#Davos Iron fist

[kevinfeiges]

Sacha Dhawan as Davos IRON FIST SEASON 1 (2017), created by Scott Buck

[merrymarvelite]

Cover of the Day: Marvel Team-Up #63 (November, 1977) Art by Dave Cockrum, Frank Giacoia, and Danny Crespi

[vertigoartgore]

2007's Immortal Iron Fist Vol.1 #4 (LGY #30) cover by David Aja.

[marvelousmrm]

Marvel Team-Up #63 (Claremont/Byrne, Nov 1977). Iron Fist’s book may have been canceled, but its creative team are still together here at Marvel Team-Up! So Pete lurks on the periphery of the long-awaited face-off between Danny Rand and the mysterious Steel Serpent…

[readitwatchitwriteit]

Did anyone else really dislike season 3 of jessica jones and season 2 of Luke Cage?

Season 2 of Iron Fist was good, though.

[himbocampus]

I wanna glide the back of my hand against Davos’ stubble-y face so bad

[shadowwingtronix]

"Yesterday's" Comic> The Immortal Iron Fist #6

BW's "Yesterday's" Comic> The Immortal Iron Fist #6

“I want to have a few words with Netflix!” The Immortal Iron Fist #6 Marvel Comics (July, 2007; as posted in the digital trade from comiXology) “The Last Iron Fist Story” part 6 WRITERS: Ed Brubaker & Matt Fraction ARTIST: David Aja & Russ Heath COLORISTS: Matt Hollingsworth & Laura Martin LETTERER: Dave Lamphear ASSISTANT EDITOR: Alejandro Arbona EDITOR: Warren Simons Continue reading Untitled

[comicsiswild]

Immortal Iron Fist (2006) #6

[scottwbeattie]

Review: Iron Fist Epic Colletion 1: The Fury of Iron Fist

Iron Fist 1: The Fury of Iron Fist

70’s Marvel Kung Fu Heroes are 2 for 2

It’s always nice when you go into a book with high expectations and are not disappointed. I was almost certain that I would love Iron Fist 1, since Brubaker and Fraction’s Immortal Iron Fist is one of my favorite modern Marvel runs and the Chris Claremont/John Byrne duo are one of comics’ legendary creative teams. This book was as good as expected.

Roy Thomas created the character and wrote the first issue, but he immediately gave way to Len Wein, Tony Isabella, and Doug Moench, before Chris Claremont became the permanent writer. In spite of the turnover, the beginning of the volume is essentially one long, serialized story. Once Claremont settles in, the book becomes slightly more episodic, which was more typical of Marvel comics in the 70’s. My favorite of the pre-Claremont issues are obviously Marvel Premier #17 and #18 where Iron Fist has to fight his way through the trap-laden Meachum building. I definitely think my love of death-traps comes from watching the Indiana Jones and Home Alone movies so many times as a child.

As good as it was under other writers, the book elevates once Claremont comes on board. Most people in this group are probably very familiar with his specific writing style from his legendary run on Uncanny X-Men, but because this was earlier in his career, he hadn’t yet developed some of the tics that he would become famous for later on (like repeated use of catchphrases). The plotting is also not quite as intricate as UXM; Iron Fist is a fairly straightforward narrative with a main plot that is occasionally interrupted by interludes which set up the next arc. It’s nowhere near as complex as Claremont’s Uncanny, in which he would be planting seeds for stories 5 years down the line while simultaneously spinning 3-4 plots and subplots, but Iron Fist is just as enjoyable.

I really liked how Misty Knight was developed across this volume. Claremont only reveals her background in small pieces, but we constantly see how competent she is, and, if you don’t already know why, it’s quite cool to see her do some really amazing feats. Her relationship with Danny Rand is also really interesting. You’d be forgiven for assuming that Colleen Wing was intended to be Danny’s love interest, but he and Misty have much better chemistry, and, at least in this volume, Misty is much better-developed and more interesting than Colleen Wing.

One minor complaint that I have about The Fury of Iron Fist is that most of the antagonists are forgettable. The Meachums, for example, are never more than your typical rich evil bad guys. Only the Wrecking Crew, on loan from Thor, have any real flair. Sabretooth also makes his debut here, and he does show a lot of potential, but given that he’s a prominent X-Men/Wolverine villain, I assume that he probably doesn’t return to this title.

One high point is that Iron Fist consistently looks great throughout this volume. John Byrne draws the majority of the Claremont issues, and it’s amazing how in sync the two of them were from the beginning. Even before Byrne, several others including a young Larry Hama provide solid contributions.

Something that I tried to be aware of while I read this was whether I’d recommend Master of Kung Fu or Iron Fist to someone. Ultimately, I decided that it wasn’t a fair comparison, because not only are both equally great, but, really, the 70’s Kung Fu trappings are where the similarities between the titles end. Master of Kung Fu has more in common with James Bond, whereas Iron Fist is a more traditional superhero. That said, if you enjoy one title, than there’s a good chance that you’d enjoy the other. Both would be among my most recommended Marvel Comics from the 70’s.

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

So I don't really have a concrete theory or anything, but...

Dany dreams she is fighting the "usurper's rebel host" (aka Robert Baratheon's army) but these icy enemies are obviously Others; see how they melt away the way Ser Puddles did when Sam killed him.

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper’s rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. The other was a nightmare, and I have only now awakened. She woke suddenly in the darkness of her cabin, still flush with triumph. Balerion seemed to wake with her, and she heard the faint creak of wood, water lapping against the hull, a footfall on the deck above her head. And something else.

Dany III, ASOS

In a later Jon chapter, in the very same book, an "enemy" bursts into the fray to scatter the wildlings. This enemy is a Baratheon king - Stannis. This Baratheon king claims to be the legendary Azor Ahai, but he's not (Dany is, "the dragons prove it").

Trumpets were blowing all around, loud and brazen. The wildlings have no trumpets, only warhorns. They knew that as well as he did; the sound sent free folk running in confusion, some toward the fighting, others away. A mammoth was stomping through a flock of sheep that three men were trying to herd off west. The drums were beating as the wildlings ran to form squares and lines, but they were too late, too disorganized, too slow. The enemy was emerging from the forest, from the east, the northeast, the north; three great columns of heavy horse, all dark glinting steel and bright wool surcoats. Not the men of Eastwatch, those had been no more than a line of scouts. An army. The king? Jon was as confused as the wildlings. Could Robb have returned? Had the boy on the Iron Throne finally bestirred himself?

Jon X, ASOS

I find it interesting that Jon initially thinks it's his brother, a military commander with a near spotless record, coming to rescue him. Then thinks that it should be the king on the iron throne; he's expecting a boy, but it's wasn't a boy who came.

I think that we're going to see a repeat of this in ADOS, with Dany as the real Azor Ahai and king coming to rescue Jon. Upon hearing that the Others have come and receiving Watch's call for aid, Dany will immediately choose to go North. Think of Stannis saying:

"Yes, I should have come sooner. If not for my Hand, I might not have come at all. Lord Seaworth is a man of humble birth, but he reminded me of my duty, when all I could think of was my rights. I had the cart before the horse, Davos said. I was trying to win the throne to save the kingdom, when I should have been trying to save the kingdom to win the throne.” Stannis pointed north. “There is where I’ll find the foe that I was born to fight.”

Jon XI, ASOS

Also notice how Dany's Trident dream alludes to a fated battle involving icy monsters.

This is all just conjecture right now but, Jon's chapter has Stannis breaking the wildling siege on Castle Black. In Jon's (obviously prophetic) ADWD dream, he's besieged by a wildling host who turn out to be Others/wights - this dream is literally a play by play of the battle at Castle Black; like to a tee, it's crazy. Jon is fighting alone in that dream, just as he was alone among the wildlings before Stannis came.

