Beyond the Wall: Exploring George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire, From A Game of Thrones to A Dance with Drago (24 page)

After five books, it seems pretty clear that no one ever wins the game of thrones, at least not for long. But when it comes to being a better person, it might not be such a bad thing to be cast out of the castle completely.

       
BRENT HARTINGER
is the author of many books, mostly for teenagers, including the gay teen novel
Geography Club
(soon to be a motion picture) and its four sequels. His other books include
Shadow Walkers
, a paranormal romance, and the forthcoming
Three Truths and a Lie
, a psychological thriller. Visit Brent online at
brenthartinger.com
.

CAROLINE SPECTOR

THE USE AND ABUSE
of power is the one constant theme of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. Power, large or small, inevitably corrupts in Westeros, no matter who wields it and no matter the righteousness of their cause. Even as the disenfranchised women of Westeros seize the autonomy they need for power, once they begin taking it, they inevitably fall prey to the same potentially corrupting influences the men experience.

Feminism is, at its heart, about the empowerment of women. This power takes the form of both political power (e.g., suffrage) and personal power. Holding power in the political realm allows women the same influence in society men have. Personal power affords women their own agency to make choices for themselves regarding their lives, whether it’s whom they marry, the ability to consent to sex, the right to choose a profession, or just the right to choose the life they wish to live without being coerced by others.

Both men and women are oppressed by the existing power structure in Westeros. This is especially true for characters failing to conform to the prevailing gender standards, such as Brienne, a “masculine” woman; Varys, a “feminine” man; Samwell Tarly, a man who confounds his masculine role by being gentle and kind; and Asha Greyjoy, a woman who is a powerful leader of men. But it is the women who are most obviously in need of their own agency. This is not to say that women don’t have power, but by and large, their avenues to power are circumscribed. Asha, for example, commands a remarkable amount of respect for a woman in Westeros, but not enough for the men to rally around her to take the Seastone Chair, though she’s by far the best choice to do so. And outright rule by women is an almost unheard of event. Daenerys Targaryen is remarkable and dangerous in every sense because her very existence is perilous to the current power structure.

Critics of the series point to examples of sexual assault in the books, the lack of women in positions of power, and the trappings of traditional medieval fantasy as indicative of a lack of feminist perspective in the narrative. This analysis suffers from the notion that an author writing about a thing—for example, rape—somehow suggests he or she condones it or is simply exploiting the subject matter. This makes for a shallow and facile examination of the text, taking examples out of context and failing to look at the broader scope of the work.

Throughout A Song of Ice and Fire, Martin establishes conventional medieval fantasy tropes and then destroys them, often by revealing the corrupting influences at their heart. If the usual image of the knight is a man of courage and valor, Martin subverts that image with brutes like Sandor Clegane. If women are supposed to be virtuous, pure, and helpless, then the reader is presented with Cersei Lannister. Indeed, while Cersei functions in some ways as the traditional “Evil Queen,” she is more than that easy trope. As the series progresses, it becomes clear that she is trapped by the expectations of her society, and that she lacks the ability to see how her personal and ethical shortcomings hamstring her quest for power and respect. She’s wicked and pathetic at the same time.

In epic fantasy, there has to be a monumental struggle of some sort. Usually this consists of a grand, sweeping conflict between forces of good and evil that imperils the entire world, or at least the safe and civilized parts of it. In A Song of Ice and Fire, the threat to civilization is reflected in the Stark motto: “Winter Is Coming.” Winter in Westeros is a multi-year affair that not only blots out the natural progression of seasons, but also brings supernatural menace from beyond the Wall. This phrase hangs over Westeros like a death sentence. It promises a threat that would, were this a traditional fantasy tale, require the courtly knights to rally, rout the obvious agents of evil, and prevent the destruction of the peaceful shire or duchy that serves as the symbolic heart of the idyllic, morally upright kingdom.

But Westeros, and the lands surrounding it, are anything but idyllic. Martin constantly throws a harsh light on the cracks in his world’s culture, the moral failings of its leaders, and the deceptions at the heart of its most cherished institutions. The supposedly noble Night’s Watch is populated by rapists. The heirs to the throne are the children of adulterous incest. The legends of heroic men protecting helpless women turn out to be lies and, worse, propaganda intended to encourage women to embrace their helplessness.

In fact, the tribulations of the female characters in particular play a central role in illustrating the disconnect between the society’s illusions about itself and the harrowing reality.

