“I prayed for it,” she said dully. “He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of god that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered.”

This is really sad. She blames herself for Bran’s fall, and maybe she’s having difficulty keeping faith in the Seven too.

The idea that things come true in unexpected ways is one that runs through the dreams, prophecies and foreshadowings of the story. It’s cool to see it foregrounded like this once in a while. Maybe it further shows that Catelyn has a good sense of signs and the more mysterious workings of their world. But at the same time, this is the second instance of Catelyn’s interference with fate inadvertently getting her a negative version of what she asked for. The first one was when she convinced Ned to go south, in order to interfere with what she thought the dead direwolf portends.

In this chapter, I’m on the lookout for why Jon is angry, according to Bran at the beginning of Bran II. I may be chasing the wind, here, but Bran’s thoughts made me curious.

He thought Jon was angry at him. Jon seemed to be angry at everyone these days. (AGOT 8 Bran II)

During Jon and Benjen’s talk in AGOT 5 Jon I, Benjen pointed out that Jon doesn’t understand the gravity of the Night’s Watch vow because he hasn’t been with a woman yet. Jon’s response was something like “I don’t care about that!” But I wonder if it was a kneejerk response in his anger/drunkenness. I can imagine it might have been something he hadn’t given serious consideration yet. So that could be stressing him and what he’s angry about. But also in that case, he might have spent some of his last fortnight in Winterfell on the prowl for sex, perhaps a non-bastard producing kind or perhaps not. And if that’s the case, maybe he was rejected or had a bad experience, and that could explain his anger too.

It’s just speculation, but I do wonder if there’s a point in the books when Jon says or thinks about how he spent his last days at Winterfell, perhaps revealing some details I didn’t know. It’s something I’ll try to remember to keep an eye out for during the reread, anyway.

Jon did not know what to say. “It wasn’t your fault,” he managed after an awkward silence.

Her eyes found him. They were full of poison. “I need none of your absolution, bastard.”

Regarding Catelyn and Jon, I’m settled on the position that ultimately Catelyn was right to keep Jon at a distance, because of the way Westerosi politics work (Blood Right) and the social norms and stigmas that come out of that. That was a really hard position for me to arrive at, and it took a lot of time, because I sympathize with Jon so strongly and Catelyn is being horrible in this chapter. But it does ultimately appear to be the most level-headed conclusion when I take their setting into consideration and give it due weight. That said, I think Catelyn didn’t have to be quite as mean or negligent toward Jon as I’m led to believe she was by the little bits of information the story gives me about Jon and Catelyn’s dynamic.

That said, I think Catelyn’s behavior in this chapter is probably an extreme case, considering her emotional state. So I wouldn’t want to make the mistake of assuming this is how she treated Jon in general. This seems like Catelyn finally giving voice to her darkest feelings about Jon, suggesting to me that she has mostly been silent to Jon, instead directing her dislike of him toward Ned, like I see her doing at the feast and in the bedroom.

Benjen Stark gave Jon a long look. “Don’t you usually eat at table with your brothers?”

“Most times,” Jon answered in a flat voice. “But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them.” (AGOT 5 Jon I)

I can also imagine that, in situations where Catelyn compels Ned to exclude Jon, or otherwise to impose a cost of bastardy upon him, Ned might tell or suggest to Jon that the decision comes from Catelyn, thereby protecting his relationship with Jon by directing Jon’s resentment away from himself. It doesn’t seem very Ned-like in that Ned tends to absorb costs on behalf of other people, but it does seem Ned-like in that it’s honest, and it directs the costs to the person responsible for it.

Then again, Ned might consider himself responsible for Catelyn’s dislike of Jon, too. So who really knows how their family dynamic works. I’m just pointing out that there’s a lot of room for complexity and sympathy all around, and it isn’t an easy situation to judge without the finer details.