So my thinking is Jon gets besieged and he is fighting alone, in need of a helper.....

They are all gone. They have abandoned me. Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. “Snow,” an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again.

Jon XII, ADWD

...then enter Daenerys, who is above all a savior.

“But,” Prince Aegon said, “without Daenerys and her dragons, how could we hope to win?” “You do not need to win,” Tyrion told him. “All you need to do is raise your banners, rally your supporters, and hold, until Daenerys arrives to join her strength to yours.” “You said she might not have me.” “Perhaps I overstated. She may take pity on you when you come begging for her hand.” The dwarf shrugged. “Do you want to wager your throne upon a woman’s whim? Go to Westeros, though … ah, then you are a rebel, not a beggar. Bold, reckless, a true scion of House Targaryen, walking in the footsteps of Aegon the Conqueror. A dragon. “I told you, I know our little queen. Let her hear that her brother Rhaegar’s murdered son is still alive, that this brave boy has raised the dragon standard of her forebears in Westeros once more, that he is fighting a desperate war to avenge his father and reclaim the Iron Throne for House Targaryen, hard-pressed on every side … and she will fly to your side as fast as wind and water can carry her. You are the last of her line, and this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all a rescuer.

Tyrion VI, ADWD

Dany dreams her fight is for the iron throne, but she is obviously fighting the Others. Tyrion thinks Dany is coming to rescue Rhaegar's son in his bid for the Iron Throne, but she will rescue him as he fights to save the world (and not doom it with more war). Notice how Jon atop the Wall dons house Targaryen's colors. Notice how he too is symbolized with Azor Ahai imagery, waving a beacon to light Dany's way. It's Aegon the Conqueror reversed. Dany's not here not for the throne. She's here to fulfill a prophecy, which Aegon never did.

TL;DR

Dany will save Jon while he's besieged by the Others :)

(small rant below)

This initially started as a post talking about Dany the war commander and kinda morphed into something else....

But it's funny to me that when people talk about the war for the dawn, it's always Jon and/or Bran who are made to be the natural war commanders or battle planners. And that's not a bad thing...but neither one of them has experience planning for and staging pitched battles. Bran has zero military experience to begin with and didn't receive the same education that Robb did. People assume that he'll be the commander because his skinchanging can be used for reconnaissance and thus battle command, but the one who canonically uses their skinchanging to spy on enemy troops and use the intel is Jon.

Jon, on the other hand, has battle experience but he was defending against a siege and not leading a fight in an open field. And that's not to say that he would be a bad tactician. He did an incredible job in ASOS defending the wall and ADWD also shows us that he can come up with intelligent plans on the fly. Anyway, aren't we told that people get stuck in their castles starving and with nowhere to go? Jon has experience leading sieges so he's the most suited for that. But he's not the most suited for breaking sieges and leading open battles because he doesn't have experience doing so.

DANY is the one who actually has experience as a more well rounded military commander. It's literally in her name: Daenerys, the sacker of cities. She has a spotless record as a military/war leader in Essos. That's Robb Stark level of prodigious ability, yet she does not get nearly enough respect in fandom. Robb will often get touted as one of the top commanders, even making top three/five for a lot of people, but doesn't Dany have similar stats and way more disadvantages? Shouldn't she be up there too? So out of anyone, shouldn't she be the war commander?

I was just annoyed that she has this insane record overturning enemy lines and breaking sieges and no ever talks about how that invaluable skill can be used against the Others. It's always "someone else will command her to go here and do this and do that". When talking about what looks like a war of attrition, why is no one mentioning the human battering ram being the key to success?? Feelsbadman :(

[merrymarvelite]

Cover of the Day: Marvel Team-Up #64 (December, 1977) Art by Dave Cockrum

[reginarubie]

For that lovely anon who asked the “Until I found you,” song, Jonsa story:

Here you have the canon one, know I mean to make the next installment of Jon and Sansa do end up together by Sansa POV with this song so you shall have the modern version too!

(I know you had sent me another ask, but I can’t find it for the life of me in my ask box, I have too many unanswered asks, but I did not forget about you!)

I was lost within the darkness until I found her [I found you]

To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. “Sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you” — Sansa II, AGOT

He wanted it. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. — Jon XIII, ASOS

Jon said, "Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa." — Jon IV, ADWD

Of sudden, he felt the warmth spreading from his chest to his limbs, up his neck, turning almost into a scorching heat burning him, and darkness inside of him from within.

Someone was chanting, chanting in some kind of ancient, malicious tongue that seemed to curl around his heart like an iron fist and squeeze until there was no longer life inside of him and no breath inside of his breast.

Someone was singing, the voice so far and so soft that Jon wondered if it could be his mother, singing to him from the recess of his mind.

Does she know about me?

The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother.

In his dreams his mother had always been beautiful, with kind eyes and a soft voice, noble born and she loved him. He wondered if that warmth spreading into his limbs and vanquishing the cold could be her love. Maybe, in death he'd known the embrace of a woman who loved him, that kind of love than could not die, that kind of love one could not deny, the kind of love for which duty and death were nothing but empty words with no power over him.

You know nothing, Jon Snow., Ygritte seemed to accuse him from somewhere in the recess of his mind and Jon could almost feel her probing hands on her, and wished once again Ghost was there, to stand between them.

Ghost, he remembered the blades and the cold.

Traitor.

Half a wildling, half a wolf, the blood of Winterfell. Somewhere deep in his being a wolf howled and it was as if he was suddenly shoved back inside his own body after having floated above it, around it, without anything binding him to the empty vessel he had left behind.

I loved another, echoed in his mind, the warm hand of the Red woman gripping at him, probing at him. The dead need no lovers, Jon Snow. But suddenly her heat was gone from his flesh and Jon felt the burn of the air feeling his lungs again — like the bite of the cold across his flesh — and he shivered as he roused with a sob.

The room was all wrong, he decided as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and the wooden canopy. Everything was wrong.

Davos' kind eyes, fatherly in some way he couldn't quite explain, were the first thing his glance could focus on.

———————————————————————————————————

“You swore an oath!” Edd tried to plead with him. I'm the sword in the darkness, I am the shield that guards the realms of men. He remembered his oath, but he also remembered the darkness and emptiness of death.

“My watch has ended,” he countered, his voice rough and dark and rasping. He doubted he'd ever talk quite right again, or feel quite warm enough from the chilling cold that the bite of death had left behind, claiming some part of him.

“Where will you go?” there was defeat in Edd's voice and Jon almost felt sorry for him. I cannot remain here, not after what happened. Jon knew all of his men by heart if not by name and that those very same men would plunge knives in his back…

“South,” he said on the spurn of a moment “get warm,” he added with a forced smile, that had nothing of the few genuine ones he had found himself dispensing to his men, to his brothers.

He could see in Edd's eyes. What about Winterfell?, Stannis had offered him Winterfell, but Stannis was dead. And Jon was just a bastard, besides, Winterfell belonged to Sansa. It was hers by law and by justice.

I know all about Lady Lannister and her claim, better Sansa and her new name than the bastard who had been killed by his own brothers. Even if she was forever lost, to death or to the coldness, then Winterfell would be lost with her.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

His fingers curled around the hilt of Long Claw. Honor made you leave, honor brought you back. Then the horn was sounded. Visitors.

Who would come?, who would reach the end of the world and not think of turning back and return where the sun shone and away from this land of death and coldness?

Hair as red as liquid copper, tangled into a semblance of a braid, framing a lovely if pale face and sparkling blue eyes, shining with barely concealed tears.

