Dear future wife, 

     I don't want us to be those parents that never act romantically in front of their children. I want our children to know how to really love someone, and they should learn by example. So, kiss me in the kitchen as I pour milk on my cereal, hug me tightly in the couch during a family movie night, and take my hand when we take them grocery shopping. Let's show them what true love looks like, so that, when they find it, they never let it go. 

The God Who Loves You - Carl Dennis

It must be troubling for the god who loves you   

To ponder how much happier you’d be today   

Had you been able to glimpse your many futures. 

It must be painful for him to watch you on Friday evenings   

Driving home from the office, content with your week— 

Three fine houses sold to deserving families— 

Knowing as he does exactly what would have happened   

Had you gone to your second choice for college,   

Knowing the roommate you’d have been allotted   

Whose ardent opinions on painting and music   

Would have kindled in you a lifelong passion.   

A life thirty points above the life you’re living   

On any scale of satisfaction. And every point   

A thorn in the side of the god who loves you.   

You don’t want that, a large-souled man like you 

Who tries to withhold from your wife the day’s disappointments   

So she can save her empathy for the children.   

And would you want this god to compare your wife   

With the woman you were destined to meet on the other campus?   

It hurts you to think of him ranking the conversation   

You’d have enjoyed over there higher in insight   

Than the conversation you’re used to. 

And think how this loving god would feel   

Knowing that the man next in line for your wife   

Would have pleased her more than you ever will   

Even on your best days, when you really try.   

Can you sleep at night believing a god like that 

Is pacing his cloudy bedroom, harassed by alternatives   

You’re spared by ignorance? The difference between what is 

And what could have been will remain alive for him   

Even after you cease existing, after you catch a chill   

Running out in the snow for the morning paper, 

Losing eleven years that the god who loves you   

Will feel compelled to imagine scene by scene   

Unless you come to the rescue by imagining him   

No wiser than you are, no god at all, only a friend   

No closer than the actual friend you made at college, 

The one you haven’t written in months. 

Sit down tonight   

And write him about the life you can talk about   

With a claim to authority, the life you’ve witnessed,   

Which for all you know is the life you’ve chosen.

“Learn to like what doesn't cost much.

Learn to like reading, conversation, music.

Learn to like plain food, plain service, plain cooking.

Learn to like fields, trees, brooks, hiking, rowing, climbing hills.

Learn to like people, even though some of them may be different...different from you.

Learn to like to work and enjoy the satisfaction doing your job as well as it can be done.

Learn to like the song of birds, the companionship of dogs.

Learn to like gardening, puttering around the house, and fixing things.

Learn to like the sunrise and sunset, the beating of rain on the roof and windows, and the gentle fall of snow on a winter day.

Learn to keep your wants simple and refuse to be controlled by the likes and dislikes of others.”

- Lowell Bennion -

One second

“I need you to listen for just a second. I don’t care if you only shop at thrift stores. And I don’t care if you read nothing but classic novels. It is not important to me whether you are thirteen or thirty four, foreign or native, thin or overweight. I will not judge you. It does not matter to me what kind of haircut you have, what kind of statement you’re making while you live a vegan lifestyle or if you love steaks and fried eggs. Love sex, hate drugs, do cocaine, listen to Simon and Garfunkel. I’m not interested in how superior your taste in underground music is. I could care less if you’re wearing Urban Outfitters jeans, thrifted shoes, or a Hollister polo. It is not important to me whether you are a writer, a dreamer, a painter, a gas station clerk, or if you’re living off food stamps. I don’t give a shit if you’re a hippie, a half-assed hipster, an atheist, a devoted Christian, wealthy, dirty, Catholic, homeless, Jewish, Buddhist, a smoker, a drinker, clean, or shy. I will not judge you. It doesn’t matter to me how extensive your vocabulary may be, which independent films you’ve seen, what books you’ve read, how high your IQ is. I will still open the door for you. I promise. And I will let you sit near me if another seat is unavailable. Even if you don’t like what I believe in and even if I disagree with some of your ideas. I will respect you. I will offer you some common decency. And not because it’s right, and not because you deserve it, but because that is what makes sense to me. This is what has always made sense to me. I’m your friend, and you don’t have to impress me because I am not here to impress you either.”

