Foreman c9ncepts to vikings and celts

• /bull-hansen.com/
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• The Viking Age is a long time ago. Most people reading this are living in a society balanced between Christianity and humanism, and we tend to forget that many of the concepts that dominate our way of thinking, didn’t even exist in heathen Europe. Many key concepts did, like your connection to clan and family, your love for your children, honour etc, but far too often I see «modern» concepts being attached to the heathen Norsemen and that is simply wrong. We need to understand that lots of things were different back then. So I have tried to make a list of some concepts that were quite meaningless to a pre-Christian Norseman. Here it is:
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• Sin
• This concept came to Europe with Christianity. Sin is essentially a list of actions that are wrong or forbidden in Abrahamic religions. There is not necessarily any logic to this. Like, it’s a sin to masturbate or to be gay/lesbian. I do understand that the Jewish tribes wanted to increase their numbers and therefore the thinking was probably that all sexual activity should be utilized to make babies. But outside of that context, there simply isn’t any logic to why this and that is considered a sin. Yes, it’s a sin to kill people and to steal and there is logic to that. But most of what’s on that list is just silly, and the whole concept would mean nothing to a heathen. Also, a Norseman didn’t think he would be punished by some god if he «sinned». But that does not mean he didn’t know right from wrong.
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• Forgiveness
• The heathen Norsemen did not believe in forgiveness. It was not considered a virtue to them. Yes, we do know that they sometimes buried the axe, so to speak, and sorted things out in a non-violent manner, and that can look a lot like forgiveness. But the concept of forgiveness were not well understood or accepted in heathen Viking Age Europe.
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• Racism
• The Norsemen weren’t race conscious. I know this is a hot topic, but saying that they were is simply wrong. The Norsemen were far too few to allow themselves to be picky when it came to ethnicity and archaeological finds suggest that Norse society were not as mono-ethnic as previousy believed. Please, do not use this as an argument for this or that political view. I am simply saying that racism weren’t a concept in the Norseman’s mind. The few written indications of the meaning of the color of a person’s skin are probably pointing to the fact that thralls were gray/dark because of their daily work by the fireplace.
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• Equality of all humans
• These days, we tend to say that we believe all humans have equal worth. I don’t think many people really believe that (what about rapists, child abusers etc?), but it’s still a concept in modern society. In the heathen Norse society, both your birth and your actions were used to measure your worth. A slave were worth less than a freeman. A courageous man were worth more than a coward. And so on. To a heathen Norseman, all people weren’t valuable. The concept of default equality weren’t a concept back then.
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• Respect as a right
• These days people lots of people demand to be respected for no reason at all other than being alive. A heathen Norseman would laugh at this idea. To him, respect had to be earned.
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• Repentance
• In Christianity, repentance is the currency you use to pay for your sins. Closely associated to this is the idea that by restricting yourself, you get a purer soul. While the Vikings certainly believed everyone, even animals, had souls, they did not believe in saying no to the good things in life, like drink, food and sex. And while shame was a concept, they did not feel shame for the same things that we do. For example, a Norseman would probably feel quite pleased with himself if he woke up after a hard night of binge eating and beer drinking, and discovered he had nothing on but some unknown woman.
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• Materialism as a negative thing
• The Norsemen liked to own things, like land, houses, animals, even people. They were materialistic and to them, gaining material wealth was a good thing. These days, materialism is often confused with consumerism. Materialism in the traditional meaning of the word isn't negative (except the part about owning people) and high quality items that are built to last can even help enrich your life. Consumerism, on the other hand, is something totally different and I can see nothing positive about it. I have noticed that lots of people these days, even among heathens, find that mocking people who own nice things is accepted. In the heathen Viking Age, materialism was an essential part of society and a rich man or woman would never be shamed or mocked for his/her wealth, but praised.
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• I am sure there are other concepts that can be added to this list. Hopefully, this blogpost will help us look at heathen Viking Age society and also ourselves with a better perspective. Which concepts would you add?

bran is bran the builder theory

Helen Sloan / HBO

Alright, theory time.
this theory came to me  and  even more so now, just after the now infamous ‘Hold The Door’ scene during which we saw Bran Stark essentially travel through time and warg into Hodor back when he was a child, causing adult Hodor to only be able to speak the words ‘Hodor’ which was an amalgam of ‘Hold the door’. From there one person threw out the idea that Bran, who can warg his greenseer way through time and space, is actually the voices in the Mad King Aery’s head, and thus is also the source of the Mad King’s insanity.
After that this theory takes a dive into the deep end, and unlike most theories that leave you skeptical this one actually seems very, very plausible, and it has ALL OF THE IMPLICATIONS for the future of this series as it could mean that Bran Stark is the master key to everything.

Once we know that Bran can travel back in time and influence the future, it opens a whole world of possibility. Take this theory, from an anonymous message board user:
You know it’s true. Bran will go back in time to build the Wall, and when people will ask the guy’s name, he’ll just say “Bran.” Thus, Bran the Builder, who will be the inspiration for his name when he’s born in the present time. He’ll be the one who’ll establish, in the past, that there must always be Starks at Winterfell, because he must ensure that he comes to exist in the present.
For those not up on your ancient Westerosi history, Bran the Builder) lived 8,000 years before the present moment, one of the invading First Men and the founder of House Stark. He built Winterfell, and the Wall and possibly Storm’s end.

So this theory implies that Bran the Builder, Bran the Breaker, Bran the Muffin, and Bran Stark are ALL THE SAME PERSON. Once we accept that it’s almost as if George RR Martin’s been trying to tell us this the entire time. Here’s a passage from the first novel:

“I could tell you the story about Brandon the Builder,” Old Nan said. “That was always your favorite.”
Thousands and thousands of years ago, Brandon the Builder had raised Winterfell, and some said the Wall. Bran knew the story, but it had never been his favorite. Maybe one of the other Brandons had liked that story. Sometimes Nan would talk to him as if he were her Brandon, the baby she had nursed all those years ago, and sometimes she confused him with his uncle Brandon, who was killed by the Mad King before Bran was even born. She had lived so long, Mother had told him once, that all the Brandon Starks had become one person in her head.

