Everyday Use

A Contrast between Dee and Maggie’s View Concerning Their Heritage In my writing essay I shall analyze the way in which heritage can be conceived in Alice Walker’s novel Everyday Use, trying to point out the author’s main ideas concerning the theme of the story. I would also try to describe the two daughter’s points of view, Dee and Maggie’s, about their ancestral heritage. The contrast between these two daughters is more than obvious not only in their appearance but also in their behavior when it comes to quilts from their grandmother. Everyday Use is a story narrated by a rural black woman, who is the mother of the two girls Maggie and Dee Johnson. Mrs. Johnson, is a simple woman but who, in spite of all difficulties that she passed through, she tried to give her daughters if possible, a good education and of course the most important thing, to make them aware of what heritage is indeed, the fact that traditional culture and heritage is not represented only by the possession of old objects, but also by one’s behavior and customs. She outlines in the story that she is not a very educated woman, but this does not mean that the lack of education is also reflected in her capacity to understand, to love and to respect her ancestors. Since the beginning of the story, the narrator makes obvious the contrast between Maggie and her elder sister Dee. Dee is a very ambitious girl, with a well-defined character, the one who had always been successful and ambitious. Maggie thinks â€Å"her sister has held life, always in the palm of one hand, that â€Å"no† is a word the world never learned to say to her. (Walker 2469). Dee denies her real heritage by changing her given name, after her aunt Dee, to the superficially more impressive one Wangero Leewanik Kemanjo, arguing to her mother that â€Å"Dee is dead and I couldn’t bear it any longer, being named after the people who oppress me† ( Walker 2472), what she does in fact is to reject her family identity. She inspires in her mother â€Å"a sort of aw e and fear more suitable to the advent of a goddess than the love one might expect a mother to feel for a returning daughter† (Farell, â€Å"Flight†). On the other hand, Maggie is the type of simple girl, like her mother, with little education. She is not ambitious like her sister Dee, living somehow in her mother’s shadow. But this might be also because Maggie hadn’t her sister luck and she burned severely in the house fire when she was a child, becoming now a shy and fearful person. These features are more visible in her attitude while waiting for her sister to come home. Mama is projecting her own anger and frustration onto her younger daughter when she speculates that Maggie will be cowed by Dee’s arrival. Maggie will be nervous until after her sister goes: she will stand hopelessly in corners homely and ashamed of the burn scars down her arms and legs, eyeing her sister with a mixture of envy and awe† ( Walker 2469). As Marianne Hirsch says in one of her critical essays: â€Å"the mother sees in Maggie’s angerless, fear an image of her own passive acceptance of Dee’s aggression, her ow n suppressed anger† Moreover, we can see through the lines of this story that, at the beginning, Dee was the daughter that mother preferred most because of her authority and because she wanted to succeed in life by following her instincts. But when she saw her totally changed, not only physically but also in her mentality, mother realized that Maggie was the one that understood the meaning of â€Å"heritage† and tried to give her justice. It is relevant â€Å"Mama’s awakening to one’s daughter’s superficiality and to the other’s deep-seated understanding of heritage† ( Tuten, â€Å"Alice Walker’s Everyday Use† ). However, Dee seems to despise her sister, her mother and the church that helped to educate her. Intentionally or not, she is selfish and she treats her sister with indifference. While Dee escaped from the poor life she was supposed to live, Maggie, next to her mother, represents the multitude of black women who must suffer. Scarred, graceless, not bright and uneducated, â€Å"Maggie is a living reproach to a survivor like her sister† (Cowart, â€Å"Heritage†) . The contradictions about heritage and culture between Maggie and Dee become more extensive when the quilts take part from the story. After dinner, Dee discovers some old quilts which belonged to her grandmother. She is very excited that found them, thinking that these quilts represent the testament of her ancestors. Without taking into account Maggie’s opinion, she asks her mother if she can have those quilts, arguing that she is the only one who can appreciate and have the right to keep them. At first, mother hesitates to give her an answer and offers her other quilts but Dee gets upset and then mother explains to her that the quilts were from Maggie as a wedding gift. Maggie’s tolerance in the story contrasts with Dee’s boldness. When Dee insists that her sister would ruin grandma’s quilts by using them everyday, and that hanging the quilts would be the only way to preserve them, Maggie â€Å" like somebody used to never wining anything, or having anything reserved for her† says â€Å" She can have them, Mama. I can remember Grandma Dee without the quilts† (Walker, 2474). Mrs. Johnson then realizes what makes Maggie different form her sister. She sees her scarred hands hidden in her skirt and says: â€Å"When I looked at her like that something hit me in the top of my head and ran down to the soles of my feet. Just like when I’m in the church and the spirit of God touches me and I get happy and shout† (Walker, 2475). This powerful feelings determines Mama to do something she had never done before: â€Å"she snatched the quilts out of Miss Wangero’s hands and dumped them into Maggie’s lap† ( Walker, 2475). Mama’s behavior here is almost like Dee’s because she rebuffs her wishes for the first time and give justice to the most patient Maggie. The fact that she takes the quilts from Dee and gives them to Maggie, â€Å"she confirms her younger daughter’s self-worth: metaphorically, she gives Maggie her voice† ( Tuten, â€Å"Alice Walker’s Everyday Use† ). In conclusion, I can say that Everyday Use is a story about understanding heritage. This concept is very well exposed by the two characters Alice Walker created, Dee and Maggie. These two daughters have a completely different view in what concerns the heritage from their ancestors; in this case their origins and their inheritance, the quilts from Grandma Dee. Maggie is the one who understands that heritage is about respecting family’s traditions and customs while Dee destroys the traditional image kept by Mrs. Johnson and her sister. She denies her true origins by changing the given name into more fashionable one, Wangero Leewanik Kemanjo. One should appreciate his legacy because it represents indeed what we are. We can not hide our roots and even if we want, this would not be possible because it always remains present in our souls and our minds, we like it or not. WORKES CITED PRIMARY SOURCE: Walker, Alice. Everyday Use. In Love and Trouble: Stories of Black Women New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1973. SECONDARY SOURCE: Cowart, David . †Heritage and deracination in Walker's â€Å"Everyday Use. † Studies in Short Fiction. FindArticles. com. Farrell Susan. â€Å"Fight vs. Flight: a re-evaluation of Dee in Alice Walker’s â€Å"Everyday Use†- Critical Essay†. Studies in Short Fiction. FindArticles. com. Hirsch, Marianne. â€Å"Clytemnestra’s Children: Writing the Mother’s Anger. † Alice Walker: Modern Critical Views. Ed. Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House, 1989. Tuten, Nancy. â€Å"Alice Walker’s Everyday Use. † The Explicator 51. 