many symbolic attributes with witches, like working alone at night under the moon and having mystical knowledge. Hekate, the queen of witches, has an owl companion. Some say owls are bad omens foretelling death, while others claim owls are clairvoyant — and know when you’re about to die!

Owls are skilled hunters and unlike other birds, their large eyes are positioned on the front of their heads instead of on the side. They can also swivel their necks to see behind them. This gives them complete vision, and so it’s no wonder owls are associated with knowledge and prophecy — they literally see all. Like other nocturnal animals, they are linked with occult wisdom, having access to the secrets only available in the cover of night. Cultures across the globe believe the owl is a traveller between the realms of life and death. Invoke the owl during any kind of divination to help you “see.” Carry an owl talisman for wisdom, and whenever you hear a hooting owl, make sure you ask it to take any bad luck away from you on its flight.        

10. Raven

Here is a shocking fact: The average human IQ is 100 and the raven, relatively compared, has an IQ of 138 [1]. They make tools and solve puzzles. They can recognise people by their faces, and they can learn and even understand different languages. For this reason, ravens are symbols of intelligence. Ravens enjoy a rich mythology and have a reputation for protecting mankind, whispering to shamans about what’s to come. However, ravens are also seen as death omens and their haunting calls feature in many horror films. This may be attributed to the fact they are often seen after battle, feasting on the dead. I choose to see ravens for what they are: incredibly intelligent. So, they are an obvious talisman for those seeking wisdom, like students. Keep an image of a raven near blue candles and light them every Monday to help you on tests, mental challenges, or to outwit a foe.

11. Snake

This much maligned animal strikes fear in the hearts of many. Perhaps this is a vestigial fear from our primate days when venturing down into the grass meant dealing with this poisonous threat. Maybe the “snake eyes” are what creeps people out. Maybe it’s their size (pythons can reach 25 feet!) or the way they shed skin or their “forked tongues” now synonymous with one who cannot be trusted. Ouroboros is the image of a snake eating its own tail, symbolising life and rebirth forever.

In the bible, a serpent convinced Eve to eat the forbidden fruit and learned of good and evil. The lore of snakes is closely associated with that of dragons, though snakes carry more sinister connotations. But ask any snake charmer or a person who keeps snakes as pets and they will tell you these animals are as gentle to hold as kittens. Invoke the snake when you’re being bullied or someone is actively working against you. Draw a snake on several pale stone and place them in a circle near your front door, then sprinkle black pepper and eggshells into this circle whenever you leave your home. You can also bring this circle inside and spread it so you can sit within it while working spells for protection or against your enemies to ensure no repercussions come your way.

12. Wolf

Who hasn’t heard the tale about men turning into a wolf under the full moon, only to turn back when dawn breaks? Or Little Red Riding Hood, who was nearly eaten by the wolf wearing her grandmother’s clothing? Or the boy who cried wolf? Or Peter and the Wolf? Though wild wolves try to avoid people, the image of a wolf as a danger is an old one. These stories are not really about dangerous animals; they are allegories for dangerous situations and people. The wolf is the animal in stories that represents the dangerous side of human nature, and acts as a warning.

[1] The Element Encyclopedia of Secret Signs and Symbols Paperback – March 1, 2009,  Adele Nozedar

https://thetravelingwitch.com/blog/animal-magic-12-animals-that-can-strengthen-your-craft

[readbookywooks]