Eleven - Sandra Cisneros (Fragment)

    What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

     Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.

    Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

     You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is.

Good Bones - Maggie Smith

"Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. 

The world is at least fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative estimate, 

though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged, sunk in a lake. 

Life is short and the world is at least half terrible, and for every kind stranger, there is one
who would break you, though I keep this from my children.

I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor, walking you through a real shit hole,
chirps on about good bones: 

This place could be beautiful, right? 

You could make this place beautiful."

The Sick Lion

A Lion, unable from old age and infirmities to provide himself with food by force, resolved to do so by artifice. 

He returned to his den, and lying down there, pretended to be sick, taking care that his sickness should be publicly known. The beasts expressed their sorrow, and came one by one to his den, where the Lion devoured them. 

After many of the beasts had thus disappeared, the Fox discovered the trick and presenting himself to the Lion, stood on the outside of the cave, at a respectful distance, and asked him how he was. “I am very middling,” replied the Lion, “but why do you stand without? Pray enter within to talk with me.” 

“No, thank you,” said the Fox. “I notice that there are many prints of feet entering your cave, but I see no trace of any returning.”

-- He is wise who is warned by the misfortune of others. --

 The Fox and the Crow

A Fox once saw a Crow fly off with a piece of cheese in its beak and settle on a branch of a tree.

  "That's for me, as I am a Fox," said Master Reynard, and he walked up to the foot of the tree.

     "Good day, Mistress Crow," he cried. "How well you are looking today: how glossy your feathers; how bright your eye. I feel sure your voice must surpass that of other birds, just as your figure does; let me hear but one song from you that I may greet you as the Queen of Birds."

     The Crow lifted up her head and began to caw her best, but the moment she opened her mouth the piece of cheese fell to the ground, only to be snapped up by Master Fox.

     "That will do," said he. "That was all I wanted. In exchange for your cheese I will give you a piece of advice for the future: "Do not trust flatterers."

-- Flatterers live at the expense of those who will listen to them. --

A Feast of Ice and Fire (A Fan Fiction) Part III

Arrowforest had once been their mother’s favorite destination after the first trace of the summer sun appeared and sunlight glimmered on the lawn. The town was located in the middle of a grassland and was considerably smaller than Lannisport. Its walls were not particularly tall, which made it easier for the once ruling house to have it completely surrounded by a castle, Lady Alyna's had told her. She had also learned from her that because the founders had not built bigger walls, her family had taken on the responsibility to better defend them. Arrowforest was well regarded in the Westerlands by its weaponsmithing and deadly archers, warriors as fierce as they are precise. The green ones trained everyday, and when they loosened, hundreds of arrows landed on the ground outside the walls, “I look out the window and see a different forest every morrow,” the woman had said. “Though we lack true forests, arrows make a sight just as wonderful.” Hence the town’s name. Jaime and her had never returned to it after their parents had decided for them to come for the first time, so most of her memories of the place were all but gone. It had been a long time ago, before Lady Alyna had fallen ill in her old age, before their mother had prematurely died, before Tyrion!. Her mind went back to the feast when she heard a retching sound coming from Ellena.

“Pray excuse me, my lords... Hhuug... and lady. I am feeling unwell...I...Blllerrrrgh” The girl stood up, covered her mouth with both hands and rushed towards the door. The guards helped her out quickly when they sensed her urgency. You run as fast as your archers can loosen arrows, Cersei thought, if the gods are merciful your death will be just as quick. 

Soon enough, Mark got on his feet and left, his hand covering the front of his breeches.  His friend Terrance preoccupied and trailed behind him, but returned some time later with a grin from ear to ear. When he sat back on the table, Cersei noted there was redness in his eyes. Tears!

“Has something ill happened to Mark? He looked strikingly ill not long ago, and your eyes, my lord. Have you been crying? Is he. . . dead?,” she asked trying hard to sound dismayed.