2,1993 Everyday Use Everyday Use Symbolism The Quilts These quilts represent Mama's family and her heritage, they were made by Grandma Dee and Big Dee. Symbolically, each piece of material was made from scraps of clothing that once belonged to someone in their family, including pieces of their great-grandfather's Civil War uniform. . To Maggie, they represent her family; she still remembers with love her grandmother who made one of them and she says it is okay if Dee takes them because she does not need the quilts to remember Grandma Dee. To Dee, however, the quilts have no emotional value.She regards them as a type of folk art that will look impressive hanging upon her walls. (Dee embraces her African heritage while rejecting her personal family history. ) Mama gives those quilts to Maggie because she knows Maggie, unlike Dee, will honor the culture and heritage by using it, or continuing it the way it was originally intended. ‘Maggie can's appreciate these quilts! she said. ‘She'd probably be backward enough to put them to everyday use. ‘ The Butter Churn and the Dasher The author also uses the butter churn and the dasher as a symbol to show mama’s understands of heritage.When Mama takes the dasher handle in her hands, she is symbolically touching the hands of all those who used it before her. Her appreciation for the dasher and the quits is based on the love fort the people who made use of them. Dee wants to use the churn top as a centerpiece for the alcove table and do something creative with the dasher. Mama views and honors her heritage as practical by appreciating what she acquired from previous generations and putting the passed down items into everyday use. Dee views and honors her heritage as superficial by appreciating the passed down items for their materialistic and artistic value Everyday Use A Contrast between Dee and Maggie’s View Concerning Their Heritage In my writing essay I shall analyze the way in which heritage can be conceived in Alice Walker’s novel Everyday Use, trying to point out the author’s main ideas concerning the theme of the story. I would also try to describe the two daughter’s points of view, Dee and Maggie’s, about their ancestral heritage. The contrast between these two daughters is more than obvious not only in their appearance but also in their behavior when it comes to quilts from their grandmother. Everyday Use is a story narrated by a rural black woman, who is the mother of the two girls Maggie and Dee Johnson. Mrs. Johnson, is a simple woman but who, in spite of all difficulties that she passed through, she tried to give her daughters if possible, a good education and of course the most important thing, to make them aware of what heritage is indeed, the fact that traditional culture and heritage is not represented only by the possession of old objects, but also by one’s behavior and customs. She outlines in the story that she is not a very educated woman, but this does not mean that the lack of education is also reflected in her capacity to understand, to love and to respect her ancestors. Since the beginning of the story, the narrator makes obvious the contrast between Maggie and her elder sister Dee. Dee is a very ambitious girl, with a well-defined character, the one who had always been successful and ambitious. Maggie thinks â€Å"her sister has held life, always in the palm of one hand, that â€Å"no† is a word the world never learned to say to her. (Walker 2469). Dee denies her real heritage by changing her given name, after her aunt Dee, to the superficially more impressive one Wangero Leewanik Kemanjo, arguing to her mother that â€Å"Dee is dead and I couldn’t bear it any longer, being named after the people who oppress me† ( Walker 2472), what she does in fact is to reject her family identity. She inspires in her mother â€Å"a sort of aw e and fear more suitable to the advent of a goddess than the love one might expect a mother to feel for a returning daughter† (Farell, â€Å"Flight†). On the other hand, Maggie is the type of simple girl, like her mother, with little education. She is not ambitious like her sister Dee, living somehow in her mother’s shadow. But this might be also because Maggie hadn’t her sister luck and she burned severely in the house fire when she was a child, becoming now a shy and fearful person. These features are more visible in her attitude while waiting for her sister to come home. Mama is projecting her own anger and frustration onto her younger daughter when she speculates that Maggie will be cowed by Dee’s arrival. Maggie will be nervous until after her sister goes: she will stand hopelessly in corners homely and ashamed of the burn scars down her arms and legs, eyeing her sister with a mixture of envy and awe† ( Walker 2469). As Marianne Hirsch says in one of her critical essays: â€Å"the mother sees in Maggie’s angerless, fear an image of her own passive acceptance of Dee’s aggression, her ow n suppressed anger† Moreover, we can see through the lines of this story that, at the beginning, Dee was the daughter that mother preferred most because of her authority and because she wanted to succeed in life by following her instincts. But when she saw her totally changed, not only physically but also in her mentality, mother realized that Maggie was the one that understood the meaning of â€Å"heritage† and tried to give her justice. It is relevant â€Å"Mama’s awakening to one’s daughter’s superficiality and to the other’s deep-seated understanding of heritage† ( Tuten, â€Å"Alice Walker’s Everyday Use† ). However, Dee seems to despise her sister, her mother and the church that helped to educate her. Intentionally or not, she is selfish and she treats her sister with indifference. While Dee escaped from the poor life she was supposed to live, Maggie, next to her mother, represents the multitude of black women who must suffer. Scarred, graceless, not bright and uneducated, â€Å"Maggie is a living reproach to a survivor like her sister† (Cowart, â€Å"Heritage†) . The contradictions about heritage and culture between Maggie and Dee become more extensive when the quilts take part from the story. After dinner, Dee discovers some old quilts which belonged to her grandmother. She is very excited that found them, thinking that these quilts represent the testament of her ancestors. Without taking into account Maggie’s opinion, she asks her mother if she can have those quilts, arguing that she is the only one who can appreciate and have the right to keep them. At first, mother hesitates to give her an answer and offers her other quilts but Dee gets upset and then mother explains to her that the quilts were from Maggie as a wedding gift. Maggie’s tolerance in the story contrasts with Dee’s boldness. When Dee insists that her sister would ruin grandma’s quilts by using them everyday, and that hanging the quilts would be the only way to preserve them, Maggie â€Å" like somebody used to never wining anything, or having anything reserved for her† says â€Å" She can have them, Mama. I can remember Grandma Dee without the quilts† (Walker, 2474). Mrs. Johnson then realizes what makes Maggie different form her sister. She sees her scarred hands hidden in her skirt and says: â€Å"When I looked at her like that something hit me in the top of my head and ran down to the soles of my feet. Just like when I’m in the church and the spirit of God touches me and I get happy and shout† (Walker, 2475). This powerful feelings determines Mama to do something she had never done before: â€Å"she snatched the quilts out of Miss Wangero’s hands and dumped them into Maggie’s lap† ( Walker, 2475). Mama’s behavior here is almost like Dee’s because she rebuffs her wishes for the first time and give justice to the most patient Maggie. The fact that she takes the quilts from Dee and gives them to Maggie, â€Å"she confirms her younger daughter’s self-worth: metaphorically, she gives Maggie her voice† ( Tuten, â€Å"Alice Walker’s Everyday Use† ). In conclusion, I can say that Everyday Use is a story about understanding heritage. This concept is very well exposed by the two characters Alice Walker created, Dee and Maggie. These two daughters have a completely different view in what concerns the heritage from their ancestors; in this case their origins and their inheritance, the quilts from Grandma Dee. Maggie is the one who understands that heritage is about respecting family’s traditions and customs while Dee destroys the traditional image kept by Mrs. Johnson and her sister. She denies her true origins by changing the given name into more fashionable one, Wangero Leewanik Kemanjo. One should appreciate his legacy because it represents indeed what we are. We can not hide our roots and even if we want, this would not be possible because it always remains present in our souls and our minds, we like it or not. WORKES CITED PRIMARY SOURCE: Walker, Alice. Everyday Use. In Love and Trouble: Stories of Black Women New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1973. SECONDARY SOURCE: Cowart, David . †Heritage and deracination in Walker's â€Å"Everyday Use. † Studies in Short Fiction. FindArticles. com. Farrell Susan. â€Å"Fight vs. Flight: a re-evaluation of Dee in Alice Walker’s â€Å"Everyday Use†- Critical Essay†. Studies in Short Fiction. FindArticles. com. Hirsch, Marianne. â€Å"Clytemnestra’s Children: Writing the Mother’s Anger. † Alice Walker: Modern Critical Views. Ed. Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House, 1989. Tuten, Nancy. â€Å"Alice Walker’s Everyday Use. † The Explicator 51. 2,1993 Everyday Use A Contrast between Dee and Maggie’s View Concerning Their Heritage In my writing essay I shall analyze the way in which heritage can be conceived in Alice Walker’s novel Everyday Use, trying to point out the author’s main ideas concerning the theme of the story. I would also try to describe the two daughter’s points of view, Dee and Maggie’s, about their ancestral heritage. The contrast between these two daughters is more than obvious not only in their appearance but also in their behavior when it comes to quilts from their grandmother. Everyday Use is a story narrated by a rural black woman, who is the mother of the two girls Maggie and Dee Johnson. Mrs. Johnson, is a simple woman but who, in spite of all difficulties that she passed through, she tried to give her daughters if possible, a good education and of course the most important thing, to make them aware of what heritage is indeed, the fact that traditional culture and heritage is not represented only by the possession of old objects, but also by one’s behavior and customs. She outlines in the story that she is not a very educated woman, but this does not mean that the lack of education is also reflected in her capacity to understand, to love and to respect her ancestors. Since the beginning of the story, the narrator makes obvious the contrast between Maggie and her elder sister Dee. Dee is a very ambitious girl, with a well-defined character, the one who had always been successful and ambitious. Maggie thinks â€Å"her sister has held life, always in the palm of one hand, that â€Å"no† is a word the world never learned to say to her. (Walker 2469). Dee denies her real heritage by changing her given name, after her aunt Dee, to the superficially more impressive one Wangero Leewanik Kemanjo, arguing to her mother that â€Å"Dee is dead and I couldn’t bear it any longer, being named after the people who oppress me† ( Walker 2472), what she does in fact is to reject her family identity. She inspires in her mother â€Å"a sort of aw e and fear more suitable to the advent of a goddess than the love one might expect a mother to feel for a returning daughter† (Farell, â€Å"Flight†). On the other hand, Maggie is the type of simple girl, like her mother, with little education. She is not ambitious like her sister Dee, living somehow in her mother’s shadow. But this might be also because Maggie hadn’t her sister luck and she burned severely in the house fire when she was a child, becoming now a shy and fearful person. These features are more visible in her attitude while waiting for her sister to come home. Mama is projecting her own anger and frustration onto her younger daughter when she speculates that Maggie will be cowed by Dee’s arrival. Maggie will be nervous until after her sister goes: she will stand hopelessly in corners homely and ashamed of the burn scars down her arms and legs, eyeing her sister with a mixture of envy and awe† ( Walker 2469). As Marianne Hirsch says in one of her critical essays: â€Å"the mother sees in Maggie’s angerless, fear an image of her own passive acceptance of Dee’s aggression, her ow n suppressed anger† Moreover, we can see through the lines of this story that, at the beginning, Dee was the daughter that mother preferred most because of her authority and because she wanted to succeed in life by following her instincts. But when she saw her totally changed, not only physically but also in her mentality, mother realized that Maggie was the one that understood the meaning of â€Å"heritage† and tried to give her justice. It is relevant â€Å"Mama’s awakening to one’s daughter’s superficiality and to the other’s deep-seated understanding of heritage† ( Tuten, â€Å"Alice Walker’s Everyday Use† ). However, Dee seems to despise her sister, her mother and the church that helped to educate her. Intentionally or not, she is selfish and she treats her sister with indifference. While Dee escaped from the poor life she was supposed to live, Maggie, next to her mother, represents the multitude of black women who must suffer. Scarred, graceless, not bright and uneducated, â€Å"Maggie is a living reproach to a survivor like her sister† (Cowart, â€Å"Heritage†) . The contradictions about heritage and culture between Maggie and Dee become more extensive when the quilts take part from the story. After dinner, Dee discovers some old quilts which belonged to her grandmother. She is very excited that found them, thinking that these quilts represent the testament of her ancestors. Without taking into account Maggie’s opinion, she asks her mother if she can have those quilts, arguing that she is the only one who can appreciate and have the right to keep them. At first, mother hesitates to give her an answer and offers her other quilts but Dee gets upset and then mother explains to her that the quilts were from Maggie as a wedding gift. Maggie’s tolerance in the story contrasts with Dee’s boldness. When Dee insists that her sister would ruin grandma’s quilts by using them everyday, and that hanging the quilts would be the only way to preserve them, Maggie â€Å" like somebody used to never wining anything, or having anything reserved for her† says â€Å" She can have them, Mama. I can remember Grandma Dee without the quilts† (Walker, 2474). Mrs. Johnson then realizes what makes Maggie different form her sister. She sees her scarred hands hidden in her skirt and says: â€Å"When I looked at her like that something hit me in the top of my head and ran down to the soles of my feet. Just like when I’m in the church and the spirit of God touches me and I get happy and shout† (Walker, 2475). This powerful feelings determines Mama to do something she had never done before: â€Å"she snatched the quilts out of Miss Wangero’s hands and dumped them into Maggie’s lap† ( Walker, 2475). Mama’s behavior here is almost like Dee’s because she rebuffs her wishes for the first time and give justice to the most patient Maggie. The fact that she takes the quilts from Dee and gives them to Maggie, â€Å"she confirms her younger daughter’s self-worth: metaphorically, she gives Maggie her voice† ( Tuten, â€Å"Alice Walker’s Everyday Use† ). In conclusion, I can say that Everyday Use is a story about understanding heritage. This concept is very well exposed by the two characters Alice Walker created, Dee and Maggie. These two daughters have a completely different view in what concerns the heritage from their ancestors; in this case their origins and their inheritance, the quilts from Grandma Dee. Maggie is the one who understands that heritage is about respecting family’s traditions and customs while Dee destroys the traditional image kept by Mrs. Johnson and her sister. She denies her true origins by changing the given name into more fashionable one, Wangero Leewanik Kemanjo. One should appreciate his legacy because it represents indeed what we are. We can not hide our roots and even if we want, this would not be possible because it always remains present in our souls and our minds, we like it or not. WORKES CITED PRIMARY SOURCE: Walker, Alice. Everyday Use. In Love and Trouble: Stories of Black Women New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1973. SECONDARY SOURCE: Cowart, David . †Heritage and deracination in Walker's â€Å"Everyday Use. † Studies in Short Fiction. FindArticles. com. Farrell Susan. â€Å"Fight vs. Flight: a re-evaluation of Dee in Alice Walker’s â€Å"Everyday Use†- Critical Essay†. Studies in Short Fiction. FindArticles. com. Hirsch, Marianne. â€Å"Clytemnestra’s Children: Writing the Mother’s Anger. † Alice Walker: Modern Critical Views. Ed. Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House, 1989. Tuten, Nancy. â€Å"Alice Walker’s Everyday Use. † The Explicator 51. 2,1993

