lundi 23 mai 2016

Musings upon season six episode 4 of Game of Thrones


When the Stark children chose names for their dogs, we were led to believe their choices reflected their dreams or their characters. Sansa's ambition was to become a Lady, Arya a great warrior like Nymeria. Robb fancied himself a warrior in the rugged northern tradition, raiding hard and fast, hence Grey Wind. Jon, who had grown trying to keep out of the way of Lady Stark, saw himself as the ghost of a person. Bran, reluctant to grow up after facing his first execution, called his wolf Summer in a futile attempt to preserve the happiness of the present. Baby Dickon called his Shaggydog, a reflection on his own unformed personality. But was there more to the names ? Was there perhaps a hint of things to come ?



For since the first chapter of the books and the first episode of the show, the wolves' fates have somehow reflected their owner's. When Lady died at Jeoffrey's hand, Sansa's dreams of becoming a fairy tale queen started crumbling, and the execution started a pattern that would eventually lead to Ned Stark's. If Sansa had been able to read Lady's death, she would have had a clue to the danger ahead.




This much Arya realized. Instead of going into denial like Sansa, she gave up Nymeria so the direwolf could flee for safety, a pattern Ed duplicated when he had Yoren collect her and help her escape from King's Landing. Eventually we realize that Nymeria has found herself another pack and has become an able leader. Does this foreshadow Arya's future ?




Grey Wind was as short-lived as his master's political ambitions : gone with the wind; Shaggydog's death is yet unclear : it could mean either that Rickon's childhood is over, and that he will be forged into a new man by the experience, or that he is going to die and be remembered as nothing more than some shaggy boy from the North. Summer's death (Old Nan called Bran « sweet child of Summer ») has hastened Bran's entrance into adulthood, forcing him to take up the responsibilities of the Three-eyed Raven. Like Lady's death, it signifies the end of innocence.




When he joined the brotherhood at the Wall, Jon became just another crow, so Ghost's name was still apt, but it is doubly so now that the former Lord Commander has come back from the dead. Will Ghost die or survive ? Does he have to die so that Jon ceases to be the Bastard and is revealed as a Targaryen ? Does he survive, a ghost of things to come, so Jon can lead the wildings to victory before becoming their king, making peace with the Children, and settling North of the Wall with Brienne and Tormund (who live happily hereafter?)








lundi 9 mai 2016

Game of thrones season 6 review, Go Tyrion, go !

Season 6 has started, with lots of spoilers and theories sprouting around the web. People are either Ow!Ow!ing or complaining. The Dorne department sucks, the Ironborn plot apparently leads nowhere, the mother of dragon is on a boring trek, Arya has graduated as a full-fledged assassin, Ramsay just fed his baby brother to the dogs, Sansa remains magically dry after wading through snow and water, King's Landing is its usual cesspool of intrigue, but John Snow is back.

Meanwhile, in Mereen, the imp is temping for Dany. So far, there have been two major scenes, one which drew tears from the audience, and one which elicited boos and outrage.

Book savvy Tyrion is perhaps the only person in Westeros to know about dragons otherwise than empirically. Up to now, the dragons have been treated either like children (Dany) or horrible monsters (the rest of the world). Tyrion, by contrast, addresses them as rational beings, and gets an appropriate answer. The next scene, which I saw as a kind of countermask, has Tyrion addressing his fellow human beings Missandei and Grey Worm as he would Jaime or Varys, and getting blank stares in return. The Dragon Whisperer has apparently failed to do his homework on ex-slaves.

GOT adolescent audience reacted strongly to the latter scene. Boring, boring, boring, nothing happens, what's the point ?

Apparently none of the humor of the scene percolated into the brains of an audience geared for blood, murder and incest. Kill them, rape them, torture them or resurrect them is OK. But talk to them ? Seriously ?

I loved this scene. Missandei and Grey Worm have dealt with Masters all their lives. Even Dany speaks down to them, treating them as her children, matronizing them. Tyrion is an instinctive Republican. Because he's smaller than everyone else, he has fought all his life to lift himself up to everyone's level, even social inferiors', since his small size cancels all the perks of his Lannister name. Now suddenly he finds himself with people who not only do not look down on him, but expect him to be aloof and pompous. The ex-slaves cannot wrap their minds around the fact he treats them as equals, abolishing distances, and Tyrion does not understand that years of silent, stoic obedience have been their answer to oppression, since, for him, being brash and vocal was what helped. The scene tells more about Grey Worm and Missandei than their usual stuffed performances around Dany, it also reveals a lot about Tyrion, his thirst for friendship or simply congenial company. This was a lovely, well-crafted scene, extremely well-played. I hope it finds a receptive audience.


The Ironborn are back!


And so are Bran and Meera, although Bran seems to have all the fun


My favorite couple, Sam and Gilly, are taking a cruise


And Ramsay is still being Ramsay


O happy days! 


lundi 28 mars 2016

What is a spoiler ?

Some say it is a form of torture used to break a person's spirit.