As
A Game of Thrones
opens, Sansa seems an exemplar of womanly virtues, as the Westerosi elite defines them. She’s docile, pretty, excels at needlepoint, and revels in the privileges afforded her by her position as Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter. In short, she’s royalty—and insufferable. Priggish and superior, she annoys, and is annoyed by, her tomboy sister, Arya.

Though it may appear at first that Sansa Stark is in love with the young prince Joffrey, what she is actually in love with is the central myth of her culture—that the king is kind and wise, that princes are noble and good, that ladies must be beautiful and behave in a ladylike manner. She continues to believe these myths even as events unfold that put the lie to them.

One of the first incidents that reveal the cracks in the façade of Sansa’s world occurs when Joffrey, heir to the throne and Sansa’s betrothed, assaults a peasant boy, Mycah, who had been engaged in a mock duel with Arya Stark. During the course of this encounter, it becomes clear to the reader, if not to Sansa, that Joffrey is a bully and a coward, not the model of princely perfection starry-eyed Sansa assumes him to be. Joffrey tries to goad Mycah into fighting with him, and Arya steps in to protect her friend, who then runs off; as a peasant, Mycah knows that any encounter with nobility can result in death. Enraged, Joffrey turns on Arya, at which point Arya’s pet direwolf, Nymeria, protects her.

Despite seeing Joffrey behave horribly toward a person of lesser status and try to hurt her own sister, Sansa clings to her belief that he’s kind and good. So invested is she in her worldview that she does not question her beliefs even after she bears the brunt of Joffrey’s anger herself. Later, when questioned by King Robert, Sansa lies and claims not to remember what happened. Sansa has been completely co-opted by Westeros’s patriarchal culture, and it is only later, with her father’s unjust execution and the ripping away of all her royal privileges, that she begins to see the truth behind the myth.

In the meantime, though, she is completely supportive of the culture and power structure of Westeros, the workings of which are on full display during the incident with Mycah. The children involved are between nine and thirteen years old, and yet they are already perfectly aware of the draconian rules of this society. When Arya defends Mycah against Joffrey, she steps outside the bounds of acceptable behavior (as she will for most of the series), and in doing so, takes a piece of traditionally male power for herself. This act is in and of itself transgressive, and both Arya and Mycah know they are in profound physical danger, though Mycah realizes this before Arya does. When Arya finally comprehends the danger she and Nymeria are in, she drives the direwolf off to keep her from being killed. In a bit of stunning injustice, Sansa’s wolf, Lady, is killed in Nymeria’s place. In a way, the loss of the wolf represents a loss of connection to, and protection from, House Stark, whose symbol is the direwolf.

More importantly, the mock duel incident and its aftermath not only foreshadow events that will occur in King’s Landing but also serve as examples of how those in positions of authority wield almost absolute power over everyone in Westeros. (And though the men are also constrained by this system, they have far more agency than the women and indeed exercise near-total control over the women around them.) A simple argument between children turns into a political incident, and terrible punishments are meted out the same for the young as they are for the adults—with no allowances made for their age.

Many readers find Sansa’s travails during book one and the rest of the series to be extreme. She spends a great deal of time as a captive in Cersei’s and Joffrey’s court after her father is murdered. During this period she learns the true nature of the Lannisters and how precarious her own place is in the world, with her father dead and branded a traitor. Thereafter, she falls under the dubious protections of several men and is used as a pawn in other people’s machinations. She survives all this by using the only tools she’s developed within Westerosi culture: being submissive and hiding her true feelings.

To a large extent, Sansa’s inability to recognize the gap between myth and reality cripples her. She truly believes in the rules she has been taught about her society and her place in it. And why shouldn’t she embrace the culture of Westeros? She’s the eldest daughter of a powerful family. She’s been raised knowing she will one day wed into another powerful family. In fact, once she is engaged to Joffrey, she has every reason to believe she will be queen. And the world around her constantly reinforces the notion that her own “virtues” have given rise to her privileged situation. Yet those same traits make her incapable of functioning effectively, once those dreams are crushed and reality intrudes.

Sansa is ill equipped for the chaotic time in which she finds herself. She’s passive, fearful, and often blinds herself to the reality before her. Of the women discussed here, she’s the only one who fails to stand up for herself and take what personal power she can. Eventually, she even appears to lose control of her own identity, when she is cast as Alayne Stone, Lord Baelish’s illegitimate daughter. He tells her this is intended to protect her, but he has other plans, intending to use her to make a claim on Winterfell. To her credit, Sansa, who up until this point has been surprised by the plots going on around her, appears to grasp what Baelish is up to. Being exposed to the continual corruption around her, Sansa is slowly learning to trust no one and to divine the power play in their every action.