Gender And Emotion Essay

Since time immemorial, emotions have always been a fundamental constituent of human beings. However, not all humans attach or detach the same emotions towards things; different people feel differently about varied things and that is why we are all termed as being unique. It is based on this difference in emotions that a lot of debates and researches have been going around in trying to establish whether the emotions we have affect the brain or conversely, whether the brain affects the emotions. Other researchers have-on the other hand- been looking at the subject of emotions differently by opinionating that it varies from one culture to another, one gender to another or even differing based on varied contexts. It is therefore important to circumspectly look at all the angles that have been propagated by different people if an inclusive and satisfactory answer is to be found for the above questions. Many of the studies that have been conducted by researchers highly suggest that the brain largely determines what we feel about different things. Researches by Norman (2003) support this argument by saying that human attributions for different things result from the brain which in effect dictates human behavior. He further says that humans have large brains than other animals and that is why they are able to act more maturely when expressing their emotions. Elder (1996) gives an example by saying that if we feel fear (which is an emotion), then it is based on the fact that we believe (a signal from the brain) something is threatening to us. According to her, Critical thinking precedes and emotional reaction. However, both of these are equally important and signals them should be treated with equal importance. Waxler (2004) also sentiments that â€Å"Our thoughts have profound effect on our emotions, and by learning how to think in our own best interest, we improve our emotional condition. † He proceeds and says that since it is easy to review our thoughts and even control them, then it becomes even easier for us to control our emotions and feel things that are appropriate for us. However, this capacity of the brain to control things has been subject to misuse by some people. Elder (1996) says that â€Å"As we mature, we learn multiple ways to manipulate others, to influence or control others to get what we want. We even learn how to deceive ourselves as to the egocentrism of our behavior. † this is sometimes even taken to the extent of faking feelings like, empathy, generosity, kindness when in real sense, we mean the exact opposite. So the next time you see someone acting â€Å"all good,† be careful because you may just and read between the lines; you may be happy when all that is being done for you is getting fed on lies. On the other hand, other researches purport that emotions affect how we think. An example is the finals of the 2008 FIFA world cup of where Zinedine Zidane, a renowned footballer of France, head-butted Matterazi (an Italian player) after the Italian allegedly made some abusive remarks to him. Speaking after the Interview, Zidane said that he was overwhelmed by emotions and all he could think of at that particular time was t o harm Matterazi. Matsumoto (n. d. ) furthers this argument by saying that â€Å"It is by controlling their emotions that athletes are capable of maintaining high levels of critical thinking and focus, regardless of what sport they are in. † He goes ahead and opinionates that whenever we are emotional, the capacity to think critically is reduced. As a result, athletes who are normally emotional have the tendency of easily losing focus. Tarleton (n. d. ) similarly support this idea by saying that â€Å"Emotions influence how we perceive and react to life, which in turn, determines how content and/or successful we are. The conceptualization or perception of something-according to them-results from feelings that are harbored in our emotions. So if we are able to control our emotions, then it becomes very easy for someone not to think-and consequently-act irrationally. Elder (1996) reports Goleman’s assertion that sometimes feelings come before thought. According to Goleman, â€Å"the emotional mind is far quicker that the rational mind, springing into action without pausing even a moment to consider what it is doing. † This is relatively dangerous as one may act in a way that is not appropriate and consequently end in problems. On the other hand, it may come in handy more so in situations where a person is in a dilemma and is lost for choice yet needs to act aptly. In addition, there is also a group of researchers who hang in the middle of this debatable subject by saying that both the brain and emotions mutually affect one another. In explaining this symbiotic relationship, Tarleton. edu (n. d) say that â€Å"Our thoughts influence how we feel. How we feel influences how we think. These connections are bi-directional and complex. † They go ahead and explicate this by saying that thinking about something good improves our mood while thinking negatively destroys it. Recent studies by some scholars have fundamentally brought an interestingly fresh dimension to this debate of the brain versus emotions. These scholars argue that gender orientation plays a vital role in how one thinks or feels. In spite of being given much emphasis in the recent times, the issue of gender influencing how a person thinks or feels is not a new concept. Even in the pre-modern times, men and women were expected to think and feel in a specific way based on the stereotypes of that time (Sungur and Tekkaya, 2005). Currently, men are debatably depicted in most areas as being strong and dominant while the women being second. Brescoll and Uhlmann (2007) in their work cite Heilman (2001) and Rudman (1998) articulate that women are should be kinder than men, and they induce negative responses from others when they fail to act according to the premeditated ways expected of them. They expound on this concept by writing that men are believed to be strong and should not show weakly emotions like crying just in the same way, women should not show anger. This has however not augured well with most women-especially the elitists and feminists- who see themselves as being able to â€Å"do better what men can do. † To them, both men and women are equal and none should be given a higher status than the other. When using the gender aspect in depicting intelligence or the capacity to think, the same argument used in emotions is used. Men are disputably depicted as having an upper hand than women. In their defense, they state the numerous organizations that are chaired by them and the many critical positions they hold in the annals of history. Of course this has faced much criticism from the women who consider themselves brighter. However, Pin-pointing who is above the other is not our main concern, what stands out to be counted is the fact that both men and women have made invaluable contributions in various aspects. In addition, their differences and unique qualities make them blend even better in their various roles and thus being to the overall good for both of them. References Tarleton. (n. d. ). Emotions and learning (Mini-mester). Retrieved May 3rd, 2010, from http://webcache. googleusercontent. com/custom? q=cache:m7MMnYFicw8J:www. tarleton. edu/~sanderson/Emotions%2520and%2520Learning(mini-mester). Matsumoto, S. (n. d). Do emotions affect critical thinking? Retrieved May 3rd, 2010, from Retrieved May 3rd, 2010, from http://www. humintell. com/2009/08/do-emotions-affect-critical-thinking/ Waxler, J. (2004) Self-talk: How thoughts affect feelings. Retrieved May 3rd, 2010, from http://www. mental-health-survival-guide. com/cognitive-therapy. htm Lmez. A. Y. Sungur, S. Tekkaya, C. (2005). Investigating students’ logical thinking abilities: the effects of gender and grade level.