D'aucuns disent qu'il s'agit d'une forme de torture destinée à briser un individu.


Example : Queen Margery being put to the spoilers by order of the High Sparrow. 

Exemple : La Reine Margery soumise au supplice du spoiler par le Haut Moineau.


Another possibility is the book to show spoiler

Une  autre forme de spoiler consiste à fuiter des informations sur le film à partir du livre



dimanche 27 mars 2016

A Song of Yarn and Fiber - Game of Crones - episode 4


4

NAN


”Lambert knows most about what I am going to tell you,” Lady Worsted said, ”So we will not wait for him. I want you to travel North while the roads are still open and find out the truth about Jon Snow's death.” Nan looked at her incredulously.

”What makes you think I can do that?”

Lady Worsted smiled again and Purlybell looked at her apprehensively, as if unused to such bonhomie.

”Fools never doubt themselves, child, only the clever see the dangers and the difficulties they may have to face. Give me a person that is full of certitudes, who never pauses to think but rushes ahead and I will show you a fool. Purlybell, will you go and find Jon Snow for me?”

”Yes my Lady, of course my Lady !” Purlybell's face radiated delighted assurance.

”You see ?” The Lady asked Nan.

Nan found it hard to marshal her words. For long she had been content to babble, and her instinct was to take refuge in her usual patterns of speech and whine :”No, no, poor Nan can't, poor Nan can't !” Lady Worsted's eyes did not leave her face. Nan felt herself blushing and lowered her gaze. It was too late now, she had made her choice. Besides, this was what she had been dreaming of, wasn't it? An opportunity to travel away from Worsted, to see the world, to meet people. Beware of your dreams, they might one day come true. Surely the Lady did not expect her to pack a toothbrush and sally forth on her own to the Wall? Surely the Lady had a better plan than that? Nan knew she was clever at reading people and surviving, but she also knew that outside the walls of the castle, she was no better than a baby in arms. But the Lady knew that to, and would have factored it in her plans, wouldn't she? Besides, she could feel that if she did not shake off her idiot persona soon, she would forever remain a prisoner of it.

”You do not believe that Jon Snow is dead, then, my Lady.” Nan heard a little gasp from Purlybell. The girl had raised a hand to her mouth and was staring at the lady with huge cow's eyes.

”We have eyes in the North, my child, and the young commander was under our special care. He may be dead, or it may be a ruse. I don't know – yet. All I know is that if anyone could hold the wall, it was Jon Snow. The old men have gone, the wise ones, Joras Mormont, Aemon Targaryen, those that could knit the men together. The Wall is nothing without the Night's Watch, and the Night's Watch is nothing without a wise commander. If Jon Snow is dead, the Wall will unravel; there will be factions, men vying to replace him while their supporters fight one another. There will be quarrels, deserters, bad decisions. While the enemy increases in strength, the Night's Watch will decrease. The Wall will collapse from the inside and the white walkers will only have to step over its ruins to invade the South. Of course we can always prepare for the worst, but it is always better to know what we are dealing with.” Nan felt sudden excitement rush through her veins. She should have trusted the Lady.

”You have thought this out, haven't you, my Lady?” Lady Worsted chuckled.

”Of course, but not I only – we have. While some are busy playing the game of thrones, we have been playing another game.”

”A game?”

”We call it the game of crones, for it started a long time ago, when the mad King Targaryen ruled over Westeros.”

”He was a bad man. He killed people.” This from Purlybell the well-informed. The lady paid no attention to her.

”One day, a group of Ladies found themselves together at King's Landing. They were all in black, all mourning a loved one killed by the King for no other reason but that he had fancied them a threat. My mother was Lady Worsted, then.”

”Lady Purlieu.” Purlybell nodded sapiently, adding : ”She knitted lovely cables.”

” She had lost a son, Lord Lambas, butchered by the King's guard on a King's whim. My mother was like you, Nan, she could read people, and now, in this small room, surrounded by women in black who had lost a husband, a son, a father or a brother, women who may themselves have been molested, she could feel the resentment and the hatred and knew this small circle was like the foundation row upon which she could knit a force together against the tyranny of the king. So she put down her needles with a clack – ”

”What had she been knitting, my Lady?” Lady Worsted went on unheeding.

”And she said –”

House Worsted does not raise its lambs for the slaughter.” 

Nan gave a start. She had not heard the door open or footsteps from the newcomer. She did not turn round, having recognized the voice as Lambert Dram's. She heard herself whisper in echo : ”House Worsted does do raise its lambs for the slaughter.” The words had a special resonance for her. When Cersei Lannister had once stopped at Castle Worsted on her way back to King's Landing, she had looked at Nan with disfavor. Nan had drooled over her feet for a joke, then, and the Queen had slapped her, saying that it was a kindness to everyone when such errors of nature were given swift dispatch. ”House Worsted does not raise its lambs for the slaughter,” Lady Worsted had said, and though no one could fault her for lack of reverence, the ice in her voice had raised a blush on the cheeks of the Lannister's bitch. King Robert had ruffled her hair and scratched her ears, then, so she had drooled over his feet too, which just made him laugh. He was a fat man with bad breath, she did not think him kingly at all.

