#with a blackfish in the hole

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Jonsa - "Nodology", Part 2

Just a reminder that I'm not stressing too much about this story making sense within the canon plot. Think of canon less like a straight line and more like one of those inkblot pictures in a Rorschach test.

Also, this is a very relationship-focused piece. Politics plays a hand, because how could it not? But I'm not trying to rewrite the whole set of books here and tackle larger issues than the immediate present. The heart of this is Jon and Sansa. Hopefully that answers some of your questions about the larger plotlines or political ramifications of the current setting. (On a side note, I fucking LOVE that you guys are so invested in this AU that you're asking such questions. It's incredibly humbling and encouraging all at once. I just don't have the energy to make it that deep right now, lol.)

Much love. Stay frosty, fam.

Nodology

Chapter Two: The Salt of It (And the Wound)

"The knot fastens ever tighter." - Jon and Sansa. After rescuing her from King's Landing and bringing her to Riverrun, the two try to navigate a love they never intended to start, especially with so many watching eyes.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2

* * *

"How's the shoulder?"

Jon turns from the practice dummy he'd been raging at all morning, his chest heaving, knuckles white where they grip his training sword. His tunic clings to his sweat-dampened skin, his hair pulled back in a knot at the base of his neck.

The Blackfish watches him from his lean against one of the courtyard's pillars, arms crossed loosely over his chest, awaiting an answer to his question.

Jon tries to steady his breathing, lowering the sword in his grip as he turns to the older man. He rolls his shoulder gingerly, a tender ache still lingering from his wound. "Not as much mobility as before, but it's getting there."

Brynden nods, pushing off from his lean and walking toward him. "I hear you wounded it on the road here. With Sansa."

Jon nods quietly, his sword now held limply in his hand, his breathing steadier. He doesn't know what the Blackfish wants to hear, so he says nothing.

Brynden glances at the roughed-up practice dummy beside him, frowning. "That supposed to be Joffrey Baratheon? Or Theon Greyjoy?"

Jon works his jaw, a heavy sigh leaving him. "Both, probably."

He hadn't a person in mind when he entered the training yard earlier that morning. Just a feeling. Just a rage.

The thought of Bran and Rickon's tiny bodies strung up in Winterfell's main courtyard, their flesh burned from them – or maybe flayed – hadn't left him all night. Nor had the thought of Sansa's scar-lined back, or her tremors as she choked out an apology. An apology! For keeping him from rescuing their brothers – keeping him too busy with her, as she said.

But he won't let her take on that kind of guilt. And he won't let himself, either. Because if he does...

If he puts that on his own soul, then there's no going back. There's no climbing out of that hole. And he's no good to anyone at that point. Not to the North, not to Robb. Not to Sansa.

And he can't afford to be useless.

So, he puts that sorrow and bitterness in a box, and sets it aside. Buries it deep. Packs the dirt around it tightly, so it can't crawl back out. He smothers it beneath the earth. And beneath duty.

And then he comes to the training yard every morning and swings and swings and swings until he's breathless. Until there is nothing left to bury. Until it is drained from him completely.

This is how he grieves his family.

Brynden Tully heaves a weighted sigh, eyes still fixed to the dummy. "With the young ones gone, Catelyn is..." He stops, a sound brewing in his throat. He turns back to Jon. "Well, she's a mess."

Jon keeps his silence, his eyes never leaving the Blackfish.

Brynden clears his throat, crossing his arms over his chest once more. "But she'd be truly inconsolable if both her daughters were lost to her, too. And they're not. Arya is somewhere in the Riverlands. And Sansa – Sansa is with her now, here in her family's home, because of you."

Jon's throat tightens, any words failing him. He simply watches Brynden, simply keeps his gaze.

The other man's face hardens somewhat, his jaw squaring. "She won't thank you," he says surely.

Jon feels the lance of it in his chest, his lungs aching at the words. It's not a truth he hadn't known before, but to hear it aloud – to know it so plainly, and from another's mouth –

It hurts more than he thought it would.

Brynden grumbles at Jon's silence, taking a step toward him, his hands falling from their cross over his chest. "You're her husband's bastard, you understand. The one stain upon their marriage. The biggest threat to her children's future and security."

Jon's gaze falls to the floor, fixed on the Blackfish's boots, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth.

He knows this. Has always known this.

A moment of heavy silence passes between them, before the Blackfish plants a hand on Jon's shoulder, and he looks up to meet the warrior's gaze.

"But that is not your failing. It's Ned Stark's."

Jon blinks up at him, his teeth clenching at the words.

"And she is grateful, son. More grateful than you could ever understand. Though she may never be able to voice it, I know this in my bones. I know this better than anything."

Jon's lips part, a shallow breath stealing out between them.

"You saved her child, Jon Snow. She will never forget that. Nor will I." His hand slips from Jon's shoulder, a last, solitary look passing between them, before he's turning from him, walking back the way he came.

Jon is overcome suddenly, the words bubbling up inside him, until they make it to air. "Everything left that I care about in this world is here," he calls out to his back, stopping him.

Brynden turns to look at him over his shoulder.

Jon heaves a steadying breath, his grip tightening over his sword. He levels the Blackfish with a determined look. "I'm not going anywhere," he assures him, the words equally needful and confident.

The faint edge of a smile curls at the corner of Brynden's lip, before he offers a silent nod and turns back to leave.

Jon stands in the training yard for several long moments, just breathing.

No, he's not going anywhere.

* * *

When Sansa answers the knock on her chamber door, she doesn't expect it to be Robb. He gives her a stilted smile and a nod in greeting. "Sansa," he says.

She stands with her hand still on the door, blinking quietly at him. "Your Grace," she says finally.

Robb briefly frowns at the formality of the address, but then he sweeps his hand out toward the hallway. "Walk with me, please."

Sansa steps out of her chamber at the invitation, taking his arm obediently.

They make it all the way to the gardens before either of them speak, and Sansa's anxiety is practically thrumming beneath her skin.

Robb clears his throat.

The sound is jarring after so many minutes of silence and her attention swings sharply to him, her fingers clenching over his arm.

"We haven't... well, we haven't really spoken much since your return," he begins.

Sansa watches him quietly, content to let him find his way through the words.

(She remembers the warmth of his chest as he'd carried her back inside the keep the other day, after her grief had overtaken her on the riverbank.)

Robb stops their stroll, his eyes focused on some unnamable flower bush, his brow furrowed in thought.

Sansa sets her other hand along his arm now as well – tender and encouraging. "No, we haven't," she says softly.

He glances up at her. "It's my fault, isn't it?"

Sansa sighs, her gaze drifting away. "It's not about fault."

"Except it is." Robb turns to look at her more fully. "You won't say it, but it is."

Sansa presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, not meeting his eyes.

Robb wipes a hand down his mouth, a heavy breath leaving him. "You won't admit to the resentment my inaction has stirred in you."

Sansa meets his gaze again. "What do you want me to say, Robb?"

He frowns again, a quiver arching through his brow. "I don't know."

It's the truth, at least, it must be. This, she's sure of. Because she doesn't know what she wants to say either.

She's gone over it in her head a thousand times and yet, the words still never seem quite right.

She loves her brother. She needs her brother. She misses her brother.

But there's a bitterness now that sits sour in her gut, and she doesn't know how to calm it. She doesn't know how to not hurt when she looks at him.

"I think I... I never asked you," he begins again, the words tight in his throat, "because... I couldn't." Robb licks his lips, his eyes hesitant on hers. "I couldn't ask you what they'd done to you because then... then it meant I let it happen."

Sansa pulls a shallow breath through her teeth, the remembrance bright and sharp behind her eyes – the lash, and the gauntleted hand, and the terrible, terrible sound of her own cries.

(Her only companion, most days.)

Robb settles a hand over hers along his arm. "But I shouldn't have let that stop me. I should have – I should have come to you, and talked to you, and... and given you comfort."

Sansa feels wetness dotting her eyes.

"I didn't," he says tightly, his gaze falling to his feet. "And after leaving you to the Lannisters..." He chuckles darkly, his hand slipping from hers to press over his eyes. "I'm not surprised that you hate me, Sansa."

"I don't hate you," she says immediately, the words not even a question.

Robb glances back up at her, his hand falling from his face.

There's no doubt in her at the statement. There's bitterness, yes. There's the sting of abandonment. There's disappointment. The kind that leaves you gazing up at the ceiling most nights, sleepless and aching.

But not hate.

Never hate.

Not for him.

The tears are hot on her lids now, and she reaches up to brush at them. "Come," she urges him, leading them to a bench in the garden. "Sit with me, and I'll... I'll tell you. I'll tell you all that you couldn't ask."

And she does. She tells him of the beatings and the humiliation she suffered before the court. She tells him of her ripped dresses and her bruised body, and her silent, unanswered tears. She tells him of dinners spent at the receiving end of Cersei's constant insults and taunts. She tells him of the endless threats against his and their mother's lives if she didn't keep her place. She tells him of Joffrey's sinister laughter at every slap she received. She tells him of Tyrion's wandering eye and the way he'd touched her on their wedding night. She tells him of her captor husband's overtures dressed up in the guise of kindness. She tells him of the jeers and the scars and the ever-present threat of death hanging over her head. And she tells him of the loneliness.

The nauseating, bone-deep, lung-scraping loneliness.

(She tells him of how she thought once to fling herself from the terrace. To end it then and there.)

"And the one thought – the only thing that kept me breathing, was knowing my family would come for me," she gets out raggedly, the breath raking from her, the sob clenching behind her teeth. She blinks up at him through tears.

He's staring at their joined hands resting over her knee, his jaw clenched, his mouth a tight line.

She takes a shaky breath in, her voice breaking as she tells him, "But you didn't."

Robb looks up at her, pain etching across his face. "Sansa..." His voice catches, his throat flexing tightly.

"You didn't come for me, Robb," she cries out, the sob breaking free. She reaches a hand to her mouth, tries to stifle the wave of anguish clawing up her throat. She blinks back the hot tears, her lungs clenching in her chest. "And I needed you to. I needed you to come for me – just once." She squeezes her eyes closed, her hand pressed over her mouth, muffling the cries as she breathes deep. In and out. In and out.

"Every time – a thousand times – I'd come for you."

In the end, she hadn't been left to that hell. But it wasn't the brother she'd prayed for that rescued her.

She wanted Robb. But she had needed Jon. She understands this now.

Even when it hurts no less.

Robb releases her hands to reach up and cup her face. "I'm so sorry, Sansa. I'm so sorry you ever had to endure that."

She tries to rein in her breathing, her hand slipping from her mouth, her sniffles growing quieter as she watches him, the warmth of his palms cradling her cheeks.

"I'm sorry I left you there. That wasn't... that wasn't kingly of me." And then he stops, his brow furrowing, a look of regret passing over his features at the word choice. He hangs his head, his hands slipping from her face as he sighs heavily. "That wasn't... good of me," he corrects.

Sansa blinks at him, at the way his shoulders slump – at the terrible, unfathomable weight he carries across them.

It's unbearable to see him like this. To see her big brother so small, so crushed beneath duty, so at odds with love.

And it's unbearable to be the thing that weighs on him so.

Sansa pulls a trembling breath through her lungs, a hand going to wipe at her cheeks. She blinks back the salt-sting of tears. "Robb," she murmurs, reaching for his hands again.

"I've already begun the process of annulling your marriage," he tells her.

Sansa stills, her mouth tipping open, her hands trembling as they grip his.

Robb finally meets her gaze, his thumb arching over the taut skin of her knuckles. "Jon is right. You're not a Lannister bride. You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell. And after my unborn child, you're the heir to the North."

Her lip quakes, the breath tight in her chest. She thinks of Bran and Rickon. She thinks of their poor, mangled bodies. She thinks of never again smelling their hair or hearing their laughs or singing them to sleep.

And she knows he's thinking of them, too. She knows it's the loss of them that brings him to her door.

(No more scars, she'd promised herself once, and perhaps, it's the kind of promise Robb needs as well.)

He clutches her hands in his, his jaw tightening. "I won't forget it again," he tells her.

She wants to believe him.

She wants it dearly.

So, she believes.

* * *

"You spoke to Robb," Jon says quietly at her side, walking her to her chambers after she begged away from dinner with a headache, and Robb had asked him to escort her back, before returning to his conversation with Edmure.

Sansa keeps her arm linked with Jon's, orange light flickering over her face as they pass the torches in their sconces along the wall.

"Yes," she answers, not expanding further.

They each stay quiet past that, their steps echoing along the stone as they walk.

Jon looks at her beside him. "He was distressed about what you told him. About your time in King's Landing."

"I'm sure he was." There's a tenderness to her voice now, where once there was resentment.

Jon frowns at her, stopping them not far from her door. "Sansa, look at me."

She does, and it makes his chest ache.

He reaches up to cup her cheek. "What is it?" he asks her gently.

She pulls her lip between her teeth, a furrow to her brow. She glances down the hall to make sure no one is witness, and then she tugs him after her into her chambers, closing the door behind them. She turns to face him fully now, taking his hands in hers. "My marriage to Tyrion is to be annulled."

Jon lets out a short breath at the man's mention, a curl to his lip. "As it should be."

"Yes, but..."

Jon blinks at her. "You don't want to remain married to him." He meant it to come out as a question, considering her hesitance on the subject, but he knows her well enough now to know it shouldn't even be a question.

"Of course, I don't," she answers him on a sigh. "That's not what worries me."

Jon unlinks his hands to grasp at her arms instead, rubbing up and down slowly, comfortingly. "Then what is it?"

"I'll be... eligible again – to cement any other alliance through marriage."

Jon's eyes narrow on her, his nostrils flaring. "I won't let it happen."

Sansa purses her lips. "It doesn't work like that, Jon. You won't have a say."

"Robb won't let it happen," he tries to reassure her, his hands sliding down her arms to settle along her hips now, keeping her anchored to him. "Not after we lost Bran and Rickon." The words make his jaw ache, the names of their siblings lodging in his throat like tar. He clears his throat, shakes away the grief.

(Bury it deep. Put it away. Be useful, be present.)

"Not after... after everything you endured in King's Landing. He won't do that. I promise you."

Sansa's mouth presses into a thin line, her eyes shifting between his. "I hope you're right."

"I am," he assures her, leaning in to press a swift kiss along her lips. "You won't ever be a pawn in someone's game again, I swear." His fingers curl around her hips – steady and sure.

She blinks up at him, her eyes roving his face in quiet contemplation.