A Game of Thrones Chapter Forty

Pale white mists rose off Alyssa’s Tears, where the ghost waters plunged over the shoulder of the mountain to begin their long tumble down the face of the Giant’s Lance. Catelyn could feel the faint touch of spray on her face. Alyssa Arryn had seen her husband, her brothers, and all her children slain, and yet in life she had never shed a tear. So in death, the gods had decreed that she would know no rest until her weeping watered the black earth of the Vale, where the men she had loved were buried. Alyssa had been dead six thousand years now, and still no drop of the torrent had ever reached the valley floor far below. Catelyn wondered how large a waterfall her own tears would make when she died. â€Å"Tell me the rest of it,† she said. â€Å"The Kingslayer is massing a host at Casterly Rock,† Ser Rodrik Cassel answered from the room behind her. â€Å"Your brother writes that he has sent riders to the Rock, demanding that Lord Tywin proclaim his intent, but he has had no answer. Edmure has commanded Lord Vance and Lord Piper to guard the pass below the Golden Tooth. He vows to you that he will yield no foot of Tully land without first watering it with Lannister blood.† Catelyn turned away from the sunrise. Its beauty did little to lighten her mood; it seemed cruel for a day to dawn so fair and end so foul as this one promised to. â€Å"Edmure has sent riders and made vows,† she said, â€Å"but Edmure is not the Lord of Riverrun. What of my lord father?† â€Å"The message made no mention of Lord Hoster, my lady.† Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. They had grown in white as snow and bristly as a thornbush while he was recovering from his wounds; he looked almost himself again. â€Å"My father would not have given the defense of Riverrun over to Edmure unless he was very sick,† she said, worried. â€Å"I should have been woken as soon as this bird arrived.† â€Å"Your lady sister thought it better to let you sleep, Maester Colemon told me.† â€Å"I should have been woken,† she insisted. â€Å"The maester tells me your sister planned to speak with you after the combat,† Ser Rodrik said. â€Å"Then she still plans to go through with this mummer’s farce?† Catelyn grimaced. â€Å"The dwarf has played her like a set of pipes, and she is too deaf to hear the tune. Whatever happens this morning, Ser Rodrik, it is past time we took our leave. My place is at Winterfell with my sons. If you are strong enough to travel, I shall ask Lysa for an escort to see us to Gulltown. We can take ship from there.† â€Å"Another ship?† Ser Rodrik looked a shade green, yet he managed not to shudder. â€Å"As you say, my lady.† The old knight waited outside her door as Catelyn summoned the servants Lysa had given her. If she spoke to her sister before the duel, perhaps she could change her mind, she thought as they dressed her. Lysa’s policies varied with her moods, and her moods changed hourly. The shy girl she had known at Riverrun had grown into a woman who was by turns proud, fearful, cruel, dreamy, reckless, timid, stubborn, vain, and, above all, inconstant. When that vile turnkey of hers had come crawling to tell them that Tyrion Lannister wished to confess, Catelyn had urged Lysa to have the dwarf brought to them privately, but no, nothing would do but that her sister must make a show of him before half the Vale. And now this . . . â€Å"Lannister is my prisoner,† she told Ser Rodrik as they descended the tower stairs and made their way through the Eyrie’s cold white halls. Catelyn wore plain grey wool with a silvered belt. â€Å"My sister must be reminded of that.† At the doors to Lysa’s apartments, they met her uncle storming out. â€Å"Going to join the fool’s festival?† Ser Brynden snapped. â€Å"I’d tell you to slap some sense into your sister, if I thought it would do any good, but you’d only bruise your hand.† â€Å"There was a bird from Riverrun,† Catelyn began, â€Å"a letter from Edmure . . . â€Å" â€Å"I know, child.† The black fish that fastened his cloak was Brynden’s only concession to ornament. â€Å"I had to hear it from Maester Colemon. I asked your sister for leave to take a thousand seasoned men and ride for Riverrun with all haste. Do you know what she told me? The Vale cannot spare a thousand swords, nor even one, Uncle, she said. You are the Knight of the Gate. Your place is here.† A gust of childish laughter drifted through the open doors behind him, and her uncle glanced darkly over his shoulder. â€Å"Well, I told her she could bloody well find herself a new Knight of the Gate. Black fish or no, I am still a Tully. I shall leave for Riverrun by evenfall.† Catelyn could not pretend to surprise. â€Å"Alone? You know as well as I that you will never survive the high road. Ser Rodrik and I are returning to Winterfell. Come with us, Uncle. I will give you your thousand men. Riverrun will not fight alone.† Brynden thought a moment, then nodded a brusque agreement. â€Å"As you say. It’s the long way home, but I’m more like to get there. I’ll wait for you below.† He went striding off, his cloak swirling behind him. Catelyn exchanged a look with Ser Rodrik. They went through the doors to the high, nervous sound of a child’s giggles. Lysa’s apartments opened over a small garden, a circle of dirt and grass planted with blue flowers and ringed on all sides by tall white towers. The builders had intended it as a godswood, but the Eyrie rested on the hard stone of the mountain, and no matter how much soil was hauled up from the Vale, they could not get a weirwood to take root here. So the Lords of the Eyrie planted grass and scattered statuary amidst low, flowering shrubs. It was there the two champions would meet to place their lives, and that of Tyrion Lannister, into the hands of the gods. Lysa, freshly scrubbed and garbed in cream velvet with a rope of sapphires and moonstones around her milk-white neck, was holding court on the terrace overlooking the scene of the combat, surrounded by her knights, retainers, and lords high and low. Most of them still hoped to wed her, bed her, and rule the Vale of Arryn by her side. From what Catelyn had seen during her stay at the Eyrie, it was a vain hope. A wooden platform had been built to elevate Robert’s chair; there the Lord of the Eyrie sat, giggling and clapping his hands as a humpbacked puppeteer in blue-and-white motley made two wooden knights hack and slash at each other. Pitchers of thick cream and baskets of blackberries had been set out, and the guests were sipping a sweet orange-scented wine from engraved silver cups. A fool’s festival, Brynden had called it, and small wonder. Across the terrace, Lysa laughed gaily at some jest of Lord Hunter’s, and nibbled a blackberry from the point of Ser Lyn Corbray’s dagger. They were the suitors who stood highest in Lysa’s favor . . . today, at least. Catelyn would have been hard-pressed to say which man was more unsuitable. Eon Hunter was even older than Jon Arryn had been, half-crippled by gout, and cursed with three quarrelsome sons, each more grasping than the last. Ser Lyn was a different sort of folly; lean and handsome, heir to an ancient but impoverished house, but vain, reckless, hot-tempered . . . and, it was whispered, notoriously uninterested in the intimate charms of women. When Lysa espied Catelyn, she welcomed her with a sisterly embrace and a moist kiss on the cheek. â€Å"Isn’t it a lovely morning? The gods are smiling on us. Do try a cup of the wine, sweet sister. Lord Hunter was kind enough to send for it, from his own cellars.† â€Å"Thank you, no. Lysa, we must talk.† â€Å"After,† her sister promised, already beginning to turn away from her. â€Å"Now.