#polywrites

[polysucks]

why you think starks are brown. No hate, I just want to know reason 💓

No hate taken!!! I'm more than happy to give a little context.

I also talked a little and at length and then some about why I think the Starks are ndn or indigenous coded, therefore anecdotally "brown" if you want some more!

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The Starks Are Indigenous and You Can’t Change My Mind

Look, I’m just gonna say it: the Starks are giving "we’ve been here for 10,000 years and you just got off the Mayflower.” Fandom loves to frame them as cold (literally), brooding white dudes who talk to trees and wolvves and die tragically—but if you zoom out just a bit, what you’ll see is a whole culture that’s basically been staring the apocalyptic Chekov’s gun in the face while mumbling “this is fine” for millennia.

Let’s start at the beginning: the First Men walked to Westeros on foot twelve thousand years ago (according to legend. it's giving oral storytelling), chopped some trees, made some mistakes, and then struck a sacred pact with the Children of the Forest. Instead of wiping the Children out like the colonizers down south (cough Andals cough), they basically said, “Yeah u right let’s chill,” and started building their whole culture around respecting nature, living weirwoods, and the gods that inhabit them. Now fast forward six thousand years and the Andals show up like, “Hey, we’ve got gods who look like us and wear robes, and also we’re here to murder your trees bc they're just trees they mean nothing.” (SOUND FAMILIAR?) And the North said: “uhhhhh doubt but alright try me bitch.” The Andals conquered everywhere else in Westeros, but the North? Untouched. Still praying to SpOokY tReEs, burying people under roots, giving a fuck about their ancestors, still naming their kids things like Brandon and Benjen and not, like, Luthor Tyrell III.

So when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I mean it. They are the last major ruling house descended purely from the First Men, with customs, spirituality, and governance structures that date back over ten millennia. They didn’t import Andal feudalism or Southern chivalry—they rule by duty, community ties, and vibes. There’s no divine right here, just “I said I’d guard the North, so I’m gonna guard the North, even if I die horribly doing it.” Which... they usually do.

Physically, too, the Northerners are not your typical pale-and-pink Southron types. Descriptions from the books associate the First Men—and thus the Northmen—with brown hair, darker complexions, and gray eyes. They’re closer to earth tones than the golden-and-ivory palettes of the Reach and Crownlands.

Now, it’s all fun and games until Robb Stark starts stacking Lannister corpses like firewood and suddenly—boom—“savage skinchanger” propaganda. The second the North stops being cold and quiet and starts sending wolves downriver, the Southern rumor mill goes feral. The same lords who wear wolf pelts to look edgy start whispering, “Is he... using magic? Unnatural beasts? Isn’t that his direwolf out there eating men’s faces?”

We’re not even being subtle anymore. This is textbook colonizer panic: “Oh no, the brown people with strong spiritual ties to nature and weird customs have found a way to beat our superior steel and horses! They must be cheating!” And this is coming from a place where Melisandre literally births a shadow demon out of her woman's place and half the people involved just shrug and go, “Well, kings do be kinging and doin whatever it takes to be kinged.” But Robb winning battles with tactics and a big-ass dog? Witchcraft.

And let’s talk tone. The way Northerners are described when they show up in King’s Landing is... gross. Dirty. Sullen. Uncouth. They bring the smell of snow and smoke and old gods into the nice, civilized complacency of the South, and the court acts like they're watching a pack of feral dogs crash a garden party. Even the Dornish, who are also not white-coded in many ways and face plenty of racism, are still seen as exotic—dangerous, sure, but sexy-dangerous. The Northmen? They’re not fetishized. They're feared. Loathed. Dismissed as brutes and barbarians with ways that are so different that they should be feared.

And this is a classic move in imperialist narratives: you marginalize a people, rob them of power and culture, and the second they resist? You demonize them. Turn them into monsters. Say they commune with beasts and demons. (Sound familiar? Because it should.) Whether it’s North American Indigenous peoples being accused of “savagery” the moment they defend their land, or these colonized peoples being portrayed as superstitious and irrational for refusing assimilation and persisting with their culture—Westeros is playing that greatest hit on repeat.

So yes, when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I also mean that the way Westeros treats the North is textbook colonial anxiety. They’re tolerated when they stay quiet and frozen. But when they rise? When they win? Suddenly, they’re not just a threat—they’re unnatural. Inhuman. Monstrous.

And if that ain’t some real-world racial politics wrapped in an easy to swallow fictional narrative, idk what is.