His heart skipped a beat.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

Sansa was shivering, but she was real in his arms. Her cheek was ice cold, but as she nuzzled against his face it seemed to spread warmth into his chilled bones. Her arms were trembling and her back was racked by soft sobs.

You are alive, her breath seemed to say, to chant, you are home. And his heart beat at the beat of one single word. Home.

——————————————————————————————————

You fell, I caught you. I'll never let you go like I did.

She's somehow grown more lovely too. He couldn't tell how that was possible. Sansa had always been, at the edge of his mind, someone far lovelier than any maiden in a song. She had been born to be a princess, though he had hated that they had betrothed her to Joffrey.

Daintily she ate the broth Jon had, had brought to them. Beautiful. That's not the right word either, his mind supplied, the right word sitting at the tip of his tongue.

Radiant.

Sansa had always been radiant, but all the more when she was happy. She had looked radiant as she had walked beside Joffrey inside the great hall of Winterfell, so many years past, as Jon bristled in the corner.

Now, she looked even more radiant.

He couldn't feel cold anymore, he realized. It was as if by returning Sansa had also returned some chunk of his own being back to him.

Home.

“Where will you go?” her tone had been even, but Jon could feel the concealed dread and fear in her.

As if Jon could ever let her go, now that they had found one another again.

“Where will we go,” he corrected her watching her slowly realizing the implication of his words as a soft beam opened, timidly, on her rosebud lips — had her lips always looked so pink? — his eyes unable to tear away from the soft peak of her pink tongue as she spoke, “if I don't watch over you Father's ghost will come back and murder me,” he jested.

That was safe.

He was her brother, and Sansa had suffered enough — she had not said but Jon could see it in the depth of her blue eyes — he wanted to be her safe space, from now on.

He smiled to her.

“Where will we go?” she asked again, then, her voice ever softer, as if Jon was being caressed by a cloud of warmth. She had always had the easy smile of the Tullys — they all did — and yet her smile had always been far more enchanting that Robb's or even Arya's.

“I don't know,” he admitted, looking down to his lap, “can't stay here, not after what happened,” he added, looking back to the hearth.

But I will keep you safe, he wanted to say. He didn’t.

“There's only one place we can go,” Sansa murmured, her eyes never leaving his face, “home,”.

He should've been surprised. He wasn't. Sansa was every inch as stubborn as any other of his siblings. His lord father used to say that he knew better than to fight with a Tully.

Jon knew better than think he'd be able to refuse Sansa anything.

“Should we tell the Boltons to pack up and leave?,” he asked, hoping his voice sounded teasing but conveyed the fact that Jon would never bring her back to the Bolton's clutches.

“We'll take it back,”

And there is was. The Tully's head-strongness. Sansa had been perhaps softer than their siblings, but ever as forthright and singleminded as all of them.

“Winterfell is our home,” she said passionately — and when had she learned to talk like that?, who was he joking...Sansa had always had a way with words, a way to get exactly what she wanted — “it's ours,”

I am not a Stark, he almost said. He had made shield of that knowledge since he left home.

“I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling, baseborn get of a traitor and a whore. You would deliver a highborn maid to the bed of some stinking savage. Did you sample her yourself first? If you mean to kill me, do it and be damned for a kinslayer. Stark and Karstark are one blood."

"My name is Snow.”

“It's ours,” she had said, and how could Jon deny her?, how could Jon ever deny her “and Bran's, and Rickon's and Arya's. Wherever they are, it belongs to our family, we must fight for it!”

As if Jon had not fought, and fought and fought and lost.

“I want you to help me,” she said stepping closer, as if she had not heard him tell her he had fought and lost and he didn't want to fight anymore “but I'll do it myself if I have to,”

Jon would bid her goodnight, hope the sleep would bring her better counsel, but he knew that look in her eye. He knew it like he knew the summer snows and the walls of Winterfell and the names of every Stark king buried in the crypts.

You do not belong here, boy.

Winterfell is ours.

——————————————————————————————————

“Jon doesn't have the Stark name,” Davos pointed out. He was a good man, Jon granted, and he was sure he was willing to help them in any way, because for some reason he had chosen to follow him after Stannis had died.

I am not a Stark.

Winterfell is ours.

“No,” Sansa agreed and Jon felt it like a punch in his gut “but I do,” she added in the same very breath.

She couldn't be suggesting what Jon was thinking, could she?, had she spent enough time with the Lannister to have taken to some of their queer customs?

“Jon is every bit Ned Stark's child as I am,” Sansa decreed, her voice dispelling his doubts “the North will fight for Ned Stark's son,” she said.

———————————————————————————————————

Would you bed your sister, Jon Snow?

A beacon. Jon could not define Sansa in any other way as she walked down the very same steps Jon had descended to met her halfway when she first had reached Castle Black, a bundle in her arms, clad in a dark blue dress and a his old furlined cloak.

“New dress?” he almost cringed at how hopeful his voice sounded as he looked at her. Sansa smiled, sincerely touched by the fact that he had noticed, as if Jon had not noticed every detail about her. Always.

“Yes,” she said looking down at herself, as she would do when they were children and she wanted to show them her newest design with the pride that only a girl so young could feel “do you like it?”

Jon knew nothing of dresses. Say something, he beseeched his mouth, his mind, anything, make her smile, she's beautiful when she smiles.

“I—I like the wolf bit,” he said, going even as far as make an half-aborted gesture to her chest, where the beautiful design of glass pearls composed a beautiful snarling direwolf.

Anything but that, he wanted to slap himself back to death and let the earth swallow him.

Make her smile, you fool, he berated himself, not make her awkward and uncomfortable.

Sansa's smile was timid, but genuine and the blush on her cheeks was well worth the embarrassment, he decided, looking at how lovely she looked in his cloak and with her cheeks flushed so.

“Good,” she said, giving herself composure and smiling openly and truly at him “because,” she opened the bundle of fabric and presented it to him, “I made this for you,” she stated, her eyes sparkling.

It was a cloak. She had made him a cloak. Jon could scarcely breath.

You may now cloak the bride and take her under your protection.

“I made it like the one Father used to wear,” Sansa stated, clearly in an attempt to fill the silence that had suddenly stretched between them “or as far as I can remember,” she added, downplaying all the effort she had surely taken to remember the design and bringing it back to life.

There was the Stark direwolf branded into the leather of its fastenings.

Jon doesn't have the Stark name.

No, but I do.

He looked up at her, “Thank you, Sansa” he said, hoping it could convey how grateful and proud he was that she would wrap him in Stark blazons and name him a Stark by action.

He didn't care for Edd half disgruntled, half disgusted look or for the sappy smile on his lips, the smile he had no intention to fight; he didn't even care if he look a sappy idiot, or a giddy greenboy, nor for the cold as he shed his old cloak and wrapped himself in the one Sansa had made for him.

For him.

———————————————————————————————————

They had taken back Winterfell.

You think that's obvious?

Oh, I think that is a bit obvious!

If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive. Do you understand me?

I will never let him touch you again, I'll protect you. I promise.

“Jon,” her voice had never been so cold, he turned to look at her “where is he?”

He didn't ask, she didn't say. Jon knew better than to confront her about it, she had been far gentler than he'd be, after all. And she was far more beautiful that she had any business of being, but Jon knew well enough, by now, that that would not stop her from growing much more beautiful still.

“Jon,” her voice was unsure, but soft and it left him wanting. The need cutting much deeper than the hunger he had always felt for Winterfell.

I am having the Lord's chambers prepared, he had told her. He had expected Sansa to take them, no question asked. They both knew who deserved them, by virtue of her birth, and by her actions — the Knights of the Vale had won the battle and they had rode North for her — but, in hindsight, he should've expected her to offer them to him instead.