”Welcome, Lambert. And you are right, these were my mother's words. Of course, it was just a spur of the moment thing. But she could see that the women shared her outrage, and she added : there must be something we can do to make it better. They did not know what, and at first, they had no plan. None of them was used to games of strategy, their only strength was that they were good at keeping silent and remaining unseen. Of all the subjects of the mad king, they were the least suspect because he ignored them. So they started by exchanging information, using a coded language. If the messages were intercepted, it looked as if they had been exchanging patterns or recipes, but for those in the know, it was quite another matter. All the great houses were called by the name of a stich. Garter for Lannister, Stockinette for Baratheon, Ribs for Targaryen, Seed for Highgarden..”

”And for House Worsted?” This from Purlybell whom you could trust to fasten on inessentials.

”Slipped stitch.” Lady Worsted shook her head. ”It was like a game at first, a way of venting frustration – no one took it quite seriously, but they could communicate freely, without fear of being overheard and misconstrued by the King, so they got better and better at it. And then House Stark put out a call for help to hide fugitives, and although the main roads were watched they never suspected a party of old crones from Worsted going from village to village selling their knitted wares could be part of a plot. When the crones reached Winterfell, they knew where to collect the fugitives, and then they made their way west to the coast and then south to Worsted. From one village to the next there was always a crone to serve as their guide. At night they would sleep in shepherds' huts or small crofters' hovels. And they would leave warm socks, mufflers and mittens in exchange for the hospitality they had received. Sometimes they slept in the open, and let a pair of rabbits out of their hutch. The rabbits belonged to old Harebell Buckteeth from Angora Island, who was something of a warg. The animals would range far and wide at night, sending thoughts of fragrant herbs and nocturnal beasts. If they had scented armed men, they would have doubled back and woken Harebell. But it never happened. And the crones successfully led the fugitives to Worsted, from where they were shipped to Essos within bales of woollen cheesecloth.”

”Makes sense,” Purlybell nodded. ”Easier to breathe through than Petersham cloth.”

”Which probably does not sell so well in Essos anyway,” Lambert said. Nan could sense the irritation in his voice. Lambert was clever, with artistic flair, and she could see how Purlybell could grate on him. She liked him, though. He never scratched her ears or ruffled her hair, nor did he speak to her as if she was a child. He was always polite, and thanked her when she did something for him. And he was a stylish dresser. He did not favor bright colors, ornaments and bright buttons but plain fabrics of dark hues. The cut of his clothes was always impeccable, emphasizing his slight, upright silhouette. She wondered what she would look like in a dress of his own design. If he was to go North with them, she might take it up with him on the way. She came back to the present with a small shudder. The Crone help her, it was so easy to drift back into stupid Nan, with her short attention span and her licence to daydream.

”After that small initial success,” Lady Worsted was saying, ”they made rapid progress. You have to imagine the whole of Westeros as a network of connected crones. From crofts to castles, they span and wove their web of defiance. After a while, all the people in their protection could travel safely about the Land, under the very nose of the King's guards. Since those early days we have helped thousands, and our need to organize is now greater than ever. Whole villages are in ruins, entire regions have been scoured by rival armies. Now Winter is coming. Without villagers to cull them, the number of wolves will increase, and as food becomes rare, they will become bolder and attack the sheep.”

”The little lambkins ! And the little bunnies too !” Purlybell shrieked.

”Probably.”

”My Lord Snow will not let it happen. He will tell the wolves.”

”If he is alive, I think he will have more pressing concerns. No, we will need to organize the North. Once winter is upon us, it will be too late. We need help and I think we can cooperate with the wildlings. They seek shelter, that we can offer them in exchange for their help in defending us against wolves and brigands. But The Lord Commander is the knot that binds the North together. The Wall, the wildlings, the Northern houses. He can speak with them all. If he's dead, then everything will unravel. In times of war, people think they will die at the hand of soldiers, but it's not true. Most of them will starve or die of cold, they will die of diseases and untreated wounds, they will die of the breakdown of social bonds and exchanges. The Lannisters and the Baratheon are used to the offensive, so they think in terms of attack and plunder, but the crones have always been thinking in terms of defense. Preparing for winter is like preparing for a siege. Go North, children, carry the word of House Worsted to the Wall and let it spread thoughout the land : tell them ”cull the old rams.” They will know what it means. And bring me word about the Lord Commander.”
”And if he is dead ?”
”Hear me bleat,” Lady Worsted said.


mercredi 23 mars 2016

A Song of Yarn and Fiber - Game of Crones - episode 3

Previous - Next


3

NAN

Mad Nan, simple Nan, foolish Nan, Nan the simpleton, Nan Wool the bastard of unkown parentage, found one morning under a lambing ewe, half dead in the early spring frost but for the warmth of the newborn lamb. Poor Nan that could not learn and could only be trusted with the most simple tasks, and had to be cared for like the very young or the very old.