And another, this one comes from Clash of Kings:

Imgur

To me this is one of the biggest revelations in Game of Thrones history. If we are to believe that the show is willing to go down the ‘time travel’ path, which they’ve essentially already done, then we need to go back to the books and pour over every mention of someone named ‘Bran’ since Day 1.

hbo

He’s the beginning, the middle, and the end. If this theory holds true then Bran Stark is everything, it also means we should either be extremely terrified for his future in The North with the Night King closing in on him, or we should be extremely excited for Bran’s own revelation that it has been him all along, that he is the Bran of yesterday, Bran from Old Nan’s stories, because it will be that moment that Bran Stark realizes he holds ALL of the power.

all of old nans stories

good evening and always walk with the shadows .   I sit  hear re reading the books and   paying close attention to the stories old nan use to tell. I  have a feeling like I always  did that they hold more knowledge  as to whats to come then  they let  on .  

Old Nan's stories

Book 1

Game of Thrones

The first Bran's chapter, he is going to see the execution.

He [Bran] remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.

The same chapter, Bran talks to Eddard.

“He was a wildling,” Bran said. “They carry off women and sell them to the Others.”

His lord father smiled. “Old Nan has been telling you stories again."

The same chapter, Catelyn talks to Eddard.

“There are darker things beyond the Wall.” She glanced behind her at the heart tree, the pale bark and red eyes, watching, listening, thinking its long slow thoughts. His smile was gentle. “You listen to too many of Old Nan’s stories.”

The second Bran's chapter, right before he sees Jaime and Cersei.

His father would be the Hand of the King, and they were going to live in the red castle at King’s Landing, the castle the Dragonlords had built. Old Nan said there were ghosts there, and dungeons where terrible things had been done, and dragon heads on the walls.

Same chapter, further on.

Old Nan told him a story about a bad little boy who climbed too high and was struck down by lightning, and how afterward the crows came to peck out his eyes.

The fourth Bran's chapter, he is paralyzed.

“It was just a lie,” he said bitterly, remembering the crow from his dream. “I can’t fly. I can’t even run.”

“Crows are all liars,” Old Nan agreed, from the chair where she sat doing her needlework. “I know a story about a crow."

“I hate your stupid stories.”

The old woman smiled at him toothlessly. “My stories? No, my little lord, not mine. The stories are, before me and after me, before you too.”

[...]

“I know a story about a boy who hated stories,” Old Nan said.

[...]

“I could tell you the story about Brandon the Builder,” Old Nan said. “That was always your favorite.”

Thousands and thousands of years ago, Brandon the Builder had raised Winterfell, and some said the Wall. Bran knew the story, but it had never been his favorite. Maybe one of the other Brandons had liked that story. Sometimes Nan would talk to him as if he were her Brandon, the baby she had nursed all those years ago, and sometimes she confused him with his uncle Brandon, who was killed by the Mad King before Bran was even born. She had lived so long, Mother had told him once, that all the Brandon Starks had become one person in her head.

“That’s not my favorite,” he said. “My favorites were the scary ones.”

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Old Nan said quietly, “what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.”

“You mean the Others,” Bran said querulously.

“The Others,” Old Nan agreed. “Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks.” Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, “So, child. This is the sort of story you like?”

“Well,” Bran said reluctantly, “yes, only...

Old Nan nodded. “In that darkness, the Others came for the first time,” she said as her needles went click click click. “They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children.”

Her voice had dropped very low, almost to a whisper, and Bran found himself leaning forward to listen.

“Now these were the days before the Andals came, and long before the women fled across the narrow sea from the cities of the Rhoyne, and the hundred kingdoms of those times were the kingdoms of the First Men, who had taken these lands from the children of the forest. Yet here and there in the fastness of the woods the children still lived in their wooden cities and hollow hills, and the faces in the trees kept watch. So as cold and death filled the earth, the last hero determined to seek out the children, in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies of men had lost. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him, and came silent on his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds-”

The door opened with a bang, and Bran’s heart leapt up into his mouth in sudden fear, but it was only Maester Luwin, with Hodor looming in the stairway behind him.

The same chapter, Yoren tells that Benjen is missing.

All Bran could think of was Old Nan’s story of the Others and the last hero, hounded through the white woods by dead men and spiders big as hounds. He was afraid for a moment, until he remembered how that story ended. “The children will help him,” he blurted, “the children of the forest!”

The fifth Eddard's chapter

“Dark wings, dark words,” Ned murmured. It was a proverb Old Nan had taught him as a boy.

The third Arya's chapter.

Huge stones had been set into the curving walls as steps, circling down and down, dark as the steps to hell that Old Nan used to tell them of.

The same chapter, further on, Arya talks to Eddard.

“A wizard,” said Ned, unsmiling. “Did he have a long white beard and tall pointed hat speckled with stars?”

“No! It wasn’t like Old Nan’s stories. He didn’t look like a wizard, but the fat one said he was.”

The third Sansa's chapter.

When the Knight of Flowers had spoken up, she’d been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan’s stories come to life.

The seventh Jon's chapter, two frozen bodies are brought to the Wall.

Unbidden, he thought back on the tales that Old Nan used to tell them, when he was a boy at Winterfell. He could almost hear her voice again, and the click-click-click of her needles. In that darkness, the Others came riding, she used to say, dropping her voice lower and lower. Cold and dead they were, and they hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every living creature with hot blood in its veins. Holdfasts and cities and kingdoms of men allfell before them, as they moved south on pale dead horses, leading hosts of the slain. They fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children...

The sixth Bran's chapter, Bran is talking to Robb.

"Lord Roose never says a word, he only looks at me, and all I can think of is that room they have in the Dreadfort, where the Boltons hang the skins of their enemies.”

“That’s just one of Old Nan’s stories,” Bran said. A note of doubt crept into his voice. “Isn’t it?”

The fifth Arya's chapter.

Old Nan used to tell stories of boys who stowed away on trading galleys and sailed off into all kinds of adventures.