“I am sorry I didn't tell you about the knights of the Vale, but—”

And in that moment Jon knew he loved her. He loved her with the kind of love that went beyond duty and honor and the bindings those imposed on any man, much more a bastard who had wanted nothing more than prove his worth.

“We need to trust each other,” he told her.

Trust me, he wanted to beg her, I kept you safe, didn't I?, have faith in me.

———————————————————————————————————

“You are my sister, but I am king now,” Jon protested.

He knew she had concerns, but she should not have voiced them before the lords, before the lords she ought to have kept her tongue at bay and then broached the subject in private.

Publicly they were to be an united front.

“So what?,” Sansa demanded walking past him “I can't question your decisions any more?” she asked “Joffrey never let anyone question his decisions, do you think he was a good king?”

Jon stopped in his tracks, suddenly as if slapped. He knew of some of the things she had suffered at Joffrey's hands. Not all, he was sure, but some things she had shared with him.

They had wanted to beat any kind of defiance out of her, they had failed, but Sansa had, had to learn to hold her tongue and lie to survive.

I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey, she told him to have affirmed more often than not, never letting her guard down, my one, true love.

She had learned to keep her opinions close to her heart and guarded and to never speak her mind least she wished to see her head removed.

If Jon thought over it, now, her protesting in open court made him feel both like an idiot and preening with pride. Because, she had felt safe enough to do that, to do what she had learned not to do at the Lannister court. She trusted him enough to speak her mind freely, because she knew he would never turn against her.

“Do you think I am Joffrey?” he spat, and if he sounded more pathetically in search for her validation, Jon didn't care. He needed her to tell him, tell him she trusted him. That she knew he was not Joffrey.

That with him she could protest before all the lords of the Realm and beyond and he'd thank her for her consideration — which he hadn't, but he had been blinded by arrogance and misplaced hurt pride before.

“I think you are as far from Joffrey as anyone I have ever met,” Sansa said, rising to his need and delivering her faith in him.

Jon exhaled. Thank the Gods.

“You're good at this, you know?” she asked, and it seemed she was not done complimenting him either. Part of Jon preened at her consideration, part of him filled with dread, knowing he was latching onto her “At what?,” he asked and her smile in reply was genuine.

“At ruling,”

“No,” he teased, looking out. Hoping she would protest.

She did.

“You are,” she said, “you are,” and Jon looked back at her, “but—”

And that made him smile. So she had faith in him, but less in his abilities. He chuckled.

“What?”

“What did Father used to say?,” he asked her “anything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit”

“He never said that, to me”

And how should I be smarter?, by listening to you?

Would it be so terrible?

Didn't she know he did nothing but listen to her?, could she really not see it?

——————————————————————————————————

Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal.

“You're abandoning your people!,” Sansa accused “you're abandoning your home!”

— you're abandoning me. She didn't say it and yet his treacherous heart skipped a beat as if she had.

And why, why did she have to look that beautiful?, he was sure it was some cruel joke of the Gods. The way for them to remind him he is nothing but a bastard, and bastards are born of lust and betrayal.

I am not a Targaryen, he chanted in his head, I am not a Targaryen. No matter the stirring deep in his soul for Sansa. The truth plain to see and yet hidden in the darkest of his mind and heart.

He was hers.

The North is a part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it. No matter the odds.

“I'm leaving both in good hands,” he assured her, watching as her beautiful eyes sparkled with barely concealed fear for him.

“Whose?!”

“Yours,” he was merely a murmur, but it echoed as if the hall had suddenly grown silent over the relentless chaos it had been before, and Jon wondered if the lords knew. They must've, because he could not tear his eyes off hers, “you are the only Stark in Winterfell,” he told her “until I return, the North is yours”

I am yours.

He nodded to her, and she gave him a so ever minute nod back.

———————————————————————————————————

It had been the hardest thing he had ever done. Falling in the dragon queen' bed. She was beautiful, if with a beauty so raw and dangerous that Jon felt suffocated.

You won't have to worry about the King in the North anymore, he had meant in jest, to cover how uncomfortable her purple gaze was making him feel, I've grown used to him.

She couldn't be as different from Sansa if she tried, and therein lied the crux of it all. Jon could never escape the truth about his unholy love for his sister, but he would never taint her soul with the stain of his sin.

The dragon queen could prove a distraction for however small, and she clearly was taken with him. He hated manipulating her that way, but he had felt like he had no choice.

When he had roused from his dreamless sleep, on her ship, Jon had not been alone. She had been there, perched onto the mattress and looking over him, as a dragon would lay over a hoard in the songs.

Am I your prisoner?, he had asked her, not yet. Her reply still echoed on his mind — she had taken his ships and had stripped him of his weapons, virtually he might have been a guest but he knew he was nothing short than an hostage — he had never been an hostage gambling with his life, the life of the woman he loved — for however unholy that was — and the life of his siblings.

But someone else had, and she had survived all of her abusers and found her way back home. To him.

The dragons had proved less mighty than Jon had hoped, but still they would've been useful. Daenerys had lost one — which meant that if they survived all of this, she had one less weapon to turn against the North — but she still had two, two who could be valuable assets if nothing, at the very least, to keep under control the numbers of weights that would fight against them.

It was a hard gamble, but one he had to make. No matter the odds.

I'm loyal to my beloved Joffrey, my one, true love.

“What about my queen?” he had seen how elated Daenerys had looked at that, and he had felt sorry for her, for the way he was using her, but he had soldiered on “I would— I would bend the knee, but—”

Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit. If he never publicly bent the knee, but showed his loyalty in other ways, Daenerys would never demand the proper rites were observed and Sansa could use it, once this war was over, to free the North of her.

Her hand was too little in his, and its hold was almost suffocating in his lungs. It did not surprise him when, later that week, after they had departed by ship for the North, she summoned him to her cabin.

He had known what she wanted from him, and he had given it to her.

There was no one single thing he would not do, to keep the North and Sansa safe.

——————————————————————————————————

It was good to be back home.

You're a man now, he had told Bran feeling his heart burst at the sight for his little brother. Almost, Jon had looked at Sansa, he had done nothing but look at her since breaking through the gates of Winterfell, and her aloof demeanor had softened as a genuine smile had graced her pink lips.

Gods, had he missed her.

It was the most natural, easiest thing he ever do, fall back into her open arms, feeling her curl around him and his whole being unfolding and collapsing into her.

Gods he loved her.

“Trust me,” he wanted to tell her, he hoped she would hear it anyway in her bones, as his blood sang for her.

“— I made sure we survived winter,” Sansa stated “but I did not account to feed two armies and two dragons,” she pointed out and Jon almost flinched.

Daenerys had indeed reached Winterfell without provisions and even her men had been clothed rightly for the cold only once they had reached White Harbor.

She had taken the gold from the Battle of the Golden Road, but she had burned the grain, instead of taking a whole year of harvest to feed her people come winter.

Leave it to Sansa to point that out. His clever girl.

“— what do dragons eat, anyway?”

Gods, had he missed her snarky comments. Though they could without her antagonizing the dragon queen with an ill temper and two dragons to her disposal.

Daenerys' reply had been as cold and chilling as when she had told him he was not yet her prisoner “Whatever they want,” she said, her cold, purple eyes fixing dangerously on his sister.

Sansa didn't give a single inch, facing her rival head-on, her Tully blue eyes shining with defiance.

Jon needed to put a stop to it. To diverge Daenerys' attention from Sansa, he knew his sister could wear down what little control Daenerys had on her own temper just by pointing out the clear mistakes in her policy and making of her the laughing stock of the lords of the Realm.