Poor, stupid Nan indeed who spent her days lazing near the fire in winter and by the window in summer, while the ladies knitted and crocheted with bent backs, sore eyes and aching fingers. Poor stupid Nan who slipped to the kitchen and sat with her foolish vacuous smile when cook was baking and never asked. Oh no! poor stupid Nan never asked, because if you asked they wondered what you were doing, idling when everyone else was busy and they would scold and kick you out of the kitchen. But if you said nothing and sat looking at Cook like a dog with huge, empty eyes and bubbles coming from the corner of your mouth, she would shake her head and mutter about unnatural parents who left their children to die in the open. And then she would sigh and murmur ”Poor lamb, poor shorn lamb, with thy poor frozen brains” and feed her sweetmeats and savoury scraps. And when poor Nan looked at the garments the ladies had made and pointed at them with childish glee, warbling ”Pretty ! Pretty !”, someone would take pity on her and give her something warm to wear, so that poor stupid Nan was never cold. Never cold, never hungry, never tired.

Because she was thought a simpleton, no one really paid attention. They saw what the expected to see. It had not taken Nan long to realize it.

Once, it was a windy summer day, the girls had wandered to the cliff with their knitwork to look over the sea at the ships. Nan had sat as usual doing nothing, or weaving crowns of flowers, rejoicing in the warm sunshine and the cool breeze. Then suddenly she had noticed a child coming perilously close to the edge as she followed a seabird, unconscious of the danger. The bird flapped its wings and hopped about, while the child clapped her hands and crowed in delight. It was one of those moments when Nan regretted her nothing-but-yelps-and-drool policy. She toyed with the idea of speaking out and later shrugging it off as a miracle, but years of silence were not broken so easily. So she had jumped up and down with frantic whimpers, rolling her eyes and pointing at the child with a wildly flaying arm, whimpering : ”Baby ! Baby !” But before they were aware of the danger it was too late. They saw the child disappear over the edge. Everyone one rushed to peer over the cliff top, and there she was, her fall arrested by a clump of broom on a small rock outcrop jutting out from the cliff, screaming her lungs out,  bruised and shocked but alive.

The outcrop was some fifty feet below, at the bottom of a sheer wall of grey rock. If the child had been older, she could easily have reached a narrow path a bit further down, but she was still almost a baby. If she moved the wrong way, she would simply crash down into the jaggy outcrops of granite at the bottom of the cliff. Everyone was shouting instructions at her, telling her not to move, to wait for someone, that it was all right as long as she stayed there, but the hysteria of the voices belied their reassurances. The child, who had sat screaming but motionless, now stood up and stretched her arms toward the faces peering at her. She was still rather wobbly on her legs, and there were yells of pure terror as she tottered backward. No one seemed to have any idea what to do.

Nan peered at the cliff face, and saw a small tree growing from a crevice in the vertical wall. It was small but old and tough, battered by storms and winds. Nan knew that its wood was flexible, otherwise its branches would have broken. She climbed gingerly down, testing the rubble of rocks with her foot before she put it firmly down. Then she reached the small tree and swarmed up the low trunk until she sat astride a long branch overhanging the precipice. Cautiously, she moved forward, clamping the branch with her thighs and using her hands to push herself forward. She did not look at the child. If she fell, there was nothing she could do. As she had hoped, the branch bent under her weight, but she could hear no ominous crack so she inched slowly forward, until her weight brought the tip of the bough close enough to the ledge were the child was still standing, watching her progress with round eyes, her sobs the only sound she made. A gust of wind blew the branch against the cliff, and Nan held for dear life as it started swinging wildly. She needed it to be still so she could let go and land straight on the ledge, not to close to the edge in case the impetus of her fall sent her reeling off.

There was silence from above. All she could hear was the crash of the surf below, the calls of the seagulls, the whisper of the wind. She fastened her arms around the branch, slipped her legs off, slowly working her body down until she hung suspended, waiting for the best moment to let go. In the end it was quite the anticlimax as she fell a few feet into a thick thicket of broom that cushioned her fall. She picked up the child, filtering out the shouts from above. Cautiously she made her way down the rocky incline, reaching the path without mishap. She put the child down, and started walking toward the village below. She guessed that the woman would take the long way around, and that someone would be coming to meet them. She wondered what they would say about her. Had she betrayed herself? Would they realize that she was not quite the idiot they thought?

As it turned out, she need not have worried. O, they were grateful and made much of her. But the way they told the story, Nan appeared as one of those faithful dogs that bounded down the cliffs looking for stray lambs. The episode did not shake their belief in her foolishness. They only needed to explain how it was that this particular simpleton had saved the day while other witnesses watched on helplessly. What they came up with was the conviction that anyone with half a brain would have known how dangerous it was to swing over the ledge and so have remained frozen at the top. 

