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Heresy 219 and a whisper of Winter

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Posted (edited)
On 3/30/2019 at 5:31 PM, JNR said:

If so, then Ned himself certainly did not see a wight (Lyanna) only fifteen years before.

I doubt that Lyanna was a wight, yet I am also not convinced that Ned has never seen one. Lyanna has too much imagery of cold and ice around her death, that I can't put the idea to rest that one was in proximity. Not when they are connected through cold.

Ned also avoids the topic when Robert curses "the Others take ..." three times. 

 

Edited by SirArthur

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38 minutes ago, SirArthur said:

I doubt that Lyanna was a wight, yet I am also not convinced that Ned has never seen one. Lyanna has too much imagery of cold and ice around her death, that I can put the idea to rest that one was in proximity. Not when they are connected through cold.

Ned also avoids the topic when Robert curses "the Others take ..." three times. 

 

Well, he heard strange tales from the NW guy he executed (who's name escapes me at the moment); which he put down to insanity (but executed him anyway).  That's followed up by strange tales from Benjen which the reader doesn't hear about specifically.  I'm guessing that Ned could dismiss one but not the other although he is skeptical since he hasn't seen anything with his own eyes.  

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Posted (edited)
3 hours ago, SirArthur said:

I doubt that Lyanna was a wight, yet I am also not convinced that Ned has never seen one.

As I understand it, the premise is that

1. Lyanna was a supernatural entity Ned doesn't think has been seen for eight thousand years, who

2. Was already undead when he found her, hence having black hands, and who

3. Then died (but how does that make any sense? I thought she was already undead) because of 

4. A "fever taking her strength" (but wights are already dead), and then

5. Ned held her "body," racked with "grief," even though

6. Nothing had changed since she was already dead, and she could even still think and talk because

7. She wasn't just any wight, but a special Coldhands type of wight

8. Yet despite being a special Coldhands type of wight, who cannot be killed because "they killed him long ago," Lyanna has never said or done anything in the story, in any context at all, since the scene Ned recalls in which he tells us, outright, that

Quote

she gave up her hold on life

And if one also thinks Lyanna is Jon's mother, then one thinks a corpse like Coldhands could somehow incubate a warm and living baby within itself.  This, of course, is a ludicrous idea.

Given all these contradictions, I am quite satisfied Lyanna was not a wight.

3 hours ago, SirArthur said:

Lyanna has too much imagery of cold and ice around her death

What imagery is that? 

What Ned's memories establish is that she died in a room that smelled of blood and roses, with Ned holding her hand, of a condition involving a fever.  I don't see any cold or ice in this situation. 

Fevers are associated with excess heat, not excess cold.  Coldhands, after all, is not known as Hothands. 

So if Lyanna was a feverish talking undead wight who died of an illness while extremely worried about her recently-born baby, she is surely the first example of such a thing -- not just in the world of ASOIAF, but more broadly, the world of human imagination going back many thousands of years.

Edited by JNR

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3 hours ago, SirArthur said:

I doubt that Lyanna was a wight, yet I am also not convinced that Ned has never seen one. Lyanna has too much imagery of cold and ice around her death, that I can't put the idea to rest that one was in proximity. Not when they are connected through cold.

Ned also avoids the topic when Robert curses "the Others take ..." three times. 

There's also the line in the fever dream: "A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death." 

That phrase "Eyes of death" has always stood out to me. The legends in the North also preserve that the Others have blue eyes, but not as their defining feature. It is only the people that see them that the eye color becomes that feature. IDK, I just think it is odd that Ned thinks of the eyes of death, but doesn't believe in the Others. 

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Posted (edited)
25 minutes ago, Janneyc1 said:

There's also the line in the fever dream: "A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death." 

That phrase "Eyes of death" has always stood out to me. The legends in the North also preserve that the Others have blue eyes, but not as their defining feature. It is only the people that see them that the eye color becomes that feature. IDK, I just think it is odd that Ned thinks of the eyes of death, but doesn't believe in the Others. 

