#theon iv

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

Stumpy note:

Until tumblr support fixes my account, I won't be able to respond to any replies or tags you leave on this post. 😢 I'm sorry. Please know I love all your contributions!

ADWD: The Prince of Winterfell (Theon IV) [Chapter 37]

The bride was shivering too. They had dressed her in white lambswool trimmed with lace. Her sleeves and bodice were sewn with freshwater pearls, and on her feet were white doeskin slippers—pretty, but not warm. Her face was pale, bloodless.

A face carved of ice, Theon Greyjoy thought as he draped a fur-trimmed cloak about her shoulders. A corpse buried in the snow. "My lady. It is time." Beyond the door, the music called them, lute and pipes and drum.

Unwilling brides and pearls in back-to-back chapters.

A corpse buried in the snow.

Like Bran's cave! Probably not intentional.

+.+.+

Talk like that will get you killed, or worse. That lesson he had learned as Reek. "You are the real Arya, my lady. Arya of House Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter, heir to Winterfell." Her name, she had to know her name. "Arya Underfoot. Your sister used to call you Arya Horseface."

"It was me made up that name. Her face was long and horsey. Mine isn't. I was pretty." Tears spilled from her eyes at last. "I was never beautiful like Sansa, but they all said I was pretty. Does Lord Ramsay think I am pretty?"

You have to be a depraved fucking animal to harbor any hatred towards this girl for this.

+.+.+

"Help me." She clutched at him. "Please. I used to watch you in the yard, playing with your swords. You were so handsome." She squeezed his arm. "If we ran away, I could be your wife, or your … your whore … whatever you wanted. You could be my man."

Similar to Theon, I would also like to be put out of my misery.

+.+.+

Theon wrenched his arm away from her. "I'm no … I'm no one's man." A man would help her. 

. . .

+.+.+

Jeyne, her name is Jeyne, it rhymes with pain. 

Theon, can you please shut up.

+.+.+

The music was growing more insistent. "It is time. Wipe those tears from your eyes." Brown eyes. They should be grey. Someone will see. Someone will remember. "Good. Now smile."

Someone will remember, the north remembers, Yohn Royce remembers. . . lots of remembering going on.

+.+.+

"She has a brother still." She has three brothers still, he might have said. "Jon Snow is with the Night's Watch."

"A half-brother, bastard-born, and bound to the Wall. You were her father's ward, the nearest thing she has to living kin. It is only fitting that you give her hand in marriage."

The nearest thing she has to living kin. Theon Greyjoy had grown up with Arya Stark. Theon would have known an imposter. If he was seen to accept Bolton's feigned girl as Arya, the northern lords who had gathered to bear witness to the match would have no grounds to question her legitimacy. Stout and Slate, Whoresbane Umber, the quarrelsome Ryswells, Hornwood men and Cerywn cousins, fat Lord Wyman Manderly … not one of them had known Ned Stark's daughters half so well as he. And if a few entertained private doubts, surely they would be wise enough to keep those misgivings to themselves.

They are using me to cloak their deception, putting mine own face on their lie. That was why Roose Bolton had clothed him as a lord again, to play his part in this mummer's farce. Once that was done, once their false Arya had been wedded and bedded, Bolton would have no more use for Theon Turncloak. "Serve us in this, and when Stannis is defeated we will discuss how best to restore you to your father's seat," his lordship had said in that soft voice of his, a voice made for lies and whispers. Theon never believed a word of it. He would dance this dance for them because he had no choice, but afterward … He will give me back to Ramsay then, he thought, and Ramsay will take a few more fingers and turn me into Reek once more. 

If this was my first time reading the story, I would think Theon eventually exposes the lie.

He doesn't though, and now that she's on her way to the Wall it's kind of unnecessary. There's still the Bran and Rickon lie?

Ramsay will take a few more fingers and turn me into Reek once more. 

I guess he's Theon today.

+.+.+

Unless the gods were good, and Stannis Baratheon descended on Winterfell and put all of them to the sword, himself included. That was the best he could hope for.

Theon has had multiple opportunities to kill himself.