That, from a crowd of twenty, not one had been dispatched to the castle to ask for help was not a sign of stupidity, but evidence of the emotion that had paralyzed highly strung females. Only a perfect idiot could have rushed ahead and blithely risked her life. Nan had dashed to the rescue because she did not understand what it was she was doing. She had acted out of instinct, like an animal. And like a faithful dog she had her head patted, and her bravery praised. ”Good girl, Nan, good girl !” The baby's father had said, pulling her wild hair and scratching her ears. She was fed like a princess and went wondering to bed, pondering a series of new insights into the workings of the human brain, and trying to figure out how she could use them to her advantage.

But that was a long time ago. Now that she was nearing eighteen, Nan suspected that her days of leisure were counted. Already the men looked at her differently. She was a well-known figure about the castle, and everyone knew her, but these days, when they caught sight of her,  they often did this funny double take, shaking their heads with a puzzled frown. That's not a pretty stranger! That's only foolish Nan Wool, born under a lambing ewe on a frosty spring day, what was I thinking? But when strangers saw her, they now followed her with longing eyes, sometimes with a smile, more often with a leer, when they did not whistle or try to paw her. But stupid Nan had a high sense of preservation, and if the men became too forward she would flop to the ground and thrash about with piercing shrieks utterly familiar to the inmates of castle Worsted and garanteed to send someone running to her rescue. They would help her up, and pet her, and scold the men. What were they thinking, bothering a poor idiot who did not know or understand what they wanted ? They ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Those days, when she looked at herself in a mirror – there was one in Lady Worsted's room, and no one cared if foolish Nan drooled to herself in front of it – she saw a new person being shaped from the clay of childhood. She had been a pretty child, had Nan, which had probably saved her life, for, face it, no one makes a pet out of an ugly idiot. Plain orphaned Nan would have lived a miserable life as a drudge, no one caring if she was abused or molested, but pretty Nan was a pleasant target for their charity and made them feel kind and generous. She had a round face and porcelain skin, large hazel eyes with tawny flecks that haloed her pupils like the rays of the sun on the Rambuctious coat of arms. Her hair was wild and unkempt, she saw to it, but when she had been a toddler, the girls had sometimes played dolls with her, brushing its wild tangles into wawy curls, until it became a thing of beauty that made everyone exclaim. Now she took care to wear shapeless garments to hide her growing body, walked hunched forward, face lowered, arms crossed over her stomach, muttering to herself and making faces that distorted her features. She was developing tics too, odd movements that made people uneasy so that they tended to look away.

But frankly, playing the idiot was getting to be a bore. Other people had to work for a living, but they had opportunities that a cretin did not have. As a life career, she now started to realize, being an idiot held no real prospects. Of course, she knew a lot of things and could still learn more, but how could she put this knowledge to use? She had sat with Lady Worsted's daughters and the other castle girls while they were taught how to read and write, and she had found it quite easy to learn. She even sometimes borrowed a book, and to everyone one's amusement, pretended to read with her tongue between her teeth, holding the book upside down and frowning in concentration. By the time she was six, she could read upside down with great ease. 

 For a time she really had believed that she was stupid, that her brains had been frozen at birth and never properly developed. But slowly she grew aware that she could understand things that other children found difficult, and gradually came to the realization that she was perhaps more intelligent than some. But she saw no point in sharing this insight. The septa who taught them was harsh and mean, she did not envy the scolds and the punishments other girls had to endure.

As an orphan child, she had found the best possible niche in the castle. As a woman grown, it might become simply intolerable. Why, even that fat ewe Purlybell who was so stupid she did not know her right from her left hand, had a more interesting life than she had. Purlybell had been to Winterfell, several times, where she had met the Starks and fallen in love with the Bastard. Everyone knew about her hopeless passion though she was so incredibly dim-witted that she thought it the best-kept secret in Castle Worsted. Nan longed to leave Worsted and travel the world. She wanted to drive along the King's Road and meet strangers, people that would not know her as stupid Nan and who would treat her like a human being, not a faithful dog. There were stories about, rumours of a girl with dragons. Riding a dragon ! Now that was something. Nan dreamt of ships sailing to far away lands, of caravans travelling the King's Road, of dragons flying around the world with a girl like her on their backs. But winter was coming, soon the roads to the North would be blocked by the snow and the roads to the South would become unsafe, full of brigands and perhaps even white walkers, if the news from the wall were true. If the winter was long, it might be another ten years before she could leave castle Worsted, and then she would be an old woman. 

Some of the women had picked up Purlybell and her chair, and they had slapped her back into awareness. Purlybell now sat sniffing in a miserable way. As for the Lady Worsted, she had been plunged by the news into a deep reverie from which she now emerged with a frown.

”This will be enough for tonight. Pack your needles and knitting and go downstairs. Septa Uturn will tell Cook to serve dinner earlier tonight. I will need to consult with the bannerets tomorrow. Leave !”

There was a shuffling and a scraping of chairs as they obeyed the Lady's command.

”Not you, Purlybell. Stay with me. And someone send for Lambert. I will see him too.”

Nan was shambling towards the door when the voice called her back.