The seventh Bran's chapter.

“There was a knight once who couldn’t see,” Bran said stubbornly, as Ser Rodrik went on below. “Old Nan told me about him. He had a long staff with blades at both ends and he could spin it in his hands and chop two men at once.”

“Symeon Star-Eyes,” Luwin said as he marked numbers in a book. “When he lost his eyes, he put star sapphires in the empty sockets, or so the singers claim. Bran, that is only a story, like the tales of Florian the Fool. A fable from the Age of Heroes.”

The same chapter, further on, in the crypts.

He looked at the passing faces and the tales came back to him. The maester had told him the stories, and Old Nan had made them come alive. “That one is Jon Stark. When the sea raiders landed in the east, he drove them out and built the castle at White Harbor. His son was Rickard Stark, not my father’s father but another Rickard, he took the Neck away from the Marsh King and married his daughter. Theon Stark’s the real thin one with the long hair and the skinny beard. They called him the ‘Hungry Wolf,’ because he was always at war. That’s a Brandon, the tall one with the dreamy face, he was Brandon the Shipwright, because he loved the sea. His tomb is empty. He tried to sail west across the Sunset Sea and was never seen again. His son was Brandon the Burner, because he put the torch to all his father’s ships in grief. There’s Rodrik Stark, who won Bear Island in a wrestling match and gave it to the Mormonts. And that’s Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. He was the last King in the North and the first Lord of Winterfell, after he yielded to Aegon the Conqueror. Oh, there, he’s Cregan Stark. He fought with Prince Aemon once, and the Dragonknight said he’d never faced a finer swordsman.” They were almost at the end now, and Bran felt a sadness creeping over him. “And there’s my grandfather, Lord Rickard, who was beheaded by Mad King Aerys. His daughter Lyanna and his son Brandon are in the tombs beside him. Not me, another Brandon, my father’s brother.

They’re not supposed to have statues, that’s only for the lords and the kings, but my father loved them so much he had them done.”

The same chapter, further on.

“Old Nan says the children knew the songs of the trees, that they could fly like birds and swim like fish and talk to the animals,” Bran said. “She says that they made music so beautiful that it made you cry like a little baby just to hear it.”

“And all this they did with magic,” Maester Luwin said, distracted.

I know some of it is not really relevant (wizards and knights and galleys), but I have listed all of it just in case.

Book 2

Clash of Kings

Chapter 4, Bran

Starks had wolf blood. Old Nan told him so. “Though it is stronger in some than in others,” she warned.

Chapter 6, Jon

“Aerion the Monstrous?” Jon knew that name. “The Prince Who Thought He Was a Dragon” was one of Old Nan’s more gruesome tales. His little brother Bran had loved it.

Chapter 7, Catelyn

And when at last Harrenhal stood complete, on the very day King Harren took up residence, Aegon the Conqueror had come ashore at King’s Landing. Catelyn could remember hearing Old Nan tell the story to her own children, back at Winterfell. “And King Harren learned that thick walls and high towers are small use against dragons,” the tale always ended. “For dragons fly.” Harren and all his line had perished in the fires that engulfed his monstrous fortress, and every house that held Harrenhal since had come to misfortune. Strong it might be, but it was a dark place, and cursed.

Chapter 9, Arya

She remembered a story Old Nan had told once, about a man imprisoned in a dark castle by evil giants. He was very brave and smart and he tricked the giants and escaped . . . but no sooner was he outside the castle than the Others took him, and drank his hot red blood.

Chapter 14, Arya

Arya was remembering the stories Old Nan used to tell of Harrenhal. Evil King Harren had walled himself up inside, so Aegon unleashed his dragons and turned the castle into a pyre. Nan said that fiery spirits still haunted the blackened towers. Sometimes men went to sleep safe in their beds and were found dead in the morning, all burnt up.

Chapter 23, Jon

Jon remembered Old Nan’s tales of the savage folk who drank blood from human skulls.

The same chapter, further on

“Wildlings have invaded the realm before.” Jon had heard the tales from Old Nan and Maester Luwin both, back at Winterfell. “Raymun Redbeard led them south in the time of my grandfather’s grandfather, and before him there was a king named Bael the Bard.”

“Aye, and long before them came the Horned Lord and the brother kings Gendel and Gorne, and in ancient days Joramun, who blew the Horn of Winter and woke giants from the earth. Each man of them broke his strength on the Wall, or was broken by the power of Winterfell on the far side . . . but the Night’s Watch is only a shadow of what we were, and who remains to oppose the wildlings besides us?"

Chapter 26, Arya

She remembered Old Nan’s stories of the castle built on fear. Harren the Black had mixed human blood in the mortar, Nan used to say, dropping her voice so the children would need to lean close to hear, but Aegon’s dragons had roasted Harren and all his sons within their great walls of stone.

Chapter 30, Arya

Old Nan used to tell of the giants who lived beyond the Wall.

Chapter 33, Catelyn

Storm’s End emerged like a dream of stone while wisps of pale mist raced across the field, flying from the sun on wings of wind. Morning ghosts, she had heard Old Nan call them once, spirits returning to their graves.

Chapter 35, Bran

Old Nan told scary stories of beastlings and shapechangers sometimes. In the stories they were always evil.

Chapter 46, Bran

Torrhen’s Square was under attack by some monstrous war chief named Dagmer Cleftjaw. Old Nan said he couldn’t be killed, that once a foe had cut his head in two with an axe, but Dagmer was so fierce he’d just pushed the two halves back together and held them until they healed up.

Chapter 47, Arya

In Old Nan’s stories about men who were given magic wishes by a grumkin, you had to be especially careful with the third wish, because it was the last.

Chapter 64, Arya

I’d just fly away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan’s stories, dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos.

Book 3

Storm of Swords

Jon, p.142 (out of 788)

In Old Nan’s stories, giants were outsized men who lived in colossal castles, fought with huge swords, and walked about in boots a boy could hide in.

The same chapter, further on

Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade between them for honor’s sake.