+.+.+

Icicles long as lances hung from the battlements and fringed the towers like an old man's stiff white whiskers. But inside the godswood, the ground remained unfrozen, and steam rose off the hot pools, as warm as baby's breath.

x

Theon Greyjoy was no stranger to this godswood. He had played here as a boy, skipping stones across the cold black pool beneath the weirwood, hiding his treasures in the bole of an ancient oak, stalking squirrels with a bow he made himself.

Are the hot pools and cold black pool symbolic of something?

+.+.+

Theon wore black and gold, his cloak pinned to his shoulder by a crude iron kraken that a smith in Barrowton had hammered together for him. But under the hood, his hair was white and thin, and his flesh had an old man's greyish undertone. A Stark at last, he thought. 

He's so depressing.

+.+.+

The first time he had ever kissed a girl had been here. Later, a different girl had made a man of him upon a ragged quilt in the shade of that tall grey-green sentinel.

It's funny to picture baby Bran witnessing all these things.

+.+.+

He had never seen the godswood like this, though—grey and ghostly, filled with warm mists and floating lights and whispered voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Beneath the trees, the hot springs steamed. Warm vapors rose from the earth, shrouding the trees in their moist breath, creeping up the walls to draw grey curtains across the watching windows.

Speaking of Bran,

BRAN?!

+.+.+

The mists were so thick that only the nearest trees were visible; beyond them stood tall shadows and faint lights. Candles flickered beside the wandering path and back amongst the trees, pale fireflies floating in a warm grey soup. It felt like some strange underworld, some timeless place between the worlds, where the damned wandered mournfully for a time before finding their way down to whatever hell their sins had earned them. Are we all dead, then? Did Stannis come and kill us in our sleep? Is the battle yet to come, or has it been fought and lost?

Here and there a torch burned hungrily, casting its ruddy glow over the faces of the wedding guests. The way the mists threw back the shifting light made their features seem bestial, half-human, twisted. Lord Stout became a mastiff, old Lord Locke a vulture, Whoresbane Umber a gargoyle, Big Walder Frey a fox, Little Walder a red bull, lacking only a ring for his nose. Roose Bolton's own face was a pale grey mask, with two chips of dirty ice where his eyes should be.

what

+.+.+

Above their heads the trees were full of ravens, their feathers fluffed as they hunched on bare brown branches, staring down at the pageantry below. Maester Luwin's birds. Luwin was dead, and his maester's tower had been put to the torch, yet the ravens lingered. This is their home. Theon wondered what that would be like, to have a home.

Then the mists parted, like the curtain opening at a mummer show to reveal some new tableau. The heart tree appeared in front of them, its bony limbs spread wide. Fallen leaves lay about the wide white trunk in drifts of red and brown. The ravens were the thickest here, muttering to one another in the murderers' secret tongue. 

Ha! There it is. I went back to ACOK when I should have looked forward.

I bet that he could learn to fly too, him and Arya and Sansa, even baby Rickon and Jon Snow. We could all be ravens and live in Maester Luwin's rookery. - Bran III, ADWD

Please let every raven in the story be Bran and not Bloodraven. I will clown the fandom for life.

This is a Stark story. Get your musty Targ Big Brother theories out of here.

+.+.+

She raised her eyes to his. Brown eyes, not grey. Are all of them so blind? For a long moment she did not speak, but those eyes were begging. This is your chance, he thought. Tell them. Tell them now. Shout out your name before them all, tell them that you are not Arya Stark, let all the north hear how you were made to play this part. It would mean her death, of course, and his own as well, but Ramsay in his wroth might kill them quickly. The old gods of the north might grant them that small boon.

Theon has had multiple opportunities to kill himself.

+.+.+

Theon stepped back, and Ramsay and his bride joined hands and knelt before the heart tree, bowing their heads in token of submission. The weirwood's carved red eyes stared down at them, its great red mouth open as if to laugh. In the branches overhead a raven quorked.

Not sure what to make of that. Doesn't feel like a laughing matter, Bran.

Unreliable narrator?

+.+.+

Quick as that, it was done. Weddings went more quickly in the north. It came of not having priests, Theon supposed, but whatever the reason it seemed to him a mercy.

The author would like you to know a priest doesn't oversee a wedding in the north.

+.+.+

The musicians began to play again, and the bard Abel began to sing "Two Hearts That Beat as One." Two of his women joined their voices to his own to make a sweet harmony.