”Stay here, Nan Wool. I'll have a word with you too.”

There were surprised looks and Nan pretended to misunderstand the order, looking about her with an expression of wonder but still taking a few uncertain steps towards the door. Someone held her by the arm and turned her towards Lady Worsted, not unkindly, but firmly enough, so Nan froze, her head crooked, her mouth slack, her eyes unseeing, a monument to imbecility. For a moment no one spoke while the murmur of voices receded behind the closed door.

Lady Worsted heaved a sigh. She had pushed her veil back and her eyes were looking at Nan, as if she could see straight through her. Nan uttered a feeble giggle. Lady Worsted sighed again.

”I need you to snap out of it, Nan. Now is not the time for playacting.” Everything stood still, even Nan's heart, it seemed. She scrutinized the Lady's face, but there was no animosity there. Only a faint air of expectation and impatience. Before Nan could think of an answer, she heard Purlybell wail.
”I can't, my Lady. I'm sorry. I can't.”

”I was not talking to you, Purlybell, though you are right, I wish you would snap out of whatever it is that has you sniffling like a schoolgirl. And if you want your crush on Jon Snow to remain a secret, you had better control yourself when his name is mentioned.” Purlybell's mouth formed a perfect O as she gave a little gasp. ”Well, Nan ?”

”How – how do you know ?” Lady Worsted's lips curled in a sheepish smile.


”What are the odds for someone who cannot read their letters to be systematically seen holding a book upside down ? I never made the mistake of taking you for an idiot, Nan Wool, please do not make the mistake of taking me me for a fool.”

samedi 19 mars 2016

A Song of Yarn and Fiber - Game of Crones - episode 2



PURLYBELL

Purlybell put down her work with a sigh of relief. She was done. She glanced at her companions, still bending over their needles and racing against time. The crones' skeletal fingers with their bulbous joints cantered like spider legs over their webs : loop yarn over with the index, push right needle with the middle finger, push left needle with thumb. One two three, one to three, loop push push, on an on it went, a race that led nowhere. Some of them were so blind that they could barely see the yarn, but they said needlewomen saw with their fingers. Once, Old Mary Lambkin had unknowingly knitted a loose lock of her grey hair into a sock, and the lock was so long that she never realized it until her knitting started pulling at her scalp. Or maybe that was just a story they told to pass time.


At night, they would exchange their work for less demanding tasks and easy stitches, garter, stockinet, ribs. During the day, when light was good, the women and girls would toil through the multi-colored patterns of yoked tabbards, with their rounded bands displaying the sigil of the great houses and, in smaller patterns, the sigil of the maker's house. Colors had to be right, obeying the rules of heraldry. The gold of Lannister lions was incompatible with the silver of the Lambrequin lamb's head, so Lambrequins never knitted for Casterly Rock. Rambuctious' golden ram, Ramrod's golden staff, or Ramkin's golden horn were the three sigils using the right metal, so their three houses mostly worked for the Lannisters. Mountain houses, they were, producing thick fleeces and thick, warm yarn that felted well. High range Lords were supposed to reach for the sun, a fact symbolised by the gold in their arms, just as the silver of valley Lords referred to the bright shining waters of rivers and lakes that provided verdant pastures where the thinner, softer yarns came from. The counter ermine of the Downs Lords stood for the black, white-spotted lambs for which the low hills were justly famous. House Hughes, house Hubert, house Utensil used counter ermine on their arms, and the bar sinister of House Utensil made for a pleasant pattern when it was repeated across the chest of a tabard. The counter ermine pattern was the one beginners were started on, for it was a soothing and repetitive one. The isles off the north coast were too small for grazing ; if one sheep wandered off too near the cliffs, the rest of the flock would follow, and end up falling off the edge into the sea, so they bred rabbits whose silky, water proof fiber worked well for baby clothes and millinery. House Hare was famous for its baby blankets and the sexual stamina of its Lords. Old Bunny Hare was said to have fathered scores of sons and daughters so that the name Yarn was a common one across the isles and along the coastline.  

Stupid Nan had lit a few lanterns and put them at intervals on the table. There was one in front of the Lady Worsted, which highlighted the clawmarks of time all over her face and made deep pits of shadow where the light could not reach. Purlybell eased her chair back, taking care not to make any noise or draw attention to herself. This was easy because she always sat at the end of the table, silent and unnoticed. Then she picked a dark garment from her bag and spread it over her lap, caressing it with her fingers under cover of the white Pyke sweater she had just completed, with its rich pattern of cables. The unfinished garment was black as night, black as crows' feathers, though without their lambent glint. She passed a loop of white yarn over her finger, enough to fool a casual glance, and looped another, black one, underneath. No one must know what she was doing. This was her private project, a secret known only to Lambeth Dram, who had figured out the pattern for her. 