That line is fraught with symbolism. I would even argue that the laurel that Rhaegar placed in Lyanna's lap wasn't blue nor did it have any hidden thorns. The color blue just means it led to her death and the hidden thorns are a metaphor for not fully realizing the danger behind the "honor". The blue rose petals blowing across a blood-streaked sky is the aftermath of the rebellion - all the violence and blood-drenched casualties. Ned discovered that the rebellion was without honor after they had already won, and that deception cost him his father, brother, and sister. He also didn't get to marry the woman he was in love with and desired (Ashara) and was forced to marry for duty (Catelyn). 

Edited by Feather Crystal

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I’m going to hope this copied correctly  I pulled a couple of passages I was working on quite a while ago, but the only place I had them stored was my old forum. I think that these also fit into the pattern that is being seen in the prologues  Honestly, my working title was “The Story Within the Story.”  The passage with Jon especially, imho is a retelling of the natural history of Westeros   Especially the weirwoods and Others, possibly dragons as well  This story isn’t just throughout the prologues, it’s woven into the entire story over and over again only slightly different each time. 

 

Yet he must have dozed. When he woke, his legs were stiff and cramped and the candle had long since burned out. Ghost stood on his hind legs, scrabbling at the door. Jon was startled to see how tall he’d grown. [br]“Ghost, what is it?” he called softly. The direwolf turned his head and looked down at him, baring his fangs in a silent snarl. Has he gone mad? Jon wondered. “It’s me, Ghost,” he murmured, trying not to sound afraid. Yet he was trembling, violently. When had it gotten so cold? [br]Ghost backed away from the door. There were deep gouges where he’d raked the wood. Jon watched him with mounting disquiet. “There’s someone out there, isn’t there?” he whispered. Crouching, the direwolf crept backward, white fur rising on the back of his neck. The guard, he thought, they left a man to guard my door, Ghost smells him through the door, that’s all it is. [br]Slowly, Jon pushed himself to his feet. He was shivering uncontrollably, wishing he still had a sword. Three quick steps brought him to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled it inward. The creak of the hinges almost made him jump. [br]His guard was sprawled bonelessly across the narrow steps, looking up at him. Looking up at him, even though he was lying on his stomach. His head had been twisted completely around. It can’t be, Jon told himself. This is the Lord Commander’s Tower, it’s guarded day and night, this couldn’t happen, it’s a dream, I’m having a nightmare. [br]Ghost slid past him, out the door. The wolf started up the steps, stopped, looked back at Jon. That was when he heard it; the soft scrape of a boot on stone, the sound of a latch turning. The sounds came from above. From the Lord Commander’s chambers. [br]A nightmare this might be, yet it was no dream. [br]The guard’s sword was in its sheath. Jon knelt and worked it free. The heft of steel in his fist made him bolder. He moved up the steps, Ghost padding silently before him.[span style="color:rgb(0, 0, 255);font-family:georgia;font-size:large;"] [/span][span style="color:rgb(0, 0, 255);font-family:georgia;font-size:large;"]Shadows lurked in every turn of the stair.[/span][span style="color:rgb(0, 0, 255);font-family:georgia;font-size:large;"]  [/span][span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:large;"]Jon [/span][span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:large;"]crept up warily, probing any suspicious darkness with the point of his sword.