He opens his mouth to question her but then she links her arms around his neck, pressing her chest to his. "I don't think I could ever be anyone's again," she whispers at his mouth. "Anyone's but yours," she tells him.

Jon sucks a breath through his lips, his chest rising and falling steadily, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "Sansa," he begins, before he clears his throat, licking his lips. "I should go."

It isn't half as firm as he means it to sound.

Her nails scrape the nape of his neck, slinking into his hair, and it drags his attention back to her gaze. Her eyes are dark in the candlelight, a sheen of wetness over them. "Could you do it? Could you let another man take me to wife?" There's a thread of desperation in her voice that scares him.

Jon braces his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling in the scarce space between them. He slips a hand up her back, bracing against her spine as he holds her closer. "You know I can't," he murmurs at her mouth, the closeness of her making him light-headed.

She lets out a ragged breath against him, her eyes slipping shut, her arms tightening around his neck. "Could you let another man hold me like this? Touch me? Kiss me?" Her voice breaks, her chest heaving now, the threat of tears lining her words. "Could you – "

He doesn't let her finish the question, because his answer would be the same regardless.

Jon kisses her hard, almost angrily, pressing into her so forcefully that she arches back beneath his hands, bending to his need. He opens her mouth with a fervent tongue, tasting her sigh with his own answering groan, his hands bracing her to his chest, keeping her fixed to him, unrelenting.

Ever since that night in his chamber, when she'd approached him after the news of Bran and Rickon – ever since she offered that ridiculous apology, ever since he'd silenced her needless guilt with his desperate mouth –

His desire for her has grown nearly unmanageable.

She's all that occupies his thoughts. When he wakes and when he lays his head to sleep. When he meets with Robb's war council, and when he trains in the yard, and when he breaks his fast with his unwitting family.

When he takes himself in hand – urgently and nightly.

She's all he thinks about these days. Her fine-boned hands, and her perfect, pink mouth, and the sweep of her hair over her neck, and the dip of her collar bones, and the fine arch of her wrist, and her lingering stares, and the open neck of her dress, and her smiles and her touches and her breathy sighs, the shape of her waist beneath his hands, and her chest heaving against his, and the way she arches into him so sweetly, the way she curls her hands into his hair, the way she sucks on his tongue when he kisses her, and the scent of her, the taste, the taste, the taste –

He's nearly delirious in his want.

Jon breaks from her, panting, one hand still digging into her hip, the other braced between her shoulder blades, the material of her dress bunched in his fist as he holds her to him. "The thought alone," he growls out, nipping at her lips – that heady desire flooding him, sending him reeling. "The thought alone drives me mad," he finishes tightly, taking her mouth again, reveling in the low moan that carries up her throat.

Sansa sighs breathlessly against his mouth when they break apart, her hands tightening in his hair. "I'm scared," she murmurs at his lips, eyes still wet, surging forward to kiss him again.

Jon groans at her urgency, his hand sliding over her shoulder to brace at her neck, his thumb pressed to the underside of her jaw, his breath flooding her mouth as she whimpers beneath him.

"Sansa," he bites out when he gasps for air.

She grabs at his hand still fixed to her hip, drags it up to her chest, presses his palm over her breast, curling his fingers beneath hers in the collar of her dress.

Jon bucks against her instinctively, the breath raking from him, his pants hot against her mouth. He palms at her breast immediately, never even questioning the motion, his growing hardness digging into her thigh as he walks her back, until she hits the bed and falls over, taking him with her.

"Jon," she moans out, hands raking over his back, drawing him into her, before wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and dragging his mouth back to hers.

Jon braces his weight above her, his hips digging into hers, his hand gripping her breast almost painfully, his other dug into her hair, his elbow planted along the bed to steady him. He tugs at her dress, dragging the material over her breast impatiently, groaning into her mouth as he rolls his hips into hers, unable to stop himself, unable to contain the heat spreading through his gut.

Sansa drags a knee up along his side, her skirts pulling uncomfortably along her thigh.

Jon breaks from her, dragging his hand from her hair to bunch along the skirts at her thigh instead, rucking them up as he buries his face in the crook of her shoulder, his lips planting along her pale throat. "Gods, Sansa, you feel so good," he groans out, his growl lost in her hair.

Sansa grips at his head, fingers tangled in his curls. "I want it to be you," she gasps at his ear.

Jon stills, blinking away the haze of desire beneath a singular moment of clarity.

He closes his eyes at her words, his chest heaving against hers, his hand gripping at her thigh hard enough to leave bruises, but he won't go further, won't drag her skirts up higher, won't snake his hand up to her smallclothes and tear them away, won't sink his fingers into her wet, waiting cunt like he longs to, like he's aching to.

"Sansa," he warns her, his teeth at her throat, his other hand still firm at her breast, fingers still curved over the collar of her dress, dragged partially down her chest, her laces taut at the seams.

His knuckles are white beneath the force of his struggling willpower.

"I need it to be you," she whines at his ear.

Jon pulls back just enough to look at her, his face pained. "Sansa, I – I can't..." The realization of what he's only moments away from doing to her hits him like a gale of wind from atop the Wall.

And yet he doesn't pull his touch away, doesn't relinquish his hold of her.

She blinks the wetness back from her eyes, her fingers curling tighter along the back of his neck. "Jon, I won't go to anyone else. I can't. Not after – " She stops, swallows tightly. Her eyes shift back and forth between his. "I can't."

Jon drops his forehead to hers, a ragged sigh leaving him. He drags his hands from her breast and thigh, cradling her face instead, elbows keeping him braced above her on the bed. "I know," he murmurs in frustration, his eyes slipping closed at her pained sob.

It was easy, at the start. Easy to pretend that their secret kisses and hidden glances were a game. It was easy to pretend it could never end.

But it isn't easy anymore.

Not when he wants what he wants. Not when he knows there is no stopping it, even when he knows it's wrong.

He's not ever going to fall out of love with Sansa Stark, he knows this now.

And that's the rub. That's the salt of it.

He's just a bastard boy in love with his sister.

And such a tale never ended in anything but blood and heartache.

Jon brushes a thumb across her soft cheek, his mouth a trembling line. "Sansa, listen to me. What we're doing – "

A sharp knock sounds at the door.

Sansa's eyes go wide and Jon nearly throws himself from her, stumbling away from the bed on a sharp intake of breath.

Sansa rises to her elbows, mouth parted in surprise.

"Sansa, it's me," her mother says from the other side of the door.

The panic rises in Jon's throat, and he looks around the room quickly, bounding as quietly as he can behind her armoire, pressing his back up against the wood as Sansa pushes from the bed, smoothing down her skirts and her hair, clearing her throat.

"Just a moment, Mother," she calls out, voice wavering somewhat.

Jon curses beneath his breath, glancing around the armoire one last time to catch Sansa's identically frantic eyes, before he turns away, closing his eyes on a tight inhale, the breath halted in his chest.

He hears the door unlatch a moment later, but no footsteps carrying into the room.

"Yes, Mother?" Sansa asks, clearly keeping her from entering by staying in the threshold.

"I came to check on you. Has your headache worsened?"

Jon works his jaw, adjusting his breeches as gently and quietly as he can over his still-throbbing erection, wincing slightly at the discomfort.

"I'll be fine with rest, not to worry," Sansa placates her mother.

A moment of silence passes, before Catelyn's voice comes from the door again, a lance of worry threading through her words. "You're flushed, dear girl. Are you unwell? Should I call the maester?"

Jon bites his lip, eyes turned skyward, watching the flickering shadows from the candlelight cast about the ceiling. His heart hammers in his chest.

"No, no, don't trouble yourself, Mother." Sansa's voice is just a touch breathless, just enough to have Jon's stomach sinking.

"Sansa, you're clearly – "

"It's just a chill. Nothing a good night's rest won't fix, I promise," Sansa assures her, voice tight. "In fact, I should finish readying for bed. Goodnight, Mother."

The slight creak of the door sounds before it stops abruptly, and Jon imagines Lady Catelyn's hand on the door, halting it, that familiar frown gracing her features.

"You're certain?"

Jon's stomach twists at the concern in her tone, remembering that this is a woman who just lost her two youngest boys.

The grief is still ripe in her voice.

It makes the bile rise at the back of Jon's throat, knowing how he'd been dishonoring her sweet, highborn daughter only moments ago, and in her own childhood home, no less. How he'd been touching her like no brother had a right to touch their sister. How he craved the feel of her still, even now.

The guilt is dizzying, enough to calm any remaining desire in him.

Sansa's voice is softer this time, a gentleness to it that tells Jon she hears the grief in Lady Stark's voice just as loudly. "I'm certain. But thank you for checking on me, Mother."

"Alright, then," Catelyn answers reluctantly, a sigh at the end of her words.

Jon imagines the brush of her hand against her daughter's cheek – the same cheek he'd held in his own sinful touch.

Gods, if she only knew how he's already shamed her daughter, how near he'd been to shaming her further –

She'd kill him where he stood.

Jon bunches his hands into fists, his head braced back against the wood of the armoire, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth in his taut silence.

"Come to me anytime you need."

"I will, Mother."

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

The door shuts with a hollow clang.

Jon breathes in the silence that follows, his chest rising and falling steadily. His hands flex, fists bunching and unbunching at his sides. His lungs ache.

"Jon?" The whisper is tentative as it leaves her.

Jon scrubs his hands over his face.

What are they doing? What are they doing?

"Jon."

He steps from around the armoire, a shadow falling over his face as he meets her gaze.

She stands in the middle of the room, her fingers worrying themselves. She opens her mouth, closes it. "I..."

Jon sighs, his jaw tightening.

That bile – it stains the back of his tongue.

Sansa looks to the floor.

His own shame keeps him rooted, his feet heavy where they stand.

"You should wait a while... before you go," she says tentatively. "To be sure."

Jon closes his eyes, a heavy breath leaving him. "Aye."

When he opens his eyes, she's looking at him again, but she keeps her distance – keeps this distance between them.

He stays planted where he stands. She stays with her hands wringing themselves before her.

He looks at her.

She looks at him.

No, there is no falling out of love with Sansa Stark.

And that's the salt of it.

(He is the wound.)

* * *

"Read it again," Catelyn demands in a tight voice.

Robb sighs as he drops the missive from the Freys to the tabletop between them. "Mother..."

"Read it again," she repeats, her voice shaking.

Sansa stands rigid beside her mother, her eyes fixed to the unfurled scroll atop the table. She can feel Jon's gaze upon her.

"Seven hells," Edmure curses, a hand wiping over his mouth as he stalks from the war table, and then stalks back. "Are you actually considering this?" His gaze shifts heatedly to Robb.

Brynden puts a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Edmure."

"And how am I supposed to calm myself? They demand a marriage between myself and a Frey girl as reparations for Robb's – " Edmure bites his tongue, a sharp glance sent around the table, before he meets the Blackfish's eyes once more. "His indiscretion," he finishes tightly.

Jeyne settles a hand low on her swollen stomach, her gaze flitting quietly to the floor.

"Edmure," Brynden censures in a low voice, squeezing his nephew's shoulder meaningfully.

"And their other demand?" Catelyn bites out, her chest rising with her indignation. "Are we going to simply ignore that?" she asks shrilly.

Sansa's mind goes blank, her breaths coming shallow and short. Everything is static in her mind, her eyes blinking furiously as she tries to process the contents of the letter. Her mouth parts, but no words follow. She closes her mouth tightly, her throat flexing. Her eyes water without her bidding.

Robb looks at her, leaning over to brace his hands along the table. "Sansa."

She blinks up at him.

"Tell them no," Jon says lowly from across the table, his words cutting through the fog in her mind.

Sansa sucks a sharp breath through her teeth.

In the spirit of common goals and renewing our alliance, His Grace, King Robb of House Stark, is asked to grant the marriages of Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun to a Frey daughter of our choosing, and Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell to Lord Perwyn of House Frey.

Sansa starts to shake.

"How do they even know you've written to the High Septon of Sansa's annulment?" Catelyn asks sharply, her eyes shifting around the table to meet every person present.

"Tell them no," Jon growls again, his hands bunching into fists at his sides.

Sansa's chest feels tight.

"And if His Grace rejects another marriage alliance? What then?" Brynden asks gruffly, his hand slipping from Edmure's shoulder.

"No one told him to get a whelp on the girl!" Edmure cries.

"Uncle," Robb bites out, his anger flashing briefly across his eyes, his hand going to Jeyne's elbow at his side. "You will address my queen with the proper respect she deserves."

Catelyn purses her mouth, collecting herself with her hands smoothed over her skirts. "You're not helping, brother," she says tightly.

Edmure bites his tongue, inclining his head in quiet acquiescence, his anxious energy thrumming throughout his body.

Sansa feels sick.

"Why are we even discussing this?" Jon nearly bellows, drawing everyone's attention then. "Tell them no," he demands for the last time.

Robb squares his jaw. "It's not that simple."

Sansa's eyes flutter shut, her lip beginning to tremble.

"Robb, we just got her back," Catelyn begs.

"I know!" Robb huffs, a hand held to the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to send Sansa away either but – "

"Is no one concerned about my marriage?" Edmure interrupts, frazzled at the inattention to his situation, eyes glancing about the room.

"Edmure, please," Catelyn moans, turning a pained look his way.

He silences at his sister's distress, his mouth tipping into a frown.

Brynden crosses his arms as he considers the missive laying innocently atop the table. "Walder Frey is a sorry excuse for a man, and a scheming, self-serving mongrel, but you'll need his family's support if you want to meet the Lannisters south of the Neck, especially since you've sent forces back north to retake Winterfell."

A sound catches in Catelyn's throat at the reminder of the recent loss.

"Then we do it another way," Jon grits out.

"And if there is no other way?" Robb asks sharply, his gaze turned toward Jon. They stare each other down for several moments, before Jeyne rests her hand along Robb's arm and he turns from his half-brother, running a hand through his hair roughly.

Sansa blows a slow, shallow breath through her lips, eyes shifting back open to watch the room. Her gut twists painfully when her eyes fall on Robb.

Brynden shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "We can consider other options, Your Grace, but they'll want an answer soon."

"I'll need to speak with the other lords," Robb says on a defeated sigh.

"This is a family matter," Catelyn says, her voice less firm than she'd begun the meeting with.

"It is not," Robb says surely, a dark look sent her way. His shoulders sag, his frown pinching tight. "It is a Northern matter, and thus requires careful deliberation."

A wave of nausea overtakes Sansa.