Bran, p. 232

“There’s people,” Bran told her. “The Umbers are mostly east of the kingsroad, but they graze their sheep in the high meadows in summer. There are Wulls west of the mountains along the Bay of Ice, Harclays back behind us in the hills, and Knotts and Liddles and Norreys and even some Flints up here in the high places.” His father’s mother’s mother had been a Flint of the mountains. Old Nan once said that it was her blood in him that made Bran such a fool for climbing before his fall. She had died years and years and years before he was born, though, even before his father had been born.

The same chapter, futher on, Meera is telling the story about the knight of the Laughing tree.

“Maybe he came from the Isle of Faces,” said Bran. “Was he green?” In Old Nan’s stories, the guardians had dark green skin and leaves instead of hair. Sometimes they had antlers too, but Bran didn’t see how the mystery knight could have worn a helm if he had antlers. “I bet the old gods sent him.”

Bran, p. 377

“They were afraid of the wildlings,” said Bran. “Wildlings come over the Wall or through the mountains, to raid and steal and carry off women. If they catch you, they make your skull into a cup to drink blood, Old Nan used to say. The Night’s Watch isn’t so strong as it was in Brandon’s day or Queen Alysanne’s, so more get through.

The same chapter, further on

“There’s a causeway. A stone causeway, hidden under the water. We could walk out.” They could, anyway; he would have to ride on Hodor’s back, but at least he’d stay dry that way.

The Reeds exchanged a look. “How do you know that?” asked Jojen. “Have you been here before, my prince?”

“No. Old Nan told me. The holdfast has a golden crown, see?” He pointed across the lake. You could see patches of flaking gold paint up around the crenellations. “Queen Alysanne slept there, so they painted the merlons gold in her honor.”

The same chapter, further on

“There are abandoned castles along the Wall, I’ve heard,” Jojen answered. “Fortresses built by the Night’s Watch but now left empty. One of them may give us our way through.”

The ghost castles, Old Nan had called them.

Jon, p. 389

"This is Queenscrown.”

Across the lake, the tower was black again, a dim shape dimly seen. “A queen lived there?” asked Ygritte.

“A queen stayed there for a night.” Old Nan had told him the story, but Maester Luwin had confirmed most of it. “Alysanne, the wife of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator. He’s called the Old King because he reigned so long, but he was young when he first came to the Iron Throne. In those days, it was his wont to travel all over the realm. When he came to Winterfell, he brought his queen, six dragons, and half his court. The king had matters to discuss with his Warden of the North, and Alysanne grew bored, so she mounted her dragon Silverwing and flew north to see the Wall. This village was one of the places where she stopped. Afterward the smallfolk painted the top of their holdfast to look like the golden crown she’d worn when she spent the night among them.”

“I have never seen a dragon.”

“No one has. The last dragons died a hundred years ago or more. But this was before that.”

“Queen Alysanne, you say?”

“Good Queen Alysanne, they called her later. One of the castles on the Wall was named for her as well. Queensgate. Before her visit they called it Snowgate.”

Bran, p. 515

The Nightfort had figured in some of Old Nan’s scariest stories. It was here that Night’s King had reigned, before his name was wiped from the memory of man. This was where the Rat Cook had served the Andal king his prince-and-bacon pie, where the seventy-nine sentinels stood their watch, where brave young Danny Flint had been raped and murdered. This was the castle where King Sherrit had called down his curse on the Andals of old, where the ‘prentice boys had faced the thing that came in the night, where blind Symeon Star-Eyes had seen the hellhounds fighting. Mad Axe had once walked these yards and climbed these towers, butchering his brothers in the dark.

All that had happened hundreds and thousands of years ago, to be sure, and some maybe never happened at all.

The same chapter, further on.

The Wall could look like stone, all grey and pitted, but then the clouds would break and the sun would hit it differently, and all at once it would transform, and stand there white and blue and glittering. It was the end of the world, Old Nan always said. On the other side were monsters and giants and ghouls, but they could not pass so long as the Wall stood strong.

The same chapter, further on

The gathering gloom put Bran in mind of another of Old Nan’s stories, the tale of Night’s King. He had been the thirteenth man to lead the Night’s Watch, she said; a warrior who knew no fear. “And that was the fault in him,” she would add, “for all men must know fear.” A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well.

He brought her back to the Nightfort and proclaimed her a queen and himself her king, and with strange sorceries he bound his Sworn Brothers to his will. For thirteen years they had ruled, Night’s King and his corpse queen, till finally the Stark of Winterfell and Joramun of the wildlings had joined to free the Watch from bondage. After his fall, when it was found he had been sacrificing to the Others, all records of Night’s King had been destroyed, his very name forbidden.

“Some say he was a Bolton,” Old Nan would always end. “Some say a Magnar out of Skagos, some say Umber, Flint, or Norrey. Some would have you think he was a Woodfoot, from them who ruled Bear island before the ironmen came. He never was. He was a Stark, the brother of the

man who brought him down.” She always pinched Bran on the nose then, he would never forget it. “He was a Stark of Winterfell, and who can say? Mayhaps his name was Brandon. Mayhaps he slept in this very bed in this very room.”

[...]

Night’s King was only a man by light of day, Old Nan would always say, but the night was his to rule.

The same chapter, further on

The Rat Cook had cooked the son of the Andal king in a big pie with onions, carrots, mushrooms, lots of pepper and salt, a rasher of bacon, and a dark red Dornish wine. Then he served him to his father, who praised the taste and had a second slice. Afterward the gods transformed the cook into a monstrous white rat who could only cat his own young. He had roamed the Nightfort ever since, devouring his children, but still his hunger was not sated. “It was not for murder that the gods cursed him,” Old Nan said, “nor for serving the Andal king his son in a pie. A man has a right to vengeance. But he slew a guest beneath his roof, and that the gods cannot forgive.”

The same chapter, furthe on

Outside the wind was sending armies of dead leaves marching across the courtyards to scratch faintly at the doors and windows. The sounds made him think of Old Nan’s stories. He could almost hear the ghostly sentinels calling to each other atop the Wall and winding their ghostly warhorns.

