LORDS OF WINTERFELL + THEIR BASTARD SIBING - Torrhen Stark & Brandon Snow
To say that Torrhen Stark's decision to bend the knee to Aegon I was an unpopular one was an understatment. The king had ruled for nearly twenty years by that point and had maintained a rare tenure of peace and agricultural prosperity before the arrival of the Targaryen invaders. But while the decision to give up his crown may have saved the lives of the people of the North, it cost him the respect of his sons, his lords, and his brother, Brandon Snow.
Brandon was nearly a decade younger than the king, only just older than Torrhen's sons. The two had been close all their lives, as Brandon was raised within the royal Stark family amicably. He was trained as a warrior, one of the finest archers of the land. And he was bold, too. But like the rest of the North, Brandon held on to his grudges. It would be many months before Brandon spoke to Torrhen again after bending the knee to Aegon, and many more years before he considered forgiving his elder brother.
Torrhen prevented Brandon from trying to kill the dragons of Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. Before departing Winterfell, Brandon carved three arrows. He prayed over them, willed the power of the Old Gods to guide them true and slay the beasts. But Torrhen forbade him from using them. They argued and raged at each other before finally Brandon agreed to treat with Aegon, but left his bow behind. By the next morning, Torrhen handed his crown to the conqueror and Brandon spat at his feet.
It was not that Torrhen did not believe his brother could accomplish his mission, and for many years after it haunted him that perhaps he should have let the boy try. But he knew that Brandon would die a martyr in the attempt. Perhaps it as his selfishness to not see his brother, and eventually his sons to die pointless deaths. In the attempt to find a peace, he lost his brother's respect, and his sons struggled to even look at him. Brandon lived in his rage; anger at Torrhen's cowardice, anger at himself for listening to him. But Brandon could not fathom a king's responsability to his country, and did not bear the weight of it. Perhaps Torrhen was preventing his brother from an inevitable failure that which he would be blamed for. The bastard that could not kill a dragon. He gladly kept Brandon's resentment for the rest of his life, if meant saving him that.
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losing it a little from The Battle of Giant's Causeway implications. fucking fascinating to me to put C'rizz to be around a life out of death cult!! because he is killing things for preserving them kind of cult!!!
the complete opposite!!
the image of C'rizz, being the first born, reincarnated, while he deals in killing for good, the first of who they think is the hope from coming back from the dead to be the one who kills for their own good... what a feeling for crizz, to be renowned as the first living dead while he himself couses it.
is he deserving of it? to be renowned of the opposite to the one thing he is the most ashamed of he was or still is?
"you can't bring people back from the dead" says C'rizz, while trying to prosses all of this in his head. and i lose it inside a little
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people treat bisan, motaz and plestia like they're influencers instead of, you know, people who have endured/are enduring war crimes beyond imagining and ethnic cleansing. what I mean is, they never asked to be spokesperson for their people's humanity, or planned to be so visible. they're just people, ordinary people who can never go home, who are surviving colonial violence. what they're doing and what they have done defies any term of admiration or respect I could apply. But I wish that people would stop thinking of these individual Palestinians trying to survive in war zones like celebrities or politicians with actual power because it's just another form of dehumanisation. Ask yourself, what will you do if something happens to Bisan? If she is killed or goes dark or inshallah she escapes? Everyday I see posts like, "if Bisan dies, I'll riot!" riot NOW. speak up, now! Palestinians and Lebanese and Syrian people who aren't going viral on social media are being murdered by the occupation in the 100s everyday. I am begging people to stop hingeing their faith in the free Palestine movement and the movement to end the Zionist occupation on individuals. I love Bisan and Motaz and Plestia with all my heart and pray for them every day, but I'm begging people not to reframe Palestinian liberation through individualism. Support BDS, donate to UNRWA or the Red Crescent Society, listen to Palestinians across Palestine and the diaspora. Your belief in the freedom of Indigenous peoples has to transcend the ones most visible and palatable to you.
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When I was little, my dad hired a Cambodian refugee called Jack to help him drywall a dining room ceiling. Jack spoke very little English; he'd recently gotten a part time job in a little Asian deli not far from our home and needed to pick up some extra work. He was very kind to six year old me and my exhausted mom; he brought us day old leftovers from the deli counter often, and liked to tuck the knuckle of his index finger into the dimple in my cheek whenever I smiled at him.
He soaked up construction skills and other information like a sponge, and by the time he left my dad's tiny construction company he'd gotten his GED, learned to drive, reunited with his sister and her family, and had begun remodeling a vacant business on the rich side of town into a Cambodian restaurant. He invited us to their grand opening on lunar new year, and I'll never forget when he gave me a red envelope with five dollars in it and told me, "tonight I am the luckiest man in the world, so this will bring you luck, too."
Years later, my dad told me that Jack had witnessed his parents' murder during the khmer rouge, and was immediately separated from his sister. He had to cross the killing fields at Choeung Ek alone, on foot, eating grass and insects to survive. He somehow made it to Cam Ranh on the coast of Vietnam, where a distant friend of his father's put him on a boat to Seattle. Jack was nine years old.
I tell this story because, even though I haven't seen Jack or any of his relatives in thirty years, I pray he's well and happy and eating like a king tonight with everyone he loves, celebrating the long overdue demise of the pestilential sonofabitch who tried to wipe them out.
Fuck Henry Kissinger's pathetic ghost, and fuck all those who praise him. Fuck Imperialism. Fuck the genocidal war machine. Drink deep for the freedom of all souls tonight, my friends. And tomorrow, keep fighting.
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Credit cards and afterpays all paid off, and I started rebuilding the savings.
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Lights in the darkness always matter. Even if they are very small and faint. Without lights, we could not see at all; there would be no visual representation of truth, freedom, hope.
Showing that these lights exist is always worthwhile. Revealing the good is a positive action. It shows the darkness is not ubiquitous. It can inspire more lights to emerge until the darkness begins to retreat.
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i don't really know how to even articulate how painful it is to look at photos like these
(settlers celebrating purim in occupied west bank with police and soldiers. several of them dressed as a man who killed 29 palestinians three decades ago. they idolize this figure as a hero of their genocidal movement)
for anyone unaware, purim is a jewish holiday commemorating a time when we escaped imminent genocide by fighting back against our oppressors. violent resistance was involved. violent resistance was successful. purim is a holiday that celebrates freedom, resistance, and liberation.
tradition around purim often involves dressing up in costume. when i was little, the girls all wanted to be esther. the boys would be mordechai. purim is fun. fond memories of babies in little animal onesies. of making and eating hamentaschen. of booing hamans name and laughing together.
when i see these genocidal zionists dressing up and drinking and having fun like this it reminds me of the ways i've celebrated purim in the past. and it makes me so extremely angry. what right do you have to celebrate jewish resistance and liberation? what right do you have to parade your weapons around and walk on stolen palestinian land and celebrate?
zionists fancy themselves esther but they are no less than haman himself. groggers should be used to curse their names.
while gazan hospitals are being bombed and raided they celebrate with my customs and my holidays. and it makes me so angry
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