Jon steps toward his brother. "Robb, you can't – "

"You're dismissed." He glances around the room, his gaze softening on Sansa when he makes his way to her. "All of you," he says quietly, turning away from her swiftly. Jeyne reaches for his hand then, looking up into his face with reassurance.

Sansa feels the bile rising instantly. She glances to Jon and finds him staring at her, his jaw locked in his ire, his whole bearing stiff and rigid. She can see the whites of his knuckles from across the table.

"Come," Catelyn says, ushering her gently from the room.

She follows her mother's direction mindlessly, her limbs numb.

Sansa finds herself standing in the courtyard after many minutes, her mother's hand on her arm as she speaks in quiet tones to her.

She doesn't recognize the words.

"I need..." Sansa begins, her voice a croak, and she licks her lips, glances over to meet her mother's gaze. "I need some air. Please excuse me." She gathers her skirts in her hands and walks away.

She finds herself at the edge of the riverbank many minutes later, past the gate and past the bridge and past the suffocating air that had lodged in her throat ever since Robb read Walder Frey's letter aloud.

She sucks deep gulps of air into her lungs, eyes raking over the river, blinking against the sun. Her hands bunch in her skirts. Her chin rises, her shoulders pulling taut.

And then she bends over and retches. It empties from her instantly – all the rage and despair and helplessness. Her sick hits the green riverbank and her knees buckle on reflex, her hand going out to a nearby branch to catch herself, a cough raking up her throat, the blood bursting red across her cheeks from the force of it. When she's finished, she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, eyes wet as she grips the tree beside her.

She steadies herself, breathes deep, wipes her hand along her skirt.

I want it to be you, she'd told him.

Tears bead at the corners of her eyes, her breath hitched on a sob.

It doesn't really seem to matter anymore.

* * *

"How can you even consider it? You know what she went through," Jon growls out, cornering Robb when his meeting with the lords is ended.

Robb stops short as he exits the chamber, eyeing Jon. "Have you been waiting here the whole time?"

"Of course," he bites out.

Robb frowns, before pushing past him toward his own chambers. Jon follows without thought.

"Jon, believe me, I'm the last person that wants to put Sansa through another traumatizing marriage," he huffs out, never slowing.

Jon keeps his pace, stalking the corridor alongside him. "Then you should be telling that to the Freys."

"And what would you have me tell the Northern lords, hmm?"

"That our sister is not a bargaining chip," he growls out.

Robb shoots a dark look his way. "Are you saying that's how I'm treating her?"

"Aren't you?"

Robb stops short, turning swiftly to Jon, his nostrils flaring. "I never said I'd agree to the Freys' terms." His voice is clipped, but there's a thunder beneath it that stops Jon in his tracks.

He stares at his brother, his king, trying to will his anger down, but his chest is heaving with it, his throat rife with it.

He is no help to Sansa like this – antagonizing their brother further.

Jon sets his jaw, his gaze flicking low in deference, not meeting Robb's eyes as he steadies his anxious breathing. "Then what are you saying, Your Grace?" he gets out roughly, swallowing back the ire, leaving only civility in his tone.

Robb sighs, taking a moment to consider, and then he rests a hand on Jon's shoulder.

It makes him look up at his brother again.

Robb offers him a shared look of frustration, his brows furrowed over his Tully blue eyes. "I understand your resistance to the idea. But you cannot ask me to refuse their terms if you won't even offer an alternative," he says dismally.

Jon nods, his throat tight. "You're right, of course," he says hoarsely.

It pains him to admit it.

His anger had been instant, thoughtless. His only concern had been Sansa – is Sansa. But this is not how she needs him – raging and demanding and reckless.

He clears his throat, lifting his head to meet Robb's gaze fully. "Have the lords any suggestions?"

Robb's face darkens, his hand dropping from Jon's shoulder. "Most of them don't see any reason not to agree."

"Robb," Jon growls.

"I know, I know," Robb answers swiftly, turning to walk back down the corridor.

Jon follows suit, quiet for many moments, before he asks him, "What do you plan to do?"

"I'll speak with Mother. She may have some ideas."

Jon remembers coming upon Lady Stark only moments before she'd attempted to free Jaime Lannister all those months ago. He remembers how his rescue of Sansa began in the first place.

No, Lady Stark would not give her daughter up for anything. She'd choose treason first.

(And almost did.)

He doesn't know whether to be relieved or not at Robb's going to her for advice. But at least, it means that Robb is searching for a way out.

It will have to be enough.

They stop at Robb's chambers. He gives him a nod of farewell, but Jon grabs for his elbow and stops him, his touch uneasy.

Robb glances down at the hand on his arm, and then back up into Jon's face. "What is it?"

"Why won't you tell Sansa that you're trying to find another way?"

Robb quiets a moment, his mouth tipping into a frown. He looks down the empty corridor, his throat flexing as he swallows. "I don't... I don't want to give her false hope." He looks back at Jon. "If there is no other way."

Jon releases Robb's elbow, a single tight breath filling his lungs. He shakes his head, his voice stricken in his throat. "Robb, we can't –"

"Sansa knows her duty," Robb says surely, his eyes betraying his apprehension. "When push comes to shove..." He clears his throat, blinks away the disquiet. "As the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark, Sansa knows what may be asked of her."

Jon bites his cheek, that simmering rage curling in his gut again. "And a bastard wouldn't understand that, is that it?"

Robb huffs. "I never said that."

"Well, I'll tell you what I do know," Jon grinds out, the words a struggle as he steps toward him, his own distress bubbling up his throat. "I know the sound of her cries, brother, and I know the shape of her scars, and I know what nightmares she suffers from in the night because I was there, Robb. I was fucking there – when she asked if you were the one who sent me, if you were the one who came to her rescue. I was there when she finally broke down, when the weight of King's Landing finally fell from her shoulders and she was free, she was free, Robb, and still – still – more wounded than I'd ever seen her. Because she needed us. She needed her family. And we weren't there. So, I can't –" He stops, his chest heaving with it, his voice breaking as he corrects himself, tries to steady the throbbing between his ribs. "We can't abandon her again."

Robb stares at him, his brow furrowed sharply down, his mouth a thin, tight line. "Jon."

"She – she needs us to put her first this time." He pulls a heavy breath through his lungs.

Robb reaches out and plants both hands along Jon's shoulders. "You know, that as king, I could never simply put her first, Jon," he says painfully.

Jon drops his head, blinking away the wetness at the corners of his eyes. His skull aches from clenching his teeth.

"You know that," Robb murmurs, a squeeze to his shoulders.

"Aye," Jon croaks out, looking back up again.

(The salt of it.)

Helplessness tears at his gut.

"But I will do my best," Robb assures him, though it rings hollow now. "That's all I can promise."

Jon nods wordlessly, working his jaw.

Robb gives him one last squeeze along his shoulder, before turning from him and entering his chambers.

Jon is left to watch the closed door, the following silence blaring in the empty hall.

* * *

Many days pass, and Sansa prays. She eats, and she sleeps, and she takes turns in the garden. She sits and embroiders with her mother. She takes tea with Jeyne.

And she prays.

Robb hasn't spoken to her since the reading of Walder Frey's letter. She knows he is struggling to find an answer that may suit them all. But she's afraid there isn't one.

It's what brings her to the Sept this night, long after everyone is asleep, a robe hastily thrown over her shift in her restlessness. She lights a candle and watches the wax slip down the pillar, her hands folded before her.

And she prays.

But gods, she doesn't even know what for anymore.

"Sansa?"

His voice should be soothing but it's only a wretched reminder now.

Sansa plasters a faint smile along her lips when she turns to meet Jon's gaze over her shoulder.

He closes the door behind him, his face pained as he watches her where she kneels. He makes his way to her slowly.

"I couldn't sleep," she says in answer to his unvoiced question, rising and brushing the dirt from her knees.

"Neither could I," he tells her.

Their stolen kisses have ceased since the letter, and she doesn't precisely know why. Or maybe she does.

She can't seem to bring herself to be anything other than cordial to him these days.

(Anything more and she thinks she might break.)

But oh, how she misses him.

Her traitorous heart yearns for him even now, even when she is trying to teach herself to live without him.

(Even when she is failing.)

"I didn't mean to... to interrupt your prayers," he says finally, a hand going to the back of his neck and rubbing awkwardly.

Sansa looks up into the stone face of the Mother. "It's no matter." She sighs, glancing back down to him. "I don't think they were heard, anyway." She presses a nervous thumb into her opposite palm.

"Oh, Sansa." He steps toward her, his hands lighting upon her arms. "Why have you... why don't you talk to me about it?"

"And what is there to say?"

He swallows tightly, looking away a moment, before turning back. "I just want to – I don't know, to... to comfort you, somehow, but I just – I don't know how."

Sansa softens at his anguish, stepping into him to place her hands upon his chest. "I know."

"Tell me what you want,"

She shakes her head.

"Tell me and I'll do it."

"I know you will, but it's too late."

Jon frowns at her words, his hands tightening over her arms. "Please don't say that."

"I suppose the only thing to save me know is if the High Septon rejects my annulment." She chuckles darkly at the thought. "I can't be bartered for a marriage alliance if I'm still married, can I?"

"Don't say that," he grinds out, leaning toward her, closing the space between them with his lips pressed to her forehead.

That dark chuckle returns, though it's tinged with desperation now – a reckless sorrow. "It's true, though," she murmurs, closing her eyes on a sigh and leaning into him.

"We'll run away," he says against her temple.

She actually laughs this time, pulling back to look at him. "Run away?"

"Aye," he swears, eyes fervent on hers. He releases her arms to cup her face instead. "Just like you said we should, the morning before we made it to Riverrun. You knew it then. You told me then. That this would happen. And I – I didn't think – " He stops, swallowing thickly. He squares his jaw, his thumbs running tenderly over her cheeks. He sighs, and it seems to take all of him, as he hangs his head, words choked back. "Sansa, I didn't..."

Her lungs ache on the sob she's bottling up, her hands going around his wrists as he holds her. Tears prick the corners of her eyes.

She thinks back to their journey here – riding across green fields in his arms, the warmth of him beside her as they slept, splashing in the river as they fished. She thinks of peace and safety and joy. She thinks of things she only knows from songs. Things she used to dream of and hadn't even known how close they were.

But then she thinks of her mother's embrace, and Robb's tired shoulders, and Arya all alone in the wilderness.

She thinks of Edmure and Brynden and the home they've made for her here.

She thinks of Bran and Rickon.

She thinks of her lord father and how she doesn't even remember the last words she shared with him.

Sansa sucks a trembling breath through her lips, hands gripping his wrists needfully. "Do you regret it? Not running away then?" she manages through quaking breaths.

Jon lifts his head to look at her, the answer splashed across his face in ruin.

And oh, how it cuts.

"Aye," he croaks out, a sheen of wetness over his eyes. "I regret it." And then he bares his teeth, his brow furrowing, a wretched groan leaving him as the tears gather in his eyes, and he shakes his head, the remorse plain upon his face. "I truly, truly regret it now."

She smothers the sob along her tongue, releasing his wrists to cup his face now, pressing into him so that their chests are but a whisper apart. "Don't," she tells him, her breath painting his lips.

His eyes flick between hers, confused.

"You did the right thing, by bringing me back."

"Sansa – "

"I needed my family. And they needed me."

Jon's hands drift down to her neck, his chest rising and falling with his shallow breaths, the words lodged in his throat as he watches her.

"You should never regret bringing me back to them," she urges with a confidence that surprises her.

Yes, she would have run away with him. Yes, she would have been free to love him then. But it would be the only freedom she'd know in a life of chains. And she would grow to resent him for it. She would grow to resent herself.

There are no good choices. Only impossible ones.

"I'm sorry," he sobs at her lips.

Her eyes flutter closed, an exhaustion filling her that seems endless and endless and endless. "I'm so tired, Jon," she breathes into him, and then he's kissing her, and she wraps her arms around his neck, and thinks of the candle she lit. She thinks of the lone flame, and the slow burning. She thinks of the afterimage it leaves in the dark, when it's inevitably snuffed.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles against her lips, one hand dug into her hair, the other braced along her back.

She swallows up his sobs, and floods his mouth with her own, her hands grasping and needful and aimless.

Just the feel of him. Just the feel of him is enough in this moment.

Jon presses her back until she hits the wall with a low thud, the jostle breaking their mouths apart momentarily.

"I'm sorry," he pants into her mouth again.

Sansa digs her nails into the nape of his neck. "I know," she gasps along his tongue, trying not to break.

He fumbles for the tie on her robe and she helps him, tearing the material from her shoulders so only her shift remains. His hands are everywhere – rucking up her shift and dragging her mouth back to his by the back of her neck. His teeth sink into her bottom lip and she moans, her hands fisting in the thin material of his tunic, tugging at it impatiently as he grabs for one of her exposed thighs, hefting it up as he braces his hips to hers, the length of him hard and pressed to her center.

Sansa gasps, gripping his shoulders, tearing her mouth from his to press her head back against the stone wall, her lip caught between her teeth. "Jon," she whimpers, rolling her hips to meet his.

He pants into her neck, nipping slightly, laving his tongue over her pulse, his hand dragging her thigh higher up his hip, fingers digging into her flesh as he bucks into her, his breeches and her smallclothes the only thing separating them now.

"I'm sorry," he groans into her neck, over and over.

Sansa sobs at the words, lost to him. So lost she never hears the door as it creaks open.

So lost she doesn't even recognize the gaze she meets across the room when she opens her eyes.

Like looking into a mirror. That Tully blue.

Sansa stills at the sudden realization, eyes blown wide.

The heat of Jon's mouth is still at her throat when she finds her voice.

"Robb," she chokes out, a new anguish blanketing her tongue.

This is the salt of it.

(And they are the wound.)

[orcinus-veterinarius]

Had to mo I've always loved orcas and they remain my favorite animal but I've been finding myself having to avoid the comments on anything with orcas and esp natural behavior. Because for whatever reason there's always comments on how orcas are "bullies" or the a-holes of the sea simply for being apex predators.

It's odd though if it's a captive orca people are all out ready to release it back into the ocean. But if it's wild that's a different story although there's always a comment or two saying how the orca "deserves" to be in captivity anyway because again they're bullies for being predators.

Like is there a reason orcas seem to be getting this unfair label for what they're doing to survive? I actually don't really see these same comments on wolves or lions or even sharks. There's even more sharks aren't monsters for being apex predators so why are they doing the opposite for orcas?