Mance nodded. "Good. You'll go with Jarl and Styr on the morrow, then. Both of you. Far be it from me to separate two hearts that beat as one." - Jon II, ASOS

+.+.+

Theon found himself wondering if he should say a prayer. Will the old gods hear me if I do? They were not his gods, had never been his gods. He was ironborn, a son of Pyke, his god was the Drowned God of the islands … but Winterfell was long leagues from the sea.

Let's see about that.

"Aeron is drunk on seawater and sanctity. He lives only for his god—"

"His god? Not yours?" - Theon II, ACOK

+.+.+

It had been a lifetime since any god had heard him. He did not know who he was, or what he was, why he was still alive, why he had ever been born.

"Theon," a voice seemed to whisper.

Theon's in the middle of questioning the purpose of his life when Bran shows up. Not exactly subtle.

+.+.+

His head snapped up. "Who said that?" All he could see were the trees and the fog that covered them. The voice had been as faint as rustling leaves, as cold as hate. A god's voice, or a ghost's. How many died the day that he took Winterfell? How many more the day he lost it? The day that Theon Greyjoy died, to be reborn as Reek. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with shriek.

Suddenly he did not want to be here.

Once outside the godswood the cold descended on him like a ravening wolf and caught him in its teeth. He lowered his head into the wind and made for the Great Hall, hastening after the long line of candles and torches. Ice crunched beneath his boots, and a sudden gust pushed back his hood, as if a ghost had plucked at him with frozen fingers, hungry to gaze upon his face.

The vibes are all off. What's going on Bran? Unreliable narrator?

+.+.+

All the color had been leached from Winterfell until only grey and white remained. The Stark colors. Theon did not know whether he ought to find that ominous or reassuring.

Reassuring.

+.+.+

Even the sky was grey. Grey and grey and greyer. The whole world grey, everywhere you look, everything grey except the eyes of the bride. 

This is how George R. R. Martin sees the world.

+.+.+

The eyes of the bride were brown. Big and brown and full of fear. It was not right that she should look to him for rescue. What had she been thinking, that he would whistle up a winged horse and fly her out of here, like some hero in the stories she and Sansa used to love? He could not even help himself. 

God bless Sansa and Jeyne for their love of heroes on winged horses who rescue maidens in towers.

+.+.+

Stout new gates had gone up first, to replace those that had been burned. Then the collapsed roof of the Great Hall had been cleared away and a new one raised hurriedly in its stead. When the work was done, Lord Bolton hanged the workers. True to his word, he showed them mercy and did not flay a one.

God damnit, Roose is cursing Winterfell. We need Sansa to burn some sage to cleanse this space.

His son Maegor the Cruel had seen it completed. Afterward he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had labored on it. Only the blood of the dragon would ever know the secrets of the fortress the Dragonlords had built, he vowed. - Catelyn IV, AGOT

+.+.+

Theon arrived in Barbrey Dustin's train, with her ladyship herself, her Barrowton levies, and the bride-to-be. Lady Dustin had insisted that she should have custody of Lady Arya until such time as she was wed, but now that time was done.

Lady Dustin is nursing some doubts.

No, he thought. She is not of Lord Eddard's blood, her name is Jeyne, she is only a steward's daughter. He did not doubt that Lady Dustin suspected, but even so … - The Turncloak, ADWD

+.+.+

This was never my home. I was a hostage here. Lord Stark had not treated him cruelly, but the long steel shadow of his greatsword had always been between them. He was kind to me, but never warm. He knew that one day he might need to put me to death.

Theon kept his eyes downcast as he crossed the yard, weaving between the tents. I learned to fight in this yard, he thought, remembering warm summer days spent sparring with Robb and Jon Snow under the watchful eyes of old Ser Rodrik. That was back when he was whole, when he could grasp a sword hilt as well as any man. But the yard held darker memories as well. This was where he had assembled Stark's people the night Bran and Rickon fled the castle. Ramsay was Reek then, standing at his side, whispering that he should flay a few of his captives to make them tell him where the boys had gone. There will be no flaying here whilst I am Prince of Winterfell, Theon had responded, little dreaming how short his rule would prove. None of them would help me. I had known them all for half my life, and not one of them would help me. Even so, he had done his best to protect them, but once Ramsay put Reek's face aside he'd slain all the men, and Theon's ironborn as well. He set my horse afire. That was the last sight he had seen the day the castle fell: Smiler burning, the flames leaping from his mane as he reared up, kicking, screaming, his eyes white with terror. Here in this very yard.