“I don't need her to be my friend,” Daenerys stated coldly, her eyes never wavering. She was giving him a warning. Jon had no doubt she felt as she was showing him consideration by issuing such a warning before acting whereas elsewise Sansa would've already been dealt with “but if she can't respect me—”

He did his best to school his expression and keep a close reign to his fury. He had beaten to a pulp the last person who had dared threaten Sansa, and had almost strangled the last man who had showed his misplaced lust for his sister.

Thankfully he was saved when her attention was caught by the news her dothraki guard reported about the dragons.

He hadn't known. Had he known he could ride one, he would've done with all of this farse, taken the dragon and left Daenerys to her miserable war for the Iron throne.

But he hadn't known.

Still, this meant that, if Daenerys ever asked more than the North could concede, and she turned her fury North, Jon could defend the North.

“He said he would stand behind Jon Snow,” she pointed out at his fury against lord Glover “the King in the North”

Didn't she understand he was doing all of this for them?, for her?

“I told you we needed allies!” he beseeched her, watching her dance like a dark flame and enticing him with her dance.

“I wasn't aware you were abandoning your crown!” she accused, because therein lay the problem.

“— I brought two armies home, two dragons!”

“and a Targaryen queen!” she accused turning around to face him again, and all of her beauty hit him again, like a wave against his lungs.

I will drown in those eyes, Jon sighed “She'll be a good queen,” he needed her to believe it “she's not her father,”

“No,” Sansa agreed, her voice lower than a whisper, a breath against his lips, making him almost lean in “she's much prettier,”

Jon smiled up at her and wondered if she could see his smile was poorly-manufactured. If she could see how hard this was for him.

“Did you bend the knee because she'll be a good queen, or because you love her?”

Apparently no. He felt himself flinch “Don't you have any faith in me at all?,” he asked, and Sansa deflated at that, the scale-looking fabric of her dress shining in the candle-lit chamber.

“You know I do,” no buts, this time. It was an absolute statement. She trusted him.

———————————————————————————————————

He leaned to the side and felt his stomach churn, as his lungs burned.

I'm talking about the Seven bloody Kingdoms!

He looked to the statue of Lyanna Stark, his mother, and suddenly another wave of nausea hit him.

He had slept with his aunt, he had slept with his aunt and he didn't eve love her.

He loved his— apparently he was a Targaryen, after all, because the love he bore Sansa whilst believing her his sister came back to haunt him tenfold — she's not his sister.

Not his sister.

She's his.

———————————————————————————————————

“Tell them—” he asked of Bran. His cousin looked taken aback for a moment in that distant, aloof way of his.

The battle had been terrible, the war council even worse.

You are the queen, what you command we will obey. He hated how smugly Daenerys had looked at Sansa.

The Seven Kingdoms will know peace, under their rightful queen.

Then, he told them. He half expected Arya to throw a fit, but her schooled expression betrayed nothing. Sansa, instead, was more of an open book.

I am not a Stark.

“Jon,” she was the first to speak, Jon looked at her, halfway hoping she would point out he was not her brother and look relieved by it, and halfway hoping she'd not press the issue “I am so sorry,”

He had not expected that.

And suddenly she was in his arms, and Jon felt her warmth engulfing him and filling him.

“I am so sorry,” she chanted into his ear “you're still a Stark, you're still ours,”

Jon hid his face against her red hair and the fur of her cloak — his cloak, he realized, the one he had given her at Castle Black — “and I stil love you,”

His heart skipped a beat at that. It had sounded so unnecessary and yet it had filled Jon with acceptance.

———————————————————————————————————

“Don't go there,” Sansa whispered, in the darkness of the hour of the wolf, “I don’t want you to go there,” she added.

Jon smiled softly at her, “Sansa,” he murmured “You know I must go,”

“Men in our family don’t do well in the South,” she protested and Jon pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I am not a Stark,” he reminded her gently. Sansa huffed out.

“You are to me,” she proclaimed “Jon, she won’t stand for it,” she told him “you’re the strongest threat to her rule,” she pointed out “just like Ramsay would have never risked Rickon living, I beg of you, see reason”

“She loves me,” he said, that Sansa didn’t appreciate.

“Well then,” she stated coldly, disentangling from his hold, “I suppose you want to go with her South,” she said briskly.

It made Jon chuckle “Don’t be jealous, now,” he teased her, because now his whole heart rejoiced at her blatant jealousy.

“You really think that low of me?,” Sansa protested “that I mean to keep you caged here because I am jealous?” she demanded “by all means, go with her,” she said “I am only concerned for your welfare”

“I know, sweet one,” he murmured softly “but I will not have her stay in Winterfell any longer,”

The glass gardens looked beautiful and Jon was sure there was supposed to be a batch of winter roses somewhere, but he also knew that Sansa had devoted all land she could to parley and potatoes and rice.

She huffed “I still don’t like you going South, they will fight over your every limb until they rip you apart, and I will be forced to avenge you,” she said.

Jon chuckled, their shoulders brushing as both sat on the stony bench “My avenging wolf,” he teased her, “I promised you I would protect you, let me”

Sansa had stayed silent at that “You’ll return,” she stated with a surety that had him almost smile. Almost.

“I will,”

They both knew only his bones would return North if he set foot beyond the Neck. But it was a sacrifice Jon was willing to make, if it meant Sansa got to live safe and protected. Yet Sansa let him embrace and Jon fell into her.

__________________________________________________________________________

“— they don’t get to choose” Daenerys stated, with a coldness that was eery. A beautiful, dark conqueror, clad in her victory and without mercy.

She’s everyone’s queen now.

Try telling Sansa.

Why do you think Sansa told me the truth about you?, she doesn’t want Dany to be queen.

She doesn’t get to choose.

No, but you do!

“—be with me,” and he had done it. After all what was a curse more upon his name, but that of kinslayer?

“You are my queen,” he stated as he leaned close, his free hand curling around the hilt of his dagger.

I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey, my one, true love.

“Now,” he promised as their lips touched “and always” and then, he plunged his knife in her heart.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“I wish there had been another way,” the tears in her eyes almost broke his heart, i the same way knowing she had done what she believed right to defend him, even if it had broken him instead.

“The North is free thanks to you,” he said knowing it true, but not less tragic because of it.

“But they lost their king,” she said and he could see she was indeed heartbroken over it.

I was lost within the darkness until I found her,

I found you

“Ned Stark’s daughter will speak for them,” he stated, knowing it deep in the marrow of his bones. All this time, he had been waiting for her.

Even after Ygritte, when he had thought duty had won over any kind of love. He had known.

Sometimes duty must be the death of love.

He had known he had loved again, perhaps, down in the darkest pit of his heart he had always known he had loved her. He hadn’t realized it but it had not been Lyanna Stark’s voice to bring him back.

It had been the memory of Sansa singing to herself as she brushed Lady’s coat.

“She’s the best they could ask for,”

She embraced him then, and Jon would’ve rather died than let her go, and almost didn’t let go of her.

But the Gods were just and no kinslayer could’ve hold something so good in his arms.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Tormund watched him, side-eyeing him for all his worth.

So who it is that you have to convince?, this dragon queen or the one who fucks her brother?

“What?” he demanded.

“You love her,” it was not a question, it was a statement. Jon’ eyes fell naturally on Sansa. She had come to Castle Black when her summon had been ignored.

He had needed time.

“Aye,” he didn’t hide it, not from Tormund, not from anyone else. He had told himself, he would never fall in love after Ygritte, but it had been a lie.

The dead need no lovers, Lord Snow.

No, Jon had thought and even though he had not known it consciously yet, he had not been waiting for Ygritte to raise again and haunt him if he ever betrayed her.

