Game Of Thrones
“We were told there was a witness, a girl.”
“A niece. Of yours, I believe”
Peter Baelish -tensely- lets loose the fact: “A girl of no learning and scattered wits, I assure you.”
The Lords Declarant firmly decline in all but name. “We would like to speak with her”
PB: “Let me go fetch her”
The Lady Declarant : “No need. We prefer to hear her story unadulterated”
The emphasis -and the ramifications – on the word ‘adult’ in adulterated.
I’m amused, at the striking semantics of the word. Adults.
Adults adulterate innocence.
As if they overlook/dislike (and in my case are ashamed) of the fact that they ever were innocent..
I already know that Peter Baelish has already coached her in his dark arts of subterfuge. Earlier. By reading the books. He’s told Sansa to lie about how he murdered her delusive aunt as she gives her account to The Lords Declarant, as well as continue pretending to be his niece, with her hair dyed brown.
The TV show still has a surprise for me. Sansa reveals her identity as Sansa Stark, the only remaining Stark, and makes the murder of her aunt Lysa sound like a suicide. (Whereas the book has her keeping her identity secret, and falsely confessing the murder to be committed by a much-hated court minstrel of Lady Lysa)
There is no one better than Baelish at using a political situation to his advantage. the whole first season, has his webs of deceit wrapped around it, as confusing as the ergonomics of iron throne, and by the second episode, the tone is set for the season.
Nothing is more emphasised than the battle of information between Varys and Baelish in the throne room.
More than sex, gore and magic this is what has got everyone on the got banwagon, I feel.
It became a show of glorified subterfuge.
But enough of GOT.
The innocence of childhood is subverted by the realism of adulthood. Lies are in fact, a powerful ally to a 13 year old girl-noble like Sansa. She can win at the expense of the adults who made life moredarker than dresses, boys, dances and laces.
Break for Semantic Satiation
I suddenly get an epiphany: because I find it hard to find sophisticated-sounding synonyms in the moment, I could just use the word “more” before the commonly-used word and fuse it to form a bigger, sophisticated word.
I mean, reading all these Olde English epics has shown me how semantics work: Lazily, like this only:
Bromsson. Brom’s son. Sounded Nordic didn’t it.
Oldtown, Winterfell, Sunspear. Riverrun. And modern references: Johnson. Churchhill. Harrisson. Newcastle, Liverpool, I’m looking for a common noun but I’m blank.
Moredarker, moreamorous, moreugly. lessominous, lessangry, lessemphatic. Metaphysical. Metahumourous. Etcetera.
Obviously it seems puerile to you’ll now, but a hundred years from now when someone is, er, reading my avante-garde blog, they’ll see these words peppered around the sophisticated roast duck that is my life’s work, and say “Mmmmm, vintage with a hint of moreawesomeness.”
Don’t smirk. It’s half true.
Sansa of Game Of Thrones
She, Sansa, is a stupid character, in the way moregritty boys would look at her, now. She is reared on the fact that her beauty can take her places. Her mother being the chief instigator.
Her mother disliked the austere tendencies of her husband and the old, cold, hard land they lived in. She, the mother, wanted her daughter to live in moresummery places with a lessaustere husband.
So in that (precocious) way, Sansa is stupid. (Mostly, To her moregritty sister who can pass of as a boy)
This explanation I feel I have to reserve for some of my friends who call her ‘stupid’ but don’t know how to construct the whys and hows of the ‘stupidity’.
Break for Semantic Satiation
Look at moregritty.
Now look again.
It’s different now, innit?
Fast forward a hundred years after mo-ray-gritty:
Morgity. (Pronounced mor-jity)
A hundred years more:
It’s the year 2214.
Morgitical younglings run around a bleak playground; its worn-out concrete plexicushion holding puddles of yellowy water. A female youngling overturns a piece of rubble, and finds a smorgasbord of critters hidden under the broken layers of plexicushion.
She does the natural thing and puts a millipede in her mouth. The excited insect runs down her chin and she giggles as it tickles her neck. Just like you’d expect a child to do,one who has never experienced the seductive dangers of the great outdoors.
An incandescent, spherical bot that was hovering near the playgroup, opens its maw and a snout with vacuum-suction sucks the millepede into it, from her neck.
It doesn’t affect her clothing.
It then clears out the pit off the other crawlies.
A male youngling, gutted, takes a chunk of plexicushion and flings it at the bot.
It doesn’t dent.
He then charges at the aware, unassuming bot and jumps -feet first- into it.
The bot -torn between saving itself and protecting the boy- takes the hit and bangs into something that passes of as a branch of a tree.
The children laugh like a pack of hyenas.
A light on the bot reddens, and it lets out a simulated roar. It shoots out a line of liquid, circling the children. A laser beams out of another snout and incinerates the wetness on ground.
A circle of fire.
It shoots out a flare high into the air, to beckon the parents.
The children, sit inside the fire-circle, knees to their chests, sullen now.
Which brings us back to adulterating.
(If you’re quick you’ll realize the bots in the story were sanctioned by the adult parents of the younglings and while you may agree that certain centipedes are not to be put into your mouth, a post-apocalyptic world needs a bit of cheerful play. At most, the girl wont like its bodily juices and spit it out.)
Arya Stark of Game Of Thrones
I am Arya Stark. I lose my parents when I’m 6.
The adults I come across after that are Syrio Forel a water-dancer, Yronwood, a Nightswatch and former criminal, the Hound a serial murderer and rapist, and a dangerous, smiling acolyte of the God Of Many Faces, a cult that wants you to forget who you ever were before..
The only regular adulteration I ever received was my governess teaching me table manners and stitching. And my mother scolding me for playing in the dirt, with sword and bow.
Had my father’s head not been cut off, I, as a lady of a ruling house, would be expected to marry into another wealthy, ruling house to strengthen ties, wear sophisticated stuff, provide my husband with heirs, and basically remain prisoner to this alliance.
But now here I am, killing the men who killed my loved ones and travelling the known world, learning darker arts from darker adults. I become stronger, and the light within me I guard fiercely, because I know it will take just a prick for it to all drain out.
I walk alone. I am a cat. I am a ghost. I am a girl. I am a boy. I am an assassin. I am lost. I am a small sheep in wolf’s clothing. I am a small wolf in sheep’s clothing. I am confused about my faces. I am confused about my masks.
I walk alone, unadulterated.
Tyrion Of House Lannister
I laugh uncontrollably at the thought of my father adulterating my being. Adulteration would be an understatement.