I bring to you the concept of:
Quoth the Pratchett: Narrativium is powerful stuff. We have always had a drive to paint stories on to the Universe. When humans first looked at the stars, which are great flaming suns an unimaginable distance away, they saw in amongst them giant bulls, dragons, and local heroes. This human trait doesn’t affect what the rules say — not much, anyway — but it does determine which rules we are willing to contemplate in the first place. Moreover, the rules of the universe have to be able to produce everything that we humans observe, which introduce a kind of narrative imperative into science, too. Humans think in stories….
We tell stories. This is what we do. More compellingly, this is what we are.
Bow to the story teller. He makes the world real in his fiction.
His stories are fun.
They’re problematic in places and suffer from too much purple prose. And they kind of escape his control in the middle, where the plot muddies and wallows its way towards a climax.
But don’t get me wrong: His stories are still great, rousing, heart-breaking fun.
And, in the end, isn’t that all that really matters in a story? That you’re excited and agitated and your emotions are engaged and in some crazy way you’re just plain having fun?
sandor clegane: master of disguise.
A.K.A: ‘Why is the Hound wearing a wimple?’ or ‘Nunsense: The Killing Habit’
I’m one of those people who ship Book SanSan, but find those who ship Show SanSan sexually slightly disturbing. The show completely changed the relationship, and I view the show version as more of a protector of the innocent kind of thing, rather than the mutual attraction/romanticizing thing that it was in the books.
I have the same reaction. Part of it is how the whole thing is played by the actors. The other is the huuuuuuge age difference in the show. Momentarily putting aside the problematic issue of Sansa’s age (let’s just assume drastic cultural differences between us and Westeros) Sandor in the books is in his twenties somewhere. Rory McCann hasn’t seen his twenties in a while. Mind you, I adore Rory. But his age does make things squickier.
To those who are grieving, and swearing that they are done with this story, that their hearts have been broken to so many pieces that they have nothing left in them to give:
This is the song of ice and fire.
This is not a song of the Starks, or the Lannisters, or of any other part of the whole.
This is a symphony of a whole world in flux, made of intertwined melodies, each as important as the other.
Grieve. Go on. Grieve. Grief is the appropriate response to a loss like this.
Then let it go.
Because the North will never forget this. Because the Freys have gone too far. Because Lannisters have gone too far. Because blood will lead to blood. Do you remember what Varys said? The revenge you want will be yours in time.
Like Ned’s death, this is not the end. It’s only the end of one movement in the symphony.
Now, we wait, caught in the breathless pause before the next movement opens.
Sit back. Let this flow over you like water. The waves run red, sometimes. Don’t let them subsume you. But remember: The waves are not the ocean. The song of ice and fire is greater than the sum of its parts.
Listen. There is a reason for this. The story demands this. It’s an elemental force, greater than anything within it. The story will go on.
Abide, and listen to the song the storyteller sings for you.
It will be worth it, in time. Revenge will be yours, in time.