No. He had known he could never give himself to anyone but her. He would never fall in love again, unless it was her, until he could’ve had her.

The lady in the silk dress, to whom he could bring flowers. The lady he had wanted Ygritte to try and be. She had always been Sansa. And he always been waiting for her.

He had always known he would only fall into her, and he had not yet stopped falling. He doubted he ever would.

Suddenly Sansa was before him, her cheeks were flushed and her lips parted, her hand proffered toward him “Would you not dance with me?”

She had, had some to drink, but Jon had never seen her so giddy before.

He had accepted her hand before he could think better of it and had let her guide him —who was he joking to say he was the one guiding her?, she had always taken the lead in their relationship — and he had twirled her around as the wildling raised songs of the First Men around them, drumming their fingers on their instruments or clapping their hands.

He had been lost all his life, stumbling in the darkness. And then she had come like a dark flame, pulling him in and loving him, letting him love.

HOLD YA — I WILL NEVER LET YOU GO AGAIN,

She looked ever so beautiful and lovely and Jon really wanted to kiss her, steal her breath away and never let go.

He looked at her softly “What are you doing here?” he asked, as he spun her around and twirled her, her beautiful gown dancing like rays of liquid silver and snow around her.

“Don’t you know?” she asked, and in her eyes Jon could see her true question. Do you really not know?

“The Lords will never accept it,” Jon told her softly “I am a kinslayer”

“You are a hero,” she countered, “besides, the lords would simply be grateful I have stopped ditching their efforts to have me married and give them an heir,” she teased him.

The mead she had drunk though, must’ve caught up with her because she stumbled her next step, falling into his chest — or perhaps, by the mirth in her eyes — she had done it on purpose.

“I’ve caught you,” he said stupidly.

Sansa smiled “So you did,” she smiled “I want it to be you,” she told him boldly “I do not want to force you”

Jon almost swore. She was born to make his will crumble, but really, hadn’t Jon always known?

How could he ever deny her anything?

“I know you loved Ygritte,” she said “and the dragon queen… but I thought—”

Jon silenced her by pressing a kiss against her lips, chasing the beautiful flames dancing on her skin and painting her face in a golden halo, her hair brimming like liquid copper

“Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit,” he reminded her, “I found you,” he said “I’ve loved you,” he added “if you’ll want me,” he told her “If you’ll let me, I’ll love you more still, I’ll hold you more—” his voice broke off “why do you think I killed her?, she would’ve turned against you. And I could not let her” he told her “It had always been you, if you’ll want me”

This time she was the one pressing the kiss atop his lips “I want you”

Jon nodded “Then I’ll be yours,” he said “and you’ll be mine”

Sansa’ beam was something to be seen “Until the end of our days?”

heaven when i held you again,

how could we ever be friends?

i would rather die than let you go.

“Until the end of our days” he said.

[marvelousmrm]

Iron Fist #4 (Claremont/Byrne, Apr 1976). A brutal battle inspires Danny to channel his chi into healing rather than punching.

[tea-with-cinnamontoast]

so, we’ve all at least heard of the iron fist, right? whether it’s from the comics or netflix show, i am 90% sure you’ve at least heard about him! well, i’m here to tell you that there’s more that meets the eye! :)

the netflix show doesn’t flesh out danny as a character that well and some of you probably despise him (...i do too) but his comic self is waaay different. if nmcu danny is whiny and all "because im the iron fist" every five minutes, then comics danny is a mix of a silly little guy, dumbass (affectionate), and a walking sunshine.

of course, there are some comics where he may act a lot different, but he is just a green flag—albeit traumatised—little guy!

the iron fist show itself MESSES UP the lore so badly that i literally do not know what’s so special about the iron fist. so here’s a (not so) deep dive into the lore of the iron fist mantle until lin lie! and some comic recommendations of danny :D

(open the cut for more 💖)

let’s start with the basics, shall we?

What is the Iron Fist? Who is the Iron Fist?

the iron fist is a power that comes from a dragon named shou-lao. this power is the dragon’s chi—or the soul, according to chinese belief. this chi allows them to access the dragon’s powers and unlock different ways of using said powers! the most common was is to turn their fists into "things of unto iron"!

however, the iron fist is not just a power, it’s a mantle given to those who can defeat the dragon themselves. these candidates are trained in k’un lun and if they do win, they will be named the champion of k’un lun. the first iron fist is quan yaozu.

What? What the hell is K’un Lun? What do you mean ‘champion’?

i’m glad you asked! k’un lun is one of the capital cities of heaven! there are 7 capital cities of heaven, according to iron fist lore, each with their own champions who possesses different abilities. they are also called the immortal weapons.

(note that the new weapon in this picture is davos, a long time nemesis of danny, because of circumstances. the actual weapon is the crane mother’s child.)

the fat cobra is from peng lai, a child of a pig farmer raised in abandonment. he was an opera singer as a child and fought in both sides of the world war.

the bride of nine spiders is from the kingdom of spiders, yet her origins are unknown.

dog brother comes from the under city and used to be a poor street orphan with an adoptive brother to protect. he was a slave, too.

tiger’s beautiful daughter is a strong woman from tiger island, an island where women ruled over men. i’m not kidding, in the one chapter where her origins are introduced, she literally destroyed the patriarchy. we stan.

prince of orphans is from z’gambo. unfortunately, we do not know his origins, but he is powerful. like necromancer powerful.

read more about them in ‘the immortal weapons’! absolutely worth it.

Wait, wait, wait. The Immortal Weapons? Are they immortal or just the mantle? Is Danny immortal?

...yes and no.

they are immortal until they die in battle. in a sense where the immortality only applies to their age not their whole body. however, this is highly speculation, since we do not actually know if the term ‘immortal’ refers to them or their title. what we do know is that danny refused to eat the apple of immortality, making him more or less fully human. and he dies multiple times. sort of.

Ooookay... How do you become the Iron Fist?

to become the iron fist, you must be trained in k’un lun as a child of k’un lun. these trainings are watched under lei kung, the thunderer, who is immortal. those who want to challenge shou-lao has to fight each other and win before they are allowed to fight the dragon. these fights are a test of not only physical strength, but spiritual strength, too. chi is like... an inner power. a part of your soul.

then, they fight the dragon. if they figure out how to and win, they will be given the mark of the dragon (the iconic iron fist logo) and they must plunge their fists into the dragon’s molten heart. survive.

Wait, if only a child of K’un Lun is allowed to be the Iron Fist, why does Danny become one? Isn’t he American?

orientalism

well, he was raised there, i guess. dunno. in orson randall’s case, though, it works because he was born in k’un lun despite his parents being american.

Who’s Orson Randall?

orson randall is danny’s predecessor. he’s the iron fist of the 1900s. he had fought in both world wars and more. tired old man. also a mentor of danny’s dad (whoopee). really a fucking cool character to read about definitely check out the orson oneshots.

Who’s Danny’s successor, then?

a chinese kid named lin lie! formerly the sword master, lie was last seen in death of doctor strange: white fox. he sort of died in that comic but SIKE! he’s back as the iron fist babyyyy !!!!!

Who’s my favourite Iron Fist?

it’s danny rand, duh. 🙄 (it’s wu ao-shi. what a girlboss).