The same chapter, further on

He remembered what Old Nan had said of Mad Axe, how he took his boots off and prowled the castle halls barefoot in the dark, with never a sound to tell you where he was except for the drops of blood that fell from his axe and his elbows

and the end of his wet red beard. Or maybe it wasn’t Mad Axe at all, maybe it was the thing that came in the night. The ‘prentice boys all saw it, Old Nan said, but afterward when they told their Lord Commander every description had been different. And three died within the year, and the fourth went mad, and a hundred years later when the thing had come again, the ‘prentice boys were seen shambling along behind it, all in chains.

[...]

Mad Axe had been a big man in Old Nan’s story, and the thing that came in the night had been monstrous.

The same chapter, further on, they meet Sam

“Was he green?” Bran wanted to know. “Did he have antlers?”

The fat man was confused. “The elk?”

“Coldhands,” said Bran impatiently. “The green men ride on elks, Old Nan used to say. Sometimes they have antlers too.”

The same chapter, further on

Beyond the gates the monsters live, and the giants and the ghouls, he remembered Old Nan saying, but they cannot pass so long as the Wall stands strong.

Sansa, p. 567

In Old Nan’s stories the grumkins crafted magic things that could make a wish come true.

Book 4

Feast for Crows

Arya, p. 71 (out of 588)

The Titan of Braavos. Old Nan had told them stories of the Titan back in Winterfell. He was a giant as tall as a mountain, and whenever Braavos stood in danger he would wake with fire in his eyes, his rocky limbs grinding and groaning as he waded out into the sea to smash the enemies. “The Braavosi feed him on the juicy pink flesh of little highborn girls,” Nan would end.

Arya, p. 258

She remembered a tale she had heard from Old Nan, about how sometimes during a long

winter men who’d lived beyond their years would announce that they were going hunting. And their daughters would weep and their sons would turn their faces to the fire, she could hear Old Nan saying, but no one would stop them, or ask what game they meant to hunt, with the snows so deep and the cold wind howling.

Book 5

Dance with Dragons

Bran, p. 73 (out of 916)

Bran found himself remembering the tales Old Nan had told him when he was a babe. Beyond

the Wall the monsters live, the giants and the ghouls, the stalking shadows and the dead that walk, she

would say, tucking him in beneath his scratchy woolen blanket, but they cannot pass so long as the Wall

stands strong and the men of the Night’s Watch are true.

Bran, p. 399

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once

he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.”

“A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her

remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow.

A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”

“Do all the birds have singers in them?”

“All,” Lord Brynden said. “It was the singers who taught the First Men to send messages by

raven … but in those days, the birds would speak the words. The trees remember, but men forget, and

so now they write the messages on parchment and tie them round the feet of birds who have never

shared their skin.”

Old Nan had told him the same story once, Bran remembered.

Jon, p. 408

The wind was gusting, cold as the breath of the ice dragon in the tales Old Nan had told when Jon was a boy.

Jon, p. 455

Wun Wun was very little like the giants in Old Nan’s tales, those huge savage creatures who mixed blood into their morning porridge and devoured whole bulls, hair and hide and horns.

Arya, p. 526

Old Nan had told her tales of Hardhome, back at Winterfell

when she had still been Arya Stark. “After the big battle where the King-Beyond-the-Wall was killed, the

wildlings ran away, and this woods witch said that if they went to Hardhome, ships would come and

carry them away to someplace warm. But no ships came, except these two Lyseni pirates, Goodheart

and Elephant, that had been driven north by a storm. They dropped anchor off Hardhome to make

repairs, and saw the wildlings, but there were thousands and they didn’t have room for all of them, so

they said they’d just take the women and the children. The wildlings had nothing to eat, so the men sent

out their wives and daughters, but as soon as the ships were out to sea, the Lyseni drove them below

and roped them up. They meant to sell them all in Lys. Only then they ran into another storm and the

ships were parted. The Goodheart was so damaged her captain had no choice but to put in here, but the

Elephant may have made it back to Lys. The Lyseni at Pynto’s think that she’ll return with more ships.

The price of slaves is rising, they said, and there are thousands more women and children at

Hardhome.”

Jon, p. 563

The snowfall was light today, a thin scattering of flakes dancing in the air, but the wind was

blowing from the east along the Wall, cold as the breath of the ice dragon in the tales Old Nan used to

tell.

Theon, p. 585

Theon would have laughed if he had dared. He remembered tales Old Nan had told them

of storms that raged for forty days and forty nights, for a year, for ten years … storms that buried castles

and cities and whole kingdoms under a hundred feet of snow.

Warrior part 2 Responsibility

Warrior part 2 Responsibility

“ability to respond does not mean ability to succeed. There is no guarantee that what you do will yield what you want. The guarantee is that as long as you are alive and conscious, you can respond to your circumstances in pursuit of your happiness. This power to respond is a defining feature of humanity. Our response- ability is a direct expression of our rationality our will, and our freedom. Being human is being response-able. - Fred Kaufman in his book conscious business”

One of the qualities which i believe most clearly defines someone as a warrior is responsibility. Whether they wield a sword or not, true responsibility is core to the warrior mindset. That might seem strange for me to say, you may have been expecting something more like courage, or honour, but responsibility is the one for me. I could understand why this might seem odd, especially in the world we live in especially when responsibility is often misused. Many times when people mean responsibility they mean blame . How often have you head someone say “who is responsible for this?” and known that what they mean is “who can i blame?” However this is not the real meaning of responsibility, it’s real meaning can be found by breaking the word down: Respond- ability. It is to do with the ability to respond consciously to what life offer’s us rather than having a knee- jerk reaction. A wonderful distinction which has helped me to be clearer about this in my own life is made by Fred Kofman in his excellent book ‘Conscious Business’. If i say that responsibility is absolute and unconditional then that can seem like i am trying to say that there are no other factors in your life then your own actions, that if you are faced with terrible circumstances then you only have yourself to blame . The word ‘responsibility’ has become so thoroughly associated with blame it is hard to separate the two any more. The distinction Kofman makes is that we are not responsible for everything we are responsible in the face of everything in our lives. I can’t be held responsible for the weather but i am responsible for my choices in the face of bad weather. On the larger and perhaps less abstract scale, i am not responsible for world hunger. I did not cause it. However , once i know that it is happening i am responsible in the face of it. Whether i campaign, travel to feed people raise money, donate money, donate food do nothing, or actively contribute to the prole by acting in way that will drive up the price of food ( for instance), once i know about the issue i am accountable for my choices- if i am responsible. If i refuse to be responsible ( and that is a choice) then i can pain myself as a helpless victim of circumstance. “I had no choice”