Now let’s talk Boltons vs. Manderlys, the perfect case study in Indigenous vs. Settler-coded houses when it comes to the cultural conversation. The Boltons? Chaotic evil First Men energy. They used to flay people alive, possibly made cloaks out of skin (ok im sorry that’s so baller), and ruled from the Dreadfort for thousands of years as a rival to House Stark. They’re the North turned inward and twisted—a cautionary tale about what happens when colonization doesn’t get you, but intergenerational trauma does. Still, they’re part of the land, part of the same heritage. The Manderlys, on the other hand? Total transplants. They got kicked out of the Reach, showed up in the North all teary-eyed and humble, and the Starks were like, “Fine, you can live in this swamp by the sea.” And they did! Respectfully! But they never converted to the Old Gods. They still pray to the Seven, build stone cities, and have the audacity to name their castle White Harbor. That's like moving into someone’s house and renaming it “Good Christian Suburb.” (like. Like americ--*gets dragged off stage*) But they're chill. Because they never pretended to be something they're not. And they never tried to change the ways of the lands and the peoples who welcomed them when no one else would.

Even within the North, there's a whole spectrum of resistance vs. assimilation. You’ve got the Free Folk beyond the Wall—who are basically the “burn it all down, no kings, no lords” crowd—then the Starks, who are like, “Fine, I’ll wear a crown if it helps keep the peace,” and then the Manderlys, who are “we love it here please don’t send us back south.” It’s not unlike real-world Indigenous communities: some stayed in the woods, some ran into the mountains, some took settler names and built schools—but the throughline is survival. Resistance is survival.

And that, my fellow losers, is what the Starks are all about. They are the final boss of stubborn cultural preservation. They’re the people who would rather freeze than bend the knee to "gods" they don’t believe in. When Ned Stark says “Winter is Coming,” he’s not just talking about weather—he’s quoting a generational mantra. This, too, shall pass. And we will still be here. He's got seasonal depression and ancestral memory and PTSD, and he's still out here doing what is best for his people (well. not anymore, i guess.)

The North Remembers—and So Should You

When we say the Starks and the North are Indigenous-coded, we’re not just slapping a label on because it sounds cool and we’re desperate for representation. We’re talking about a culture that predates colonizers, resists assimilation, honors its dead, and survives against impossible violence. Whether it’s through sacred trees, communal leadership, or refusing to compromise on your ancestral values, the Starks represent the heartbeat of a people who never left their land—because the land never left them.

So yes. The Starks are “brown,” in the way that means something. Not necessarily in skin tone (though there’s canon support for that too), but in soul. In story. In surviving. And if you disagree, I’ll meet you in the godswood under the bleeding tree, and we can discuss it like Northerners—with our fuckin fists.

(this is a joke ur allowed other opinions)

[polypolymorph]

WIP Wednesday

Heyyy I made it. Tagged by @mareenavee and @paraparadigm in the past...year. And likely others, I am so sorry, this site disappears into the flat circle that is time. Please tag yourself if you are so inclined, and tag me back! I want to read!

BEHOLD. A bit of Sergius Turrianus having a friendly moment with his friend and comrade, Urag gro-Shub. This will go into a short one-shot for Errant Souls worldbuilding purposes. At some point.

A few hours later, just as he was making headway, Urag showed up with a couple of bottles and disemboweled them right there in the door. “You looked pale,” he grunted to Sergius’ frown. The librarian gestured with one of the corks, still speared on the screw. “Anyway they’re open, so let me in.” Torn between irritation and gratitude, and plain old throwing him out, Sergius stepped aside. “You’ll have to clear yourself a spot.” “I’ve seen your mess before.” The orc snorted and shifted a stack of books from the dusty chair he kept for guests, then bent to pluck one off the top. “Spirit of Nirn, God of Mortals. Back on your Lorkhan, Serg?” He wagged it like an accusation and carefully laid it on the desk. “I got here just in time. A bender is next.” “But which will come first? My bender or our mutual doom?” “Ha. You read too much.” Sergius blew out a breath and snagged a cleanish-looking cup from amongst its less fortunate brethren. “That’s quite a statement coming from you. Now why are you here? I’m—” “Busy, yes, we know. You put in to Mirabelle, yet?” “Haven’t had the time.” Urag grunted and lowered himself into the chair. It creaked under his weight, and whatever assumption Winterhold carpenters had made about mages and what sort of bulk the furniture could expect. The orc was as fat and muscular as they came. Sergius smiled, remembering the day he’d thrown three novices into a snowbank for tracking slush across the rugs. “Those kids give you any trouble since you sent them swimming?”