Arya

High," Syrio Forel called out, slashing at her head. The stick swords clacked as Arya parried. "Left," he shouted, and his blade came whistling. Hers darted to meet it. The clack made him click his teeth together. "Right," he said, and "Low," and "Left," and "Left" again, faster and faster, moving forward. Arya retreated before him, checking each blow. "Lunge," he warned, and when he thrust she sidestepped, swept his blade away, and slashed at his shoulder. She almost touched him, almost, so close it made her grin. A strand of hair dangled in her eyes, limp with sweat. She pushed it away with the back of her hand. "Left," Syrio sang out. "Low." His sword was a blur, and the Small Hall echoed to the clack clack clack. "Left. Left. High. Left. Right. Left. Low. Left!" The wooden blade caught her high in the breast, a sudden stinging blow that hurt all the more because it came from the wrong side. "Ow," she cried out. She would have a fresh bruise there by the time she went to sleep, somewhere out at sea. A bruise is a lesson, she told herself, and each lesson makes us better. Syrio stepped back. "You are dead now." Arya made a face. "You cheated," she said hotly. "You said left and you went right." "Just so. And now you are a dead girl." "But you lied!" "My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were not seeing." "I was so," Arya said. "I watched you every second!" "Watching is not seeing, dead girl. The water dancer sees. Come, put down the sword, it is time for listening now." She followed him over to the wall, where he settled onto a bench. "Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, and are you knowing how that came to pass?" "You were the finest swordsman in the city." "Just so, but why? Other men were stronger, faster, younger, why was Syrio Forel the best? I will tell you now." He touched the tip of his little finger lightly to his eyelid. "The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it. "Hear me. The ships of Braavos sail as far as the winds blow, to lands strange and wonderful, and when they return their captains fetch queer animals to the Sealord's menagerie. Such animals as you have never seen, striped horses, great spotted things with necks as long as stilts, hairy mouse-pigs as big as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in a pouch, terrible walking lizards with scythes for claws. Syrio Forel has seen these things. "On the day I am speaking of, the first sword was newly dead, and the Sealord sent for me. Many bravos had come to him, and as many had been sent away, none could say why. When I came into his presence, he was seated, and in his lap was a fat yellow cat. He told me that one of his captains had brought the beast to him, from an island beyond the sunrise. ‘Have you ever seen her like?' he asked of me. "And to him I said, ‘Each night in the alleys of Braavos I see a thousand like him,' and the Sealord laughed, and that day I was named the first sword." Arya screwed up her face. "I don't understand." Syrio clicked his teeth together. "The cat was an ordinary cat, no more. The others expected a fabulous beast, so that is what they saw. How large it was, they said. It was no larger than any other cat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. What curious small ears, they said. Its ears had been chewed away in kitten fights. And it was plainly a tomcat, yet the Sealord said ‘her,' and that is what the others saw. Are you hearing?" Arya thought about it. "You saw what was there." "Just so. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth." "Just so," said Arya, grinning. Syrio Forel allowed himself a smile. "I am thinking that when we are reaching this Winterfell of yours, it will be time to put this needle in your hand." "Yes!" Arya said eagerly. "Wait till I show Jon—" Behind her the great wooden doors of the Small Hall flew open with a resounding crash. Arya whirled. A knight of the Kingsguard stood beneath the arch of the door with five Lannister guardsmen arrayed behind him. He was in full armor, but his visor was up. Arya remembered his droopy eyes and rustcolored whiskers from when he had come to Winterfell with the king: Ser Meryn Trant. The red cloaks wore mail shirts over boiled leather and steel caps with lion crests. "Arya Stark," the knight said, "come with us, child." Arya chewed her lip uncertainly. "What do you want?" "Your father wants to see you." Arya took a step forward, but Syrio Forel held her by the arm. "And why is it that Lord Eddard is sending Lannister men in the place of his own? I am wondering." "Mind your place, dancing master," Ser Meryn said. "This is no concern of yours." "My father wouldn't send you," Arya said. She snatched up her stick sword. The Lannisters laughed. "Put down the stick, girl," Ser Meryn told her. "I am a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, the White Swords." "So