[/span] Suddenly he heard the shriek of Mormont’s raven. “Corn,” the bird was screaming. “Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn.” Ghost bounded ahead, and Jon came scrambling after. The door to Mormont’s solar was wide open. The direwolf plunged through. Jon stopped in the doorway, blade in hand, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. Heavy drapes had been pulled across the windows, and the darkness was black as ink. “Who’s there?” he called out. [br]Then he saw it, a shadow in the shadows, sliding toward the inner door that led to Mormont’s sleeping cell, a man-shape all in black, cloaked and hooded…but beneath the hood, its eyes shone with an icy blue radiance… [br]Ghost leapt. Man and wolf went down together with neither scream nor snarl, rolling, smashing into a chair, knocking over a table laden with papers. Mormont’s raven was flapping overhead, screaming, “Corn, corn, corn, corn.” Jon felt as blind as Maester Aemon. Keeping the wall to his back, he slid toward the window and ripped down the curtain. Moonlight flooded the solar. He glimpsed black hands buried in white fur, swollen dark fingers tightening around his direwolf’s throat. Ghost was twisting and snapping, legs flailing in the air, but he could not break free. [br]Jon had no time to be afraid. He threw himself forward, shouting, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. Steel sheared through sleeve and skin and bone, yet the sound was wrong somehow. The smell that engulfed him was so queer and cold he almost gagged. He saw arm and hand on the floor, black fingers wriggling in a pool of moonlight. Ghost wrenched free of the other hand and crept away, red tongue lolling from his mouth. [br]The hooded man lifted his pale moon face, and Jon slashed at it without hesitation. The sword laid the intruder open to the bone, taking off half his nose and opening a gash cheek to cheek under those eyes, eyes, eyes like blue stars burning. Jon knew that face. Othor, he thought, reeling back. Gods, he’s dead, he’s dead, I saw him dead. [br]He felt something scrabble at his ankle. Black fingers clawed at his calf. The arm was crawling up his leg, ripping at wool and flesh. Shouting with revulsion, Jon pried the fingers off his leg with the point of his sword and flipped the thing away. It lay writhing, fingers opening and closing. [br]The corpse lurched forward. There was no blood. One-armed, face cut near in half, it seemed to feel nothing. Jon held the longsword before him. “Stay away!” he commanded, his voice gone shrill. “Corn,” screamed the raven, “corn, corn.” The severed arm was wriggling out of its torn sleeve, a pale snake with a black five-fingered head. Ghost pounced and got it between his teeth. Finger bones crunched. Jon hacked at the corpse’s neck, felt the steel bite deep and hard. [br]Dead Othor slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. [br]Jon’s breath went out of him as the fallen table caught him between his shoulder blades. The sword, where was the sword? He’d lost the damned sword! When he opened his mouth to scream, the wight jammed its black corpse fingers into Jon’s mouth. Gagging, he tried to shove it off, but the dead man was too heavy. Its hand forced itself farther down his throat, icy cold, choking him. Its face was against his own, filling the world. Frost covered its eyes, sparkling blue. Jon raked cold flesh with his nails and kicked at the thing’s legs. He tried to bite, tried to punch, tried to breathe…[br] And suddenly the corpse’s weight was gone, its fingers ripped from his throat. It was all Jon could do to roll over, retching and shaking. Ghost had it again. He watched as the direwolf buried his teeth in the wight’s gut and began to rip and tear. He watched, only half conscious, for a long moment before he finally remembered to look for his sword… [br]…and saw Lord Mormont, naked and groggy from sleep, standing in the doorway with an oil lamp in hand. Gnawed and fingerless, the arm thrashed on the floor, wriggling toward him. [br]Jon tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he kicked the arm away and snatched the lamp from the Old Bear’s fingers. The flame flickered and almost died. “Burn!” the raven cawed. “Burn, burn, burn!” [br]Spinning, Jon saw the drapes he’d ripped from the window. He flung the lamp into the puddled cloth with both hands. Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and the hangings went up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jon had ever known. “Ghost!” he shouted. [br]The direwolf wrenched free and came to him as the wight struggled to rise, dark snakes spilling from the great wound in its belly. Jon plunged his hand into the flames, grabbed a fistful of the burning drapes, and whipped them at the dead man. Let it burn, he prayed as the cloth smothered the corpse, gods, please, please, let it burn.[br][br][br]

[br][br][br][br]