What the hell.

hey man you’re gonna love danny and his tragic but interesting backstories i swear it’s just weird to summarize/say out loud 😮‍💨

anyway! some recommendations:

the immortal iron fist - start with this one, basics and a rework of his older comics history !!!

the immortal weapons + orson randall oneshots - just fun as fuck

avengers volume 2 (i think it was 2012)

defenders (2018) - if you like the nmcu this one is for you!

iron fist: living weapon

iron fist: phantom limb - blood, gore, and body horror warning!

immortal iron fists - girl dad danny rand im not kidding he’s so silly here

heart of the dragon

iron fist (2020) - lin lie !!

that’s it thank you for listening to me autistic rambling

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AFFC: The Iron Captain (Victarion I) [Chapter 18]

My little dunce cap! 😍

Victarion joined Nute the Barber at her prow. Ahead loomed the sacred shore of Old Wyk and the grassy hill above it, where the ribs of Nagga rose from the earth like the trunks of great white trees, as wide around as a dromond's mast and twice as tall.

The bones of the Grey King's Hall. Victarion could feel the magic of this place. 

My mind is full of weirwood.

+.+.+

"Balon's sons are dead," Red Ralf Stonehouse had argued, "and Asha is a woman. You were your brother's strong right arm, you must pick up the sword that he let fall." When Victarion reminded them that Balon had commanded him to hold the Moat against the northmen, Ralf Kenning said, "The wolves are broken, lord. What good to win this swamp and lose the isles?" And Ralf the Limper added, "The Crow's Eye has been too long away. He knows us not."

What.

+.+.+

Euron Greyjoy, King of the Isles and the North. The thought woke an old rage in his heart, but still . . .

"Words are wind," Victarion told them, "and the only good wind is that which fills our sails. Would you have me fight the Crow's Eye? Brother against brother, ironborn against ironborn?" Euron was still his elder, no matter how much bad blood might be between them. No man is as accursed as the kinslayer.

Let's count how many times Victarion thinks about kinslaying.

One.

+.+.+

And then he saw her: a single-masted galley, lean and low, with a dark red hull. Her sails, now furled, were black as a starless sky. Even at anchor Silence looked both cruel and fast. On her prow was a black iron maiden with one arm outstretched. Her waist was slender, her breasts high and proud, her legs long and shapely. A windblown mane of black iron hair streamed from her head, and her eyes were mother-of-pearl, but she had no mouth.

x

But not from Silence. On her decks a motley crew of mutes and mongrels spoke no word as the Iron Victory drew nigh. 

ha HA, get it?? heavy metal.

+.+.+

Victarion's hands closed into fists. He had beaten four men to death with those hands, and one wife as well. Though his hair was flecked with hoarfrost, he was as strong as he had ever been, with a bull's broad chest and a boy's flat belly. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men, Balon had reminded him on the day he sent the Crow's Eye off to sea.

Two.

+.+.+

"Drop sail. We proceed on oars alone. Command Grief and Iron Vengeance to stand between Silence and the sea. The rest of the fleet to seal the bay. None is to leave save at my command, neither man nor crow."

That feels like it's going to be a problem for someone.

+.+.+

But not from Silence. On her decks a motley crew of mutes and mongrels spoke no word as the Iron Victory drew nigh. Men black as tar stared out at him, and others squat and hairy as the apes of Sothoros. Monsters, Victarion thought.

Sorry, guys. Please excuse the racism. He means well.

+.+.+

Beneath he wore heavy grey chainmail over boiled black leather. In Moat Cailin he had taken to wearing mail day and night. Sore shoulders and an aching back were easier to bear than bloody bowels. The poisoned arrows of the bog devils need only scratch a man, and a few hours later he would be squirting and screaming as his life ran down his legs in gouts of red and brown.

Victarion wearing heavy armour while at sea will come up a few times. It's definitely something we should keep an eye on.

A gust of wind tugged at his old green cloak. A jerkin of boiled leather and a pothelm at his feet were his only armor. At sea, heavy steel was as like to cost a man his life as to save it, he believed. - Davos III, ACOK

+.+.+

Victarion would not speak of kinslaying, here in this godly place beneath the bones of Nagga and the Grey King's Hall, but many a night he dreamed of driving a mailed fist into Euron's smiling face, until the flesh split and his bad blood ran red and free. I must not. I pledged my word to Balon. 

Three.

+.+.+

Many promised him their voices: Fralegg the Strong, clever Alvyn Sharp, humpbacked Hotho Harlaw. Hotho offered him a daughter for his queen.

[...]

"A king must have an heir," Hotho insisted. "The Crow's Eye brings three sons to show before the kingsmoot."

x

He had not touched another woman since he gave her to the crabs. I will need to take a wife when I am king. A true wife, to be my queen and bear me sons. A king must have an heir.

A king must have an heir!

I had no wish to marry after Lyanna was taken from me, but Jon said the realm needed an heir. - Eddard VII, AGOT

A king must have an heir!

"Jeyne," she called after, "there's one more thing Robb needs from you, though he may not know it yet himself. A king must have an heir." - Catelyn III, ASOS

A king must have an heir!

"Young, and a king," he said. "A king must have an heir. If I should die in my next battle, the kingdom must not die with me. - Catelyn V, ASOS

A KING MUST HAVE AN HEIR!

Victarion was turning to go when the Crow's Eye said, "A king must have a wife, to give him heirs. - The Reaver, AFFC

~a king must have an heir!~

Robert -> no heir!

Stannis -> no heir! (soon. rip.)

Renly -> no heir!

Joffrey -> no heir!

Tommen -> no heir!

Robb -> no heir!

Daenerys -> no heir!

👏 a 👏 king 👏 must 👏 have 👏 an 👏 heir 👏

+.+.+

"Bastards and mongrels. How old is this daughter?"

"Twelve," said Hotho. "Fair and fertile, newly flowered, with hair the color of honey. Her breasts are small as yet, but she has good hips. She takes after her mother, more than me."

Great, more fair and fertile, newly flowered, honey-haired 12-year-old girls wedding and bedding.

Remember when this was horrifying?

+.+.+

"I will gladly look at the girl once I am crowned," he said. That was as much as Hotho dared hope for, and he shambled off, content.

Sorry, guys. Please excuse the pedophilia. He means well.

+.+.+

"Balon was mad, Aeron is madder, and Euron is maddest of them all," Lord Baelor said. "What of you, Lord Captain? If I shout your name, will you make an end of this mad war?"

Victarion frowned. "Would you have me bend the knee?"

"If need be. We cannot stand alone against all Westeros. King Robert proved that, to our grief. Balon would pay the iron price for freedom, he said, but our women bought Balon's crowns with empty beds. My mother was one such. The Old Way is dead."

"What is dead can never die, but rises harder and stronger. In a hundred years men will sing of Balon the Bold."

"Balon the Widowmaker, call him. I will gladly trade his freedom for a father. Have you one to give me?" When Victarion did not answer, Blacktyde snorted and moved off.

Who is this Baelor Blacktyde!? I like him! Hopefully he sticks around for a long time.

+.+.+

A woman was amongst those laughing. Victarion rose and saw her by the tent flap, whispering something in the ear of Qarl the Maid that made him laugh as well. He had hoped she would not be fool enough to come here, yet the sight of her made him smile all the same. "Asha," he called in a commanding voice. "Niece."

Is that an uncle/aunt being warm towards his/her niece/nephew? What book am I reading?

+.+.+

"Queensmoot?" Victarion laughed. "Are you drunk, niece? Sit. I did not spy your Black Wind on the strand."

"I beached her beneath Norne Goodbrother's castle and rode across the island."

Clever girl.

+.+.+

"Would you lesson me in warfare? I was fighting battles when you were sucking mother's milk."

"And losing battles too." Asha took a drink of wine.

Victarion did not like to be reminded of Fair Isle. "Every man should lose a battle in his youth, so he does not lose a war when he is old. You have not come to make a claim, I hope."

Is this foreshadowing?