“Died? Yes. But of shame, my lady,” he said laughing. “After we left the room, he decided to lock himself in the sept. I could hear him start praying. When I offered to call the maester he refused, told me it should be gone soon, and blamed it all on the sight of Lady Ellena’s breasts. Finally, he was so troubled that he begged for maester Creylen to come. When he appeared, he looked at Mark and knew right away. He saw it in his pants, he said. He told him it was natural for a boy his age, and asked him to mind something different. Yet, when the maester noticed it made no difference, he started telling us of how, many years ago, a woman from Sarsfield had put a few drops of a rare elixir into her old husband’s ale. Presumably, the drink made the old husband hard for long enough to get her with child. Eventually, rumors about its powers spread like wildfire. The maester even admitted to have acquired some of the elixir, and said he keeps it safe. So yes, my lady, I was crying for the lad, but for a different reason.” When terrance roared with laughter, his bastard brother joined him.      

“I’m pleased to hear it was nothing serious.” This, at least, shall not have to explained. On the other hand, some servant might find Ellena’s body sprawling on the stairs all smelly and soaked. It will be said she died retching her insides out. “I will assume you did not encounter Ellena on your way back here. The fact that she is not returned yet is quite troubling.”

“Not as I was returning, but I see her now coming into the room, looking pale but well. Turn and see for yourself, my lady.”

When Cersei turned and recognize that the Ellena had, in truth, returned alive, she felt her blood boiling. You were supposed to be cold by now!

“ I beg your pardon, I was not feeling well. My belly is aching, and a chamber pot was nowhere to be found.”

“You look uneasy. I am sure another drink should help relieve some of the pain.” I should have poured the whole bottle! Unless this wasn’t what it was supposed to be. Oh, seven’s be cursed. Creylen’s bloody elixir.

“I thank you, my lady, but I would rather not. I am afraid it must have been the food. Instead, could any of you kindly help me find my uncle, I wish to start the ride back home.”
                                                                                         
                                                                                    - Alex Ramos Miranda

A Feast of Ice and Fire (A Fan Fiction) Part II

     Down at the main hall, the guest were seated. Ser Kevan himself was personally greeting guests at their tables; lords, ladies and their companions all alike. Most guests were from houses Cersei had either never heard of or didn’t care enough to remember. Her father, clad in all Lannister-crimson-leather, was sitting next to Jaime; her uncle’s and Tyrion’s seats remained empty. Now, where in the seven kingdoms might this dwarf be? This potion might be the best chance to rid us from him without raising many suspicions. Two score servants were tending to the guests, bringing them beef-and-barley stew, roast rabbit stuffed with onions and mushrooms, and iced lemon cakes while others poured honeyed wine for the ones who raised their hands. At one time, Cersei caught a glimpse of her cousin, Damion, as he tapped the shoulder and spoke something into the ears of a short-bearded man who casually stood company of other four men. The man nodded, and with a gesture the others gathered their goods and trailed behind him towards an elevated platform placed in the corner of the hall. Shortly after, no voices could be heard save for the whispers and giggles of the servant girls who evidently recognized him. He closed a fist over his mouth and cleared his throat.

    “My lords and ladies, I am myself quite privileged to be here amongst you on this occasion. A raven was sent to me with words from Lord Tywin himself requesting from me a performance in honor of his brave son and graceful daughter,” the singer said. Harrin Blacktyde bowed and took up his copper-colored stringed wood harp and gestured his fellow singers to add their instruments and voices to his own. The first song was an original of his titled At Your Name Day, Dance With Me ‘til the Morrow followed by many others that made servant girls and some ladies weep every time he put down the harp.

When the music had filled the room with a festive mood, Harwin prompted guests to take part in the dance at the center of the hall. The first to join were Lord Eddison Clanet and his wife, Lady Liane. At the next table were round-bellied Sir Roland and his sister, Marylla Weams. Many had seen her storming out of the room after their friends had roared with laughter when Sir Roland, having already drunk a full flagon of wine, pounded his fist on the wooden table and yelled to her “I’ve got a big arse. Our mother’s got a big arse. Arses are big in this family; you damned well better get used to yours, woman.” He might be a drunken fool, but at least he’s not a liar. I ought to give him that much.