If I had to speculate, I think it’s because of the extreme lengths to which orcas have been anthropomorphized. Pre-2000s SeaWorld Shamu shows characterized the whales as basically big cuddly pets, and even into the 2000s and 2010s they still presented them as almost-mystical apex predators with a magical bond with humans. And for a long time, that was the (western) public’s main introduction to killer whales. It was hard to imagine them ever being anything but friendly.

Nowadays, a lot of folks—even some scientists—have popularized the idea that orcas are basically people, equal to or even superior to humans in intelligence and the capacity to feel emotions. So when they do something that humans find distasteful (punt around harbor porpoises, hunt fellow cetaceans, commit infanticide), it’s a lot more tempting to assume they’re doing it out of cruelty or malice than if it were a “simple animal” like a shark. I see that sort of comment a lot with animals assumed to be more “human-like” (orcas, chimps, elephants) or who live closely with people (hence the “cats are evil jerks” misnomer).

So yeah, in short, serious anthropomorphism. Orcas hunt because they’re predators, not psychotic murderers (*stares down Blackfish*). And while we’re at it—dolphins use sexual coercion because that’s the reproductive strategy they developed, not because they’re evil rapists (I’m really sick of seeing that “fact” shared around).

No animal is evil, because evil is a human concept. We cannot ascribe our sense of morality to them, no matter how intelligent they are, because they are not humans.

Anyway, pitting dolphins against sharks is stupid. Just like when people pit cats against dogs. Why not both?

[patrocles]

Top 5 favorite asoiaf theories?

okay so i had to consult the theory ice berg bc i forgot all of them.

1. Jeyne Westerling escaped with the Blackfish. Idk what anyone says I’m always going root for the survival of a teen girl. Plus I think there’s absolute comedy in the Blackfish adopting his grand-nephew’s teenage wife and hitting the road to get her to Greywater Watch.

2. Euron warged the dusky woman to have sex with/spy on Victarion. What else can I say except that Euron is absolutely perverted enough to do that

3. Ashara Dayne = Jyana Reed. There’s no disproving it, really, and I think the most desirable and beautiful woman in the world finding happiness in a quiet swamp with short king Howland Reed to heal after the Events of Everything is what she deserves.

4. Alyssa Targaryen is Alaric Stark’s daughter with Alysanne. Iffc, she was born right after Alysanne got back from the North. It doesnt really do anything for the plot except to poke another hole in Jaehaerys’ Pure Blood Exceptionalism

5. Renly Baratheon is Robert’s first bastard son. This is (unofficially) why he was left Storm’s End over Stannis and why Robert was sent to the Eyrie. Again, I dont think it changes/adds anything to the story, but I think it would be very interesting/ironic if Renly’s campaign for kingship did have more technical legitimacy than Stannis and neither of them realized

[ihazyourkitty]

Why John Hargrove is full of it p.1

Multiple people have expressed interest in the detailed Blackfish rebuttal I am working on. The plan is to put it in video essay format on Youtube. This not only has the potential to reach a larger audience, but it also gives me more creative/expressive flexibility that would otherwise be difficult to get across in just written text.

This project will not be completed for quite some time, as there are a lot of things to cover. However, I did want to provide a short glimpse into some things I've uncovered thus far.

You see, I plan on not only refuting the movie itself, but also covering the consequences of Blackfish, and major figures like Naomi Rose, Ingrid Visser, etc. So as part of this project, I am listening to the eBook version of John Hargrove's Beneath the Surface for the second time. It's..... so.... much..... fun.....

*sigh* Warning, there's a long rant ahead. TL;DR John Hargrove comes off as very full of himself in this book, and it's annoying.

______

Now, on a purely emotional, literary level I guess, the book is certainly very gripping. It's difficult to put down, even when you know that much of what is alleged therein is utter bullcrap. However, I don't think this is just because the whole "little-guy turns against evil corporation" trope makes for good storytelling across the board. I think it's also because, unlike Mark Simmons' Killing Keiko, or Hazel McBride's I Still Believe, John Hargrove's Beneath the Surface has the luxury of both professional editing, and a co-author (Howard Chia-Eoan).

To be clear, I'm not saying this as dig against Hazel McBride or Mark Simmons. I bring this up merely to illustrate the stark contrast here. As far as I know, their works were self published, or at least lacking the same polish and publicity from big name publishers, or sensationalist documentaries.

However, this contrast wouldn't be so noteworthy to me were it not for these two things I'm increasingly noticing in this reread of Beneath the Surface:

It is never clearly stated which parts were written by Hargrove, and which were ghost written by Chia-Eoan... but the amount of contradictions and shoehorned information in here gives me some serious suspicions.

John Hargrove... seems incredibly full of himself!

I don't have the time to elaborate on #1 right now, so we'll just talk about #2 today. John Hargrove is almost never in the wrong. He is always painted as the hero, the true advocate for these animals. You don't hear much about the other trainers he worked with or learned from. Mostly, it's just about him. He bemoans the allegedly poor conditions SeaWorld's animals are kept in, while simultaneously boasting about all his accomplishments with them. He speaks of differing perspectives between him and some of the other trainers, but seldom elaborates on what exactly those differences were. Instead, he usually just frames it in a sanctimonious "me vs. them" way.

The closest he gets to admitting any mistakes he had to learn from is when he recounted an aggressive incident with Freya at Marineland Antibes, and even then.... the whole reason why that incident (allegedly) happened was because Hargrove overestimated his training/waterworks abilities with a whale he didn't have a relationship with. His admission of that mistake is then overshadowed by the rather self-righteous tone he frames the resolution with. All the success was about him. You don't hear anything about how he worked with the other trainers there, what they brought to the table, and certainly not the stronger, lasting relationships they had with Freya. It's not that he had to mention them by name, but he didn't even mention them at all!

To be fair, this interpretation is partly subjective on my part. Still, as someone who is personally working in animal husbandry right now (albeit not with marine mammals), the gaping holes in this narrative raises some red flags.

Here's some free advice to anyone interested in working in the zoo/aquarium industry: I have been told by multiple hiring managers that they don't want someone who "just wants to work with the animals, and not deal with people." That's not how this works. You still have to work with people in some form or another.

It doesn't matter which animals you are working with. When you're on an animal husbandry/training team, you gotta ask for/provide help, seek/give feedback, communicate with other departments, etc. Complaints, conflict and disagreements will inevitably happen, but you gotta be mature about it.

And yes, in that process... you are going to make mistakes, and you're going to have to own up to them! It's part of how you learn. You're also going to inevitably work with people who don't see things the same way.

The people who can't do this tend to not only get stuck in their own way, but are more likely to start resenting coworkers and/or management whenever disagreements happen. They'll constantly complain about how other people do things, but then can't/won't take constructive feedback themselves. It's worse when it's someone with more experience under their belt because of the massive ego. Let me be clear: this kind of mindset does not help your animals! It only creates a toxic work environment that's resistant to change!

DO. NOT. BE. THIS. PERSON!!!!

No, this does not mean you can't vent frustrations. No this does not mean that you can't take pride in your work. It means that you gotta be able to swallow your pride, and not alienate other people.

So, what does all that have to do with the contrast mentioned earlier?

Like Hargrove, McBride details her career journey, but doesn't just paint it all in glamour. She talks about her setbacks, how she grew, things she learned from other people, the internships she did, the grunt work she was willing to do, etc.

Killing Keiko has less to do with the details of Mark Simmons' career path, but he does give credit to other people where it is due, even at times towards those he fundamentally disagreed with. I can remember one part where he explicitly admitted that he made a mistake too, and tellingly, it was in an instance where he played the "I've been doing this for years" card. In the very next sentence he admitted it was the wrong thing to say in that situation, and highlighted the perspective he was missing in that moment.

These things are conspicuously absent in Beneath the Surface. I don't remember anything of the sort that stood out when I first read the book, and thus far it's certainly not there in my second time around. The first third of the book is dedicated to how he dreamed of becoming a trainer as a kid, and the path he took to get there. Most of this path, though, is painted in glamor, when the reality is.... the path to getting into animal husbandry isn't particularly glamorous. Not only do you have go to college, but you also have to settle for various unpaid internships or volunteer gigs, and then apply for multiple jobs only to get several no's before it works out (to say nothing of how underpaid zookeepers/aquarists/trainers are).

Hargrove, on the other hand, kept pestering lead marine mammal trainers at SeaWorld since he was a kid, practiced his swimming/diving abilities, and started his degree in psychology. Then, as luck would have it, an apprentice trainer position opened up at SW San Antonio, and when he got the job, he jubilantly quit college. Not much is said about what kind of volunteer work he did before that. I think he did some stuff with marine mammal rescue in Texas, but I'll have to go back and reread to be sure... in any event, I wish I'd heard more about the experience he got besides swimming and pestering the SW animal training department.

And like.... great, he got the job, but it seemed more by luck than by the sweat of his brow. Then he balked that he was put in the SeaLion Stadium, and/or that he had to spend a lot of time washing dishes and spotting before even being allowed to work directly with a whale, which like..... yeah? I don't know what you were expecting dude.

(Btw, this part isn't just me being nit-picky, Duncan Versteegh from ML Antibes corroborates Hargrove's resistance to doing grunt work like cleaning)

Whenever mentioning people at SW who didn't want to work at Shamu Stadium, Hargrove couldn't understand how anyone wouldn't want that.... because heaven forbid other people have different preferences? To be fair, from what I've heard of SW work culture in general, Shamu Stadium is kind of painted as the glamorous A-team, but DANG does Hargrove really lean into that attitude!

Later on, he detailed some of the conflicts he had with SW's entertainment department. At one point his manager explicitly told him he needed learn to get along better with other departments. And like... yeah... yeah you do!

Look, I'm not interested in doing blanket apologia for SeaWorld. I'm sure Hargrove was in the right more than once when he'd argue with people, but I'm also not convinced that the whole of the entertainment department, management, et al., were just a bunch of unfeeling jerks who didn't care about the animals.

This part actually ground my gears quite a bit. Before I became an aquarist, I was an educator, and sometimes I would overhear certain husbandry staff gossip about us in a really patronizing way whenever there were miscommunications. Not that they never had valid reasons to complain, they did, but to be treated like you're just a dumb educator/guest services person is not pleasant, and certainly not professional. I don't know how common this is at other places, but I bring this up to illustrate the importance of being able to work with other departments, especially in the face of disagreements or miscommunication.

That Beneath the Surface paints Hargrove's inability to do this as a virtue rather than as the character flaw that it is... well.... it's um... it's a choice. And it's telling.

Again, some of this interpretation is subjective on my part. Ultimately, none of us can know for sure what is in someone else's heart. Hargrove does seem to sincerely care about the animals, despite the narcissism. However, the vast majority of people who are going to be reading his book are not people who have spent much if any time working in the zoo industry, and thus may not pick up on some of these things. I'm not the only one to point these things out either.

So even if one is against keeping orcas in captivity, I think being aware of the egos behind figures like Hargrove is important. When you get to the end of his book, you would think that all his former colleagues are, at best, just timid little clogs in a corporate machine, brainwashed to do as SW says. This is just not true. These people are dedicated to their animals, and have worked very hard to get where they are at. Some have gone on to get their masters, or PhD's, provide expertise to other facilities, or take part in rescues, etc., and they did it without chasing clout.

SW Corporate should absolutely treat their employees better, but their treatment of them pales in comparison to how people like Hargrove basically erase their accomplishments altogether. In this way, he tries to have it both ways... his time at SW proves how much of an expert he is, you know, because he was a senior trainer with two decades of experience after all! Oh, but when someone else from the field speaks up to refute what he says, nope.... their accomplishments don't matter, they're just brainwashed. If that doesn't scream "massive ego", then I don't know what does.

I'm only halfway through the book on this second round, so there is a chance I'll come back to correct some things here. I do encourage people to try to read this book themselves and come to their own conclusions. You don't have to buy it either, check your local library (it's how I got a hold of this eBook).

[themotherofblood]

Let the games begin

Tywin Lannister x Readers

Tears of Gold AU

A/N: I had played this chapter out in my head so many times, nearly cried a little for how bad I felt for Sansa

TW: child marriage, talks of wedding night, suicidal ideations and rape

Today was her one of those miracle mornings where you had gotten out of bed at the same time as Tywin, after much requests he agreed to rouse you when he would. You spent awhile laying in bed and staring up at the canopy, mindlessly petting Lion who had welcomed himself to your bed probably late at night. Your husband dressed himself before plopping down onto the edge of the bed to lace up his boots. That’s when he noticed that you weren’t here, it wasn’t unusual to get lost in thoughts or overthink about things to the point that it overwhelms you, he was just concerned that you were doing it this early in the morning.

“Do stop thinking that hard, you’ll burn holes in the canopy.” His interrupted your thoughts.

It was wedding day, you had gotten yourself ready after Tywin pulled you out of bed, though you did not have to dress for the ceremony for another two hours, you spent the early morning eating breakfast with your family, and yes that included your step children too and your good grandchildren too. Much was discussed at the table as you fed your boys with the help of the older Jamie of course. Jamie was taken with his two little brothers, his heart beat the same way for them as it did for Tyrion. Myrcella was set to sail for Sunspear in a fortnight, Jamie was to raise an army of six thousand men and head for Riverrun to deal with the Blackfish, the day after tomorrow. Cersei still seemed irked by your threat to her for three days ago, though she appears to have understood that you were an age old rock, hard to just pushover.

You’d spent the better part of the hour after that, dressing your children, both boys were put in cream coloured tunics and red Lannister coats to match each other, putting their hairs in half up braids as they played with their toys in your lap. Tywin was fixing the pins on his coat as he watched you space out in your thoughts yet again.

For the good while, you stared at your children, the dress laid on the chaise for the ceremony and your husband that got himself dressed, and you’d begun to count your blessings yet again. For your children, and an honourable marriage of loyalty and respect, there was no fear of infidelity or violence either in you or your children. However your heart pounded for Sansa today, you weren’t old enough to be her mother but yet counted her as your younger sister. This marriage was wrong in so many unsaid ways and there was nothing you could physically do to prevent it, only help make it better. 

“You are doing it again…” Tywin sighed, pulling you out of your wide eyed thought and look at him dazed. “What toils in your mind, wife?” He knew exactly what, but he’d rather have you talk to him than “think” yourself to insanity.

“This wedding should not be happening.” You admitted the truth making Tywin groan.