I think the main focus of the situation is the stigma, rather than the characters or their plights. The stigma against bastards is what’s being premiered here. The story challenges the reader to look at all perspectives closely before judging people. Then after I find the sympathetic case for Catelyn’s position, that properly orients my attention to the stigma itself. I can ask why it’s so deeply rooted in people, where it comes from, what function it’s serving to hold the society together, and compare all of that to the costs suffered by bastards like Jon, to see if the benefits are worth the costs, or challenge myself to consider a change to their society that would not result in even greater catastrophe of one kind or another. And that’s no trivial thing to do, when I take the challenge seriously.

He was at the door when she called out to him. “Jon,” she said. He should have kept going, but she had never called him by his name before. He turned to find her looking at his face, as if she were seeing it for the first time.

“Yes?” he said.

“It should have been you,” she told him. Then she turned back to Bran and began to weep, her whole body shaking with the sobs. Jon had never seen her cry before.

A question that often comes up regarding Jon and Catelyn is whether it’s fair to use the word abuse to describe Catelyn’s treatment of Jon. I think this particular instance is certainly an abusive use of language and emotions and power, even, because Catelyn threatens to deprive Jon of a good-bye with Bran. I can imagine Catelyn has intentionally driven wedges between Jon and her children for as long as Jon has been alive. In my world, I would call that abuse.

But in their world, I don’t think it’s fair to call it abuse. As crappy as it is, their world exists such that bastards are a very serious threat to, well, everyone. They’re a threat to trueborns, the mother, the whole family, their allies who depend on them, the lesser houses who depend on them, the smallfolk who depend on them for defense and stability, and the realm who depends on the stability of that region of the kingdom. One glance at Westerosi history reveals half a dozen horrible wars, atrocities, feuds and destroyed Houses that never would have happened if somebody somewhere on the timeline hadn’t made a bastard, legitimized one, or failed to adhere to the stigma against bastards strongly enough.

The same situations are brewing in present day characters. According to Roose Bolton, Ramsay will kill any son that Roose gets on Walda Frey. To compel Walda to welcome Ramsay into her home to live side-by-side with her own children would be something between foolish and malevolent.

The nameday gifts that Robert Baratheon sent to his bastard Edric Storm no doubt nurtured Edric’s characteristic pride.

“Yes, good morrow, my lord,” Edric echoed. The boy could be fierce and proud, but the maesters and castellans and masters-at-arms who’d raised him had schooled him well in courtesy. (ASOS 10 Davos II)

Edric Storm’s pride may as well be a Chekhov’s gun hung upon the wall, warning of a bloody claim dispute between various Baratheons at some point in the future.

A Targaryen could be forgiven for losing count of how many Blackfyre rebellions needed thwarting because of one asshole king who decided to legitimize his bastards with his dying breath. No doubt the great bastard liberation felt more liberating for Aegon IV Targaryen’s bastards than it did for anybody else’s bastards, or for the hundreds of thousands of people who died in the wars that followed for five generations because of it.

So was Catelyn mean to keep Jon at a distance from her family? Kind of. Was she wrong to do it? No.

If I may momentarily alleviate Jon of the victimhood that we tend to be so eager to bestow upon him, I will point out that Jon grew up in a castle with a family who mostly loves him. As cruddy as it is to be a bastard, ultimately Jon has more to be thankful for than almost every other boy in the world. But sshh, we aren’t supposed to notice that until we’re older. 

Wary but excited, Arya checked the hall. “Nymeria, here. Guard.” She left the wolf out there to warn of intruders and closed the door.

A direwolf understanding language again! The fact that it keeps happening is what reveals the story’s guilt. George R.R. Martin is definitely teasing us with suggestions of magic in the direwolves. They have all the characteristics we expect from a fantasy beast — rare, exotic, large — except for the magic abilities which are withheld except as allusions and suggestions. 