+.+.+

"There are men who remember when you were a little girl, swimming naked in the sea and playing with your doll."

At the Pyke Water Gardens.

+.+.+

But then a sudden silence fell. The singing died, Little Lenwood Tawney lowered his fiddle, men turned their heads. Even the clatter of plates and knives was hushed.

I adore this introduction.

+.+.+

A dozen newcomers had entered the feast tent. Victarion saw Pinchface Jon Myre, Torwold Browntooth, Left-Hand Lucas Codd. Germund Botley crossed his arms against the gilded breastplate he had taken off a Lannister captain during Balon's first rebellion. Orkwood of Orkmont stood beside him. Behind them were Stonehand, Quellon Humble, and the Red Oarsman with his fiery hair in braids. Ralf the Shepherd too, and Ralf of Lordsport, and Qarl the Thrall.

What.

+.+.+

And the Crow's Eye, Euron Greyjoy.

He looks unchanged, Victarion thought. He looks the same as he did the day he laughed at me and left. Euron was the most comely of Lord Quellon's sons, and three years of exile had not changed that. His hair was still black as a midnight sea, with never a whitecap to be seen, and his face was still smooth and pale beneath his neat dark beard. A black leather patch covered Euron's left eye, but his right was blue as a summer sky.

A dreamboat!

She's so fucked.

+.+.+

"We shall have no king but from the kingsmoot." The Damphair stood. "No godless man—"

"—may sit the Seastone Chair, aye." Euron glanced about the tent. "As it happens I have oft sat upon the Seastone Chair of late. It raises no objections." His smiling eye was glittering. "Who knows more of gods than I? Horse gods and fire gods, gods made of gold with gemstone eyes, gods carved of cedar wood, gods chiseled into mountains, gods of empty air . . . I know them all. I have seen their peoples garland them with flowers, and shed the blood of goats and bulls and children in their names. And I have heard the prayers, in half a hundred tongues. Cure my withered leg, make the maiden love me, grant me a healthy son. Save me, succor me, make me wealthy . . . protect me! Protect me from mine enemies, protect me from the darkness, protect me from the crabs inside my belly, from the horselords, from the slavers, from the sellswords at my door. Protect me from the Silence." He laughed. "Godless? Why, Aeron, I am the godliest man ever to raise sail! You serve one god, Damphair, but I have served ten thousand. From Ib to Asshai, when men see my sails, they pray."

This is what Darkstar and so many others wish they could be.

+.+.+

The priest raised a bony finger. "They pray to trees and golden idols and goat-headed abominations. False gods . . ."

"Just so," said Euron, "and for that sin I kill them all. I spill their blood upon the sea and sow their screaming women with my seed. 

Euron Greyjoy plants trees!

+.+.+

When he was gone, the Crow's Eye turned his smiling eye upon Victarion. "Lord Captain, have you no greeting for a brother long away? Nor you, Asha? How fares your lady mother?"

"Poorly," Asha said. "Some man made her a widow."

Euron shrugged. "I had heard the Storm God swept Balon to his death. Who is this man who slew him? Tell me his name, niece, so I might revenge myself on him."

Lol. What an asshole. ❤️

+.+.+

"Do I command the winds?" the Crow's Eye asked his pets.

"No, Your Grace," said Orkwood of Orkmont.

"No man commands the winds," said Germund Botley.

I was going to make a Bran joke, but I think making fun of Melisandre is more appropriate in this moment.

Melisandre had given Alester Florent to her god on Dragonstone, to conjure up the wind that bore them north. - Davos I, ADWD

+.+.+

"No man commands the winds," said Germund Botley.

"Would that you did," the Red Oarsman said. "You would sail wherever you liked and never be becalmed."

"There you have it, from the mouths of three brave men," Euron said. 

Wait, can he actually command the winds?

+.+.+

"Give her to me, Euron," suggested the Red Oarsman. "I'll spank her till her arse is as red as my hair."

"Come try," said Asha, "and hereafter we can call you the Red Eunuch." A throwing axe was in her hand. She tossed it in the air and caught it deftly. "Here is my husband, Nuncle. Any man who wants me should take it up with him."

More people marrying inanimate objects or classical elements.

+.+.+

"On that we can agree." Euron lifted two fingers to the patch that covered his left eye, and took his leave. 

What is this?

+.+.+

"Nuncle." Asha put a hand upon his shoulder. "Walk with me, if you would."

[...]

"I saw the Reader's longship."

"It took all my charm to winkle him out of his Book Tower."

She has the Harlaws, then. 

Last time we saw the Reader he was refusing to attend the kingsmoot.

I guess stopping Euron is that important. Smart man.

+.+.+

"I am of a mind to shout my nuncle's name."

"Which uncle?" he demanded. "You have three."

"Four. Nuncle, hear me. I will place the driftwood crown upon your brow myself . . . if you will agree to share the rule."

"Share the rule? How could that be?" The woman was not making sense. Does she want to be my queen? Victarion found himself looking at Asha in a way he had never looked at her before. He could feel his manhood beginning to stiffen. She is Balon's daughter, he reminded himself. 

Sorry, guys. Please excuse the incest. He means well.

+.+.+

"Then let my nuncle sit," Asha said. "I will stand behind you, to guard your back and whisper in your ear. No king can rule alone. Even when the dragons sat the Iron Throne, they had men to help them. The King's Hands. Let me be your Hand, Nuncle."

No King of the Isles had ever needed a Hand, much less one who was a woman. The captains and the kings would mock me in their cups. 

Take the deal, you idiot!

Great sign for Asha that she's willing to relinquish power for the greater good.

+.+.+

"To end this war before this war ends us. We have won all that we are like to win . . . and stand to lose all just as quick, unless we make a peace. I have shown Lady Glover every courtesy, and she swears her lord will treat with me. If we hand back Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, and Moat Cailin, she says, the northmen will cede us Sea Dragon Point and all the Stony Shore. Those lands are thinly peopled, yet ten times larger than all the isles put together. An exchange of hostages will seal the pact, and each side will agree to make common cause with the other should the Iron Throne—"

Asha, what the hell are you going to plant on a stony shore? Use your brain! Think!

+.+.+

Victarion chuckled. "This Lady Glover plays you for a fool, niece. Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore are ours. Why hand back anything? Winterfell is burnt and broken, and the Young Wolf rots headless in the earth. We will have all the north, as your lord father dreamed."

[Narrator's voice] In actual fact, they did not have Sea Dragon Point, the Stony Shore, or all the north.

+.+.+

"The Crow's Eye hatched the scheme." Asha put her hand upon his arm. "And killed your wife as well . . . did he not?"

Balon had commanded them not to speak of it, but Balon was dead. "He put a baby in her belly and made me do the killing. I would have killed him too, but Balon would have no kinslaying in his hall. He sent Euron into exile, never to return . . ."

Sorry, guys. Please excuse the domestic homicide. He means well.

Four.

+.+.+

Victarion looked at his fists. "She gave me horns. I had no choice." Had it been known, men would have laughed at me, as the Crow's Eye laughed when I confronted him. "She came to me wet and willing," he had boasted. "It seems Victarion is big everywhere but where it matters." But he could not tell her that.

I love their dynamic. It's clear that Victarion could rip Euron to pieces with his bare hands if he wanted, but he feels so emasculated by him.

+.+.+

"I am sorry for you," said Asha, "and sorrier for her . . . but you leave me small choice but to claim the Seastone Chair myself."

You cannot. "Your breath is yours to waste, woman."

"It is," she said, and left him.

This is fine. We're fine. The obvious outcome will somehow not happen. Everything is fine.

Final thoughts:

I don't think it's a given that it's Daenerys who kills Euron.

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