“Young boys and old men die the same.” Ser Amory raised a lanquid fist, and a spear came hurtling from the fire-bright shadows behind. Yoren must have been the target, but it was Woth beside him who was hit. The spearhead went in his throat and exploded out the back of his neck, dark and wet. Woth grabbed at the shaft, and fell boneless from the walk. [br]“Storm the walls and kill them all,” Ser Amory said in a bored voice. More spears flew. [br]Arya yanked down Hot Pie by the back of his tunic. From outside came the rattle of armor, the scrape of swords on scabbards, the banging of spears on shields, mingled with curses and the hoofbeats of racing horses. A torch sailed spinning above their heads, trailing fingers of fire as it thumped down in the dirt of the yard. [br]“Blades!” Yoren shouted. “Spread apart, defend the wall wherever they hit. Koss, Urreg, hold the postern. Lommy, pull that spear out of Woth and get up where he was.” [br]Hot Pie dropped his shortsword when he tried to unsheath it. Arya shoved the blade back into his hand. “I don’t know how to swordfight,” he said, white-eyed. [br]“It’s easy,” Arya said, but the lie died in her throat as a hand grasped the top of the parapet. She saw it by the light of the burning town, so clear that it was as if time had stopped. The fingers were blunt, callused, wiry black hairs grew between the knuckles, there was dirt under the nail of the thumb. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she remembered as the top of a pothelm loomed up behind the hand. [br]She slashed down hard, and Needle’s castle-forged steel bit into the grasping fingers between the knuckles. “Winterfell!” she screamed. Blood spurted, fingers flew, and the helmed face vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. [br]“Behind!” Hot Pie yelled. [br]Arya whirled. The second man was bearded and helmetless, his dirk between his teeth to leave both hands free for climbing. As he swung his leg over the parapet, she drove her point at his eyes. Needle never touched him; he reeled backward and fell. I hope he falls on his face and cuts off his tongue. “Watch them, not me!” she screamed at Hot Pie. [br]The next time someone tried to climb their part of the wall, the boy hacked at his hands with his shortsword until the man dropped away. [br]Ser Amory had no ladders, but the holdfast walls were rough-cut and unmortared, easy to climb, and there seemed to be no end to the foes. For each one Arya cut or stabbed or shoved back, another was coming over the wall. The knight in the spiked helm reached the rampart, but Yoren tangled his black banner around his spike, and forced the point of his dirk through his armor while the man was fighting the cloth. Every time Arya looked up, more torches were flying, trailing long tongues of flame that lingered behind her eyes. She saw a gold lion on a red banner and thought of Joffrey, wishing he was here so she could drive Needle through his sneery face. When four men assaulted the gate with axes, Koss shot them down with arrows, one by one. Dobber wrestled a man off the walk, and Lommy smashed his head with a rock before he could rise, and hooted until he saw the knife in Dobber’s belly and realized he wouldn’t be getting up either. Arya jumped over a dead boy no older than Jon, lying with his arm cut off. She didn’t think she’d done it, but she wasn’t sure. She heard Qyle beg for mercy before a knight with a wasp on his shield smashed his face in with a spiked mace. Everything smelled of blood and smoke and iron and piss, but after a time it seemed like that was only one smell. She never saw how the skinny man got over the wall, but when he did she fell on him with Gendry and Hot Pie. Gendry’s sword shattered on the man’s helm, tearing it off his head. Underneath he was bald and scared-looking, with missing teeth and a speckly grey beard, but even as she was feeling sorry for him she was killing him, shouting, “Winterfell! Winterfell!” while Hot Pie screamed “Hot Pie!” beside her as he hacked at the man’s scrawny neck. [br]When the skinny man was dead, Gendry stole his sword and leapt down into the yard to fight some more. Arya looked past him, and saw steel shadows running through the holdfast, firelight shining off mail and blades, and she knew that they’d gotten over the wall somewhere, or broken through at the postern. She jumped down beside Gendry, landing the way Syrio had taught her. The night rang to the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded and dying. For a moment Arya stood uncertain, not knowing which way to go. Death was all around her. [br]And then Yoren was there, shaking her, screaming in her face. “Boy!” he yelled, the way he always yelled it. “Get out, it’s done, we’ve lost. Herd up all you can, you and him and the others, the boys, you get them out. Now!” [br]“How?” Arya said. [br]“That trap,” he screamed. “Under the barn.” [br]Quick as that he was gone, off to fight, sword in hand. Arya grabbed Gendry by the arm. “He said