Ironical in the Song of ice and fire series Lord Stark once he reaches Kings landing shows himself to be on of the few in the capitol who is working to act responsibly. Responsibility is about owning the choice you chose rather then denying it even when that is difficult or painful. Sometimes we may ell people we have no choice our of a desire to protect there feelings by even then we engage in a dis- empowering deceit and it our hearts we all know it. I may say “ i am sorry i can’t come to your birthday party,.” but that’s not really true. I may be sorry, especially in the traditional root meaning of the word of “i feel sorrow” but it is not accurate that i can’t come The truth is that i am prioritizing something else. It would be more honest to say “ i would ole to come to your part, and there is something else. that is more important to me that night .” That may be a tougher message by it is more true as well. Perhaps you can see form this example how pervasive the lack of try responsibility is in our daily lives. These may see like trivial things, just some small words but as i say we all the know the truth of this so we are in a constant mode of lying to each other. We habituate our selves to this deceit and over time we even begin to believe it . By these man small lies i convince myself that i real done have a choice. I tell myself the story that i ‘can’t’ go to the party. In this way build and internal dialogue, and through that a preceded reality that is restrictive, limited , and above all, beyond my control. As i have said before, of course there are factors in my life which i don’t have control but what i do when i say i ‘can’t’ instead of ‘ i don’t want to ‘ is put things even more out of my control. I build a cage for myself and then lock myself inside it. This is the worst kind of imprisonment- the one we build for ourselves. Victor frankly, psychiatrist, famous author and founder of logothrapy formed many of the core ideas of this philosophy driven by his experience of being a subject of a concentration camp in \Nazi Germany he talk about how in the concentration camp he realized that while all of his external freedoms had been taken away, the one freedom that the guards could not take form him was his own response to his situation. No matter what they did, they could not control his internal choices and responses to them as human beings. This depth of internal freedom is rare but it is possible for all of us to have access it,, and i would say that we erode this internal freedom by increments every time we say “i can’t” when e mean “ i am choosing something else.”

Just as we erode our relationship with ourselves through these moments where we deny our responsibility, so too we damage our relationships with others . As we look at this matter of responsibility you are probaily sseeing that it takes a very high level of awareness to be truly responsible. It’s tough to notice when you are denying your own capacity to chose, to spot it when you are telling a friend or partner a small, convenient lie, to know and acknowledged when your priorities are different than someone else would like them to be or even to realize when you are acting from an old pattern rather then a live relationship to the world around you . All of this takes a lot of commitment and mindfulness. A wonderful illustration of this is an old story of a great Japanese sword master Tesshu.

“ tesshu had several students studying with him to master the sword. The best of them was walking down the street in the centre of town one day and as he walked past a horse the horse startled and kicked. Tesshu’s student was so fast and skillful that he managed to deflect the horses kick. Everyone nearby could see that a less skilled man would have been badly hurt or even killed. Of course , the story of this young swordsman’s skill spread very quickly though the town, but to everyone's surprise, two days later he had been dismissed form Tesshu’s school of swordsmanship. When one of the town- fold got up the courage to ask tesshu why such a promising student had bee dismissed he said of the incident with the horse “ the student had clearly failed to learn what i had to teach.” This seem utterly bizarre to the town-folk and though they pressed him to explain with he meant tesshu would say no more on the matter.

So the town fold cooked up a plan to see if they could catch tesshu out. Surely he could do no better than the younger student in the same situation, what more could a man do ? If there was some magic that Tesshu could work, they all wanted to see it ! Tesshu walked the same route form his home to his school every day. It was always the same so it was not hard for the locals to find a particularly irritable horse and tie i up outside one of the shops on Tesshu’s route they then all went about there business surreptitiously keeping an eye out for tesshu to come past. A little while later at jut his usual time teshu was walking the way he always walked. As eh approached the horse, everyone watched with baited breath.. but just before Tesshu got to where the horse was tied up, he crossed the street and walked by on the other side.”

I would say that Tesshu dismissed his student for a lack of Responsibility. His knee-jerked reaction showed amazing skill, but he lacked the awareness required to be able to respond effectively to the world around him. What if the horse had been injured or had got more distressed and hurt someone else.? That said, tessu was a master and it’s important to remember that we are all human- beings and while we can aspire to the highest of standards we will all slip sometimes- I suspect even Tesshu had moment where he stumbled on the path!

All to often in life we polarize our choices. We think it a ll has to be either black or white, right or wrong goo bad. This happens unconsciously in so much that we do that we do and it happens i power dynamics as well. Many people who feel victimized- by a person or just by life’s circumstances, consciously or unconsciously- will think the way out is to become a persecutor. Few people wold recognize it in those terms consciously, but what might be easier to recognize is a mindset that say’s “ if you don’t want to be the prey, become the predator.”

Sadly, if you choose to be a predator, other have to be prey, that's the way it work and whether you mean to or not, while you’re trying to free yourself form fear, you become the object of others peoples fear. as the Persian poet rumi put it: “ people of the world don’t look at themselves, and so they blame one another.”

as the zen master shunryu suzuki put it. This is a warrior’s choice: to refuse to be either victim or persecutor predator or prey. I believe there is always a kind of magical their option in any situation. L life is rarely only black or white.