“Not a whit. Now they’re nagging first years to change their shoes so I don’t have to.” “Mm.” Sergius took a sip of plum wine, spiced the way he liked, and admired the sweet tartness now filling his mouth instead of words. His eyes drifted shut. “The hall slippers were a good idea.” “Yeah.” Sergius refilled their cups, and Urag sat back and scratched his nose. Quietude stretched between them, until their eyes were bleary and bottles half empty, then, “Anyway, I wanted to give you this.” Urag shoved a hand into his smock and withdrew a vial of something dark, thick, and brown, like a concentrate of tea. He gave it a shake and placed it on the desk next to Sergius’ book, where, he noted dryly, it couldn’t be mislaid or forgotten. The contents started turning blue. “What is it?” he asked. “If it’s a sleeping draught—” “No, nothing like that. Just take half, and if that doesn’t work, down the rest.” Sergius threw up his hands. “Tell me what it is, you old mountebank!” The orc inched toward the door, then leapt for the knob. “You’ll thank me in the morning!” he shouted, then yanked it open and slammed it shut behind him.

[paraparadigm]

Fic Update: Gathering Souls (TES Skyrim) Ch 14

New chapter, from co-pilot @polypolymorph​ and I. Updating on @polypolymorph‘s behalf.

Found here on AO3.

He lasted until Darkwater Pass. A whole afternoon, good for him. Esbern watched him shrewdly, and his horse shrewder still, for the beast knew what it was to glimpse the shadows in one’s periphery, and flee. In hindsight, it was the air. His hands began trembling the moment they reached the karst, sulfurous and flammable, filled with steam and acrid smoke. Eastmarch stank. It wasn’t the same as when his skin had burned. It wasn’t. It was boiling critters, instead. A calf lowed piteously for its mother who’d waded too far in, and she struggled, sinking deeper into the silt. It belched and sucked her in. Frantic, the calf bawled, testing the edges, trying to follow her in. Val doubled over and wretched. The farmers paid him no mind. She was fine. They hauled her out, and the calf leaned against her flank, content. He wiped his mouth and walked.

Esbern watched him shrewdly, and his horse shrewder still, for the beast knew what it was to glimpse the wolves in one’s periphery, and flee. In hindsight, it was the water. The metallic taste, copper and iron, limestone and salt. Truly, Eastmarch stank. But it wasn’t the same as the blood that filled his mouth. It wasn’t. It was the serum the Thalmor used, instead. The kind that nearly spilled his guts, twisting everything out, he couldn’t stop, he…his feet trailed to a halt. Esbern called his name, and Caltrop turned his head. He caught up to them and walked.

[polysucks]

I am once again thinking about the Riverlands, Beric Dondarrion, and Lady Stoneheart.

The North is cold and proud. The Reach is rich and flowery. Dorne is hot and rebellious. But the Riverlands are the heart, and they’re bleeding out. The tragedy of the Riverlands in asoiaf is not in their failure to win or in the accuracy of how any side gains their support and favor, but in their lack of identity beyond suffering. Everyone fights on their land. Everyone uses their resources. No one speaks for them.

The Riverlands are fertile for radicalization—think of how Beric Dondarrion’s brotherhood begins as this pseudo Robin Hood situation but changes into a band of outlaws who grow more and more desperate and unforgiving. They began so optimistic, so thoughtful and engaged in the communities of small folk who make up the majority of the Riverlands. They just fuckin took in Arya and Hotpie and Gendry despite being threatened upon first meeting because they were children who were starving. Consider how quickly outlaws become holy men, and how starvation and desolation makes people believe in anything that might provide relief or hope.

The Brotherhood didn’t start as monsters. They started as idealists—men on a mission from Ned Stark to keep the king’s peace. But the war didn’t just kill their comrades—it killed the institutions they swore to uphold. There’s no crown to appeal to, no lord to answer to, no system left that isn’t a smoking ruin or a brothel for power.

It’s in the way that they first claim to be king’s men, and when asked which king, they answer King Robert. Well, we don’t even get introduced to the brotherhood as a perspective until Robert is already long dead and his influence a rotting dead horse these men are trying to beat. They stand for nothing is the answer they give, because Robert is nothing by that point. No influence. Not a player on the game board. So their ideology is already flimsy from the get go. Something something Alexander Hamilton quote.

And so—slowly, naturally— they radicalize. Each atrocity they witness is another drop in the bucket, and eventually the water and blood spills over. It has to. At first, they hang Lannister men who burned a village. Then they hang anyone affiliated with the Lannisters. Then they hang people who sold grain to the Lannisters. The very people they said themselves have no choice but to participate in an arbitrary war on arbitrary sides because they are simple folk who rely on their lords on these arbitrary sides to feed their families. By the time Lady Stoneheart takes over, they’re not the people’s defenders—they’re the people’s inquisitors.

Justice turns into punishment.

Fairness turns into judgment.

Mercy dies and comes back as her. And she came back wrong.

Catelyn Stark, a Tully by birth, rises from the river as vengeance incarnate—her throat slit, her voice gone, her pleas for mercy and warmth stripped away. She is the physical manifestation of what the Riverlands have become:

Voiceless.