At some point, a younger lady was seen requesting for Lord Tywin to be her dancing partner, but then her father approached them and claimed that if it was true that Lord Tywin did in fact shit gold, he would not see trouble in being most generous and paying her stone weigh in dragons as a way of complimenting her beauty. That remark, naturally, was not well received by her father, Cersei noticed. “You have a most graceful daughter, certainly,” Tywin said with a hard mouth, and then turned to one of the Lannister men that guarded the gates. “Sir Addam, if you would cordially show our guests to my solar. I shall meet them there shortly; I will not have it said that a Lannister failed to acknowledge a woman’s grace in front of her kin.” The knight opened the doors for the man and his daughter and asked of them to trail behind him. Lord Tywin did not even once take his leave from the hall. Words are wind, Cersei reflected. She did not remember seeing neither the girl nor her father return to the the feast.

Without doubt, her brother was more entertained than Cersei was, and was taking far more pleasure in all the foods and guests that were part of the celebration. He was no longer sitting in the seat next to his father, but rather shared a table and a stuffed rabbit with slim, red-haired Mark Minwell, Terrance Pettysmith and his bastard half-brother, Emrick Hill. All were boys of no more than four-and-ten, meaning that today Jaime was the eldest among them. He grows more manly by the day. His hair seems more radiant, his smile is getting sharper. I can even see a hint of a beard starting to grow on the point of his chin. Oh, how I wish you were not my brother. Many women live their lives searching for their true lovers, only to lose him in some battle or to another woman. But I am fortunate; mine was brought along with me into this world. Stay with me, Jaime, and be mine fore…Cersei’s thoughts came to a sudden halt when someone approached, lightly kissed Jaime on the cheek and occupied the space next to him. She was a fair girl of around her own age with long way hair that hanged from a friendly face and fair skin that elegantly complimented her deep, brown eyes. Her gown left the top of her shoulders uncovered and a wide belt helped accentuate her figure. She wore a daisy flower headband, a subtle necklace and several gilded bracelets.

“Does m’lady wish more pomegranate juice?,” asked one serving woman. “m’lady?”

Cersei could not help but notice how Emrick and Mark sat there fascinated by her presence. “What do you make of that?,” she asked the woman and turned her face to the table, “and be honest.” But watch your words.

“Well . . . m’lady. . . I . . . in the town I come from we’d say they are bewitched. . . done by a crone, or a wicked princess o’ sorts, like in the old folk tales.” Or a Queen! Maybe they have seen her in some whore house. Might be she’s a queen, the queen of whores, for all I know. She even wears her crown. The fact that Cersei had not met the girl before made no matter; she had given her reason enough to be despised. “I need you to deliver a message. I need you to go to that table and tell my brother that my father has urgent need of him, and if he asks tell him it regards a gift from King’s landing,” she said. “And hand me that flagon over. I’ll see that our guests don’t lack for a drink.”  

“But . . .m’lady shouldn’t . . .take care of such things. If someone were to find out. . .I”

“Someone should be the least of your concerns. You should not make my father keep on waiting for my brother. Now go on, and do as you’re told.”

Trembling, the woman handed the flagon over to Cersei and wend her way towards the table where Jaime and the others were seated. I guess the dwarf will have to wait, she thought as she hurriedly pulled the cork out from the vial and let several drops into the flagon. She hid the bottle back up her sleeve. The sound of Harrin’s sweet harp still lingered behind as she saw her brother leaving the hall. She walked towards the table. They all paid close attention to her hand.     

“As you see, it appears we lack enough servants to tend to everyone. I took the freedom to assist. Do any of you want more juice?” Only Mark and the friendly-faced girl nodded. “How do you fair today? I hope you have found the feast most entertaining,” she asked as she poured steadily into their mugs. I must serve him, too, else I would look suspicious.    