† Catelyn spoke more loudly than she’d intended. Men were turning to look. â€Å"Lysa, you cannot mean to go ahead with this folly. Alive, the Imp has value. Dead, he is only food for crows. And if his champion should prevail here—† â€Å"Small chance of that, my lady,† Lord Hunter assured her, patting her shoulder with a liver-spotted hand. â€Å"Ser Vardis is a doughty fighter. He will make short work of the sellsword.† â€Å"Will he, my lord?† Catelyn said coolly. â€Å"I wonder.† She had seen Bronn fight on the high road; it was no accident that he had survived the journey while other men had died. He moved like a panther, and that ugly sword of his seemed a part of his arm. Lysa’s suitors were gathering around them like bees round a blossom. â€Å"Women understand little of these things,† Ser Morton Waynwood said. â€Å"Ser Vardis is a knight, sweet lady. This other fellow, well, his sort are all cowards at heart. Useful enough in a battle, with thousands of their fellows around them, but stand them up alone and the manhood leaks right out of them.† â€Å"Say you have the truth of it, then,† Catelyn said with a courtesy that made her mouth ache. â€Å"What will we gain by the dwarf’s death? Do you imagine that Jaime will care a fig that we gave his brother a trial before we flung him off a mountain?† â€Å"Behead the man,† Ser Lyn Corbray suggested. â€Å"When the Kingslayer receives the Imp’s head, it will be a warning to him,† Lysa gave an impatient shake of her waist-long auburn hair. â€Å"Lord Robert wants to see him fly,† she said, as if that settled the matter. â€Å"And the Imp has only himself to blame. It was he who demanded a trial by combat.† â€Å"Lady Lysa had no honorable way to deny him, even if she’d wished to,† Lord Hunter intoned ponderously. Ignoring them all, Catelyn turned all her force on her sister. â€Å"I remind you, Tyrion Lannister is my prisoner.† â€Å"And I remind you, the dwarf murdered my lord husband!† Her voice rose. â€Å"He poisoned the Hand of the King and left my sweet baby fatherless, and now I mean to see him pay!† Whirling, her skirts swinging around her, Lysa stalked across the terrace. Ser Lyn and Ser Morton and the other suitors excused themselves with cool nods and trailed after her. â€Å"Do you think he did?† Ser Rodrik asked her quietly when they were alone again. â€Å"Murder Lord Jon, that is? The Imp still denies it, and most fiercely . . . â€Å" â€Å"I believe the Lannisters murdered Lord Arryn,† Catelyn replied, â€Å"but whether it was Tyrion, or Ser Jaime, or the queen, or all of them together, I could not begin to say.† Lysa had named Cersei in the letter she had sent to Winterfell, but now she seemed certain that Tyrion was the killer . . . perhaps because the dwarf was here, while the queen was safe behind the walls of the Red Keep, hundreds of leagues to the south. Catelyn almost wished she had burned her sister’s letter before reading it. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. â€Å"Poison, well . . . that could be the dwarf’s work, true enough. Or Cersei’s. It’s said poison is a woman’s weapon, begging your pardons, my lady. The Kingslayer, now . . . I have no great liking for the man, but he’s not the sort. Too fond of the sight of blood on that golden sword of his. Was it poison, my lady?† Catelyn frowned, vaguely uneasy. â€Å"How else could they make it look a natural death?† Behind her, Lord Robert shrieked with delight as one of the puppet knights sliced the other in half, spilling a flood of red sawdust onto the terrace. She glanced at her nephew and sighed. â€Å"The boy is utterly without discipline. He will never be strong enough to rule unless he is taken away from his mother for a time.† â€Å"His lord father agreed with you,† said a voice at her elbow. She turned to behold Maester Colemon, a cup of wine in his hand. â€Å"He was planning to send the boy to Dragonstone for fostering, you know . . . oh, but I’m speaking out of turn.† The apple of his throat bobbed anxiously beneath the loose maester’s chain. â€Å"I fear I’ve had too much of Lord Hunter’s excellent wine. The prospect of bloodshed has my nerves all a-fray . . . â€Å" â€Å"You are mistaken, Maester,† Catelyn said. â€Å"It was Casterly Rock, not Dragonstone, and those arrangements were made after the Hand’s death, without my sister’s consent.† The maester’s head jerked so vigorously at the end of his absurdly long neck that he looked half a puppet himself. â€Å"No, begging your forgiveness, my lady, but it was Lord Jon who—† A bell tolled loudly below them. High lords and serving girls alike broke off what they were doing and moved to the balustrade. Below, two guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks led forth Tyrion Lannister. The Eyrie’s plump septon escorted him to the statue in the center of the garden, a weeping woman carved in veined white marble, no doubt meant to be Alyssa. â€Å"The bad little man,† Lord Robert said, giggling. â€Å"Mother, can I make him fly? I want to see him fly.† â€Å"Later, my sweet baby,† Lysa promised him. â€Å"Trial first,† drawled Ser Lyn Corbray, â€Å"then execution.† A moment later the two champions appeared from opposite sides of the garden. The knight was attended by two young squires, the sellsword by the Eyrie’s master-at-arms. Ser Vardis Egen was steel from head to heel, encased in heavy plate armor over mail and padded surcoat. Large circular rondels, enameled cream-and-blue in the moon-and-falcon sigil of House Arryn, protected the vulnerable juncture of arm and breast. A skirt of lobstered metal covered him from waist to midthigh, while a solid gorget encircled his throat. Falcon’s wings sprouted from the temples of his helm, and his visor was a pointed metal beak with a narrow slit for vision. Bronn was so lightly armored he looked almost naked beside the knight. He wore only a shirt of black oiled ringmail over boiled leather, a round steel halfhelm with a noseguard, and a mail coif. High leather boots with steel shinguards gave some protection to his legs, and discs of black iron were sewn into the fingers of his gloves. Yet Catelyn noted that the sellsword stood half a hand taller than his foe, with a longer reach . . . and Bronn was fifteen years younger, if she was any judge. They knelt in the grass beneath the weeping woman, facing each other, with Lannister between them. The septon removed a faceted crystal sphere from the soft cloth bag at his waist. He lifted it high above his head, and the light shattered. Rainbows danced across the Imp’s face. In a high, solemn, singsong voice, the septon asked the gods to look down and bear witness, to find the truth in this man’s soul, to grant him life and freedom if he was innocent, death if he was guilty. His voice echoed off the surrounding towers. When the last echo had died away, the septon lowered his crystal and made a hasty departure. Tyrion leaned over and whispered something in Bronn’s ear before the guardsmen led him away. The sellsword rose laughing and brushed a blade of grass from his knee. Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, was fidgeting impatiently in his elevated chair. â€Å"When are they going to fight?† he asked plaintively. Ser Vardis was helped back to his feet by one of his squires. The other brought him a triangular shield almost four feet tall, heavy oak dotted with iron studs. They strapped it to his left forearm. When Lysa’s master-at-arms offered Bronn a similar shield, the sellsword spat and waved it away. Three days growth of coarse black beard covered his jaw and cheeks, but if he did not shave it was not for want of a razor; the edge of his sword had the dangerous glimmer of steel that had been honed every day for hours, until it was too sharp to touch. Ser Vardis held out a gauntleted hand, and his squire placed a handsome double-edged longsword in his grasp. The blade was engraved with a delicate silver tracery of a mountain sky; its pommel was a falcon’s head, its crossguard fashioned into the shape of wings. â€Å"I had that sword crafted for Jon in King’s Landing,† Lysa told her guests proudly as they watched Ser Vardis try a practice cut. â€Å"He wore it whenever he sat the Iron Throne in King Robert’s place. Isn’t it a lovely thing? I thought it only fitting that our champion avenge Jon with his own blade.