Bleeding.

Obsessed with justice because no one else will give it.

Not seeking peace, but retribution.

And her presence inverts the moral tone of the Brotherhood. Under Beric, they’re fighting a hopeless war for the people. Under Stoneheart, they’re fighting a holy war against everyone they consider an enemy.

She turns the Brotherhood into a crusade—and crusades are always justified by their own righteousness.

In a vacuum of order, radical justice looks holy and divinely decreed. Perhaps even earned through trial.

That shift from protecting the voiceless to avenging the already dead is pivotal. The Brotherhood was supposed to stand in for all those displaced smallfolk, all the women raped and the villages razed and children taken and forced to fight. But Stoneheart doesn’t care about the people. She cares about what was done to her: her life, her trauma, her pain.

[polysucks]

Hello! I asked earlier about your takes on the ironborn: racially, culturally, and real-world parallels as you did for the northerners in your other post. What are your thoughts on them?

Alright. Time to fly off the handle

The Drowned God and Other Maritime Daddy Issues

A deep dive into the cultural nuance of the Ironborn

Ironborn are way more than Vikings with a reaving kink that the fandom likes to overgeneralize them as. They’re a defiant, sea-soaked culture clinging to the bones of a dying identity—geographically, spiritually, politically, and culturally. They’re not here to kiss the ring or plow the field (but they will plow your daughters’ fields ayooooooooo) They’re here to steal your silver, set fire to your village, and sail off with your livestock and your dignity. While their longships and raiding traditions induce immediate comparisons to the Vikings of our own history, the grgegegrge didn’t ctrl+c, ctrl+v Norse stereotypes and call it a day. My mans contains multitudes (here I go defending a white man again) The Ironborn are a patchwork culture stitched from raiders, islanders, and post-imperial anger, haunted by lost glory and desperate to matter again. Geographically marooned and ideologically medieval, they stand apart from the rest of Westeros not only in how they fight, but in how they remember.

Yes, they raid. Yes, they sail terrifying longships. Yes, they chant “What is dead may never die” (what is dead may never die) while holding drowning parties. But behind the axe-swinging and chronic pneumonia that no one is talking about is a nuanced cultural tapestry that blends ancient Norse badassery with the isolation of real-world island peoples, and the trauma of former empires left licking their wounds and whispering stories of past glory.

I want to talk about the Ironborn as a composite culture rooted in Old World violence, shaped by seclusion, and haunted by the trauma of cultural decline in a post-imperialist society.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: the Ironborn are Westeros’s stand-in for Norse raiders. They pilot longships sharp enough to slice inland rivers like butter. They prize the axe over the plow, the drowned god over the Faith of the Seven, and a good old-fashioned reaving over… you know, capitalism.

They're not here to negotiate. They’re here to take. (and good on them!!!)

Much like the Norse raiders of Earth (looking at you, Great Heathen Army), the Ironborn built a culture on plunder, not production. Land? Meh. Crops? Pass. Oaths of fealty? DISGUSTANG. These guys earn (yes, EARN!!!) their keeps with steel, salt, and stolen gold. Even their religion reeks of Norse fatalism: the Drowned God doesn’t promise peace, but power through death. Dying at sea isn’t a tragedy; it’s a promotion.

But here's where it gets juicy: this isn’t raiding for fun (I mean like. Duh. It’s silly fun :3) This is a worldview. A rebellion against the "Green lands" and all their soft-handed, oath-swapping, crop-growing nonsense. In Ironborn culture, you're not born noble; you earn your worth by taking it. Violence is virtue.

Let’s begin with the obvious.

Real-world parallel: The Norse / Vikings (8th–11th century Scandinavia)

Longships with shallow drafts? Check. The Ironborn sail upriver like it owes them moneyyyyyy (it does)

A raiding economy based on “plunder first, ask questions never”? Also check.

A decentralized political structure? Yes, with jarls —I mean, saltlords—ruling from sea-worn keeps.

Gods who care more about blood, death, and the sea than your feelings? Double check. The Drowned God feels like a damp, iron-flavored Odin with worse manners.

Even the Ironborn motto “We do not sow” is a banger. It’s not onlyyyy a rejection of farming and cultivating their uninhabitable land; it’s a middle finger to the entire feudal value system. THEY SAID WE WILL NOT BEND!!!!! (I know das right!!!!!) While the rest of Westeros climbs social ladders, swearing oaths and marrying for land, the Ironborn take what they want. it’s divine theology.

That brings up another point I wanna make. that raiding isn’t just economically sound. It’s sacred. It’s cultural. The Ironborn don’t steal—they earn through force. Just as the Norse elevated pillaging to an artform, the Ironborn dress their brutality in holy robes and saltwater rites. Their sea-baptisms? Violent, intimate, and soaked in fatalism because culturally, that’s all they’ve ever known.