“We have, my lady,” Terrance answered for himself and his bastard brother. “It saddens me to think that we my father does not employ cooks this capable back at Darfield.”

“That is certainly a satisfying remark you make, my lord. You’re most welcome to take some of what you most like to your father, and if the seven so wish, he’ll hire new cooks.”

The comment made the three boys laugh, but the girl kept her face solid.

“Where did you find this singer, may I ask?. It’s not even midnight and I have heard him play the same songs more than thrice already,” she suddenly said.

“We must not have been properly introduced,” Cersei answered defiantly.

“They call me Ellena . . . Ellena Torrent, if it please my lady,” the girl said with a halting voice. Have you lost your courage now?

“A Torrent. I assume your mother is Lady Alyna? Your names sound almost identical.”

“It would please mother to hear that my lady remembers her.” She sipped her drink.

“Indeed. Maester Ranald is a capable man. I am sure he is taking good care of her.”

A Feast of Ice and Fire (A Fan Fiction) Part I

                                                                        Cersei

S

er Kevan, had insisted that any man and woman, boy or girl, who could lend a hand, or two if not a cripple, should assist in the feast preparations. For that reason, the halls and steps that led back to the main chambers were without a soul, and the only hearable sounds were the weak, crackling sound the torches made as they burnt and the steady rhythm of her own steps on the stone. In her mind, however, the walk back to her bedchamber was anything but silent. He still takes me for a child! I am a woman now, and already flowered. No. . . . I am a lion. I don’t take any orders from sheep. I dress in silks and linen; need I remind him his rags are made up of wool? The mere recalling of that conversation was enough to bring Cersei’s blood to a boil.

     “Tell me, Maester,” she recalled saying as she explored the maze of shelves that covered the place. “How acquainted are you with the vials and herbs you keep here?”

     “In all honesty, not as wholly as I did once. You see, time can make of a man’s mind a grievous thing, and there’s naught a maester can do to mend it. I saw what it did to your lord grandfather’s when you were but a little, blushy, plumpy. . .”

      “Yes, Maester, I have heard the story.” she stopped him. “I have also heard that you keep some pokeweed extract somewhere around here. ”

      “Oh, yes, indeed, indeed . . . it is a rare and powerful thing.” The Maester stood from his chair, walked towards one of the high shelves at the far end of the room and pulled a small, blue dusty bottle with a cork stopper. “What you see here is not of much use to a maester in treating wounded men. Its contents are harmless to a man’s health, so long as he’s already dead. but it still makes a fine collectible; any maester would tell you that, for sure.”

        “I shall have some of that. ” she said excited.

       “Pray excuse me, my lady,” she remembered the man saying. “but it just falls under my responsibilities as Maester to oversee that all herbs and components the castle provides me with are put to best use. Plus, I do not see what need a lady your age would have on such things. You should repel those ideas ”

        “I am not asking for it, Maester.” she said, already angered.  

        “I am afraid I cannot do as you bid, my lady. Now, please, there are more urgent matters that require my attention before your lord father arrives. Should not my lady be greeting guests as they arrive?”

            Despite having heard earlier from her uncle that Lord Tywin and his personal guard were but a few leagues away from reaching the gates of Casterly Rock, Cersei’s impatience built up as dusk fell upon the castle without servants or horns announcing the arrival of the lion lord. The longer she waited, the angrier she became. She could feel her face warming and the vein on her neck growing more and more noticeable every time she turned herself towards the mirror. How much longer will it take? Is it old horses they offer hands to ride in the capital? She wished that her father was there. She wanted to get her hands on the gifts he had surely brought her and Jaime from King’s Landing for their name day. Yet, more than anything, she could hardly wait to let him hear about Maester Creylen’s insolence and Tyrion’s face when he saw her leaving the old man’s chambers.

            Someone knocked twice at the door. What is it now? Has the old man come to his senses? She went to see who it was.