† The engraved silver blade was beautiful beyond a doubt, but it seemed to Catelyn that Ser Vardis might have been more comfortable with his own sword. Yet she said nothing; she was weary of futile arguments with her sister. â€Å"Make them fight!† Lord Robert called out. Ser Vardis faced the Lord of the Eyrie and lifted his sword in salute. â€Å"For the Eyrie and the Vale!† Tyrion Lannister had been seated on a balcony across the garden, flanked by his guards. It was to him that Bronn turned with a cursory salute. â€Å"They await your command,† Lady Lysa said to her lord son. â€Å"Fight!† the boy screamed, his arms trembling as they clutched at his chair. Ser Vardis swiveled, bringing up his heavy shield. Bronn turned to face him. Their swords rang together, once, twice, a testing. The sellsword backed off a step. The knight came after, holding his shield before him. He tried a slash, but Bronn jerked back, just out of reach, and the silver blade cut only air. Bronn circled to his right. Ser Vardis turned to follow, keeping his shield between them. The knight pressed forward, placing each foot carefully on the uneven ground. The sellsword gave way, a faint smile playing over his lips. Ser Vardis attacked, slashing, but Bronn leapt away from him, hopping lightly over a low, moss-covered stone. Now the sellsword circled left, away from the shield, toward the knight’s unprotected side. Ser Vardis tried a hack at his legs, but he did not have the reach. Bronn danced farther to his left. Ser Vardis turned in place. â€Å"The man is craven,† Lord Hunter declared. â€Å"Stand and fight, coward! † Other voices echoed the sentiment. Catelyn looked to Ser Rodrik. Her master-at-arms gave a curt shake of his head. â€Å"He wants to make Ser Vardis chase him. The weight of armor and shield will tire even the strongest man.† She had seen men practice at their swordplay near every day of her life, had viewed half a hundred tourneys in her time, but this was something different and deadlier: a dance where the smallest misstep meant death. And as she watched, the memory of another duel in another time came back to Catelyn Stark, as vivid as if it had been yesterday. They met in the lower bailey of Riverrun. When Brandon saw that Petyr wore only helm and breastplate and mail, he took off most of his armor. Petyr had begged her for a favor he might wear, but she had turned him away. Her lord father promised her to Brandon Stark, and so it was to him that she gave her token, a pale blue handscarf she had embroidered with the leaping trout of Riverrun. As she pressed it into his hand, she pleaded with him. â€Å"He is only a foolish boy, but I have loved him like a brother. It would grieve me to see him die.† And her betrothed looked at her with the cool grey eyes of a Stark and promised to spare the boy who loved her. That fight was over almost as soon as it began. Brandon was a man grown, and he drove Littlefinger all the way across the bailey and down the water stair, raining steel on him with every step, until the boy was staggering and bleeding from a dozen wounds. â€Å"Yield!† he called, more than once, but Petyr would only shake his head and fight on, grimly. When the river was lapping at their ankles, Brandon finally ended it, with a brutal backhand cut that bit through Petyr’s rings and leather into the soft flesh below the ribs, so deep that Catelyn was certain that the wound was mortal. He looked at her as he fell and murmured â€Å"Cat† as the bright blood came flowing out between his mailed fingers. She thought she had forgotten that. That was the last time she had seen his face . . . until the day she was brought before him in King’s Landing. A fortnight passed before Littlefinger was strong enough to leave Riverrun, but her lord father forbade her to visit him in the tower where he lay abed. Lysa helped their maester nurse him; she had been softer and shyer in those days. Edmure had called on him as well, but Petyr had sent him away. Her brother had acted as Brandon’s squire at the duel, and Littlefinger would not forgive that. As soon as he was strong enough to be moved, Lord Hoster Tully sent Petyr Baelish away in a closed litter, to finish his healing on the Fingers, upon the windswept jut of rock where he’d been born. The ringing clash of steel on steel jarred Catelyn back to the present. Ser Vardis was coming hard at Bronn, driving into him with shield and sword. The sellsword scrambled backward, checking each blow, stepping lithely over rock and root, his eyes never leaving his foe. He was quicker, Catelyn saw; the knight’s silvered sword never came near to touching him, but his own ugly grey blade hacked a notch from Ser Vardis’s shoulder plate. The brief flurry of fighting ended as swiftly as it had begun when Bronn sidestepped and slid behind the statue of the weeping woman. Ser Vardis lunged at where he had been, striking a spark off the pale marble of Alyssa’s thigh. â€Å"They’re not fighting good, Mother,† the Lord of the Eyrie complained. â€Å"I want them to fight.† â€Å"They will, sweet baby,† his mother soothed him. â€Å"The sellsword can’t run all day.† Some of the lords on Lysa’s terrace were making wry jests as they refilled their wine cups, but across the garden, Tyrion Lannister’s mismatched eyes watched the champions dance as if there were nothing else in the world. Bronn came out from behind the statue hard and fast, still moving left, aiming a two-handed cut at the knight’s unshielded right side. Ser Vardis blocked, but clumsily, and the sellsword’s blade flashed upward at his head. Metal rang, and a falcon’s wing collapsed with a crunch. Ser Vardis took a half step back to brace himself, raised his shield. Oak chips flew as Bronn’s sword hacked at the wooden wall. The sellsword stepped left again, away from the shield, and caught Ser Vardis across the stomach, the razor edge of his blade leaving a bright gash when it bit into the knight’s plate. Ser Vardis drove forward off his back foot, his own silver blade descending in a savage arc. Bronn slammed it aside and danced away. The knight crashed into the weeping woman, rocking her on her plinth. Staggered, he stepped backward, his head turning this way and that as he searched for his foe. The slit visor of his helm narrowed his vision. â€Å"Behind you, ser!† Lord Hunter shouted, too late. Bronn brought his sword down with both hands, catching Ser Vardis in the elbow of his sword arm. The thin lobstered metal that protected the joint crunched. The knight grunted, turning, wrenching his weapon up. This time Bronn stood his ground. The swords flew at each other, and their steel song filled the garden and rang off the white towers of the Eyrie. â€Å"Ser Vardis is hurt,† Ser Rodrik said, his voice grave. Catelyn did not need to be told; she had eyes, she could see the bright finger of blood running along the knight’s forearm, the wetness inside the elbow joint. Every parry was a little slower and a little lower than the one before. Ser Vardis turned his side to his foe, trying to use his shield to block instead, but Bronn slid around him, quick as a cat. The sellsword seemed to be getting stronger. His cuts were leaving their marks now. Deep shiny gashes gleamed all over the knight’s armor, on his right thigh, his beaked visor, crossing on his breastplate, a long one along the front of his gorget. The moon-and-falcon rondel over Ser Vardis’s right arm was sheared clean in half, hanging by its strap. They could hear his labored breath, rattling through the air holes in his visor. Blind with arrogance as they were, even the knights and lords of the Vale could see what was happening below them, yet her sister could not. â€Å"Enough, Ser Vardis!