Okay, but not everything about the Ironborn screams Norse. In fact, if you really squint (and maybe tilt your head), you'll start to notice something else pulsing beneath the raider aesthetic: the ethos of isolated island peoples.

Let’s hop from the Iron Islands to the Azores or the Canary Islands—small, storm-battered, independent maritime communities with a deep distrust of mainland politics. Like the Ironborn, these societies relied on the sea because the land gave them nothing. Fishing, whaling, sailing—they weren’t hobbies, they were survival.

Sound familiar?

The Azoreans (15th century–present, Portuguese Atlantic islanders)

Remote and rugged, the Azores bred self-reliant people with strong religious traditions and a stubborn refusal to blend in with the mainland.

They fished, they survived, and they were proud to be... not like the rest of Portugal.

They were often seen as quaint, backwards, or provincial by mainland elites.

Ironborn vibes, anyone? Like the Azoreans, the Ironborn are often dismissed by the “green lands” as brutes with boats. But that outsider perception only intensifies their cultural pride. In both cases, we see the brutal independence of a people who’ve had to scrape a living from rock, sea, and storm—and who hold on tight to their traditions because they’re all they’ve got left.

Even the Ironborn’s gruff spiritualism echoes cultures like the Māori or the Polynesian navigators, whose reverence for the sea shaped not only their cosmology but their entire identity. To these people, the ocean wasn’t ONLY a resource—it was kin. A god, a grave, a memory, a mother and a father. The Ironborn feel this too, but theirs is a darker mirror. Their sea is cold, cruel, and filled with the bones of the drowned. It demands respect and sacrifice.

And just like real-world islanders were written off as "savages" by colonizers, the Ironborn are dismissed by the rest of Westeros as pirates and pests. But this condescension misses something veryyyy critical: the resilience and cultural cohesion that isolation can breed. The Ironborn may be violent, but they are not chaotic. They have codes. They have gods. They have a way. The Old Way.

The Ironborn may not have Polynesian-level navigation, but the spiritual connection is there. The sea is their entire world. It’s where they’re born, where they fight, and where they return—whether by rock or watery grave. The Drowned God demands reverence and veneration.

The Ironborn weren’t always this… small. Once, under House Hoare, they ruled from the Iron Islands to the Riverlands, commanding coasts and hearts with equal fervor. But then Aegon came. And with him, fire.

The burning of Harrenhal was the collapse of a civilization and a birth of a new culture. The Ironborn were stripped of their mainland holdings, their empire, their power. They were, politely, told to go back to their rocks and choose a new leader—one that wouldn't be a problem.

This is colonization with a nice coat of Westerosi politeness. This is "you're part of the Seven Kingdoms now, behave."

So, how do they respond?

Well, if you’re Balon Greyjoy, you throw a tantrum dressed up as a war. You scream, "We used to be kings!" from the rooftops of Pyke while your sons fail both upwards and downwards and your daughter carries the family brain cell but insists on not using it half the time.

It’s an identity crisis. A post-imperial culture trying to reassert itself with war paint and rusted swords in a world of strategy and swords by proxy. Balon doesn’t rebel because it’s strategic; he rebels because he can’t stand being forgotten.

It’s nationalism with barnacles. And it's heartbreaking in its own, salt-soaked way.

The Ironborn are reduced to axe-wielding set pieces in the grand scheme of Westerosi opinions. They are a mournful, defiant culture staring down the long death of their way of life. They are proud, traumatized, deeply spiritual, and yes— assholes. That’s allowed. But they are not one-note villains.

Their raids are rituals. Their violence is honor. Their stubbornness is grief.

In them, we see echoes of real-world islanders and once-great peoples left behind by history and colonialist ideals—fighting not to win, but to matter. To be feared again. To be remembered. To prove that what is dead may never die. (what is dead may never die)

Because even drowned and dying gods have followers.

[polysucks]

Theon Greyjoy is one of asoiaf’s most misunderstood characters and i will die on this fuckin hill. now, don’t get me wrong, i also cheer when theon loses. it never gets old. i laff errytime.

but can we think of him for a moment as a human?

(wait no, stop scrolling!!! come back!!!!)

the writing doesn’t fail him. in fact, we get so much fuckin context about this man that we have no choice but to humanize him. he know his story. we know his flaws. we know his neuroses and who has failed him to make him This Way(tm). but readers so often bring vengeance bias to the table when talking about the making of reek. they see theon through the lens of the Starks — the golden family, the “protagonists” of the North. mayhaps. even. the Main Characters? (incorrect) and so when theon betrays them, the reaction is visceral. which like. yes girl me too. get his ass, worldstar, etc. Theon becomes the traitor, the false brother, the wolf in sheep’s clothing so to speak (?) the one who “killed” innocent boys and “took” Winterfell. The emotional response is so powerful that many fans stop seeing him as a human and start seeing him as a scapegoat for their grief.