was the Kingslayer when he killed the old king," Arya said. "I don't have to go with you if I don't want." Ser Meryn Trant ran out of patience. "Take her," he said to his men. He lowered the visor of his helm. Three of them started forward, chainmail clinking softly with each step. Arya was suddenly afraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she told herself, to slow the racing of her heart. Syrio Forel stepped between them, tapping his wooden sword lightly against his boot. "You will be stopping there. Are you men or dogs that you would threaten a child?" "Out of the way, old man," one of the red cloaks said. Syrio's stick came whistling up and rang against his helm. "I am Syrio Forel, and you will now be speaking to me with more respect." "Bald bastard." The man yanked free his longsword. The stick moved again, blindingly fast. Arya heard a loud crack as the sword went clattering to the stone floor. "My hand," the guardsman yelped, cradling his broken fingers. "You are quick, for a dancing master," said Ser Meryn. "You are slow, for a knight," Syrio replied. "Kill the Braavosi and bring me the girl," the knight in the white armor commanded. Four Lannister guardsmen unsheathed their swords. The fifth, with the broken fingers, spat and pulled free a dagger with his left hand. Syrio Forel clicked his teeth together, sliding into his water dancer's stance, presenting only his side to the foe. "Arya child," he called out, never looking, never taking his eyes off the Lannisters, "we are done with dancing for the day. Best you are going now. Run to your father." Arya did not want to leave him, but he had taught her to do as he said. "Swift as a deer," she whispered. "Just so," said Syrio Forel as the Lannisters closed. Arya retreated, her own sword stick clutched tightly in her hand. Watching him now, she realized that Syrio had only been toying with her when they dueled. The red cloaks came at him from three sides with steel in their hands. They had chainmail over their chest and arms, and steel codpieces sewn into their pants, but only leather on their legs. Their hands were bare, and the caps they wore had noseguards, but no visor over the eyes. Syrio did not wait for them to reach him, but spun to his left. Arya had never seen a man move as fast. He checked one sword with his stick and whirled away from a second. Off balance, the second man lurched into the first. Syrio put a boot to his back and the red cloaks went down together. The third guard came leaping over them, slashing at the water dancer's head. Syrio ducked under his blade and thrust upward. The guardsman fell screaming as blood welled from the wet red hole where his left eye had been. The fallen men were getting up. Syrio kicked one in the face and snatched the steel cap off the other's head. The dagger man stabbed at him. Syrio caught the thrust in the helmet and shattered the man's kneecap with his stick. The last red cloak shouted a curse and charged, hacking down with both hands on his sword. Syrio rolled right, and the butcher's cut caught the helmetless man between neck and shoulder as he struggled to his knees. The longsword crunched through mail and leather and flesh. The man on his knees shrieked. Before his killer could wrench free his blade, Syrio jabbed him in the apple of his throat. The guardsman gave a choked cry and staggered back, clutching at his neck, his face blackening. Five men were down, dead, or dying by the time Arya reached the back door that opened on the kitchen. She heard Ser Meryn Trant curse. "Bloody oafs," he swore, drawing his longsword from its scabbard. Syrio Forel resumed his stance and clicked his teeth together. "Arya child," he called out, never looking at her, "be gone now." Look with your eyes, he had said. She saw: the knight in his pale armor head to foot, legs, throat, and hands sheathed in metal, eyes hidden behind his high white helm, and in his hand cruel steel. Against that: Syrio, in a leather vest, with a wooden sword in his hand. "Syrio, run," she screamed. "The first sword of Braavos does not run," he sang as Ser Meryn slashed at him. Syrio danced away from his cut, his stick a blur. In a heartbeat, he had bounced blows off the knight's temple, elbow, and throat, the wood ringing against the metal of helm, gauntlet, and gorget. Arya stood frozen. Ser Meryn advanced; Syrio backed away. He checked the next blow, spun away from the second, deflected the third. The fourth sliced his stick in two, splintering the wood and shearing through the lead core. Sobbing, Arya spun and ran. She plunged through the kitchens and buttery, blind with panic, weaving between cooks and potboys. A baker's helper stepped in front of her, holding a wooden tray. Arya bowled her over, scattering fragrant loaves of fresh-baked bread on the floor. She heard shouting behind her as she spun around a portly butcher who stood gaping at her with a cleaver in his hands. His arms were red to the elbow. All that Syrio Forel had taught her went racing through her head. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The man who fears losing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The grip of her wooden sword was slick with sweat, and Arya was breathing hard when she reached the turret stair. For an instant she froze. Up or down? Up would take her to the covered bridge that spanned the small court to the Tower of the Hand, but that would be the way they'd expect her to go, for certain. Never do what they expect, Syrio once said. Arya went down, around and around, leaping over the narrow stone steps two and three at a time. She emerged in a cavernous vaulted cellar, surrounded by casks of ale stacked twenty feet tall. The only light came through narrow slanting windows high in the wall. The cellar was a dead end. There was no way out but the way she had come in. She dare not go back up those steps, but she couldn't stay here, either. She had to find her father and tell him what had happened. Her father would protect her. Arya thrust her wooden sword through her belt and began to climb, leaping from cask to cask until she could reach the window. Grasping the stone with both hands, she pulled herself up. The wall was three feet thick, the window a tunnel slanting up and out. Arya wriggled toward daylight. When her head reached ground level, she peered across the bailey to the Tower of the Hand. The stout wooden door hung splintered and broken, as if by axes. A dead man sprawled facedown on the steps, his cloak tangled beneath him, the back of his mailed shirt soaked red. The corpse's cloak was grey wool trimmed with white satin, she saw with sudden terror. She could not tell who he was. "No," she whispered. What was happening? Where was her father? Why had the red cloaks come for her? She remembered what the man with the yellow beard had said, the day she had found the monsters. If one Hand can die, why not a second? Arya felt tears in her eyes. She held her breath to listen. She heard the sounds of fighting, shouts, screams, the clang of steel on steel, coming through the windows of the Tower of the Hand. She could not go back. Her father . . . Arya closed her eyes. For a moment she was too frightened to move. They had killed Jory and Wyl and Heward, and that guardsman on the step, whoever he had been. They could kill her father too, and her if they caught her. "Fear cuts deeper than swords," she said aloud, but it was no good pretending to be a water dancer, Syrio had been a water dancer and the white knight had probably killed him, and anyhow she was only a little girl with a wooden stick, alone and afraid. She squirmed out into the yard, glancing around warily as she climbed to her feet. The castle seemed deserted. The Red Keep was never deserted. All the people must be hiding inside, their doors barred. Arya glanced up longingly at her bedchamber, then moved away from the Tower of the Hand, keeping close to the wall as she slid from shadow to shadow. She pretended she was chasing cats . . . except she was the cat now, and if they caught her, they would kill her. Moving between buildings and over walls, keeping stone to her back wherever possible so no one could surprise her, Arya reached the stables almost without incident. A dozen gold cloaks in mail and plate ran past as she was edging across the inner bailey, but without knowing whose side they were on, she hunched down low in the shadows and let them pass. Hullen, who had been master of horse at Winterfell as long as Arya could remember, was slumped on the ground by the stable door. He had been stabbed so many times it looked as if his tunic was patterned with scarlet flowers. Arya was certain he was dead, but when she crept closer, his eyes opened. "Arya Underfoot," he whispered. "You must . . . warn your . . . your lord father . . . " Frothy red spittle bubbled from his mouth. The master of horse closed his eyes again and said no more. Inside were more bodies; a groom she had played with, and three of her father's household guard. A wagon, laden with crates and chests, stood abandoned near the door of the stable. The dead men must have been loading it for the trip to the docks when they were attacked. Arya snuck closer. One of the corpses was Desmond, who'd shown her his longsword and promised to protect her father. He lay on his back, staring blindly at the ceiling as flies crawled across his eyes. Close to him was a dead man in the red cloak and lion-crest helm of the Lannisters. Only one, though. Every northerner is worth ten of these southron swords, Desmond had told her. "You liar!" she said, kicking his body in a sudden fury. The animals were restless in their stalls, whickering and snorting at the scent of blood. Arya's only plan was to saddle a horse and flee, away from