Lambeth liked her because she was a good worker, and she never refused to experiment with his new ideas. They made a good team, he with his visions of extraordinary garments, she with her practical mind and expertise. Sometimes she would even suggest an idea to him, and felt a warm glow when he considered it in that dreamy way of his, his head at an angle so that his ear rested against his shoulder, his eyes half shut. Then if he had one of his visions, he would nod his head and disappear for a few days, before coming back with a bundle of drawings full of arrows and signs and figures to consult with her. But if he did not like your ideas, he was quite outspoken about it, no matter how humiliating for you. With a shudder she recalled his expression of revulsion when she had mentioned designing a sweater for Ghost, Lord Snow's direwolf.

”All in white,” she had protested, trying to put into words the radiant vision of the giant wolf in a merino cardigan, ”with a little hood, but with holes for the ears, and I thought a white pompom at the top.”

”Are you insane? A direwolf sporting a pompom?” Then he had seen the tears in her eyes and relented. ”Maybe the Lady Sansa would have liked something like that for her wolf, but not the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch!”

”It must be so cold up there, poor thing.”

”He's a wolf, not a child. If you wanted to please Lord Snow, you ought to knit something for him – no pompoms, mind!”

”Everyone is knitting socks for him. I wanted something different, something that would make him think kindly of me when he saw it.”

”A pair of longjohns,” he had suggested. And when she opened her mouth in protest, he had argued : ”Think about it, Purlybell, a sheer garnment of black wool and silk, knitted with 1.5 needles, worn next to his skin, hugging his whole lower body, his whole body even if you went for a one piece suit with a front and a back flap. What do you think ?” Her legs had wobbled beneath her at the thought.

When the then bastard of Winterfell had been sent to the Wall, his father, bless his soul and rot those who had murdered him, had sent for a team from Worsted to oversee his outfitting. As suppliers for the Night's Watch, they knew exactly what was needed. Purlybell had been part of the team. She loved to leave Worsted on this kind of errand. She was always selected because boys did not seem to bother her like they did other girls, a felicitous state of things which she attributed to her own modest behavior, as opposed to the come-hitherness of some. When she had raised the point with Lambert, however, he had shaken his head. He was not quite as clear as she could have wished in his answer, but it seemed to do with some quality about her which discouraged boys from being forward. Or perhaps which failed to raise in them the idea of being forward.

Well, no matter what it was, she had traveled to Winterfell, and though she had not (much as she would have liked it) taken his measurements, she had come close enough to the Bastard to be hopelessly smitten by his rugged good looks, the dark, melancholy eyes, the full lips, the wavy brown hair with its highlights. Most boys showed their respect by totally ignoring her, which was irksome at times. She would not have minded a few sidelong glances, a blush or two, a faint sigh. But the Bastard had looked straight into her eyes and spoken kindly to her. When she had asked him if he liked his socks with a lined or unlined heel, he had answered :”Whatever is most convenient for you.” Those were the most romantic words anyone had ever spoken to her. When she was certain no one could overhear, she would whisper them to herself, a haunting, erotic lullaby. Behind the pleasant facade, however, she had been able to feel the sadness radiating from him, but was helpless to do anything about it, although she was convinced that she could have made him happy. It was ironic that she should have met him just when he was about to take a vow of celibacy that would put him forever beyond her reach.

”What did you expect him to do? Elope with you and come back to Worsted to design male knitwear?” Lambert had shown no sympathy when she disclosed her sad story to him. He had been brusque and impatient, rather than absent-minded as usual. She had nodded miserably. Of course not. Bastard or not, Jon Snow had been raised to become a knight, and she would go back to Worsted with a broken heart and the knowledge that he would never know it was she who had darned his best pair of socks with such exquisite stitches. Each jab of her needle had seemed to pierce her heart, not to mention that she had pricked her finger and bled all over the heel of his sock.

There was a knock at the door and a draught as it was pushed open, the newcomer never waiting for an answer.
”It's the Maester, m'Lady, he sent me to tell you there had been a raven from the Wall.”

Purlybell's heart jumped and came to knock against the back of her teeth.

”For my ears only?” Lady Worsted demanded. She was rumored to have been a beauty once, for whom men had fought and died. Now she was an old woman who wore black draperies and a black widow veil that hid her hair and part of her face. She was like a dark ghost, moved like one, and people went in fear of her. She did not raise her only visible eye from her work, but all the inmates of the room knew that she was aware of them with a keenness almost supernatural. The needles, for once, were silent.

”No M'Lady. The Maester said it should be public knowledge. The white walkers have waged a battle against the wildlings at Hardhome, and the many killed have now risen again and joined their army.” There was a collective gasp of horror, and the clink of falling needles dropped from suddenly nerveless hands.

”Is that all?” There was no discernible emotion in Lady Worsted's voice.

”No my Lady. The young Lord Commander - ” The boy's voice broke and he had to clear his throat. After a short silence he resumed :”He was killed, M'Lady. Killed by his brothers of the Night's Watch.”