So when bastard bolton enters the story — a creature made entirely of sadism and appetite — the audience cheers!!!!

“Good,” we say. “He deserves it.” Justice! we demand.

But that’s where the moral failure shifts from theon’s to our very own.

ramsay’s torture of theon isn’t even close to justice. it’s annihilation. It’s not even punishment, really. punishment implies intention, proportion, and the goal of correction. ramsay’s torment is artless chaos masquerading as a dominance play. He doesn’t want theon to learn or understand his penance. he wants him to unlearn everything that made him human. his violence is so total that it collapses the idea of moral consequence. by the time ramsay is “done” there’s no theon left to punish. only reek, a hollow, gibbering echo of the man who once committed those crimes.

justice without restraint is indistinguishable from sadism.

but wait a minute— the narrative knows that. grampa doesn’t frame theon’s torment as righteous comeuppance. he forces us to see first hand the horror of what happens when “justice” becomes synonymous with cruelty. theon’s character arc is less the moral fable we make it out to be, and instead more akin to a crucifixion. he’s not “redeemed” through suffering but instead emptied by it. what little dignity he recovers later is nothing short of miraculous.

our fandom’s bloodlust and the eagerness to see theon flayed, broken, mutilated (which like. me too girl. obliterate that twink!!!!!!!) exposes how easily readers can slip into ramsay’s logic without realizing it. “he deserved it” is the same reasoning ramsay uses. it’s the justification every oppressor uses. and beloved grampa, ever the morality questioner, puts us, the reader in that complicit position on purpose. we want pain until we get it — and then we have to look at what we wanted. directly in the face.

so we make jokes. we romanticize his abuse. we excuse his abuse. we justify it. and we ask for more.

[polysucks]

I was feeling a type of way about jeyne and sansa and letting them be teenage girls again. So I wrote a blurb to go along w my drawing. I’m not a writer so don’t come for me if it sucks.

The morning was crisp and unusually bright, the pale sun glinting off the freshly snow-dusted stones of Winterfell’s walls. A sharp wind cut through the yard, carrying with it the sound of wood clashing and boys shouting. Robb and Jon circled each other on the mud-packed snow of the training yard, their wooden swords striking with loud thwacks. Theon stood to the side, lounging against a fence post, smirking to himself with an air of smug self-satisfaction as he waited his turn.

High above, Sansa and Jeyne peered down from the gallery, bundled in woolen covers lined with rabbit fur and bright in color, their cheeks tinged pink from the cold.

“Jon’s quicker,” Jeyne declared wistfully, leaning over the railing to a better look at the boys, her breath fogging the air. “But Robb’s stronger. I’ll wager he wins this bout.”

“Jeyne, you shouldn’t wager on such things,” Sansa chided, though her voice was tinged with laughter. “Nor wager at all. It’s unbecoming.”

Jeyne turned to her, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, don’t be so pious, Sansa. You know you’re hoping Jon wins too. He’s so brooding—girls like that, don’t they?”

Sansa gasped, her freckled nose scrunching in mock outrage. “I most certainly do not! And neither should you. We’re meant to cheer for Robb; he’s the heir to Winterfell!”

Jeyne burst into giggles, clutching at Sansa’s arm. “You sound just like boring ol’ Septa Mordane. Shall I fetch my sewing and sit by the hearth instead?”

“Perhaps you should,” Sansa teased in a feigned scolding, though the corners of her mouth twitched with amusement at her friend’s candor.

The girls turned their attention back to the yard just as Robb lunged forward, his sword coming down in a heavy arc. Jon stepped aside at the last moment, snow crunching beneath his boots, and drove the flat of his blade into Robb’s ribs. Robb stumbled, laughing as he raised his hand in surrender.

“Jon wins again!” Jeyne crowed, clapping her gloved hands together. “Well done, Jon! I always knew you were the clever one!” Sansa tugged at Jeyne’s arm, loudly shushing the cheering girl with a grin that split her face ear to ear.

Their voices rang out across the yard, drawing Jon’s attention. He looked up, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and gave her a crooked smile.

“Careful, Jeyne,” Theon called from below, striding forward to take Jon’s place. “You’ll make me jealous with all this talk of Jon’s so-called cleverness.” He twirled his sword in a flashy display and pointed the tip up at the gallery. “You should do well to save some of your applause for me.”

Jeyne cupped her gloved hands around her mouth and shouted, “I will when you deserve them, Theon!”

Sansa clutched her sides, laughing so hard she could hardly breathe. “Jeyne! You can’t say things like that!”