If you start feeling a little bit of sympathy for Theon Greyjoy he'll quickly remind you why he's insufferable.

+.+.+

Up near the dais, Abel was plucking at his lute and singing "Fair Maids of Summer." He calls himself a bard. In truth he's more a pander. Lord Manderly had brought musicians from White Harbor, but none were singers, so when Abel turned up at the gates with a lute and six women, he had been made welcome. "Two sisters, two daughters, one wife, and my old mother," the singer claimed, though not one looked like him. "Some dance, some sing, one plays the pipe and one the drums. Good washerwomen too."

There's Abel aka Bael the Bard aka Mance Rayder on his little suicide mission that makes no sense.

Did you know pander means pimp?

+.+.+

Where they came from Theon could not say. They just seemed to appear, like maggots on a corpse or ravens after a battle. Every army drew them. Some were hardened whores who could fuck twenty men in a night and drink them all blind. Others looked as innocent as maids, but that was just a trick of their trade. Some were camp brides, bound to the soldiers they followed with words whispered to one god or another but doomed to be forgotten once the war was done.

Hints of Sansa and Tyrion?

+.+.+

His voice was so soft that the hall grew hushed as men strained to hear. "I am sorry that our good friend Stannis has not seen fit to join us yet," he went on, to a ripple of laughter, "as I know Ramsay had hoped to present his head to Lady Arya as a wedding gift." The laughs grew louder. "We shall give him a splendid welcome when he arrives, a welcome worthy of true northmen. Until that day, let us eat and drink and make merry … for winter is almost upon us, my friends, and many of us here shall not live to see the spring."

Lol, he won't say winter is coming. Coward.

+.+.+

The wedding guests gorged on cod cakes and winter squash, hills of neeps and great round wheels of cheese, on smoking slabs of mutton and beef ribs charred almost black, and lastly on three great wedding pies, as wide across as wagon wheels, their flaky crusts stuffed to bursting with carrots, onions, turnips, parsnips, mushrooms, and chunks of seasoned pork swimming in a savory brown gravy. Ramsay hacked off slices with his falchion and Wyman Manderly himself served, presenting the first steaming portions to Roose Bolton and his fat Frey wife, the next to Ser Hosteen and Ser Aenys, the sons of Walder Frey. "The best pie you have ever tasted, my lords," the fat lord declared. "Wash it down with Arbor gold and savor every bite. I know I shall."

True to his word, Manderly devoured six portions, two from each of the three pies, smacking his lips and slapping his belly and stuffing himself until the front of his tunic was half-brown with gravy stains and his beard was flecked with crumbs of crust. Even Fat Walda Frey could not match his gluttony, though she did manage three slices herself. Ramsay ate heartily as well, though his pale bride did no more than stare at the portion set before her.

Jeyne didn't eat it!

Looks like everyone who ate it will die in the story. Poor Walda.

+.+.+

No longswords had been allowed within the hall, but every man there wore a dagger, even Theon Greyjoy. How else to cut his meat? Every time he looked at the girl who had been Jeyne Poole, he felt the presence of that steel at his side. I have no way to save her, he thought, but I could kill her easy enough. No one would expect it. I could beg her for the honor of a dance and cut her throat. That would be a kindness, wouldn't it? And if the old gods hear my prayer, Ramsay in his wroth might strike me dead as well. Theon was not afraid to die. Underneath the Dreadfort, he had learned there were far worse things than death.

Theon has had multiple opportunities to kill himself.

Anyway,

They were not his gods, had never been his gods.

↓

And if the old gods hear my prayer

yeah.

+.+.+

"No taste for pork pie, my lord? The best pork pie we ever tasted, our fat friend would have us believe." She [Barbrey Dustin] gestured toward Lord Manderly with her wine cup. "Have you ever seen a fat man so happy? He is almost dancing. Serving with his own hands."

Barbrey Dustin ate it!

+.+.+

It was true. The Lord of White Harbor was the very picture of the jolly fat man, laughing and smiling, japing with the other lords and slapping them on the back, calling out to the musicians for this tune or that tune. "Give us 'The Night That Ended,' singer," he bellowed. "The bride will like that one, I know. Or sing to us of brave young Danny Flint and make us weep." To look at him, you would have thought that he was the one newly wed.