the castle and the city. All she had to do was stay on the kingsroad and it would take her back to Winterfell. She took a bridle and harness off the wall. As she crossed in back of the wagon, a fallen chest caught her eye. It must have been knocked down in the fight or dropped as it was being loaded. The wood had split, the lid opening to spill the chest's contents across the ground. Arya recognized silks and satins and velvets she never wore. She might need warm clothes on the kingsroad, though . . . and besides . . . Arya knelt in the dirt among the scattered clothes. She found a heavy woolen cloak, a velvet skirt and a silk tunic and some smallclothes, a dress her mother had embroidered for her, a silver baby bracelet she might sell. Shoving the broken lid out of the way, she groped inside the chest for Needle. She had hidden it way down at the bottom, under everything, but her stuff had all been jumbled around when the chest was dropped. For a moment Arya was afraid someone had found the sword and stolen it. Then her fingers felt the hardness of metal under a satin gown. "There she is," a voice hissed close behind her. Startled, Arya whirled. A stableboy stood behind her, a smirk on his face, his filthy white undertunic peeking out from beneath a soiled jerkin. His boots were covered with manure, and he had a pitchfork in one hand. "Who are you?" she asked. "She don't know me," he said, "but I knows her, oh, yes. The wolf girl." "Help me saddle a horse," Arya pleaded, reaching back into the chest, groping for Needle. "My father's the Hand of the King, he'll reward you." "Father's dead," the boy said. He shuffled toward her. "It's the queen who'll be rewarding me. Come here, girl." "Stay away!" Her fingers closed around Needle's hilt. "I says, come." He grabbed her arm, hard. Everything Syrio Forel had ever taught her vanished in a heartbeat. In that instant of sudden terror, the only lesson Arya could remember was the one Jon Snow had given her, the very first. She stuck him with the pointy end, driving the blade upward with a wild, hysterical strength. Needle went through his leather jerkin and the white flesh of his belly and came out between his shoulder blades. The boy dropped the pitchfork and made a soft noise, something between a gasp and a sigh. His hands closed around the blade. "Oh, gods," he moaned, as his undertunic began to redden. "Take it out." When she took it out, he died. The horses were screaming. Arya stood over the body, still and frightened in the face of death. Blood had gushed from the boy's mouth as he collapsed, and more was seeping from the slit in his belly, pooling beneath his body. His palms were cut where he'd grabbed at the blade. She backed away slowly, Needle red in her hand. She had to get away, someplace far from here, someplace safe away from the stableboy's accusing eyes. She snatched up the bridle and harness again and ran to her mare, but as she lifted the saddle to the horse's back, Arya realized with a sudden sick dread that the castle gates would be closed. Even the postern doors would likely be guarded. Maybe the guards wouldn't recognize her. If they thought she was a boy, perhaps they'd let her . . . no, they'd have orders not to let anyone out, it wouldn't matter whether they knew her or not. But there was another way out of the castle . . . The saddle slipped from Arya's fingers and fell to the dirt with a thump and a puff of dust. Could she find the room with the monsters again? She wasn't certain, yet she knew she had to try. She found the clothing she'd gathered and slipped into the cloak, concealing Needle beneath its folds. The rest of her things she tied in a roll. With the bundle under her arm, she crept to the far end of the stable. Unlatching the back door, she peeked out anxiously. She could hear the distant sound of swordplay, and the shivery wail of a man screaming in pain across the bailey. She would need to go down the serpentine steps, past the small kitchen and the pig yard, that was how she'd gone last time, chasing the black tomcat . . . only that would take her right past the barracks of the gold cloaks. She couldn't go that way. Arya tried to think of another way. If she crossed to the other side of the castle, she could creep along the river wall and through the little godswood . . . but first she'd have to cross the yard, in the plain view of the guards on the walls. She had never seen so many men on the walls. Gold cloaks, most of them, armed with spears. Some of them knew her by sight. What would they do if they saw her running across the yard? She'd look so small from up there, would they be able to tell who she was? Would they care? She had to leave now, she told herself, but when the moment came, she was too frightened to move. Calm as still water, a small voice whispered in her ear. Arya was so startled she almost dropped her bundle. She