I think their magic abilities are:

1. They can understand what people are saying, either as language or as intended meaning. (Summer squirms when Theon tries to kill him.)
2. They can sense where the other direwolves are and where they’re going. (Nymeria “smells” Ghost coming to Arya’s bedroom.)
3. They can sense where the other Starks are and where they’re going. (Nymeria meets Arya after needlework.)
4. They can sense which characters are going to be future trouble for the Starks. (Ghost bares teeth at Tyrion.)
5. They can sense which decisions are going to be future trouble for the Starks. (Summer howling when Bran climbs.)

Jon wants to join the Night’s Watch, but Benjen thinks he’s too young. So Jon tries to argue his case by referencing the story of Daeron Targaryen.

“Daeron Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said. The Young Dragon was one of his heroes.

“A conquest that lasted a summer,” his uncle pointed out. “Your Boy King lost ten thousand men taking the place, and another fifty trying to hold it. Someone should have told him that war isn’t a game.” He took another sip of wine. “Also,” he said, wiping his mouth, “Daeron Targaryen was only eighteen when he died. Or have you forgotten that part?”

“I forget nothing,” Jon boasted.

Jon points out that Daeron was only 14 years old when he conquered Dorne. His conquest of Dorne is the most memorable thing about him, so that’s what people remember the most. But Benjen points out that Jon hasn’t considered this part of Daeron’s story in full context. 60,000 people died for Daeron’s conquest: From The World of Ice and Fire I can find that 10,000 died taking it and 50,000 over the next 3 years trying to keep it.

Some of those people have famous names like Lyonel Tyrell and Olyvar Oakheart, but no doubt most of them were common knights and militia.

Benjen brings their lives back into the equation as if they really matter, so I think it has the subtle effect of signaling to me that this isn’t a story where I can neglect to calculate the suffering of minor or unnamed characters.

Jon gets belligerent when his oversights are pointed out to him. I could easily see him try to make excuses for Daeron instead.

I notice an ironic duality happening with Daeron’s nickname, The Young Dragon. The word young suggests, at least on the surface, that his deeds are especially impressive because of his young age. That’s certainly Jon’s interpretation of Daeron’s story and the interpretation I tend to come away with too when the name is accompanied by the most notable part of Daeron’s story, his conquest of Dorne. But once I have the full story of the conquest I can see another more tragic meaning in the nickname, because Daeron died at a young age, and the conquest of Dorne was the big mistake that led to it. So the nickname echos through the ages as a reminder that Daeron’s foolishness is why Daeron didn’t live long enough to grow into an older dragon and earn a more mature nickname.

This kind of ironic duality is something I notice in many other nicknames too. Maybe it highlights that reputations are hard to shake, and that they’re just as often misleading as they are useful shortcuts.

To judge by the chapters so far, Tyrion’s nickname seems to have some irony too. We first hear about “The Imp” from Ned, who doesn’t spare any thoughts of Tyrion good or bad, so the nickname itself is allowed to do the lifting from then until now.

The tall boy beside him could only be the crown prince, and that stunted little man behind them was surely the Imp, Tyrion Lannister.

Yet the huge man at the head of the column, flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard, seemed almost a stranger to Ned . . . (AGOT Eddard I)

For me, it makes me think Tyrion will be annoying, devious, evil or at least provocative. Then I meet him in Jon I and he’s one of the most polite and caring people I’ve seen so far. He handles Jon’s clumsiness and insecurities with a lot of tact. And to give advice is an inherently caring thing to do. At least, this advice seems to be.

Robert Baratheon’s reputation and nickname, demon of the Trident, also has elements of irony and unreliability. The story makes his explicit and shows the mismatch between expectation and reality all at once, and often.

In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume.

Now it was perfume that clung to him like perfume, and he had a girth to match his height. (AGOT Eddard I)

The king was a great disappointment to Jon. His father had talked of him often: the peerless Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior of the realm, a giant among princes. Jon saw only a fat man, red-faced under his beard, sweating through his silks. He walked like a man half in his cups. (AGOT Jon I)