#testing testing testing

[simminmar]

sources confirm that frontier fortune heiress, alma frontier, has officially relocated to britechester to hit the books as the first in her family to attend university

[sacredsorceress]

Bob Dating a Movie/Music Lover HCs

[blvckentropy]

<mac&cheese has enter the call>

[wilted-chrysanthemum]

This is a message Test, to see how Shit works.

[ladystoneboobs]

In the songs, they were called the black knights of the Wall.

"There was a black brother," Sansa said, "begging men for the Wall, only he was kind of old and smelly." She hadn't liked that at all. She had always imagined the Night's Watch to be men like Uncle Benjen. In the songs, they were called the black knights of the Wall. But this man had been crookbacked and hideous, and he looked as though he might have lice. If this was what the Night's Watch was truly like, she felt sorry for her bastard half brother, Jon. -Sansa III, aGoT

i find it interesting that sansa’s idealization of the night’s watch is not that far from jon’s initial hopeful idea of it, though for different reasons. sansa does not question their class system and up until her father’s beheading she generally believes all is right with the world. jon hates being constrained by class prejudice but his struggles have made him much more aware of how their class system works than either of his sisters. yet he does not reject it but starts out trying to prove himself within this system. the boy whose hero was daeron the young dragon and who also played at being other kingly, knightly, and lordly legends with robb was not attracted to the night’s watch because it was open to all misfits, down to the lowest of the low. he joined because he thought it was the one place where he could prove his honor and earn glory just as his uncle or any other trueborn stark could. perhaps jon’s too old to think of benjen as “a black knight of the Wall” but that same basic idea could have been what appealed to him in the first place.

from sansa’s side, this reinforces to me that though they are not close, her opinion of jon is a positive one. she won’t forget he doesn’t have the stark name but the implication is she sees him as closer to uncle benjen than yoren, as someone who should be worthy of being a black knight. he may have peasant blood on one side but in the end that noble stark blood still counts more. he is not one of them in the micro sense of exact rank but at the same time she still sees him as one of them in the macro sense of nobility/associates compared to the majority dirty peasant population.

this implication that jon should be a “a [black] knight of the Wall” like in the songs is why i reject the assumption that sansa believes in the stereotype of all bastards being untrustworthy and wicked. i would not go so far as to say sansa was never in the wrong concerning jon. her distance from him because of his bastardy is meant to be a character flaw. but i think this attitude goes too far the other way. (even if sansa thinks being a bastard is not only shameful but that some of them are more prone to wickedness, that doesn’t mean she thought jon was. most prejudiced people make exceptions for the “good ones” in their lives while thinking all the other members of that marginalized group are the real problem, especially those they don’t know at all.)

without derailing this too much to talk about catelyn/jon, i don’t think this stereotype really played into her issues about jon overly much (it was about ned. it was always about ned.), nor do i think she waged a campaign to turn her kids against jon based on the danger of him being wicked and untrustworthy (such that ned would surely notice) rather than more subtly and passive-aggressively reminding them of jon’s difference from them and their own superior status and rights. 

hell, agot sansa’s opinions tend to be so black-and-white that if she thought that badly of jon, i think grrm would clearly tell us. for gods’ sakes this very chapter is probably sansa at her most unlikable, saying arya should marry hodor because they’re both stupid and ugly and that arya should have been killed instead of lady! yet the worst she’s ever said or thought about jon is about his bastard status (something which even robb once screamed in his face about), not about him as a person.

(& fwiw, this is the only time sansa ever thinks of trueborn uncle benjen while jon does get multiple mentions, even if not to the same extent as robb and bran.)

[westmoor]

a prologue

(1.1k + change, geralt-centric, strangers, all setup.)

Dawn had broken slow and timid, light barely seeping through the fog creeping up grey hills. The ground was soft from weeks of rain and the sky promised more rain.

He remembered a time when he had looked forward to this. When the future had beckoned him with promises of monsters and battle and bravery, of services rendered and the coin paid paling in view of the gratitude offered; in knowing he had made a difference in the world.

Sometimes he was grateful that he hadn’t known better, all those years ago. It hardly would’ve changed his course beyond making the training harder to bear.

Of all the things he had expected this life to bring, he was least equipped for the monotony of it. A barghest in Temeria, nekkers in Velen, drowners in Skellige. They differed in planning and tactics, employers and criteria, all in ways he could handle. But in other ways they were alike, and those were worse. Negotiate, fight, collect payment, limp on to the next contract. They started blending together after a while, as did the days, and the seasons after them. Even the years, in their endless cycles, compacted to a single twisting mass.