looked around wildly, but there was no one in the stable but her, and the horses, and the dead men. Quiet as a shadow, she heard. Was it her own voice, or Syrio's? She could not tell, yet somehow it calmed her fears. She stepped out of the stable. It was the scariest thing she'd ever done. She wanted to run and hide, but she made herself walk across the yard, slowly, putting one foot in front of the other as if she had all the time in the world and no reason to be afraid of anyone. She thought she could feel their eyes, like bugs crawling on her skin under her clothes. Arya never looked up. If she saw them watching, all her courage would desert her, she knew, and she would drop the bundle of clothes and run and cry like a baby, and then they would have her. She kept her gaze on the ground. By the time she reached the shadow of the royal sept on the far side of the yard, Arya was cold with sweat, but no one had raised the hue and cry. The sept was open and empty. Inside, half a hundred prayer candles burned in a fragrant silence. Arya figured the gods would never miss two. She stuffed them up her sleeves, and left by a back window. Sneaking back to the alley where she had cornered the one-eared tom was easy, but after that she got lost. She crawled in and out of windows, hopped over walls, and felt her way through dark cellars, quiet as a shadow. Once she heard a woman weeping. It took her more than an hour to find the low narrow window that slanted down to the dungeon where the monsters waited. She tossed her bundle through and doubled back to light her candle. That was chancy; the fire she'd remembered seeing had burnt down to embers, and she heard voices as she was blowing on the coals. Cupping her fingers around the flickering candle, she went out the window as they were coming in the door, without ever getting a glimpse of who it was. This time the monsters did not frighten her. They seemed almost old friends. Arya held the candle over her head. With each step she took, the shadows moved against the walls, as if they were turning to watch her pass. "Dragons," she whispered. She slid Needle out from under her cloak. The slender blade seemed very small and the dragons very big, yet somehow Arya felt better with steel in her hand. The long windowless hall beyond the door was as black as she remembered. She held Needle in her left hand, her sword hand, the candle in her right fist. Hot wax ran down across her knuckles. The entrance to the well had been to the left, so Arya went right. Part of her wanted to run, but she was afraid of snuffing out her candle. She heard the faint squeaking of rats and glimpsed a pair of tiny glowing eyes on the edge of the light, but rats did not scare her. Other things did. It would be so easy to hide here, as she had hidden from the wizard and the man with the forked beard. She could almost see the stableboy standing against the wall, his hands curled into claws with the blood still dripping from the deep gashes in his palms where Needle had cut him. He might be waiting to grab her as she passed. He would see her candle coming a long way off. Maybe she would be better off without the light . . . Fear cuts deeper than swords, the quiet voice inside her whispered. Suddenly Arya remembered the crypts at Winterfell. They were a lot scarier than this place, she told herself. She'd been just a little girl the first time she saw them. Her brother Robb had taken them down, her and Sansa and baby Bran, who'd been no bigger than Rickon was now. They'd only had one candle between them, and Bran's eyes had gotten as big as saucers as he stared at the stone faces of the Kings of Winter, with their wolves at their feet and their iron swords across their laps. Robb took them all the way down to the end, past Grandfather and Brandon and Lyanna, to show them their own tombs. Sansa kept looking at the stubby little candle, anxious that it might go out. Old Nan had told her there were spiders down here, and rats as big as dogs. Robb smiled when she said that. "There are worse things than spiders and rats," he whispered. "This is where the dead walk." That was when they heard the sound, low and deep and shivery. Baby Bran had clutched at Arya's hand. When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb's leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. "You stupid," she told him, "you scared the baby," but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too. The memory made Arya smile, and after that the darkness held no more terrors for her. The stableboy was dead, she'd killed him, and if he jumped out at her she'd kill him again. She was going home. Everything would be better once she was home again, safe behind Winterfell's grey granite walls. Her footsteps sent soft echoes hurrying ahead of her as Arya plunged deeper into the darkness.

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