I don't believe Jeyne will die at the Wall, but I did feel instant dread the second I saw noted pretender Danny Flint's name.

Happy thoughts.

+.+.+

"He's drunk," said Theon.

"Drowning his fears. He is craven to the bone, that one."

Was he? Theon was not certain. His sons had been fat as well, but they had not shamed themselves in battle. "Ironborn will feast before a battle too. A last taste of life, should death await. If Stannis comes …"

"He will. He must." Lady Dustin chuckled. "And when he does, the fat man will piss himself. His son died at the Red Wedding, yet he's shared his bread and salt with Freys, welcomed them beneath his roof, promised one his granddaughter. He even serves them pie. The Manderlys ran from the south once, hounded from their lands and keeps by enemies. Blood runs true. The fat man would like to kill us all, I do not doubt, but he does not have the belly for it, for all his girth. Under that sweaty flesh beats a heart as craven and cringing as … well … yours."

There are two possibilities.

Barbrey Dustin is not a great judge of character. Even looney tune Theon realizes Manderly is not what he appears to be.

or

You can't trust anything Barbrey Dustin is saying, because she knows Theon is Ramsay and Roose's pet.

+.+.+

"You think Roose does not know? Silly boy. Watch him. Watch how he watches Manderly. No dish so much as touches Roose's lips until he sees Lord Wyman eat of it first. No cup of wine is sipped until he sees Manderly drink of the same cask. I think he would be pleased if the fat man attempted some betrayal. It would amuse him. Roose has no feelings, you see. Those leeches that he loves so well sucked all the passions out of him years ago. He does not love, he does not hate, he does not grieve. This is a game to him, mildly diverting. Some men hunt, some hawk, some tumble dice. Roose plays with men. You and me, these Freys, Lord Manderly, his plump new wife, even his bastard, we are but his playthings." A serving man was passing by. Lady Dustin held out her wine cup and let him fill it, then gestured for him to do the same for Theon. "Truth be told," she said, "Lord Bolton aspires to more than mere lordship. Why not King of the North? Tywin Lannister is dead, the Kingslayer is maimed, the Imp is fled. The Lannisters are a spent force, and you were kind enough to rid him of the Starks. Old Walder Frey will not object to his fat little Walda becoming a queen. White Harbor might prove troublesome should Lord Wyman survive this coming battle … but I am quite sure that he will not. No more than Stannis. Roose will remove both of them, as he removed the Young Wolf. Who else is there?"

"You," said Theon. "There is you. The Lady of Barrowton, a Dustin by marriage, a Ryswell by birth."

That pleased her. She took a sip of wine, her dark eyes sparkling, and said, "The widow of Barrowton … and yes, if I so choose, I could be an inconvenience. Of course, Roose sees that too, so he takes care to keep me sweet."

Tywin's mistake is believing Ramsay is his plaything.

Two takeaways,

Barbrey Dustin has the power to ruin Roose Bolton. We knew that.

It's a black mark against her the second it's revealed she has ambitions for power.

White Harbor might prove troublesome should Lord Wyman survive this coming battle … but I am quite sure that he will not.

Dot, dot, dot.

I am quite sure he will!

He'll definitely die. Later.

+.+.+

As Maester Medrick went to one knee to whisper in Bolton's ear, Lady Dustin's mouth twisted in distaste. "If I were queen, the first thing I would do would be to kill all those grey rats. They scurry everywhere, living on the leavings of the lords, chittering to one another, whispering in the ears of their masters. But who are the masters and who are the servants, truly? Every great lord has his maester, every lesser lord aspires to one. If you do not have a maester, it is taken to mean that you are of little consequence. The grey rats read and write our letters, even for such lords as cannot read themselves, and who can say for a certainty that they are not twisting the words for their own ends? What good are they, I ask you?"

"They heal," said Theon. It seemed to be expected of him.

"They heal, yes. I never said they were not subtle. They tend to us when we are sick and injured, or distraught over the illness of a parent or a child. Whenever we are weakest and most vulnerable, there they are. Sometimes they heal us, and we are duly grateful. When they fail, they console us in our grief, and we are grateful for that as well. Out of gratitude we give them a place beneath our roof and make them privy to all our shames and secrets, a part of every council. And before too long, the ruler has become the ruled.