“Tell me what is so wrong about this wedding, how is it any different than the dozen political marriages that take place in this country every year.” He questioned while fixing his collar.

“Probably because our family plotted and succeeded in destroying her entire family!” You answered, voice absolutely irate.

“The family that does what it needs to do for its survival will always prevail, we protect our blood and our blood only. It would be wise if you understood this sooner than later.” Tywin lectured making you shake your head in further annoyance. “Our own marriage was made of that compromise, wife. You hold sympathy for Tyrion…” He shook his head at that statement.

“Do you suspect he would mistreat her?” He raised a brow in query “Rape her?”

“Tywin!” You scowled at him before lifting each son at one hip and handing them to your hand maiden.

You wanted to argue no longer, and began angrily stripping yourself. Tywin all the while held a disappointed gaze before left to give you some space.

This dress was gorgeous, black and gold to match with your husband’s coat. Almost resembled the style of robe dresses Sansa wore, of course your dress was covered in Lannister motifs just as your sons. You left your hair down as usual with small braids to frame the crown of your head, a dragon bone ring which was a cutesy or Lord Varys. You looked yourself over in the mirror and began to head for Sansa’s room without another word to your husband.

Shae announced your arrival to her chambers, where Sansa still sat in her long tunic while the other royal hand maidens did her hair. Her lucious red hair was being wrapped in that same out landish piece that many a woman would adorn at court. Her sullen face spread to a smile as she saw you in the reflection of the mirror, you smiled at her through the mirror; taking in how beautiful she looked.

“Leave us.” You ordered the maids in the room

“But the lady’s dress-“ One of the royal handmaiden’s interjected.

“Shae can help me, can you not?” You cocked a brow to her

“Yes my lady.” Shae agreed

All the maids in the room soon filed out one by one, leaving you, Shae and Sansa in the room alone.

“I brought some things for you.” You began to lay out they few pieces of jewelry you had snuck along with you. One of which was the Valyrian steel necklace that your husband had gifted you, after a lot of haranguing he finally confessed to have melted the Stark ancestral sword Ice down. Meaning your necklace came from the spare metal still left over.

“I’d like for you to wear this today.” You presented the necklace to Sansa

“But it’s yours.” She protested

“It came from your father’s sword. You should wear it.” You confessed as Sansa looked taken aback by that information and complied, letting you clasp the necklace around her swan like neck.

“Thank you.” She whispered as her hand grazed the metal around her neck.

“Alright then. Time for the dress!” You clapped your hands in attempts to lighten the mood, when Shae brought it along your heart sunk a bit, this isn’t at all what Sansa had wanted her dress to be, you’d had a lengthy conversation with her and what she wanted her dress to look like but this wasn’t it at all. The hip padding and gold around beige of the dress, far too extravagant and far too Cersei. Sansa said nothing, letting Shae put her in the dress before lacing the back of it to tighten around her waist. She truly wore the dress magnificently, her tall frame did justice to the dress as she turned to show you.

“You look so beautiful, my girl.” You felt rather emotional seeing her this way, making the corners of your eyes tear up. You began to fan at your eyes, as Sansa came to hug you.

“I am so sorry.” You emotionally apologized, she shouldn’t have to go through this.

“I’m not.” She whispered by you ear, tightening her hold on you. “You’d be my good mother by law.”

“If you call me mother, I will burn every lemon tree in the capital.” You jested making her laugh. You pulled away holding her face in your hands, before pressing your lips to her forehead. “I have another thing.”

You pulled out a pin, a wolf. The sigil of house Stark. “Don’t tell anyone.” You tucked the pin behind the red collaring of the dress.

“I’ll await you at the Sept, be strong Sansa.” You hugged her once more before taking your leave.

You still had to present the house cloak to Tyrion, since you were the oldest and the last lady married into the house, it was under your possession. You’d last worn it at the pyre during the war but had it washed so it didn’t smell so burnt. You hurried back to your own chambers to retrieve it, only to stop dead on your footing when you heard Tyrion’s voice from your chambers.

“I’ve come to ask for my birthright. Castley Rock.” You heard from being hidden behind a wall.

“Jamie is named to the Kingsguard and can hold no titles, my brothers by Lady Y/N are far too young to hold the castle. Which makes me the rightful heir.” Tyrion levy’s his case to his father. Part of you agreed with what he was saying, your sons had fourteen summers and winters to cross through before they would be deemed heir to anything.

“You want Castley Rock…” Oh here we go you’d thought. Tywin did not sound pleased nor agreeable to Tyrion’s demand.

“As is my right, I am marrying Sansa, she is a Stark. One of a prominent family, make her Lady of Castley Rock and you have the alliance or obedience from the north that your crave.” Tyrion further elaborated his case.

“When the time comes, you and your wife while be given a suitable position to affirm. Your eldest would hold claim to Winterfell. In my passing, my wife shall resume and inherit the seat to Castley Rock…” Tywin sneered. “And I would let myself be consumed by maggots before I make you the heir to Castley Rock!”

“Why?” Tyrion’s voice wavered

“You ask this?” Tywin questioned rhetorically

“You, who killed my Joanna, your mother at birth! You are an ill made, spiteful little creature. Full of lust, envy and low cunning. The gods have condemned me to watch you waddle about wearing our pride lion, that was my father’s sigil and his father’s before him. I broke a vow to your mother and married another so that I wouldn’t have to watch you burn our name to the ground.! So do not ask me off your right!” Tywin roared before taking in a breath to compose himself

You appeared from behind the wall, much before Tywin started yelling at Tyrion, leaning against the door with a disapproving frown on your face at how Tywin was treating Tyrion. Your husband sta back down again as Tyrion wallowed in his father’s cruelty. You walked towards them, with the house cloak in hand, clearing your throat to grab Tyrion’s attention before presenting him with the cloak. A sympathetic smile on your face, as you handed the cloak to him, Tyrion nodded at your before he began to leave

“And one more thing…” Tywin spoke up again making Tyrion stop dead in his tracks.

“After this marriage, the next whore I find in your chambers. I’ll hang.” He warned.

Tyrion scoffed at him a walked away.

“Why must your treat him so?” You scowled at Tywin, who looked at you displeased. “He is your son!”

“Yes, he is my son. And that is why he lives.” Tywin said as a matter of fact.

“And what if this child, takes me in the birthing bed. Would you treat it so harshly too?” In anger you confessed making you bite your tongue. You were late of few fortnights for your moon blood, making there a chance that you were pregnant again.

“This child?” Tywin looked at you shocked as his eyes softened. A small fear spread through Tywin too. Would history repeat itself and curse him with another murderous third child? “Are you certain?”

“Do not chance the subject.” You pressed on.

“Do not intervene in subjects you know little off.” Tywin answered. “You are pregnant?”

You gave up trying to have this fight with him yet again and nodded. “Possibly? My moon blood appears to have delayed. Should be of no shock since we have rigour-sly been trying…”

Tywin got up to walk towards you, hold you in his arms but you immediately pushed away, does he truly think an embrace or sultry kisses would fix your anger right now? “I will see you at the sept.”

—————————————————————————

The grand Sept was filled with the people of court and many other members who had arrived early for the royal wedding. Most people chattered amongst themselves and their groups. Kevan Lannister had also travelled from Castley Rick for the wedding. He was the one to receive you, when you walked down the steps of the Sept. You hadn’t really met the rest of the Lannister family other than Tywin’s children.

“My lady.” He bowed, as reached the bottom of the steps slightly confused at if you should know the lord before you.

“My lord…?” You gave him an apologetic smile for not knowing his name.

“Kevan Lannister, your husband’s brother.” He introduced himself

“Ah yes, forgive me my lord.” You bowed back.

“Bother not, my brother has kept you hidden from the family.” He jested as he led you further into the hall.

“Gosh, it wasn’t my intention. Much has happened since the wedding.” You answered

“I hope to meet my nephews, soon.” He stated.

“Of course!”

The procession began to file through as people began to divide onto two sides of the room, a trail of candles were being lit by women that would lead to the alter, you lit one too. In hopes that today goes smoothly and both of them remain happy and safe. The clamouring in the room dwindled down as the queen appeared with her father at thee arms. You remained in the lowered floor as the Tyrells climbed onto one side of the alter while the other side remained empty for the royal family. Cersei climbed up with Joffrey while Tywin remained at the door to walk Sansa down the aisle.

You took another deep breath.

Let the games begin.

next chapter

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Bran III (Chapter 34)

This is as close as I'll ever come to copying and pasting an entire chapter.

The moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. 

x

The moon was fat and full. 

x

The moon was a black hole in the sky.

x

The moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. 

x

The moon was fat and full. 

x

The moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. 

x

The moon was a black hole in the sky. 

x

The moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. 

What is that, three months?

Imagine how bored Meera, Jojen, and Hodor are. I love Bran, but I'd hate being his friend.

+.+.+

Red leaves whispered in the wind. Dark clouds filled the skies and turned to storms. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, and dead men with black hands and bright blue eyes shuffled round a cleft in the hillside but could not enter.

What's Daenerys doing in a Bran chapter?

I'm kidding, except not really. She's all over this chapter.

+.+.+

Sometimes the sound of song would drift up from someplace far below. The children of the forest, Old Nan would have called the singers, but those who sing the song of earth was their own name for themselves, in the True Tongue that no human man could speak. The ravens could speak it, though. Their small black eyes were full of secrets, and they would caw at him and peck his skin when they heard the songs.

[...]

Bran and Meera made up names for those who sang the song of earth: Ash and Leaf and Scales, Black Knife and Snowylocks and Coals. 

Ash, Scales, Black Knife, Coals. . . fire/dragon imagery? Mmkay.

The ravens are cawing and pecking at Bran's skin whenever they hear the children singing their secret songs. Feels kind of hostile.

+.+.+

The last greenseer, the singers called him, but in Bran's dreams he was still a three-eyed crow. When Meera Reed had asked him his true name, he made a ghastly sound that might have been a chuckle. "I wore many names when I was quick, but even I once had a mother, and the name she gave me at her breast was Brynden."

"I have an uncle Brynden," Bran said. "He's my mother's uncle, really. Brynden Blackfish, he's called."

"Your uncle may have been named for me. Some are, still. Not so many as before. Men forget. Only the trees remember." 

Gross, I hope not.

Brynden Rivers = BloodRaven. Get it, get it??

Once it's revealed he's a Targaryen we can safely label him a villain who will orchestrate his own demise.

The last greenseer, the singers called him

This makes no sense.

+.+.+

"Most of him has gone into the tree," explained the singer Meera called Leaf. "He has lived beyond his mortal span, and yet he lingers. For us, for you, for the realms of men. Only a little strength remains in his flesh. He has a thousand eyes and one, but there is much to watch. One day you will know."

The tree ate Bloodraven. Good.

Is Bloodraven an instrument of the children? Are they co-conspirators? They don't care that he's an Andal? I'm having a difficult time wrapping my head around this.

+.+.+

"What do the trees remember?"

"The secrets of the old gods," said Jojen Reed. Food and fire and rest had helped restore him after the ordeals of their journey, but he seemed sadder now, sullen, with a weary, haunted look about the eyes. 

[...]

"Maybe you could be greenseers too," he said instead.

"No, Bran." Now Meera sounded sad.

"It is given to a few to drink of that green fountain whilst still in mortal flesh, to hear the whisperings of the leaves and see as the trees see, as the gods see," said Jojen. "Most are not so blessed. The gods gave me only greendreams. My task was to get you here. My part in this is done."

Jojen's watch has ended.

+.+.+

The singers made Bran a throne of his own, like the one Lord Brynden sat, white weirwood flecked with red, dead branches woven through living roots. They placed it in the great cavern by the abyss, where the black air echoed to the sound of running water far below. Of soft grey moss they made his seat. Once he had been lowered into place, they covered him with warm furs.

King Bran on a weirwood throne.

+.+.+

"Never fear the darkness, Bran." The lord's words were accompanied by a faint rustling of wood and leaf, a slight twisting of his head. "The strongest trees are rooted in the dark places of the earth. Darkness will be your cloak, your shield, your mother's milk. Darkness will make you strong."

I don't think it takes a genius to figure out we don't want Bran embracing darkness.

However, that doesn't mean Melisandre's little crusade is based in reality or morally justified.

"FREE FOLK!" cried Melisandre. "Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness!" - Jon III, ADWD

+.+.+

Flying was even better than climbing.

Slipping into Summer's skin had become as easy for him as slipping on a pair of breeches once had been, before his back was broken. Changing his own skin for a raven's night-black feathers had been harder, but not as hard as he had feared, not with these ravens. "A wild stallion will buck and kick when a man tries to mount him, and try to bite the hand that slips the bit between his teeth," Lord Brynden said, "but a horse that has known one rider will accept another. Young or old, these birds have all been ridden. Choose one now, and fly."

He chose one bird, and then another, without success, but the third raven looked at him with shrewd black eyes, tilted its head, and gave a quork, and quick as that he was not a boy looking at a raven but a raven looking at a boy. The song of the river suddenly grew louder, the torches burned a little brighter than before, and the air was full of strange smells. When he tried to speak it came out in a scream, and his first flight ended when he crashed into a wall and ended back inside his own broken body. The raven was unhurt. It flew to him and landed on his arm, and Bran stroked its feathers and slipped inside of it again. Before long he was flying around the cavern, weaving through the long stone teeth that hung down from the ceiling, even flapping out over the abyss and swooping down into its cold black depths.

My gut tells me this all leads to a confrontation with Drogon.

That may sound silly, but that is exactly what the show insinuated would happen. They were just too lazy and out of time/budget to adapt it.

+.+.+

"Someone else was in the raven," he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. "Some girl. I felt her."

"A woman, of those who sing the song of earth," his teacher said. "Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy's flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you."

You couldn't escape Jon foreshadowing even if you tried.

+.+.+

"Do all the birds have singers in them?"

"All," Lord Brynden said. "It was the singers who taught the First Men to send messages by raven … but in those days, the birds would speak the words. The trees remember, but men forget, and so now they write the messages on parchment and tie them round the feet of birds who have never shared their skin."

Dot, dot, dot.

Maybe we should be paying attention to talking ravens!

+.+.+

He wished Robb were with them now. I'd tell him I could fly, but he wouldn't believe, so I'd have to show him. 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.

I went back and looked for suspicious ravens in Luwin's rookery. Nothing stood out other than the bloody raven that delivered the news of Ned's death.

A raven landed on the grey stone sill, opened its beak, and gave a harsh, raucous rattle of distress.