go,” she shouted, “the barn, the way out.” Through the slits of his helm, the Bull’s eyes shone with reflected fire. He nodded. They called Hot Pie down from the wall and found Lommy Greenhands where he lay bleeding from a spear thrust through his calf. They found Gerren too, but he was hurt too bad to move. As they were running toward the barn, Arya spied the crying girl sitting in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by smoke and slaughter. She grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to her feet as the others raced ahead. The girl wouldn’t walk, even when slapped. Arya dragged her with her right hand while she held Needle in the left. Ahead, the night was a sullen red. The barn’s on fire, she thought. Flames were licking up its sides from where a torch had fallen on straw, and she could hear the screaming of the animals trapped within. Hot Pie stepped out of the barn. “Arry, come on! Lommy’s gone, leave her if she won’t come!” [br]Stubbornly, Arya dragged all the harder, pulling the crying girl along. Hot Pie scuttled back inside, abandoning them … but Gendry came back, the fire shining so bright on his polished helm that the horns seemed to glow orange. He ran to them, and hoisted the crying girl up over his shoulder. “Run!” Rushing through the barn doors was like running into a furnace. The air was swirling with smoke, the back wall a sheet of fire ground to roof. Their horses and donkeys were kicking and rearing and screaming. The poor animals, Arya thought. Then she saw the wagon, and the three men manacled to its bed. Biter was flinging himself against the chains, blood running down his arms from where the irons clasped his wrists. Rorge screamed curses, kicking at the wood. “Boy!” called Jaqen H’ghar. “Sweet boy!” [br]The open trap was only a few feet ahead, but the fire was spreading fast, consuming the old wood and dry straw faster than she would have believed. Arya remembered the Hound’s horrible burned face. “Tunnel’s narrow,” Gendry shouted. “How do we get her through?” [br]“Pull her,” Arya said. “Push her.” [br]“Good boys, kind boys,” called Jaqen H’ghar, coughing. [br]“Get these fucking chains off!” Rorge screamed. [br]Gendry ignored them. “You go first, then her, then me. Hurry, it’s a long way.” [br]“When you split the firewood,” Arya remembered, “where did you leave the axe?” [br]“Out by the haven.” He spared a glance for the chained men. “I’d save the donkeys first. There’s no time.” [br]“You take her!” she yelled. “You get her out! You do it!” The fire beat at her back with hot red wings as she fled the burning barn. It felt blessedly cool outside, but men were dying all around her. She saw Koss throw down his blade to yield, and she saw them kill him where he stood. Smoke was everywhere. There was no sign of Yoren, but the axe was where Gendry had left it, by the woodpile outside the haven. As she wrenched it free, a mailed hand grabbed her arm. Spinning, Arya drove the head of the axe hard between his legs. She never saw his face, only the dark blood seeping between the links of his hauberk. Going back into that barn was the hardest thing she ever did. Smoke was pouring out the open door like a writhing black snake, and she could hear the screams of the poor animals inside, donkeys and horses and men. She chewed her lip, and darted through the doors, crouched low where the smoke wasn’t quite so thick. [br]A donkey was caught in a ring of fire, shrieking in terror and pain. She could smell the stench of burning hair. The roof was gone up too, and things were falling down, pieces of flaming wood and bits of straw and hay. Arya put a hand over her mouth and nose. She couldn’t see the wagon for the smoke, but she could still hear Biter screaming. She crawled toward the sound. [br]And then a wheel was looming over her. The wagon jumped and moved a half foot when Biter threw himself against his chains again. Jaqen saw her, but it was too hard to breathe, let alone talk. She threw the axe into the wagon. Rorge caught it and lifted it over his head, rivers of sooty sweat pouring down his noseless face. Arya was running, coughing. She heard the steel crash through the old wood, and again, again. An instant later came a crack as loud as thunder, and the bottom of the wagon came ripping loose in an explosion of splinters. [br]Arya rolled headfirst into the tunnel and dropped five feet. She got dirt in her mouth but she didn’t care, the taste was fine, the taste was mud and water and worms and life. Under the earth the air was cool and dark. Above was nothing but blood and roaring red and choking smoke and the screams of dying horses. She moved her belt around so Needle would not be in her way, and began to crawl. A dozen feet down the tunnel she heard the sound, like the roar of some monstrous beast, and a cloud of hot smoke and black dust came billowing up behind her, smelling of hell. Arya held her breath and kissed the mud on the floor of the tunnel and cried. For whom, she could not say.