            Her twin brother was gallantly dressed in a crimson linen long coat that was fully buttoned up to just above his waist; all held together by a brown, golden-threaded leather belt. The long sleeves on his coat are long and loosely fitted. His pants were plain dark, which added an informal touch to an already elegant look.

            “Your face. . . What happened to you?” It was the first thing Jaime asked when he saw her. Cersei couldn’t find in her the words to tell Jaime what happened without sounding foolish, so in the hope of having him stir the conversation in a different way, she said nothing.

            It worked, and after a brief silence, Jaime resumed. “I have just come to inform you that father arrived a while ago and requests our presence at the feast. Guests are starting to be seated and we don’t want them to grow impatient.” Someone should have had the decency to let me know!  He took a moment to study her from head to toe. “Best you change to a finer gown and a comely face better suited for a day like this,” he said. “Here, let me help you.” He closed the door behind him. There were few things that could appease her inner lioness, but not even the scent of the lavender oils she treasured could compare to the feel of Jaime going wild about her neck.  

            “I need your help, Jaime.” she whispered with a hint of pleasure.

            “I am helping you now, sweet sister.”

            “I need your help with a different matter. There is something of Creylen’s that I wish. An old ‘treasure’ the fool would rather have me beg for.”

  Jaime let go of her neck and looked from side to side with half-closed eyes giving himself time to consider. “Hmmm.” He rubbed his chin and answered. “On the condition that you shall not make me beg for yours after all this feasting is over.”

     “I promise we will have our own little feast afterwards.” If we go unnoticed, she reflected, and so it was settled.

Being on their way to the maester’s chambers was without question considerably less burdensome for Cersei than it had been earlier that day. Though much to her surprise, despite Jaime’s presence, silence still remained. She noticed the lightning on the halls was dimmer this time. Some of the torches that lined the walls burnt out, for there was no one to see to them. Cersei thought to have counted two-and-ten overall by the time they reached the maester’s door. Maybe there were more, but trying to keep up with Jaime’s hurried pace caused her to lost count at some point and so she quit it altogether. There was no sign of light from under the door, so Jaime pushed his ear up against the door, listening for even the slightest clue of clinking of metal against metal on a chain. When he hinted at her that there was naught inside, she grabbed the handle and slowly pushed the creaky door open. If the halls were low on burning torches, the maester’s room completely lacked them, and that night’s moonlight was not powerful enough to thoroughly illuminate the chambers. She stood inside the room trying to remember from which shelf the maester had pulled the potion.

            “What are you waiting for? Just grab it and be done with it,” Jaime urged.

            “Shut your mouth; I need to think. Best keep your eyes open in case someone comes looking for us.”

            “If it please my lady,” he said with a grin from ear to ear, as he listened and kept guard at the door.

            Cersei quickly decided to look over the shelves and open drawers hoping to catch sight of the small, blue vial. It was not before having inspected a fourth shelf that she finally found it placed behind a volume of A Maester’s Guide to Dornish Wild Seeds with Descriptions and Applications. She grabbed the potion and hid it up the sleeve of her gown. He is a greater fool than I thought. “I hope you still haven’t watered yourself while standing there, brother. Better not, there’s no time to change your small clothes. We must attend the feast.”

"I might be the only person on the face of the earth that knows you're the greatest woman on earth. I might be the only one who appreciates how amazing you are in every single thing that you do. . . and in every single thought that you have, and how you say what you mean, and how you almost always mean something that's all about being straight and good. I think most people miss that about you, and I watch them, wondering how they can watch you bring their food, and clear their tables and never get that they just met the greatest woman alive. And the fact that I get it makes me feel good, about me."

Life Is Wrong; It Should Be Backwards.

It should start with death so that shock is over with early. 

You should wake up in a nursing home getting better as days go by. 

Then, one day, they kick you out because you are too healthy, and the first thing you do is collect your pension. 

On your first day of work, you get a golden Rolex. 

You work for 40 years until you are young enough to enjoy retirement. 

You go from party to party, you drink, you have sex and then you start school, playing with your friends without no responsibilities whatsoever, until you become a baby. 