The final aspect of responsibility i want to explore is how we can end up punishing ourselves our of a misguided seance of responsibility. What we are really doing is blaming ourselves and as i discussed at the beginning of the chapter, there responsibility has nothing to do with blame. The irony i that in this kind of self blame it actually limit our capacity for true responsibility because our pain will cloud our judgment and probably inhibit our awareness. I find it hard to mange this myself. As i have said , not only is it not accurate, it is also debilitating. It stops us doing the real work of responsibility. The blame game whether we turn on others or turn on ourselves will only cause more pain it never heals. That is why this distinction around responsibility which red kofman has made so concisely is so important: we are unconditionally responsible in the face of our circumstances, we are not necessarily responsible for what life brings us in the first place. If we wish to be true warrior then we must get a hold of this distinction and live it as fully as possible, otherwise we will constantly be compromised in our capacity to respond consciously to our environment. Our energy will be tie up with blaming – either ourselves or other. Responsibility requires great awareness and no small amount of courage but it is the gate way to our greatest power.

Bride and Cailleach: Drinking from the Well of Youth

Bride and Cailleach: Drinking from the Well of Youth

   As it’s almost Imbolc the story of Bride and Cailleach has been on my mind the last few days.  Cailleach and Bride’s interactions with mythology are all about transformation. Cailleach is arguably one of the most ancient Goddesses of the Celts. In fact she may even be a pre-Celtic Goddess, possibly being an earth Goddess of the original inhabitants of Ireland, prior to their integration with the invading Celtic tribes. She is usually described as an old woman with white hair and blue skin and at times is thought to be a giantess, dropping boulders out of her apron as she walked along. She was associated with Slieve na Calliagh, a peak of jagged rocks situated in a low range of hills in Ireland, which is made up of jagged rocks, which may be why she was sometime said to have very sharp teeth.

   Cailleach is best known as a Goddess of cold, winter, and darkness. She was also a Goddess of storms and during the winter months she was said to ride through the air on the back of a wolf, bringing snow and ice to the world below. According to my Irish grandmother thunder is really the Cailleach sneezing! She also had a magick wand that she used to strike away any hints of green on the winter landscape.

   As the winter hag Cailleach kept spring at bay, usually by keeping Bride, who represented spring hidden away. In Scotland it was believed that each year Cailleach held Bride captive in a cave. Unfortunately for Cailleach her son falls in love with Bride and together they flee the cave. Enraged Cailleach chases the lovers, conjuring up storms in her wake, but with the release of Bride spring soon overtake winter despite Cailleach’s best efforts. In other versions Cailleach turns to stone at the first signs of spring, and Bride escapes bringing with her renewed fertility and warmth to the world. But at Samhain Cailleach awakes again and captures Bride and once more holds her captive through the winter. In another version Cailleach travels to a magickal isle (sometimes said to be the Isle of Skye) where there is a miraculous Well of Youth. On Imbolc she drinks from the well and transforms into Bride.

   There are so many layers to this simple story. On one hand it is a seasonal myth. In other cultures many Goddesses connected to the sun are often hidden away in caves during the winter and return to the world with spring, Bride’s imprisonment in the cave mirrors this. But we can also see this struggle between the hag and maiden, winter and spring within ourselves. At times we keep our inner fire banked, we burry our creativity, our passion our hope deep within, like Bride in her cave. And like Cailleach sometimes we are afraid to let that part of ourselves out. We resist change.

   During this time of year I think about what I have been keeping locked away within me. Have I banked my inner fires? Have I been afraid to welcome change in my life? And I think of the winter hag taking a drink from that sacred well, willingly accepting change, knowing soon she will be the Goddess of spring.

Drinking from the Well of Transformation:

   Brew a cup of your favorite tea or if you prefer use wine. Take the cup to your sacred space. Place two candles on your altar, one of each side. Blue for Cailleach and a red candle for Bride. Light the candles and place your cup in-between the two candles on the altar.

   Take a few minutes to ground and center. See yourself in a small boat. The boat glides soundlessly across the waves, and a cold winter wind blows across you. Soon your boat glides up to the isle’s shore and you step onto the green earth. Shaded by a grove of trees you see an old stone well. The well waters shine with their own light, and you know you have found the Well of Youth. Take a few minutes to consider what kind of transformation you wish to bring into your life. Are their old habits that you need to shed, new ventures you wish to start? When you are ready you dip your hands into the water and drink.

   When you are ready take the cup in your hands and hold it over the altar, saying:

Cailleach, blue hag of winter,

Churning storms and chaos in your wake,

Lady of thunder, winter, and cold,

Drink now from the sacred well,

Bring transformation,

And let me change as you do each year

   Hold your hands over the cup. Visualize a brilliant white light filling the cup, the light of Cailleach and Bride, the light of new beginnings and transformation. Then take a sip of your magickal brew. Feel the blessings of Cailleach and Bride filling you, revitalizing you, as the Goddess’ energies renew and awaken the earth each spring. When you are ready say:

Like Cailleach I transform,

I drink from the sacred well,

The darkness within transformed to new light,

I shine like Bride of the green mantle,

Renewed and transformed by the Goddess!

The Myth of Macha

The Myth of Macha

                                             

   Some prose about the Goddess Macha who cursed the men of Ulster.....