Rickon began to cry. His arrowheads fell from his hand one by one and clattered on the floor. Bran pulled him close and hugged him.

Maester Luwin stared at the black bird as if it were a scorpion with feathers. He rose, slow as a sleepwalker, and moved to the window. When he whistled, the raven hopped onto his bandaged forearm. There was dried blood on its wings. "A hawk," Luwin murmured, "perhaps an owl. Poor thing, a wonder it got through." - Bran VII, AGOT

A scorpion with feathers? Dried blood on its wings? Never noticed that. Those arrowheads continue to haunt me.

+.+.+

Some days Bran wondered if all of this wasn't just some dream. Maybe he had fallen asleep out in the snows and dreamed himself a safe, warm place. You have to wake, he would tell himself, you have to wake right now, or you'll go dreaming into death.

Yes, Bran! Fight! Don't go dreaming into death!

+.+.+

"I thought the greenseers were the wizards of the children," Bran said. "The singers, I mean."

"In a sense. Those you call the children of the forest have eyes as golden as the sun, but once in a great while one is born amongst them with eyes as red as blood, or green as the moss on a tree in the heart of the forest. By these signs do the gods mark those they have chosen to receive the gift. The chosen ones are not robust, and their quick years upon the earth are few, for every song must have its balance. But once inside the wood they linger long indeed. A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. Greenseers."

Cue the fandom going nuts over anyone with green or red eyes.

The chosen ones are not robust, and their quick years upon the earth are few, for every song must have its balance.

He's so full of shit. This man was born in 175 AC, then disappeared in 252 AC.

for every song must have its balance.

What do you mean? Fire good, ice bad.

+.+.+

Bran did not understand, so he asked the Reeds. "Do you like to read books, Bran?" Jojen asked him.

"Some books. I like the fighting stories. My sister Sansa likes the kissing stories, but those are stupid."

+.+.+

"A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies," said Jojen. "The man who never reads lives only one.

I don't know why the fandom thinks George hates Sansa when she's the designated Stark Reader.

Everyone knows he favours the readers.

+.+.+

"A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies," said Jojen. "The man who never reads lives only one. The singers of the forest had no books. No ink, no parchment, no written language. Instead they had the trees, and the weirwoods above all. When they died, they went into the wood, into leaf and limb and root, and the trees remembered. All their songs and spells, their histories and prayers, everything they knew about this world. Maesters will tell you that the weirwoods are sacred to the old gods. The singers believe they are the old gods. When singers die they become part of that godhood."

what

The old gods are dead children of the forest?

+.+.+

Bran's eyes widened. "They're going to kill me?"

"No," Meera said. "Jojen, you're scaring him."

"He is not the one who needs to be afraid."

If you're afraid why did you bring him here? You foolish green boy.

I can't tell if Bloodraven wants to take Bran's life force or corrupt him. Littlefinger and the kindly man don't want to kill Sansa and Arya, but this is different.

+.+.+

Summer prowled through the silent woods, a long grey shadow that grew more gaunt with every hunt, for living game could not be found. The ward upon the cave mouth still held; the dead men could not enter. The snows had buried most of them again, but they were still there, hidden, frozen, waiting.

:(

There's too much missing from this. There's no way Meera and Bran could outpace wights for weeks, it's absurd.

+.+.+

The caves were timeless, vast, silent. They were home to more than three score living singers and the bones of thousands dead, and extended far below the hollow hill. "Men should not go wandering in this place," Leaf warned them. "The river you hear is swift and black, and flows down and down to a sunless sea. And there are passages that go even deeper, bottomless pits and sudden shafts, forgotten ways that lead to the very center of the earth. Even my people have not explored them all, and we have lived here for a thousand thousand of your man-years."

Maybe the magic breaks and Hodor briefly keeps the wights out while Bran and Meera take the river back to the Wall? I don't know, I'm throwing anything out there.

Is she being honest, or does she not want him exploring for other reasons?

+.+.+

They [the children] had nut-brown skin, dappled like a deer's with paler spots, and large ears that could hear things that no man could hear. Their eyes were big too, great golden cat's eyes that could see down passages where a boy's eyes saw only blackness. Their hands had only three fingers and a thumb, with sharp black claws instead of nails.

Say a prayer for Arya Stark.

+.+.+

That was in the dawn of days, when our sun was rising. Now it sinks, and this is our long dwindling. The giants are almost gone as well, they who were our bane and our brothers. The great lions of the western hills have been slain, the unicorns are all but gone, the mammoths down to a few hundred. The direwolves will outlast us all, but their time will come as well. 

That almost feels like code.

+.+.+

But after they were gone, he slipped inside Hodor's skin and followed them.

The big stableboy no longer fought him as he had the first time, back in the lake tower during the storm. Like a dog who has had all the fight whipped out of him, Hodor would curl up and hide whenever Bran reached out for him. His hiding place was somewhere deep within him, a pit where not even Bran could touch him. No one wants to hurt you, Hodor, he said silently, to the child-man whose flesh he'd taken. I just want to be strong again for a while. I'll give it back, the way I always do.

It's always incredibly loaded language.

"The world is full of horrors, Tommen. You can fight them, or laugh at them, or look without seeing . . . go away inside."

Tommen considered that. "I . . . I used to go away inside sometimes," he confessed, "when Joffy . . ." - Jaime I, AFFC

Bran yearns to be whole again, while Arya hungers for justice. It takes them both down a dark path.

Good thing Sansa only wants to be loved. Difficult to make something like that immoral. . .

+.+.+

He even crossed the slender stone bridge that arched over the abyss and discovered more passages and chambers on the far side. One was full of singers, enthroned like Brynden in nests of weirwood roots that wove under and through and around their bodies. Most of them looked dead to him, but as he crossed in front of them their eyes would open and follow the light of his torch, and one of them opened and closed a wrinkled mouth as if he were trying to speak. "Hodor," Bran said to him, and he felt the real Hodor stir down in his pit.

Explain to me how Bloodraven is the last greenseer. There's chambers filled with greenseers. Bran is a greenseer.

Anyway, this whole chapter might as well be Daenerys in the House of the Undying.

She is not breathing. Dany listened to the silence. None of them are breathing, and they do not move, and those eyes see nothing. Could it be that the Undying Ones were dead? - Daenerys IV, ACOK

Daenerys Targaryen does not have one Starkling foil, she has four. Thinking this all leads to Jon vs. Daenerys is buying into Targ Exceptionalism.

+.+.+

Seated on his throne of roots in the great cavern, half-corpse and half-tree, Lord Brynden seemed less a man than some ghastly statue made of twisted wood, old bone, and rotted wool. The only thing that looked alive in the pale ruin that was his face was his one red eye, burning like the last coal in a dead fire, surrounded by twisted roots and tatters of leathery white skin hanging off a yellowed skull.

The sight of him still frightened Bran—the weirwood roots snaking in and out of his withered flesh, the mushrooms sprouting from his cheeks, the white wooden worm that grew from the socket where one eye had been. He liked it better when the torches were put out. In the dark he could pretend that it was the three-eyed crow who whispered to him and not some grisly talking corpse.

One day I will be like him. The thought filled Bran with dread. Bad enough that he was broken, with his useless legs. Was he doomed to lose the rest too, to spend all of his years with a weirwood growing in him and through him? Lord Brynden drew his life from the tree, Leaf told them. He did not eat, he did not drink. He slept, he dreamed, he watched. I was going to be a knight, Bran remembered. I used to run and climb and fight. It seemed a thousand years ago.

Lord Brynden drew his life from the tree. Is he draining the other greenseers wired to the trees or feasting on human sacrifice? The children wouldn't let him suck the life from children greenseers, right?

Is he trying to corrupt Bran or eat Bran, someone tell me right now.

+.+.+

What was he now? Only Bran the broken boy, Brandon of House Stark, prince of a lost kingdom, lord of a burned castle, heir to ruins. He had thought the three-eyed crow would be a sorcerer, a wise old wizard who could fix his legs, but that was some stupid child's dream, he realized now. I am too old for such fancies, he told himself. A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. That was as good as being a knight. Almost as good, anyway.

Despite it all our little Starklings never let go of their dreams.

+.+.+

Under the hill, Jojen Reed grew ever more sullen and solitary, to his sister's distress. She would often sit with Bran beside their little fire, talking of everything and nothing, petting Summer where he slept between them, whilst her brother wandered the caverns by himself. Jojen had even taken to climbing up to the cave's mouth when the day was bright. He would stand there for hours, looking out over the forest, wrapped in furs yet shivering all the same.

"He wants to go home," Meera told Bran. "He will not even try and fight his fate. He says the greendreams do not lie."

They don't lie, but they're misinterpreted? There's still hope!

+.+.+

"For the next step. For you to go beyond skinchanging and learn what it means to be a greenseer."

"The trees will teach him," said Leaf. She beckoned, and another of the singers padded forward, the white-haired one that Meera had named Snowylocks. She had a weirwood bowl in her hands, carved with a dozen faces, like the ones the heart trees wore. Inside was a white paste, thick and heavy, with dark red veins running through it. "You must eat of this," said Leaf. She handed Bran a wooden spoon.

The boy looked at the bowl uncertainly. "What is it?"

"A paste of weirwood seeds."

Something about the look of it made Bran feel ill. The red veins were only weirwood sap, he supposed, but in the torchlight they looked remarkably like blood. He dipped the spoon into the paste, then hesitated.

There's no chance that isn't human blood. The only mystery is whether it's Jojen's blood.

+.+.+

"Will this make me a greenseer?"

"Your blood makes you a greenseer," said Lord Brynden. "This will help awaken your gifts and wed you to the trees."

Bran did want to be married to a tree … but who else would wed a broken boy like him? A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. A greenseer.

No weddings, it's your doom.

She had sensed the truth of it long ago, Dany thought as she took a step closer to the conflagration, but the brazier had not been hot enough. The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought. - Daenerys X, AGOT

x

mother of dragons, bride of fire . . . - Daenerys IV, ACOK

x

She looked at her son, watched him as he listened to the lords debate, frowning, troubled, yet wedded to his war. He had pledged himself to marry a daughter of Walder Frey, but she saw his true bride plain before her now: the sword he had laid on the table. - Catelyn XI, AGOT

Remember how dumb people believe 'bride of fire' means literal marriage to a Targaryen? Lol.

+.+.+

He ate.

It had a bitter taste, though not so bitter as acorn paste. The first spoonful was the hardest to get down. He almost retched it right back up. The second tasted better. The third was almost sweet. The rest he spooned up eagerly. Why had he thought that it was bitter? It tasted of honey, of new-fallen snow, of pepper and cinnamon and the last kiss his mother ever gave him. The empty bowl slipped from his fingers and clattered on the cavern floor. "I don't feel any different. What happens next?"

Dany raised the glass to her lips. The first sip tasted like ink and spoiled meat, foul, but when she swallowed it seemed to come to life within her. She could feel tendrils spreading through her chest, like fingers of fire coiling around her heart, and on her tongue was a taste like honey and anise and cream, like mother's milk and Drogo's seed, like red meat and hot blood and molten gold. It was all the tastes she had ever known, and none of them . . . and then the glass was empty. - Daenerys IV, ACOK

+.+.+

Bran closed his eyes and slipped free of his skin. Into the roots, he thought. Into the weirwood. Become the tree. For an instant he could see the cavern in its black mantle, could hear the river rushing by below.

Then all at once he was back home again.

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man's gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard's lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth.

"Winterfell," Bran whispered.

His father looked up. "Who's there?" he asked, turning …

… and Bran, frightened, pulled away. 

See, calling it the deep black pool makes me link it to the cave river.

The visions we're about to be shown are happening in reverse chronological order. We'll place this around 298 AC.

Most important thing about this vision is that Ned 100% heard Bran.

+.+.+

Bran's throat was very dry. He swallowed. "Winterfell. I was back in Winterfell. I saw my father. He's not dead, he's not, I saw him, he's back at Winterfell, he's still alive."

"No," said Leaf. "He is gone, boy. Do not seek to call him back from death."

She says that like they're not responsible for all these living dead things walking around.

Is that something Bran could do? Call someone back from death? I'm thinking Jon here.

+.+.+

"A man must know how to look before he can hope to see," said Lord Brynden. "Those were shadows of days past that you saw, Bran. You were looking through the eyes of the heart tree in your godswood. Time is different for a tree than for a man. Sun and soil and water, these are the things a weirwood understands, not days and years and centuries. For men, time is a river. We are trapped in its flow, hurtling from past to present, always in the same direction. The lives of trees are different. They root and grow and die in one place, and that river does not move them. The oak is the acorn, the acorn is the oak. And the weirwood … a thousand human years are a moment to a weirwood, and through such gates you and I may gaze into the past."

"But," said Bran, "he heard me."

"He heard a whisper on the wind, a rustling amongst the leaves. You cannot speak to him, try as you might. I know. I have my own ghosts, Bran. A brother that I loved, a brother that I hated, a woman I desired. Through the trees, I see them still, but no word of mine has ever reached them. The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it."

The moment you realize baby Bran is way more powerful than this musty Targ.

He spoke to Ned.

"Winterfell," Bran whispered.

His father looked up. "Who's there?" he asked, turning …

He spoke to Jon.

Red eyes looked at him. Fierce eyes they were, yet glad to see him. The weirwood had his brother's face. Had his brother always had three eyes?

Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow.

[...]

Don't be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him. - Jon VII, ACOK

He'll speak to Theon.

The night was windless, the snow drifting straight down out of a cold black sky, yet the leaves of the heart tree were rustling his name. "Theon," they seemed to whisper, "Theon."

[...]

A leaf drifted down from above, brushed his brow, and landed in the pool. It floated on the water, red, five-fingered, like a bloody hand. "… Bran," the tree murmured. - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

And I'm almost positive he spoke to Arya without the assistance of any tree.

Calm as still water, a small voice whispered in her ear. Arya was so startled she almost dropped her bundle. She looked around wildly, but there was no one in the stable but her, and the horses, and the dead men. - Arya IV, AGOT

This is why I'm more inclined to believe the talking environment found throughout the story is always Bran. Bloodraven can't do that.

The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it.

If he can be heard, does that mean he can also change the past?

You probably don't want to do that though. I learned that from movies.

"A man must know how to look before he can hope to see,"

Give me 5 minutes on Reddit and I'll find someone theorizing Bloodraven was warging inside Syrio Forel.