The last 9 months you spend calmly floating around with central heating, room service, etc...

And, at the end, you abandon this world in a huge orgasm. 

- Quino.

       "Is a broken man an outlaw?"

     "More or less." Brienne answered.

     Septon Meribald disagreed. "More less than more. There are many sorts of outlaws, just as there are many sorts of birds. A sandpiper and a sea eagle both have wings, but they are not the same. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws are more like this ravening Hound than they are the lightning lord. They are evil men, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising the gods and caring only for themselves. Broken men are more deserving of our pity, though they may be just as dangerous. Almost all are common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house where they were born until the day some lord came round to take them off to war. Poorly shod and poorly clad, they march away beneath his banners, ofttimes with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoe, or a maul they made themselves by lashing a stone to a stick with strips of hide. Brothers march with brothers, sons with fathers, friends with friends. They've heard the songs and stories, so they go off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they will see, of the wealth and glory they will win. War seems a fine adventure, the greatest most of them will ever know.

     "Then they get a taste of battle.

     "For some, that one taste is enough to break them. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in, but even a man who has survived a hundred fights can break in his hundred-and-first. Brothers watch their brothers die, fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold their entrails in after they've been gutted by an axe.

     "They see the lord who led them there cut down, and some other lord shouts that they are his now. They take a wound, and when that's still half-healed they take another. There is never enough to eat, their shoes fall to pieces from the marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are shitting in their breeches from drinking bad water.

     "If they want new boots or a warmer cloak or maybe a rusted iron halfhelm, they need to take them from a corpse, and before long they are stealing from the living too, from the smallfolk whose lands they're fighting in, men very like the men they used to be. They slaughter their sheep and steal their chicken's, and from there it's just a short step to carrying off their daughters too. And one day they look around and realize all their friends and kin are gone, that they are fighting beside strangers beneath a banner that they hardly recognize. They don't know where they are or how to get back home and the lord they're fighting for does not know their names, yet here he comes, shouting for them to form up, to make a line with their spears and scythes and sharpened hoes, to stand their ground. And the knights come down on them, faceless men clad all in steel, and the iron thunder of their charge seems to fill the world...

     "And the man breaks.

     "He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them...but he should pity them as well.”

    "The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where Sansa was seated. The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one.

     Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for Lady and Bran. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. 

   The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad."

    

     “How can you still count yourself a knight, when you have forsaken every vow you ever swore?"

     Jaime reached for the flagon to refill his cup. "So many vows...they make you swear and swear. Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It's too much. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or the other.” He took a healthy swallow of wine and closed his eyes for an instant, leaning his head back against the patch of nitre on the wall.

    

Dear girl with the bruised knees,

    I don't know what was it about you that intrigued me. Was it perhaps your simple looks or girly clothing, or possibly the manner in which you casually moved and sat , back turned against me, in the seat in front? Something must have; otherwise, I would not find myself writing about it. 

   Can't deny that having you closer gave me a chance to study you in a bit more detail. First thing, I noticed the buttons pinned to your backpack. One spelled "Kewl Gurl" and the other read a phrase in German of which I could not understand anything save for "München." You might have been a German ESOL student for all I know. 

    I also noticed far too many hints of white in your hair for someone your age, and my feet picked up the rhythm coming from those restless legs of yours. You have probably been dealing with so much lately that you, most likely without intent, are starting to show. 

   Anyhow, I wish I had intentionally missed my stop so I could have bought me some more time to gather the words and courage to approach you, or at least enough to have allowed me to stare at and wonder about you for a little longer. 

   See you next time. If next time ever comes.

Make The Ordinary Come Alive

Do not ask your children

to strive for extraordinary lives. 

Such striving may seem admirable, 

but it is a way of foolishness.

Help them instead to find the wonder

and the marvel of an ordinary life. 

Show them the joy of tasting

tomatoes, apples and pears.

Show them how to cry 

when pets and people die. 

Show them the infinite pleasure

in the touch of a hand

And make the ordinary come alive for them.

The extraordinary will take care of itself.