Another midsummer had come and gone, and Geralt barely noted its passing.

The mornings ought to be getting colder soon - and maybe they already were. It was hard to tell. Between the last few weeks of heavy grey and the numbness in his fingertips, he wasn’t sure he could remember when he’d last felt truly warm. It was as if the cold had settled in his marrow like a barb, driven deeper with every winter.

Perhaps it really was just the weather. Even his mare seemed laden by it, not even flicking an ear in his direction when he started collecting the sparse comforts of their camp. There wasn't much to be done about that, except make a solemn promise that this time, they wouldn’t stop until they reached a place with dry straw and a roof.

Once they were packed and saddled he repeated his promise, unsure whether he was trying to convince his horse to get moving, or himself.

It drizzled through the morning and poured by noon.

They kept straight for a stretch, then north, then south, picking the course aimlessly but for the berth of the road. Around midday, their way grew wide and cut deep by wagon tracks. The lingering smell of horse and man underlaid by rum and spice suggested he had just missed the company of a trader. Geralt breathed a sigh of relief. Traders, to his knowledge, didn’t much fancy sleeping rough.

The inn sat high on a riverbank, perched upon rough stone foundations to fend off erosion from the snowmelt rushing down from the mountains. Here, the road split even further west, crossing the river by a wide pierless bridge, well-suited for floating timber from the great woods near Brokilon to the larger ports. A painted sign hung above the door, banging softly in the afternoon breeze.

It looked like any other inn of the same position, expanded and rebuilt with the rise and change of travel and trade over the decades. Geralt couldn’t say that he’d set foot in it before.

No friendly faces waited within. The conversations that halted at his entry picked back up as he made his way across the room to the bar, low and stilted as though through gritted teeth.. Still, he was left alone, and that was as much as he could hope for in these circumstances.

Which was why the barmaid’s halting attempt at conversation caught him by surprise.

«We don’t see much of your kind around these parts.» She spoke tensely and avoided his gaze, though it was the same tension most spoke with when approached by a witcher. Geralt told himself he didn’t mind.

«I don’t come through these parts often,» he responded neutrally, and in case she meant to suggest he keep it that way, added: «And won’t stay for more than a meal and a night, lest I can find any work.»

«Not here. This is a quiet town,» the maid said, so quickly and with such finality, it sounded like a snap.

Most times, that was the end of it. /No thank you, sir, your sort is not needed here, this is a good establishment and you best be on your way before nightfall./ He had heard it too many times to count, some were forthright, others cruel. The way she had been wiping down the same spotless square of the table for the last minute and a half suggested this was not most times.

She threw a glance at a man further down the bar, one that had thus far kept all attention trained on the bottom of his pint. He looked up to meet it. Whatever silent conversation passed in the look they exchanged, it must’ve given her some confirmation.

«But the young lord across the crag might be in need of a man of your occupation.»

Geralt looked at them both. «Is that so?»

«Aye,» the man grumbled. A worn waxed coat thrown over the back of his chair, the way his vowels churned in his throat, and the unmistakable tang of salt and kelp spoke of a life spent past the reach of land and shore. A fisherman, Geralt figured, or a sailor. «There’s been talk in port about the Viscount’s son going off and marrying some //wealthy trader. Apparently they mean to take up residence at the old house on the //crag.”in port that the viscount’s son has gone and married some foreign merchant,

«And why would they need a witcher?” Geralt asked, when the man paused in a way that suggested he wanted prompting.

The sailor shrugged. “I don’t know much about it,” he said, with an air of someone who clearly thought he knew quite a bit about it. “But there’s some wretched curse upon that place. None have lived there for a man’s age. Those that try, they all come to regret it, ending up dead - or worse.”

“I hear it’s beautiful,” the barmaid interjected. “A proper little castle, stacked to the ceiling with art and treasures. I hear the decor itself is worth more than all the rest of the Viscount’s assets put together.”

“That may be,” the sailor waved her off. “But if you ask me, the place’d best be torched and burned to the ground, furnished and cursed and all.”

“If that would be best,” Geralt followed slowly, “then why would I offer my services and rid them of this curse?”

“Because,” the sailor started, setting his tankard down hard. “There’s talk in port that the price they offer to pay for services such as yours would be enough to buy a county, a title, and set a man up for life.”

“Hmm,” said Geralt. The sailor nodded in agreement.

--

(I know I have a tag list somewhere but idk if people still are/want to be on it and whether to bother people with this eternity project 😅)

[grafikoa]