+.+.+

"He heard a whisper on the wind, a rustling amongst the leaves. You cannot speak to him, try as you might. I know. I have my own ghosts, Bran. A brother that I loved, a brother that I hated, a woman I desired. Through the trees, I see them still, but no word of mine has ever reached them. The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it."

Um, do I look like a Targ historian?

Pick three of the following names, and assign them wherever you want, I don't care.

Daemon I Blackfyre, Aegor Rivers, Daeron II Targaryen, Shiera Seastar.

+.+.+

"Once you have mastered your gifts, you may look where you will and see what the trees have seen, be it yesterday or last year or a thousand ages past. Men live their lives trapped in an eternal present, between the mists of memory and the sea of shadow that is all we know of the days to come. Certain moths live their whole lives in a day, yet to them that little span of time must seem as long as years and decades do to us. An oak may live three hundred years, a redwood tree three thousand. A weirwood will live forever if left undisturbed. To them seasons pass in the flutter of a moth's wing, and past, present, and future are one. Nor will your sight be limited to your godswood. The singers carved eyes into their heart trees to awaken them, and those are the first eyes a new greenseer learns to use … but in time you will see well beyond the trees themselves."

He can see well beyond trees. Like in throne rooms, and the Red Mountains of Dorne.

As his men died around him, Littlefinger slid Ned's dagger from its sheath and shoved it up under his chin. His smile was apologetic. "I did warn you not to trust me, you know." - Eddard XIV, AGOT

x

He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. - Eddard I, AGOT

I understand time is not linear for Bran, but can he see the future or not? On the show he could.

+.+.+

Hodor carried Bran back to his chamber, muttering "Hodor" in a low voice as Leaf went before them with a torch. He had hoped that Meera and Jojen would be there, so he could tell them what he had seen, but their snug alcove in the rock was cold and empty. 

This does not mean Jojen is dead! This doesn't make Jojen paste real!

We should be skeptical of deaths that allegedly happen off screen.

+.+.+

Watching the flames, Bran decided he would stay awake till Meera came back. Jojen would be unhappy, he knew, but Meera would be glad for him, He did not remember closing his eyes.

… but then somehow he was back at Winterfell again, in the godswood looking down upon his father. Lord Eddard seemed much younger this time. His hair was brown, with no hint of grey in it, his head bowed. "… let them grow up close as brothers, with only love between them," he prayed, "and let my lady wife find it in her heart to forgive …"

"Father." Bran's voice was a whisper in the wind, a rustle in the leaves. "Father, it's me. It's Bran. Brandon."

Eddard Stark lifted his head and looked long at the weirwood, frowning, but he did not speak. He cannot see me, Bran realized, despairing. He wanted to reach out and touch him, but all that he could do was watch and listen. I am in the tree. I am inside the heart tree, looking out of its red eyes, but the weirwood cannot talk, so I can't.

Let's place this around 284 AC.

Close as brothers? I thought they were brothers, Eddard.

Holy god, N + A = J is stupid.

+.+.+

The rest of his father's words were drowned out by a sudden clatter of wood on wood. Eddard Stark dissolved, like mist in a morning sun. Now two children danced across the godswood, hooting at one another as they dueled with broken branches. The girl was the older and taller of the two. Arya! Bran thought eagerly, as he watched her leap up onto a rock and cut at the boy. But that couldn't be right. If the girl was Arya, the boy was Bran himself, and he had never worn his hair so long. And Arya never beat me playing swords, the way that girl is beating him. She slashed the boy across his thigh, so hard that his leg went out from under him and he fell into the pool and began to splash and shout. "You be quiet, stupid," the girl said, tossing her own branch aside. "It's just water. Do you want Old Nan to hear and run tell Father?" She knelt and pulled her brother from the pool, but before she got him out again, the two of them were gone.

This can only be Lyanna and Benjen. We'll place this around 275 AC.

"You be quiet, stupid,"

Good thing he never expands on child Lyanna. Guaranteed I'd find her as annoying as Arya. Lol

+.+.+

After that the glimpses came faster and faster, till Bran was feeling lost and dizzy. He saw no more of his father, nor the girl who looked like Arya, but a woman heavy with child emerged naked and dripping from the black pool, knelt before the tree, and begged the old gods for a son who would avenge her. Then there came a brown-haired girl slender as a spear who stood on the tips of her toes to kiss the lips of a young knight as tall as Hodor. A dark-eyed youth, pale and fierce, sliced three branches off the weirwood and shaped them into arrows. The tree itself was shrinking, growing smaller with each vision, whilst the lesser trees dwindled into saplings and vanished, only to be replaced by other trees that would dwindle and vanish in their turn. And now the lords Bran glimpsed were tall and hard, stern men in fur and chain mail. Some wore faces he remembered from the statues in the crypts, but they were gone before he could put a name to them.

Then, as he watched, a bearded man forced a captive down onto his knees before the heart tree. A white-haired woman stepped toward them through a drift of dark red leaves, a bronze sickle in her hand.

Excellent, I shine when it comes to ASoIaF history.

Sorry guys, I'm going to have to go with general consensus here. I have nothing else to offer.

He saw no more of his father, nor the girl who looked like Arya, but a woman heavy with child emerged naked and dripping from the black pool, knelt before the tree, and begged the old gods for a son who would avenge her.

Based on the timeline, best theory I've seen is it's one of the she-wolves of Winterfell.

The She-Wolves of Winterfell is the working title given to the as-yet unpublished fourth Tales of Dunk and Egg novella, once intended to be published in an anthology named Dangerous Women but now postponed. - Wiki of Ice and Fire

Then there came a brown-haired girl slender as a spear who stood on the tips of her toes to kiss the lips of a young knight as tall as Hodor.

The fourth installment of the Dunk and Egg stories takes place at Winterfell.

Is this Ser Duncan and Old Nan? Maybe. Is Ser Duncan Hodor's great-grandfather? Perhaps.

Ser Duncan was born in 191/192 AC. The Mystery Knight takes place in 212. If he's a young knight in this vision, this must happen a little bit after the events that take place in The Mystery Knight, yes?

Would that not make Old Nan older than Aemon?

A dark-eyed youth, pale and fierce, sliced three branches off the weirwood and shaped them into arrows.

Brandon Snow. :) <3

Torrhen's scouts had seen the ruins of Harrenhal, where slow, red fires still burned beneath the rubble. The King in the North had heard many accounts of the Field of Fire as well. He knew that the same fate might await him if he tried to force a crossing of the river. Some of his lords bannermen urged him to attack all the same, insisting that Northern valor would carry the day. Others urged him to fall back to Moat Cailin and make his stand there on Northern soil. The king's bastard brother Brandon Snow offered to cross the Trident alone under cover of darkness, to slay the dragons whilst they slept.

King Torrhen did send Brandon Snow across the Trident. But he crossed with three maesters by his side, not to kill but to treat. All through the night messages went back and forth. The next morning, Torrhen Stark himself crossed the Trident. There upon the south bank of the Trident, he knelt, laid the ancient crown of the Kings of Winter at Aegon's feet, and swore to be his man. He rose as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, a king no more. From that day to this day, Torrhen Stark is remembered as the King Who Knelt...but no Northman left his burned bones beside the Trident, and the swords Aegon collected from Lord Stark and his vassals were not twisted or melted or bent. - The World of Ice and Fire

Goodness, all of this feels so relevant.

The tree itself was shrinking, growing smaller with each vision, whilst the lesser trees dwindled into saplings and vanished, only to be replaced by other trees that would dwindle and vanish in their turn.

Back and back we go.

And now the lords Bran glimpsed were tall and hard, stern men in fur and chain mail. Some wore faces he remembered from the statues in the crypts, but they were gone before he could put a name to them.

Kings of Winter. We're well before Aegon's Conquest now.

Then, as he watched, a bearded man forced a captive down onto his knees before the heart tree. A white-haired woman stepped toward them through a drift of dark red leaves, a bronze sickle in her hand.

A bronze sickle. First Men.

The First Men—who had brought with them strange gods, horses, cattle, and weapons of bronze—were also larger and stronger than the children, and so they were a significant threat. - The World of Ice and Fire

+.+.+

"No," said Bran, "no, don't," but they could not hear him, no more than his father had. The woman grabbed the captive by the hair, hooked the sickle round his throat, and slashed. And through the mist of centuries the broken boy could only watch as the man's feet drummed against the earth … but as his life flowed out of him in a red tide, Brandon Stark could taste the blood.

Spit it out!

This is the final (earliest) vision. The tree got its eyes after the blood sacrifice.

Final thoughts:

Goodbye Bran.

Another challenging chapter behind us. Fun! What's next, more Aegon and Illyrio discourse? Maybe Moqorro can talk nonsense to Victarion for 20 pages? When can I dive into a ghost in Winterfell? What's that Harpy up to? Betrayals, betrayals, betrayals! HOW ABOUT A LOCUST MYSTERY? LET'S BRING BACK MELISANDRE, QUAITHE, AND SEPTA LEMORE - I DIDN'T SPEND ENOUGH TIME ON THEM. WHO WROTE THAT PINK LETTER? IS IT GRAND NORTHERN CONSPIRACY TIME? BRING ME PATCHFACE PLEASE. REALLY LOVING THIS WHOLE EXPERIENCE. ADWD IS THE BEST. 10/10.

-> return to menu <-

[pesbianlanic]

march 2023 reading

books in bold are especially recommended! i had the pleasure of reading some absolute bangers this month.

Gilded by Marissa Meyer - 5/10. i dunno. i loved the Lunar Chronicles, which is the main reason i picked this up. while i enjoyed a lot of the horror-lite world-building, there were parts of it that confused me. i also thought that the pacing and the ending were off. i’m going to read the sequel in hopes that it gets better. we’ll see.

Empty by Susan Burton - 7/10. hard to get through. but i appreciated the writing and her insights.

On A Sunbeam by Tillie Walden - 8/10. beautiful art and cute gay story. what’s not to love?

Blackfish City by Sam J. Miller - 9/10. y’all. i am obsessed with this. i want to live inside sam j. miller’s mind because OH MY GOD this was amazing. we love queer-centering anti-capitalist speculative sci-fi about a world after climate change! literally want a tattoo inspired by this book immediately.

Babel, Or the Necessity of Violence by R.F. Kuang - 10/10. i was once again entranced by Kuang’s prose, world-building, and commentary. i’ve been thinking a lot recently about the *apparent* inevitability of imperialism and capitalism, so this was very cathartic.

Sorrowland by Rivers Solomon - 9/10. an enchanting and powerful book. i will be thinking about this one for a long time.

Our Colors by Gengoroh Tagame - 8/10. i always love gay coming-of-age stories. 

Hell Bent by Leigh Bardugo - 8/10. i think i preferred Ninth House, but this sequel still holds up! it’s fun, bloody, mysterious, and magical.

Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters - 9/10. i enjoyed this novel. it was an interesting exploration of gender and parenthood, and it made me go down a rabbit hole investigating queer temporality.

Nona the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir - 10/10. DEVASTATING! I NEED ALECTO THE NINTH IMMEDIATELY. I WILL NOT BE NORMAL ABOUT THIS BOOK

Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens - 2/10. the more i reflect on this book, the more i wish i hadn’t wasted my time reading it. a few reasons why: (1) the characterization of the two Black people in this book seemed racist in a song of the south way. (2) i think i’m losing my patience for straight people lit. i think i’m becoming heterophobic. (3) kya gave me mary sue vibes (don’t get me started on her poetry). (4) the ending was rushed and cliche, and i skipped most of it. (5) also, SPOILERS but kya did turn out to be the murderer in the end, so where was my murder scene hm???? i wanted to see that asshole get killed. it gets a 2 for its excellent descriptions of nature, because that is clearly delia owens’ true wheelhouse.

The Jakarta Method by Vincent Bevins - 9/10. excellent exploration of US-backed anticommunist violence (mass murders), its personal and devastating effects for the victims and survivors, and how it shaped the world we live in today.

Hell Followed With Us by Andrew Joseph White - 10/10. holy shit. this was everything my queer, religiously traumatized ass needed. this is the kind of queer representation i’ve been waiting for. beautiful, messy, horrifying, cathartic, and inspiring all at once. i will be following AJ White! i’m so excited to read The Spirit Bares Its Teeth later this year.

Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata - 8/10. this was a really interesting exploration of work culture, non-conformity, and the ways that essential workers (such as the titular convenience store woman) are looked down upon by society.

Dolly Dingle, Lesbian Landlady by Monica Nolan - 8/10. a fun, modern take on lesbian pulp fiction of the ‘50s/’60s! don’t expect anything too deep or artistically aspirational, because that is not the point. it’s just an entertaining, gay, easy read.

The Bruising of Qilwa by Naseem Jamnia - 9/10. a beautiful, magical, queer book that examines the complexities of immigration, empire, and violence in the guise of a blood magic fantasy novel.

The Silence of Our Friends by Mark Long - 6/10. as a telling of the author’s father’s real experiences in the ‘60s, it’s personal and compelling. however, this graphic novel mainly centers white people grappling with racism (because we don’t have enough stories about that /s). could be appropriate for introducing young (white) kids to the history of the Civil Rights Movement and issues of racism.

bonus - a book i stopped reading:

The Library of the Unwritten by A.J. Hackwith. the premise of this book was intriguing and sounded like exactly the kind of thing i’d enjoy reading. however, something about the characterization and dialogue grated on my nerves. the main character, claire, especially annoyed me. also, when i see 8 ellipses within the span of a few paragraphs, i start to get peeved. it made me want to reread Good Omens as a palate-cleanser with similar vibes. maybe i’ll try it again at some point, but for now this book is not for me.

goodreads shenanigans here

[waglifeornolife]

no they aren’t, i went down a vsco rabbit hole 😭😭😭i’ve been shocked by most of the comparisons but this was just next level

oh wow!! that’s surprising 🫶🏼

yeah at this point i’d expect anything from her regarding the blackfishing unfortunately

[cetacean-content]

sheikofshadow

John may be a media seeker(I know John), but he's not lying. I'm one of the biologists who worked on Blackfish. I've been witness to the atrocities that SlaveWorld commits. You're all blind.

GUYS I’M CRYING WE HAVE ONE OF THE “BIOLOGISTS” THAT WORKED ON BLACKFISH. 

[travel-hopefully]

A collective post of everything I watched on Netflix in 2020

I finally found the watch history function on Netflix which I wanted in order to reminisce over the TV/film I watched over the last year, including the good and the bad. I’ve included a little round-up of my thoughts for each, as lockdown has got me with plenty of time on my hands. If anyone has watched any of the below feel free to give me a message- happy to discuss anything!