Replace the word maester with Dr. Fauci and this becomes a standard Facebook post from your unhinged aunt.

This is what anti-intellectualism looks like in the world of ASoIaF, and I know George doesn't fuck with it.

+.+.+

"That was how it was with Lord Rickard Stark. Maester Walys was his grey rat's name. And isn't it clever how the maesters go by only one name, even those who had two when they first arrived at the Citadel? That way we cannot know who they truly are or where they come from … but if you are dogged enough, you can still find out. Before he forged his chain, Maester Walys had been known as Walys Flowers. Flowers, Hill, Rivers, Snow … we give such names to baseborn children to mark them for what they are, but they are always quick to shed them. 

We interrupt these nutty ramblings to remind you she hates Ramsay Snow. That's what makes Barbrey Dustin such a wild card!

The problem is Jon is also a Snow.

+.+.+

Walys Flowers had a Hightower girl for a mother … and an archmaester of the Citadel for a father, it was rumored. The grey rats are not as chaste as they would have us believe. Oldtown maesters are the worst of all. Once he forged his chain, his secret father and his friends wasted no time dispatching him to Winterfell to fill Lord Rickard's ears with poisoned words as sweet as honey. The Tully marriage was his notion, never doubt it, he—"

It's been almost twenty years.

She sounds half-mad. I can't put my faith in this woman. I don't even want her on Team Stark.

Is Walys Flowers important? Why am I being told all this?

Edit: Apparently there's a theory he's Archmaester Walgrave's son. I couldn't tell you why that's important.

+.+.+

As the Lord of the Dreadfort slipped out, attended by the three maesters, other lords and captains rose to follow. Hother Umber, the gaunt old man called Whoresbane, went grim-faced and scowling. Lord Manderly was so drunk he required four strong men to help him from the hall. "We should have a song about the Rat Cook," he was muttering, as he staggered past Theon, leaning on his knights. "Singer, give us a song about the Rat Cook."

+.+.+

"There's my sweet maid. Good lads. You may leave us now. Not you, Reek. You stay."

Reek, Reek, it rhymes with peek. He could feel his missing fingers cramping: two on his left hand, one on his right. And on his hip his dagger rested, sleeping in its leather sheath, but heavy, oh so heavy. It is only my pinky gone on my right hand, Theon reminded himself. I can still grip a knife.

See? Arya's fine.

+.+.+

"No." Lord Ramsay poured himself a cup of wine. "Laces take too long. Cut it off her."

Theon drew the dagger. All I need do is turn and stab him. The knife is in my hand. He knew the game by then. Another trap, he told himself, remembering Kyra with her keys. He wants me to try to kill him. And when I fail, he'll flay the skin from the hand I used to hold the blade. 

If you're not going to use it, could you give it to me?

I'm not going to cover the next part in great detail.

+.+.+

Ramsay smiled his wet smile. "Does she make your cock hard, Reek? Is it straining against your laces? Would you like to fuck her first?" He laughed. "The Prince of Winterfell should have that right, as all lords did in days of old. The first night. But you're no lord, are you? Only Reek. Not even a man, truth be told."

[...]

Ramsay rose, the firelight shining on his face. "Reek, get over here. Get her ready for me."

For a moment he did not understand. "I … do you mean … m'lord, I have no … I …"

. . .

+.+.+

Somewhere in the godswood, a raven screamed. The dagger was still in his hand.

He sheathed it.

Reek, my name is Reek, it rhymes with weak.

Reek bent to his task.

I don't have much to say. I'd like to move on.

Final thoughts:

Catelyn Stark

Her face, Brienne thought. Her face was so strong and handsome, her skin so smooth and soft. - Brienne VIII, AFFC

Barbrey Dustin

Though there were wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and more around her eyes, she still stood tall, unbent, and handsome. Her hair was brown and grey in equal parts and she wore it tied behind her head in a widow's knot. - Reek III, ADWD

See what being a hater does to your face?

That's why I use retinol.