“Oh, why not?” Jeyne replied, her voice a mix of mischief and innocence, reclaiming her seat beside Sansa and playfully slapped at the maiden’s hands as they tugged on Jeyne’s sleeves. “They love it. Just look at them.”

Below, Theon puffed out his chest, preening under the girls’ attention. Robb rolled his eyes, muttering something to Jon that made him chuckle.

Sansa shook her head, still giggling. “If Septa Mordane heard you, she’d have you scrubbing the floors of the great hall from dawn till dusk.”

“Then I’d have plenty of time to think about Theon Greyjoy and his pretty smile,” Jeyne said, fluttering her lashes dramatically.

Sansa dissolved into laughter again, leaning into her friend for support. “You’re horrible,” she said between gasps. “Completely incorrigible.”

“So you say,” Jeyne said with a grin, her breath catching in the cold air. “But do you disagree?”

Sansa only responded with more laughter. The sound of wood against wood rang out again as Theon and Jon squared off, their movements swift and precise. The girls leaned in to one another, their blankets rustling, as they watched the spar with rapt attention. Jeyne’s cheerful banter filled the air, and Sansa’s laughter rang out like a bell, bright and unguarded, as if this moment could last forever.

[polysucks]

What’s ur take on Elia/Lyanna

call me robert the way i hate rhaegar targaryen

let's talk about the romanticized martyrdom of these beautiful brown women and the tragedy that is the narrative they are forced to haunt.

Mourned, But Never Saved: How We Failed Elia and Lyanna

Word count: 1651 Time to read: 9 - 15 mins No major CWs except for my opinions, which are classified by the SCP Foundation as optic hazards

In literature, media, and even real-life tragedies, there is an obsession with The Perfect Victim—the young, beautiful, tragic woman whose suffering is romanticized, whose fate is mourned but never queried. She is consecrated in death, turned into an emblem of loss rather than a person with wants, needs, and a right to legacy of her own. It is easier to weep for her than to hold the men who destroyed her accountable.

It is easier to say, how sad, than to say, who did this?

Who let this happen?

Who benefited from it?

This phenomenon is not unique to Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark.

It is everywhere. We see it in the way murder victims—especially young, beautiful women—are transformed into icons of sorrow, their faces plastered across documentaries and true crime podcasts, their lives reduced to cautionary tales or poetic misfortunes for profit of more men who are so far removed from the tragedy they can justify the commodification. We see it in the way literature often treats female suffering as tragic inevitability, a necessary sacrifice to elevate the story of a male protagonist. And we see it in how Westerosi history records women like Elia and Lyanna—not as figures in their own right, but as the lost wives and lovers of great men.

There is a reason the world (and us, the fandom. myself included. I love a good Lyanna deification) linger on their beauty, their youth, their tragic ends, but not their anger.

Not their suffering.

Not their humanity.

The waif aesthetic that dominates social media—the fetishization of frailty, of doomed beauty—allows women like Elia and Lyanna to be preserved in glass (Metaphorically, but Lyanna is literally encased in stone), as if they were expected to die young the whole time, as if their stories had no other possible ending. It allows them to be stripped of their voices, reduced to passive, inevitable victims to their gender, and therefore circumstances, while the men who led them to their deaths remains shrouded in legendary calamity.

Rhaegar was a dreamer. Rhaegar was burdened by prophecy. Rhaegar was torn between love and duty. Excuses.

These justifications place his choices above their suffering, making their deaths seem like collateral damage in his grand narrative. Reduced to pitstops on the journey that is Rhaegar’s lamentable fate.

Their suffering is seen as a necessary part of his legend. Their deaths serve his myth.

Elia’s murder is not seen as an act of racialized violence against a Dornish woman and her mixed-race children, but as a tragic consequence of Rhaegar’s failure. Lyanna’s death is not treated as the cost of her own choices—whatever choices she may have made, but as the romantic conclusion to an ill-fated love story. They are not given full stories of their own. Their deaths are simply moments in his.

This is the same blindness that allows figures like Humbert Humbert in Lolita to frame themselves as misunderstood lovers rather than predators to the untrained eyes, and pseudo-critical thinker. Just as Humbert tells the story of Dolores Haze through his own selfish, delusional lens—robbing her of her voice, her autonomy, her anger, her right to be seen as more than his obsession—so too does Westerosi history rob Elia and Lyanna of their full truths. We mourn them, but only as beautiful ghosts, not as women who deserved better.

But Elia Martell was not just a forsaken wife. She was a Dornish princess with pride in her homeland, a mother, a woman who fought for the survival of her children. And Lyanna Stark was not a stolen maiden. She was a Northern girl with a wolf’s heart, with confidence, with autonomy, a woman who knew what she wanted, even if the world refused to let her have it.