    The dappled mare beside me stomps the ground impatiently just as the child within my womb begins to kick. She eyes me wearily, perhaps knowing better than the men who gather around us what I am. Another kick from the life within me, the mare dances nervously in place kicking up clumps of packed earth with her hooves, and I run a hand over my swollen stomach. Although I know it is pointless I call out to the crowd again. It is too close to my time, will they not wait till after I have brought this tiny life into the world to test my husband’s foolish bragging? But my plea is met with laughter. I look at the bearded faces around me, did a mother not bare each of them? How can they listen with such deaf ears and stony hearts to my pleas? I place a protective hand on my belly again, and think that if this had been a crowd of women I would not be answered with gears. Little do they know this was never about the race, the race is already won.
    My pleas unanswered, the signal is given and the horses run free. I begin slowly, following behind them on the track. Their hooves pound against the earth, like distant thunder, like the beat of the drums within the Sidhe hills. I concentrate on the sound, and as I run I change. What the men see I do not know. Do they see the pale woman with hair the color of flame? Or do they see the roan mare? Perhaps both? When I run I am free, the weights of the world disappear as if a great yoke has been caste off my shoulders. There is nothing I cannot outrun. I am as eager as that dappled mare to challenge the wind, and so I run, and run, and run. The crowd blurs around me, a few shout in disbelief as I easily pass the king’s chariot. This was not what they expected. They were so certain these beasts where the swiftest that ever lived. Perhaps they are, but at this moment I am the Great Mare, I am the primal essence of every horse that ever was, and there is nothing that I cannot outrun, nothing I cannot overcome. But this magick has a price, and I will have to pay it all too soon.
    When I cross the finish line I collapse, no longer the Great Mare but a woman in the final stages of labor. The crowd circles around me. These men of sword and spear, who spill blood and glory in death, I wonder, do they know the value of life? They are so close, life and death, both forged in blood and pain, whether it be the pangs of labor or the sting of a blade. Transitions are never easy, whether we are coming into this world or leaving it behind. They look at me in astonishment, unsure of what to do or say. They should have waited as I had asked. Did I not deserve that much mercy? Do they think my husband’s boast was so bold now? I think not, but it was never about the boast, or the race. I knew from the very moment they arrived at my doorstep that I would win. It was about the mercy of men. It was about honoring the women who bore them, and the women who will bare their own children, and their children’s children.
    I feel myself fading as I hear my child cry out. No, as my children cry out. Twins. Despite the pain I smile. Someone places them in my arms, a tiny mercy, although it is too little too late. I look into my children’s faces and both a fierce love and rage sparks within my broken body. I feel the blood pouring from me. It comes too quickly. The womb that brought life into the world will soon end mine, but there is still some magick left in me, and when I speak it is not as a dying woman but as a Goddess.
    Some will call it a curse. But in my mind it is a blessing. For nine generations, in the hour of their greatest need, the bearded men of Ulster will know the pangs of a woman in childbed. If men will take life and throw it away so carelessly on idle words they will know the pain, the sacrifice it took to bring life into the world. Perhaps then they will not throw is away so carelessly.
    With the last word of my spell my human body gives way. Once more I am myself, shining spirit, immortal fay, Goddess. My sisters never understood my desire to take on mortal flesh for a time, they both warned it would only cause me pain. And it has, but it has also brought two new lives into the world. Two flames that will shine brightly, if only for a little while.
    The crowd stands in stunned silence around my discarded mortal frame. As I watch my spirit begins to take on a familiar shape, sleek wings, and black glossy feathers like a cloak of midnight. No one sees the crow now perched on one of the raceway’s posts. As I fly away I wonder if they see my curse for what it truly is.               

frequent questions

Frequently Asked Questions of a Traveling Priestess

   In doing workshops and other events there tends to be a few questions that I am always asked.  They are all great questions and have led to some great conversations so I thought I would share them on the blog for those who haven’t seen me speak or gone to one of my workshops.  And if anyone else can think of any good questions feel free to ask here!

Morrigan and Morgan Le Fay are they the same?

   This is perhaps the most popular one.  This is my own opinion on the subject so if you feel differently there is nothing wrong with that!  Are they identical, one and the same- No.  Do I see a connection between the two- Yes.  When I work with the Irish Morrigan/Morrigu, I am working with the Morrigan.  When I work with Morgan Le Fay, I am working with Morgan Le Fay.  Their energies feel different to me.  But when we look to mythology I do see a connection, or perhaps the correct word would be evolution, between the two.  The etymology of their names are dramatically different, Morgan Le Fay comes to us from Welsh mythology and Morrigan from the Irish lore.  But like other gods like the Irish Lugh, who has a counter part in the Welsh lore as Lleu Llaw Gyffes, much of the ideas and deities that the Irish celebrated migrated to other regions.  I see many connections between the Welsh Modron and the Morrigan.  Like Lugh and Lleu they are not quite the same but the connection is still there.  Modron eventually evolved into Morgan Le Fay, both having the same husband and having many parallels within their stories. (I could write a whole blog about those connections so you can reference by book for more details)    For me the connection is there. I work with them separately but with that evolution in mind.  I take a similar approach with Lugh and Lleu, not the same but the connection is there.   


Should we label the gods?  Why do you consider the Morrigan a Dark Goddess?

   When I think of the Morrigan I think of her just as the Morrigan.  Words like Mother come to mind- for she is my mother, and has become an inseparable part of me.  She is so many many things.  She embodies so many powerful lessons and guises.  It’s not hard to understand why she was seen as a shape-shifter, she doesn’t really like to be pinned down to one thing for very long.  But if I have to put a label on her Dark Goddess would be it.  Of course this all depends on what you consider “dark” to mean.  For me “dark” deities are gods that embody transformation, liminal deities, gods that deal with death, and are connected to the underworld.  Dark for me conjures up images of dark rich soil, fed by the decay of other life, yet nurtures the seed and new budding life.  It reminds me that I can never create without destroying.  These god challenge us, they lead us to transformation which is at its core a process of destruction to create anew.  They also embody the things we fear, which are usually the things we need to look at the most. 
   I don’t think that the Celts would have seen her as a dark goddess, they were closer and more at peace with the things she teaches, where we in modern times are not.  Who knows maybe in a hundred years Aphrodite will be a dark goddess to the pagans of the future.  The label of dark goddess is a starting point.  Just like saying Artemis is a moon goddess is just a starting point for her mysteries.  This of course brings up the idea of whether or not we should label the gods.  As humans we give things labels in an attempt to understand them, and wrap our heads around ideas and concepts.  It’s impossible to not try to categorize the gods, and that can be both a good and bad thing.  When we pigeon hole a deity and see only the label and fail to see what that deity is truly saying to us or embodies then it becomes a crutch and does not serve us spiritually.  It is something we have to remind ourselves not to do when working with any deity.  The Morrigan is a very well rounded figure, there is a lot to her personality and mysteries.  I call her a dark goddess based on my own definition of what a “dark” deity is, but she is far more than just that, just like any deity.