[/quote][br]

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On 3/28/2019 at 2:40 PM, The Snowfyre Chorus said:

Actually, I'd put him more in the "Black Roses Matter" demographic.

 

On 3/28/2019 at 3:04 PM, The Snowfyre Chorus said:

Theory

 

LMAO. I knew there was a reason that I missed you. B)

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Not sure what the rules are about Fire and Blood. But there’s another split army during the Dornish Conquest. I’ll spoiler the quote. 

Spoiler

Elsewhere, Orys Baratheon led one thousand picked knights up the Boneway, whilst Aegon himself marched through the Prince’s Pass at the head of an army thirty thousand strong, led by near two thousand mounted knights and three hundred lords and bannermen. Lord Harlan Tyrell, the Warden of the South, was heard to say that they had more than enough power to smash any Dornish army that tried to stand before them, even without Aegon and Balerion.

 

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On 3/17/2019 at 1:21 PM, LynnS said:

Also central to this thinking is that Jon must have Targ blood.  @wolfmaid7 will be interested to know that Orys Baratheon was Aegon the Conqueror's bastard half-brother, according to Fire and Blood.

 

Hi LynnnS,i always found it interesting Maester Aemon's notion to reject Stannis as AA on account of the sword having been wrong. He to thought it was Stannis because he was the Grandson of Egg's little girl Rhaella. So, I do think Targ blood comes into play and it would go into what GRRM had said on the heads of the Dragon not needing to be Targ. All they have to be is be Dragonseed which the Baratheons are and Jon Snow is by way of Robert.

Glad to see you hun :)

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2 hours ago, wolfmaid7 said:

Hi LynnnS,i always found it interesting Maester Aemon's notion to reject Stannis as AA on account of the sword having been wrong. He to thought it was Stannis because he was the Grandson of Egg's little girl Rhaella. So, I do think Targ blood comes into play and it would go into what GRRM had said on the heads of the Dragon not needing to be Targ. All they have to be is be Dragonseed which the Baratheons are and Jon Snow is by way of Robert.

Glad to see you hun :)

Well a bit further on in my reading; it turns out he died without issue.  However the notion of 'dragonseed' is quite firm.  The Targs were liberal with their affections and it seems that dragonseed is rife in the general population.  It also seems that the dragons themselves, choose who can ride them and it isn't always clear that pureblood Targs are a requirement.   

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On 4/1/2019 at 11:33 AM, Janneyc1 said:

There's also the line in the fever dream: "A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death." 

That phrase "Eyes of death" has always stood out to me. The legends in the North also preserve that the Others have blue eyes, but not as their defining feature. It is only the people that see them that the eye color becomes that feature. IDK, I just think it is odd that Ned thinks of the eyes of death, but doesn't believe in the Others. 

This is coupled with a blood streaked sky.  This seems to be the prescient part of the dream since I would say this refers to the red comet (dragons) and the undead wights.  The storm representing war and the petals falling off the dead rose linking the rose in the Wall to Jon Snow perhaps.   

The question of a fever dream even if it is a recurring dream when fever isn't present is also interesting.  Fever implies illness or injury.  This is an old dream and when was Ned ill?  Perhaps he received some injury at the ToJ we haven't been told about.  After all, it sounds like Arthur Dayne would have killed him if it hadn't been for Howland.  I'm not sure that Ned emerged from that fight unscathed.

Is it possible that Ned himself came near to death?  Lyssa Arryn believes that when someone is close to death they are sometimes given a glimpse of the future.  Or at least she interprets this about Jon Arryn's fever ramblings about her own son.  

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3 hours ago, LynnS said:

Well a bit further on in my reading; it turns out he died without issue.  However the notion of 'dragonseed' is quite firm.  The Targs were liberal with their affections and it seems that dragonseed is rife in the general population.  It also seems that the dragons themselves, choose who can ride them and it isn't always clear that pureblood Targs are a requirement.   