Travelers (season 3) - this was an unforgettable show with some great characters and definitely put me through hell (in a good way), I am a David x Marcy shipper for sure!

IT Crowd (season 4 & 5) - my favourite comedy show ever, and I mean the UK version

Explained (random episodes) - interesting bite-sized episodes on a variety of topics

Sherlock (season 3 & 4) - it kinda went downhill from season 4...and doesn’t help that there is no season 5 in sight

Unforgettable - must be pretty forgettable cause I couldn’t remember watching, a typical revenge plot romp I think

The Mind, Explained - same as for Explained above, except more pyshcological

You (season 2) - binge-worthy! I love to hate Joe Goldberg.

Don’t F**k with Cats - wow, this was disturbing but so gripping.

Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle - geniunely a good remake and rather amusing

Sex, Explained - as for Explained but a little more intriguing ;)

The Stranger (season 1) - full of suspense and a good binge watch but ultimately full of plot holes with an unsatisfying conclusion

Gavin & Stacey (season 3) - a classic which I only started watching in 2019

Sex Education (all of it) - comedy gold!

Unbelievable (limited series) - very harrowing, an emotional rollercoaster based on a real-life rape case

Atypical (all of it) - light-hearted and fun to binge

The Sinner (season 1) - it was okay... wasn’t spectacular compared to other similar dramas I’ve seen

Love Is Blind (season 1) - cringey but satisfying

In the Shadow of the Moon - I hardly remember this one :)

Dunkirk - a stand-out historical movie

The Stepfather - typical killer stepfather plot but rather enjoyable

The Super - an interesting premise, but not that super

Saw VI - all gore not much plot

Doctor Who (random episodes) - no words needed :D

Louis Theroux and Louis Theroux’s Weird Weekends (random episodes) - I love his style of interviewing - what a man!

The Revenant - a lot of... well, not much

Nightcrawler - it was decent, but something was missing which I couldn’t put my finger on

How To Get Away With Murder (seasons 1-5) - probably my biggest new watch of the year, a rollercoaster of suspense, drama and murder, another season to go...

Ocean’s Eleven - fun but cheesey

Blumhouse’s Truth or Dare - creepy faces and an interesting ending

Eli - it started one way then went another, I wasn’t convinced

Star Trek (2009) - I couldn’t really get into this one...

In the Tall Grass - a lot of running around in grass

Bloodride (season 1) - i loved this, a quirky idea, i binged it

Apostle - intense, a satisfying religious cult horror

The Platform - great idea, not sure on the ending

What Keeps You Alive - what happened in this one again?

History 101 - didn’t watch many episodes :P

The Prodigy - a decent child possession horror

Into the Night (season 1) - really enjoyed this, a highlight of the year for me, hoping for a season 2

It - pretty chilling and creepy, but a tad cheesey

Jurassic World and Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom - the first one has a brilliant dinosaur fight scene, the second one has too many plot holes and inconsistencies to take seriously

Knowing - a Nicholas Cage sci-fi/apocalpytic classic, pretty decent

Stranger Things (random episodes) - i tried to get my bf into the show but sadly he still isn’t much of a TV fan

Miranda (random episodes) - such fun!

Black Mirror (seasons 1 & 2) - another one i introduced the bf to, i got a bit further with him on this one, the very first episode being the highlight

The Last House on the Left - a decent remake, but nothing outstanding

Dark (season 3) - this, my friends, is one of the greatest shows of all time. want a timey-wimey story where everything is connected and has an amazingly satisfying conclusion? this is the show for you!

The Silence - a bad ‘A Quiet Place’

Geostorm - i’m a fan of disaster movies but this one wasn’t in the same league as some of the greats

Panic Room - a mum and kid hides in the panic room when a group of thugs break into the house, it was enjoyable but not all that memorable

Prisoners - a very long film with some enjoyable parts but overall unsatisfying

Girl on the Third Floor - it was okay, i can’t remember much of it

The Woods (season 1) - another Harlan Coben adaptation- not as good as ‘Safe’ or ‘The Stranger’ but still a gripping thriller

Time Trap - a fun time-travel film with some interesting turns of events

72 Dangerous/Cutest Animals (random episodes) - just ‘cause i love animals

Slasher (all of it) - some very gory deaths, especially in season 3. quite disturbing but keeps the suspense up throughout.

2012 - a guilty pleasure of mine, realistic or not

Kingsman: The Secret Service - a fun spy film, will be looking to watch the second one soon

Blackfish - this was harrowing, it really made me think, but overall i’m on the side of tilikum

Unsolved Mysteries (season 1 & 2) - watching some of these my jaw dropped, love theorising on this kind of stuff

Down to Earth with Zac Efron (season 1) - Zac is great in this, he seems so chill and literally ‘down to earth’

The Call - I love this film, seen it 3 times now

Contagion - very relatable right now, interesting to see the parallels with todays situation

Next in Fashion (season 1) - i didn’t get too far with this, i found it a little superficial

Searching - another of those internet web-cam based films. decent but not memorable.

Non-stop - another Nicholas Cage classic, this time a suspense thriller

Freaks - as the title suggests this one was rather weird, i didn’t quite gel with it

The Perfection - wow, that was an experience. definitely memorable, even if some characters make questionable decisions...

Extraction - not usually a fan of action-type thrillers, but i actually enjoyed this one, plus it has Chris Hemsworth in it!

Line of Duty (season 2) - full of suspense, a great build-up in the first 5 episodes, but the way they tied it up really grated on me 

Insidious - watched this one with my sister. a genuinely good horror film on rewatch with an amazing cliff-hanger

A Quiet Place - another one watched with my sister. labelled a horror but its more sci-fi, either way its a classic. bring on the second film!

The Dark Tower - disappointing mostly.

Gladiator - i’d never seen this before and now i understand the hype- what an epic movie!

Criminal UK (season 2) - didn’t disappoint following the exceptional first season

Venom - a fun comedic marvel film, definitely need to watch more from Marvel in the next year- i need an order to watch them in as don’t know where to start

Our Planet (season 1) - chill David Attenborough to put on in the background

The Equalizer - a great action revenge thriller plot with a badass Denzel

Merlin (random episodes) - who doesn’t love a trip down memory lane with some nostalgic bbc merlin?

A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010) - pretty scary remake

The Witcher (season 1) - rewatched in order to familiarise myself again before season 2 - i didn’t realise how funny the show was until this time round, gotta love Jaskier!

American Murder: The Family Next Door - this was haunting

The Haunting of Bly Manor - phenomenal, emotional, creepy, heartbreaking - i much preferred it to Hill House

Abducted in Plain Sight - seriously, how naive are the parents in this? i could have a rant for hours about this!

The End of the F***ing World (seasons 1 & 2) - very bingeable, Alyssa makes me laugh too much, i love how relatable the show is

Fractured - didn’t expect much from this consipiracy-type film but it kept me guessing right till the end

The Ripper (limited series) - very intriguing, but the mysogyny in this was shocking

Inconceivable - a typical mother looking for her baby revenge plot but still entertaining

The Midnight Sky - i’d heard rave reviews for this but was disappointed by a lacklustre plot which was sacrificed for award-winning cinematography

Killer Women with Piers Morgan (season 2) - a pyschological interview series which looks into the mind of murderers, rather interesting

May the Devil Take You - scarier and jumpier than i thought it would be!

So 2020 obviously gave me a lot of time to watch a s**t load of stuff and looking back at it i feel like i got a decent amount of my watch-list ticked off! And obviously this is not including shows watched on other media so there’s that too (a special shout-out to the William Hartnell era of Doctor Who which I watched this year on BritBox). In all, 2020 has definitely introduced me to a few new fandoms and progressed my love for others. 

[orcinus-veterinarius]

Hi! I’m currently working on a big, detailed Blackfish rebuttal, which means lots of rabbit holes. I recently started rereading John Hargrove’s book (ugh). He talks about how the original Shamu died of pyometra and septicemia, claiming that it was something that, apparently, would almost never happen in the wild. The obvious implication here is that captivity caused these conditions, and/or that such is common with captive orcas. However, obviously septicemia can be caused by a variety of things, wild or not. As for pyometra, he doesn’t provide other examples of captive orcas suffering pyometra, nor have I been able to find other examples described in peer reviewed literature. It seems that that isn’t particularly common in cetaceans period, whether they’re wild or not, but I’m also not a marine mammal veterinarian. Since you’d know better about cetacean medicine, I was wondering if you knew anything more about this.

Ooh, that'll be interesting! I'd love to read it!

You're correct that Shamu is the only reported case of pyometra in a killer whale, wild or captive. The CRC Handbook of Marine Mammal Medicine makes no mention of pyometra in cetaceans, although it does occur in both wild and captive pinnipeds and has been reported in sea otters and sirenians. Pyometra is typically the result of bacteria migrating up the vaginal tract into the uterus, which at certain times is more susceptible to infection due to normal hormonal fluctuations. Theoretically, anything with a uterus can get pyometra, though some species are more commonly affected than others.

I would hedge to bet that pyometra is rare in cetaceans because of their truly unusual reproductive anatomy. Females have a lot of redundant tissue in their vaginal tract, creating "false cervixes" and overall making it a lot more difficult for anything to reach the uterus.

See all those extra recesses around the cervix?

I did find this case report on a necropsy of a wild short-beaked common dolphin. Pyometra was one of many nasty issues afflicting the poor girl, so it can indeed occur in nature. Since this individual was suffering from co-infections of bacteria and cetacean morbillivirus, she was clearly immunocompromised. It's highly likely Shamu was as well.

Overall, pyometra of cetaceans (including orcas) appears to be quite rare in both the wild and managed care. Shamu was the very first orca intentionally captured for public display, nearly 60 years ago, and only survived six years in captivity before her death at approximately age 10. Virtually nothing was known about killer whale husbandry at the time, so it's not at all unreasonable to assume that poor husbandry, nutrition, and stress negatively impacted her immune function to the point she succumbed to pyometra.

However, it's a weak argument on Hargrove's part to compare the SeaWorld of today (with multiple orcas now in their 30s, 40s, and 50s) to the SeaWorld of the 1960s, and their very first whale at that. Especially using a condition that has not been reported in a captive orca since.

[angel-deux-writes]

Honor Compels Me

When Brienne is sent to Riverrun to speak with the Blackfish, she finds herself with another Stark to protect. For the oaths she swore to his mother, she will see Robb Stark safely home. Even if it means standing against Jaime Lannister to do it.

Cersei III

You know, sometimes in life we face adversity with a strength of spirit and an iron will, and sometimes in life we receive a few mean comments, crawl into a hole for a month, decide to panic-post five chapters a day to finish this story faster, play Animal Crossing for 5 hours instead of editing said chapters, and then decide to post a single chapter because it’s better than nothing.

[whocalledhimannux]

prologue & chapter I Pairing: Zuko/Katara Rating: M Summary:

Katara grew up in the Southern Water Tribe under the tutelage of Hama, the only waterbender ever to have escaped Fire Nation captivity. When Zuko arrives at the South Pole, seeking the Avatar, they are more than ready to defend him. Iroh watches as his beloved nephew throws himself at the ice walls again and again in an impossible siege–and resolves to do anything it takes to save his nephew from himself. With the assistance of the Order of the White Lotus, he deposes his brother on the Day of Black Sun.

A week later, the Southern Water Tribe receives a petition for peace, and a proposal of marriage.

When I posted the summary of this fic last week, with a note that I was hoping to get it posted by the end of the month, I really was not expecting such a large response. I got so many reblogs and likes and nice comments that y’all really lit a fire under my ass, so basically almost all of my free time this past week was devoted to getting the first few chapters internet-ready and filling in some of the holes in later ones. I’m posting the prologue and first chapter now, and hoping for one/two chapters a week thereafter. Thanks so much for your interest, and I hope you enjoy the fic!

[thebookishaustin]

August 2019 Wrap Up

Image from my Goodreads page

Whew - August was a whirlwind of new books and lots of Dungeons & Dragons apparently! You can see Dragons of Winter Night by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman (review for the first book, Dragons of Autumn Twilight, can be found here), a reread of The Adventure Zone: Here There Be Gerblins by the McElroy family and Carey Pietsch (review here) followed by it’s new sequel The Adventure Zone: Murder on the Rockport Limited!, and also Rick And Morty vs. Dungeons & Dragons by Patrick Rothfuss and Jim Zub! I love my D&D novelizations. 

Other than these, my favorites for the month were The Rise of Kyoshi by F.C. Yee and Michael Dante DiMartino, Blackfish City by Sam J. Miller, and Dark Age by Pierce Brown. I enjoyed The Rise of Kyoshi because I am a long time Avatar: The Last Airbender fan and this expanded upon that universe in such a unique way.  Blackfish City was such an interesting book full of sociopolitical issues and strong family dynamics with a healthy dose of science fiction! It took me awhile, but finishing Dark Age felt like a major accomplishment. I love this series so much and I wasn’t let down by the newest installment. 

I’d love to hear what you are reading so don’t hesitate to comment or send me a private message. You can also add me on Goodreads here! I’m looking forward to September and here are a few books I’m ready to start reading soon: 

Ziggy, Stardust and Me by James Brandon (Published: August 2019)

Exile from Eden: Or, After the Hole by Andrew Smith (Release date: September 24, 2019)

Five Dark Fates by Kendare Blake (Release: September 3, 2019)

[thedurvin]

“Moby Dick” is a lot funnier than anybody ever mentioned to me. Like, that famous chapter (#33) that’s just an overview of whale biology is written as if by someone that really didn’t know what the hell he was talking about

Scientists say whales aren’t fish because they have lungs and ear-holes and horizontal tales, but I asked some other whaling guys and they said that was bullshit, so they’re fish. I think it says that in the Bible someplace too.

Whales come in three types: Large, Medium, and Small. The Blackfish Whale is a Medium; I’m not sure why they’re called Blackfish, since most whales are pretty much black. I don’t know anything about them so let’s move on.

Huzzah Porpoises are Small-type whales. I don’t know what they’re really called but they always look super cheerful so I’m calling them Huzza Porpoises. If you don’t even smile a little while looking at them I just don’t know what to tell you.

And that’s not even mentioning the romantic comedy “oh my god there’s only one bed” meet-cute that leads to Ishmael and Queequeg staying up all night chatting and cuddling