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[milliganopen]

asking balon greyjoy ‘gay son or thot daughter’ but asha is the gay son and theon is the thot daughter

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

I remember back when i joined this fandom that the prevailing opinion on Jaime was “he’s not on a redemption arc, he’s on an identity arc”. And like I guess it’s not actually wrong to say that identity is a big part of Jaime’s arc. But the thing is that every pov in this series grapples with identity, so thats not a theme exclusive to Jaime. And, why do redemption and identity have to be mutually exclusive? Jaime is trying to do better….AND he’s still a member of House Lannister and a son of Tywin Lannister. If anything, that particular identity makes his story more interesting imho. Then we can have cooler conversations about the extent of redemption and what not idk

[kingcunny]

thinking about how sansa and cat have so much internalized violence while arya has had to actually Do the violence, but is the one afraid cat wont want her back…

[the-meme-monarch]

well that's the worst nightmare I've had in a while

[satinoflowers]

modern day theon gets prescribed wellbutrin for his adhd, first bottle he picks up he starts selling and pretending its adderall. he makes the mistake of selling to jon and he takes it before a test and has a panic attack cuz of moral reasons and tells ned. ned threatens to send theon to rehab even tho he just smokes weed (dab pens that he steals from asha) but since neds a softie he just makes him take boxing lessons with arya to teach him discipline. he starts actually taking his prescription cuz he cant sell it anymore and gets rly into boxing, he picks a fight with a bigger kid (jory cassel) there after a week, fully expecting to win, and instead gets his shit rocked. he stops taking wellbutrin.

[gaycinema]

god gives his strongest soldiers (theon girlies) the hardest battles (going thru the theon tag on any webbed site ever)

[mummer]

the more i think about it the more im convinced that bran theon and jon are gonna be in each others orbit in twow… theeee ghosts in/of winterfell 💚💚💚 idk why but they feel so connected to me…. the god the prophet the king etc. little alive dead guys

[atopvisenyashill]

i used to take great joy in Diagnosing Characters bc i found the discourse of “this villain is a sociopath” to be annoying (like, Ramsay is a product of the hyper violent patriarchal society he was born into, he does not meaningfully struggle with depersonalization, empathy, or delusions! He does not actually believe he has become Reek! His victims however do in fact display symptoms of psychosis!!!! why must we use such imprecise language that handwaves personal responsibility with “he was just born evil” if you’re trying to say Ramsay is a sadist just say sadist jfc), like I have made multiple graphics explaining why my favorite characters definitely have bpd or adhd or something aksjsj, but i’ve never done that with asoiaf and i have figured out it’s bc all these bitches are deranged. literally every character is in desperate need of a psychologist who wrote their doctorate about cptsd in civilians living in active war zones, so they know exactly what anti psychotics and nerve meds to get these freaks on lmao.

[stavos]

gives theon the reverse skullet cause i CAN

[daenystheedreamer]

i may accidentally reblog supernatural shit here. my bad guys in my defence the blogs are right next to each other and both are blue. formally apologising if any of u are forced to see supernatural content against ur will

[fineosaur]

so i recently (quite a few weeks ago, ive been busy) i spoke to joely about the similarities between finnick & theon and i have to put it out there for now before i summon the courage to make several pictographs to prove my points 

[crowcoven]

SHOCKED AND APPALLED BY THE LACK OF JAIMEILYN AND JAMCAT AND JAIMENED AND CERSEI BRIENNE AND-

anyway idk if anyone wants to question my taste feel free to send an ask or something 

[maggicktouched]

@pykraken​

“I’ve never met Theon’s father, but judging from Theon I think it’s safe to assume he’s a---and this is nothing against Theon, I love you Theon---monstrously stupid sewer person.”

[butch-brienne]

i have a deep dark confession to make about asoiaf which is that sometimes i prefer the show for certain things. feel free to draw and quarter me for this, cooler mutuals

[asoiafreadthru]

A Game of Thrones, Eddard IV

When the door had closed behind him, Ned turned back to his wife.

“Once you are home, send word to Helman Tallhart and Galbart Glover under my seal. They are to raise a hundred bowmen each and fortify Moat Cailin. Two hundred determined archers can hold the Neck against an army.

“Instruct Lord Manderly that he is to strengthen and repair all his defenses at White Harbor, and see that they are well manned.

“And from this day on, I want a careful watch kept over Theon Greyjoy. If there is war, we shall have sore need of his father’s fleet.”