There was a loud crash as Purlybell fell insensate to the ground.  

vendredi 18 mars 2016

A Song of Yarn and Fiber - Game of Crones - episode 1



The sun was sinking behind the top of the North keep, small puffs of rosy clouds unravelling like beginners' samples in the evening breeze. Soon the daylight would be too dim to see by, and lamps would have to be lit, a job for idiot Nan who could be trusted with menial tasks but was herself too dim too wield a needle and might hurt herself with a crochet. 

Purlybell's fingers danced their intricate moves, white yarn looped around her index, gossamer gold wire around her middle finger, needles flashing in the waning daylight. Knit two together, make one, skip one, knit one, pass slipped stitch over, make one, knit five, purl two. It was like a song, a song of wool and wire, and you could not miss a stitch or you would have to unravel the whole blooming thing and start all over again. Her back ached, her mind ached, her arms and fingers ached, but she knew it would be another two hours before they could stop. And no one dared protest, for if they did, the old crone who presided over their toil would only say, in that hoarse, rasping voice that could serve to card the fleece of a shaggy boar, Winter is coming.

Winter was coming. The white raven from the citadel said so, the morning frosts that turned spiders' webs into crystal crochet doilies said so, and so did the yellowing ears of thingum, the bloated gourds, the dying roses. Winter was coming, and with it the huge increase in demand for socks and warm woollies. All the other houses were busy making war. In their blindness and pride, they wasted the precious shortening days ravaging the land and slaughtering its people. Only House Worsted watched and prepared for the long night. 

In summer they had little enough knitting to do, apart from socks for the Night Watch or crocheted bikinis and caftans for Dorne. Besides, summer was the season of shearing and washing fleeces, carding the wool, or spinning yarn. It was the time when the Maester had boys and girls run the countryside gathering herbs, barks, pollens, earth and stone that would be boiled or ground into tinctures. No other house could produce the deep blood red dye favoured by House Lannister from the dung of the crimson beetle, the green of Highgarden from yellow pollen mixed with blue firestone, the deep black of Winterfell from the gall of bats – though Lady Worsted had sworn she would see her house burnt and razed before she knitted even one sock for the likes of the Bolton usurper. But no matter what the season was, spring or summer, autumn or winter, the old women were always at work, plying their needles and crochets, turning the yarns into socks and stockings, caps, mufflers, mittens, capes, thin pullovers that could be worn under an armour or bulky ones over a leather jacket. In Winter they were joinded by their daughters and grand-daughters, so they too would learn, although they reserved themselves the most difficult tasks while girls who had not yet lost their baby fat made the easy ones, like mufflers in garter stitch. 

But the young ones were restless, and some wondered. What was the use of knitting socks for dead bodies ? For who would buy their stock when so many had died ? Renly Baratheon's forces at the battle of the Nera, The King in the North and his army at the red wedding, Stannis Baratheon and his army before Winterfell. To say nothing of the poor, uprooted by war, pillage and slaughters, dying in ditches all over Westeros. And if the white walkers crossed the wall, for sure they would not need mittens or slippers. Still the old women knitted in silence, only pausing to rasp their throats and murmur,Winter is coming. And the other crones would nod their heads and whisper Winter is coming, Winter is coming, knitting heel flaps and gussets with flying arthritic fingers. 

The flag of House Worsted flew over the keep, a silver distaff on a sable field. Ever since the death of Warp Worsted, the sheep killer, only women had inherited the title. Mad Warp Worsted, it was rumoured, had been in love with a ewe, and finding her in a compromising situation with a ram, had endeavoured to slaughter his flock in a mad, revengeful spree of thwarted lust. Fortunately for House Worsted, his daughter, Jenny (they called her spinning Jenny, so nimble were her fingers) had stuck him through the heart with a pair of shearing scissors before he could carry out his mad plan. Then she had put his head on a distaff and planted it over the main gate, as a warning for would-be sheep killers or ewe rapists to desist. 

Not a voice was raised in defense of Mad Warp, but in the next weeks and months, a steady stream of bannerets had flowed into Castle Fleece to pay homage to the new Duchess. Sheep were revered through the West Downs, and a man who slept with a ewe and killed woolly lambs deserved what he had got. Jenny, poor Jenny, warm as a beanie, did not live long to enjoy the fruits of her parricide. Six months later, she died giving birth to a daughter whom they called Eunice, although they were not sure what her mother had been babbling about in the end, and some said she should have been named Eustacie.

 Be that as it might, six months had been enough to woo the Downs to the advantages of matriarchy. Jenny's husband was pensioned off, her mother, the dowager Lady Worsted, became the regent, and under her iron rule (an iron hand in a cashmere mitten was what they called her) Worsted flourished as a center for the wool trade. 



Many a youth who had been wilting at the prospect of training as a knight and been offered the possibility to go into knitwear design instead had done so enthusiastically. In the past, Worsted had bred sheep and exported wool, but now it bought wool from its neighbours and sold it back as manufactured goods to immense benefits. Cash flowed into the dukedom, merchants from all over the world sent caravans and agents, and the Bank of Braavos opened a branch on the Market Place that did a brisk business. Winter was coming, and so was business.