To mourn them without condemning him is to continue the same cycle that destroyed them. It is to let them remain frozen in time, tragic saints of Rhaegar’s doomed love story, rather than women whose lives were stolen by a man’s choices.

We cannot allow them to become hollowed-out saints of tragedy, their stories reduced to romantic footnotes in the Targaryen legacy. They were not just victims. They were women. And they deserved more.

The Women Rhaegar Targaryen Left Behind: The Perfect Victims of a Flawed Legacy

Elia Martell: A Princess, A Mother, A Betrayed Woman

Elia Martell was a Dornish princess, born in a land where women had more agency and political power than most of Westeros. In Dorne, daughters can inherit titles, rule in their own right, and are not cast aside for the crime of being born female. Though, even in this progressive culture, Elia was still used as a political pawn. Under the weight of political pressure on her homeland, she was married off not as an equal partner, but as a tool to serve the Targaryen dynasty—her body reduced to a vessel meant to bridge two kingdoms in subservience, not unity.

Unlike most Westerosi noblewomen, Elia likely grew up learning court intrigue, family honor, and the weight of responsibility alongside her brother Oberyn. She was not a sheltered damsel but a woman of sharp mind and fierce spirit—something we see reflected in Oberyn’s devotion to her memory. He does not recall her as fragile or passive but as someone who deserved better, someone whose suffering should not be forgotten.

When Oberyn confronted Gregor Clegane in King’s Landing, he demanded that Gregor say her name. Not Rhaegar’s. Not Aerys’. Elia’s. He refused to let her become just another nameless casualty of the Targaryen downfall. He forced her murderer to acknowledge that she was more than Rhaegar’s discarded wife—that she was a woman, a mother, a sister. That she mattered.

Yet history continues to erase her. The common narrative reduces Elia to a tragic mistake in Rhaegar’s story, the wrong wife he had to cast aside to fulfill his grand destiny. But Elia was not the wrong wife. She was the right wife—for herself, for her children, and for her people. It was Rhaegar who failed her, not the other way around.

Lyanna Stark: A Wolf, Not a Maiden

Lyanna Stark exists in the public consciousness as a ghost of two extremes: either a helpless girl stolen away against her will or a reckless romantic who doomed herself and thousands of others for love. But neither of these simplifications capture the full truth of who she was.

Ned remembers Lyanna as fierce and willful, a girl with a warrior’s spirit, more like Arya than Sansa. He openly wonders if she would have carried a sword if their father had allowed it. She was not passive, not delicate—she was a Stark through and through, wild-hearted and strong.

She was also perceptive. She saw through Robert Baratheon’s romanticized view of her and understood that he would never be faithful. She knew what kind of life awaited her as Robert’s queen, and she wanted no part of it.

At Harrenhal, she was not just Rhaegar’s great love—she was a girl who made an impact on those around her. She was remembered for her boldness, for her defiance of traditional expectations. If she was, as many believe, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, then she was not some lovestruck maiden swept away by fate—she was a protector, a rebel, someone who took action in the face of injustice. And that act had nothing to do with Rhaegar.

Even in death, her final words to Ned—Promise me, Ned—were not about Rhaegar. She was not mourning her lost love. She was not asking Ned to preserve Rhaegar’s dream. She was thinking of her son, of the next generation, of ensuring his survival. Her last act was not about romance—it was about family, about duty, about love in the way only a Stark would understand it.

And just as her own agency is stripped from her, so too is her son’s identity. Jon Snow is often defined entirely by his Targaryen heritage, despite the fact that Lyanna fought to ensure he would not be a pawn of House Targaryen. She did not die for Rhaegar’s prophecy—she died whilst ensuring her child lived outside of it.

The stories of Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark are not just footnotes in the legend of Rhaegar Targaryen. They are not sacrifices for prophecy, not symbols of doomed romance, not mere casualties of a tragic war. They were women with agency, with convictions, with love for their families that transcended the narrative they are forced to haunt. To remember them only as victims is to betray them all over again—to strip them of the depth and defiance that made them who they were. If their suffering is to mean anything, it must be seen for what it truly was: not a poetic tragedy, but an injustice. Not a love story, but a loss. And not a justification for Rhaegar’s actions, but an indictment of them. We do not honor them by mourning their deaths—we honor them by remembering their lives.

But history, both fictional and real, loves to turn women like them into saints of sorrow—The Perfect Victims. The world mourns them but does not seek justice for them. It remembers their beauty, their tragedy, but not their anger. It allows their suffering to be poeticized, aestheticized, while the men who doomed them remain enigmatic, misunderstood figures.

But Elia Martell was not misunderstood. She was betrayed.

Lyanna Stark was not a tragic mystery. She was a woman who acted.

And that is how they deserve to be remembered.