I agree that the Dragons "choose" the rider, and I also agree that the individual need not be "full Targ," which is another story as I am of the belief that the Targs were Skinchangers themselves. I don't have my WB with me but the definition is anyone that can meld their spirit or so with an animal. While the name varies, it seems in principle we are dealing with the same type of individuals.

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8 minutes ago, wolfmaid7 said:

I agree that the Dragons "choose" the rider, and I also agree that the individual need not be "full Targ," which is another story as I am of the belief that the Targs were Skinchangers themselves. I don't have my WB with me but the definition is anyone that can meld their spirit or so with an animal. While the name varies, it seems in principle we are dealing with the same type of individuals.

In Fire and Blood, the Targs themselves refer to these children as dragonseed.  Wasn't it you who first coined that phrase?  I seem to recall some threads on that very subject.  And I don't recall the term used at all in the main books.  

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2 minutes ago, LynnS said:

In Fire and Blood, the Targs themselves refer to these children as dragonseed.  Wasn't it you who first coined that phrase?  I seem to recall some threads on that very subject.  And I don't recall the term used at all in the main books.  

The term wasn't in the main books but in the books that had the green and reds. I didn't buy it. It spoke of how Dragonstone was littered with Dragonseed as the Targs were looking for Riders during the conflict.

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7 minutes ago, wolfmaid7 said:

The term wasn't in the main books but in the books that had the green and reds. I didn't buy it. It spoke of how Dragonstone was littered with Dragonseed as the Targs were looking for Riders during the conflict.

That's right.  That's confirmed in Fire and Blood.  Interesting that you picked that up or it was picked from you.  LOL!

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I was actually surprised when I searched "dragonseed" within A Search of Ice and Fire and nothing came up in the five books, but it does come up a number of times in The World Book under Aegon II:

Quote

On Dragonstone, where the Targaryens had long ruled, the common folk had seen their beautiful, foreign rulers almost as gods. Many maids deflowered by Targaryen lords accounted themselves blessed if a "dragonseed" was planted in their womb, and for this reason there were many on Dragonstone who could rightly claim—or at least suspect—that some Targaryen blood ran in their veins.

Quote

When Rhaenyra learned of the betrayal of Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White at First Tumbleton, where they turned their dragons against her forces, her rage was such that she tried to arrest the other dragonseed who had taken dragons at her behest. Among them was Addam Velaryon, but he was forewarned by the Sea Snake, and so escaped.

Quote

 

Good Queen Alysanne's dragon, mounted by a dragonseed and betrayer, survived him and the Dance both, but became wild and made her lair in an isle in Red Lake.

SEASMOKE: Once Ser Laenor Velaryon's dragon, mounted by a dragonseed, killed by Vermithor at Second Tumbleton.

VERMITHOR (Ser Hugh Hammer): Old and hoary, the Old King's mount, mounted by a dragonseed and betrayer, killed in battle with Seasmoke and Tessarion at Second Tumbleton.

SHEEPSTEALER (Nettles): A wild dragon tamed by a dragonseed, vanished at war's end.

 

 

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On 4/12/2019 at 11:38 AM, LynnS said:

The question of a fever dream even if it is a recurring dream when fever isn't present is also interesting.  Fever implies illness or injury.  This is an old dream and when was Ned ill?  Perhaps he received some injury at the ToJ we haven't been told about.  After all, it sounds like Arthur Dayne would have killed him if it hadn't been for Howland.  I'm not sure that Ned emerged from that fight unscathed.

Is it possible that Ned himself came near to death?  Lyssa Arryn believes that when someone is close to death they are sometimes given a glimpse of the future.  Or at least she interprets this about Jon Arryn's fever ramblings about her own son.  

More recently, I have come to think that there wasn't a fight at the ToJ, or if there was, Lyanna wasn't there. I personally fall into the RL=D camp, but I think that RL happened in Winterfell, maybe the crypts. Perhaps Ned found something in the crypts and was injured there? I've long speculated that Winterfell is a prison to hold the Great Other. 

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