† Lady Lysa called down. â€Å"Finish him now, my baby is growing tired.† And it must be said of Ser Vardis Egen that he was true to his lady’s command, even to the last. One moment he was reeling backward, half-crouched behind his scarred shield; the next he charged. The sudden bull rush caught Bronn off balance. Ser Vardis crashed into him and slammed the lip of his shield into the sellsword’s face. Almost, almost, Bronn lost his feet . . . he staggered back, tripped over a rock, and caught hold of the weeping woman to keep his balance. Throwing aside his shield, Ser Vardis lurched after him, using both hands to raise his sword. His right arm was blood from elbow to fingers now, yet his last desperate blow would have opened Bronn from neck to navel . . . if the sellsword had stood to receive it. But Bronn jerked back. Jon Arryn’s beautiful engraved silver sword glanced off the marble elbow of the weeping woman and snapped clean a third of the way up the blade. Bronn put his shoulder into the statue’s back. The weathered likeness of Alyssa Arryn tottered and fell with a great crash, and Ser Vardis Egen went down beneath her. Bronn was on him in a heartbeat, kicking what was left of his shattered rondel aside to expose the weak spot between arm and breastplate. Ser Vardis was lying on his side, pinned beneath the broken torso of the weeping woman. Catelyn heard the knight groan as the sellsword lifted his blade with both hands and drove it down and in with all his weight behind it, under the arm and through the ribs. Ser Vardis Egen shuddered and lay still. Silence hung over the Eyrie. Bronn yanked off his halfhelm and let it fall to the grass. His lip was smashed and bloody where the shield had caught him, and his coal-black hair was soaked with sweat. He spit out a broken tooth. â€Å"Is it over, Mother?† the Lord of the Eyrie asked. No, Catelyn wanted to tell him, it’s only now beginning. â€Å"Yes,† Lysa said glumly, her voice as cold and dead as the captain of her guard. â€Å"Can I make the little man fly now?† Across the garden, Tyrion Lannister got to his feet. â€Å"Not this little man,† he said. â€Å"This little man is going down in the turnip hoist, thank you very much.† â€Å"You presume—† Lysa began. â€Å"I presume that House Arryn remembers its own words,† the Imp said. â€Å"As High as Honor.† â€Å"You promised I could make him fly,† the Lord of the Eyrie screamed at his mother. He began to shake. Lady Lysa’s face was flushed with fury. â€Å"The gods have seen fit to proclaim him innocent, child. We have no choice but to free him.† She lifted her voice. â€Å"Guards. Take my lord of Lannister and his . . . creature here out of my sight. Escort them to the Bloody Gate and set them free. See that they have horses and supplies sufficient to reach the Trident, and make certain all their goods and weapons are returned to them. They shall need them on the high road.† â€Å"The high road,† Tyrion Lannister said. Lysa allowed herself a faint, satisfied smile. It was another sort of death sentence, Catelyn realized. Tyrion Lannister must know that as well. Yet the dwarf favored Lady Arryn with a mocking bow. â€Å"As you command, my lady,† he said. â€Å"I believe we know the way.† A Game of Thrones Chapter Forty Pale white mists rose off Alyssa’s Tears, where the ghost waters plunged over the shoulder of the mountain to begin their long tumble down the face of the Giant’s Lance. Catelyn could feel the faint touch of spray on her face. Alyssa Arryn had seen her husband, her brothers, and all her children slain, and yet in life she had never shed a tear. So in death, the gods had decreed that she would know no rest until her weeping watered the black earth of the Vale, where the men she had loved were buried. Alyssa had been dead six thousand years now, and still no drop of the torrent had ever reached the valley floor far below. Catelyn wondered how large a waterfall her own tears would make when she died. â€Å"Tell me the rest of it,† she said. â€Å"The Kingslayer is massing a host at Casterly Rock,† Ser Rodrik Cassel answered from the room behind her. â€Å"Your brother writes that he has sent riders to the Rock, demanding that Lord Tywin proclaim his intent, but he has had no answer. Edmure has commanded Lord Vance and Lord Piper to guard the pass below the Golden Tooth. He vows to you that he will yield no foot of Tully land without first watering it with Lannister blood.† Catelyn turned away from the sunrise. Its beauty did little to lighten her mood; it seemed cruel for a day to dawn so fair and end so foul as this one promised to. â€Å"Edmure has sent riders and made vows,† she said, â€Å"but Edmure is not the Lord of Riverrun. What of my lord father?† â€Å"The message made no mention of Lord Hoster, my lady.† Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. They had grown in white as snow and bristly as a thornbush while he was recovering from his wounds; he looked almost himself again. â€Å"My father would not have given the defense of Riverrun over to Edmure unless he was very sick,† she said, worried. â€Å"I should have been woken as soon as this bird arrived.† â€Å"Your lady sister thought it better to let you sleep, Maester Colemon told me.† â€Å"I should have been woken,† she insisted. â€Å"The maester tells me your sister planned to speak with you after the combat,† Ser Rodrik said. â€Å"Then she still plans to go through with this mummer’s farce?† Catelyn grimaced. â€Å"The dwarf has played her like a set of pipes, and she is too deaf to hear the tune. Whatever happens this morning, Ser Rodrik, it is past time we took our leave. My place is at Winterfell with my sons. If you are strong enough to travel, I shall ask Lysa for an escort to see us to Gulltown. We can take ship from there.† â€Å"Another ship?† Ser Rodrik looked a shade green, yet he managed not to shudder. â€Å"As you say, my lady.† The old knight waited outside her door as Catelyn summoned the servants Lysa had given her. If she spoke to her sister before the duel, perhaps she could change her mind, she thought as they dressed her. Lysa’s policies varied with her moods, and her moods changed hourly. The shy girl she had known at Riverrun had grown into a woman who was by turns proud, fearful, cruel, dreamy, reckless, timid, stubborn, vain, and, above all, inconstant. When that vile turnkey of hers had come crawling to tell them that Tyrion Lannister wished to confess, Catelyn had urged Lysa to have the dwarf brought to them privately, but no, nothing would do but that her sister must make a show of him before half the Vale. And now this . . . â€Å"Lannister is my prisoner,† she told Ser Rodrik as they descended the tower stairs and made their way through the Eyrie’s cold white halls. Catelyn wore plain grey wool with a silvered belt. â€Å"My sister must be reminded of that.† At the doors to Lysa’s apartments, they met her uncle storming out. â€Å"Going to join the fool’s festival?† Ser Brynden snapped. â€Å"I’d tell you to slap some sense into your sister, if I thought it would do any good, but you’d only bruise your hand.† â€Å"There was a bird from Riverrun,† Catelyn began, â€Å"a letter from Edmure . . . â€Å" â€Å"I know, child.† The black fish that fastened his cloak was Brynden’s only concession to ornament. â€Å"I had to hear it from Maester Colemon. I asked your sister for leave to take a thousand seasoned men and ride for Riverrun with all haste. Do you know what she told me? The Vale cannot spare a thousand swords, nor even one, Uncle, she said. You are the Knight of the Gate. Your place is here.† A gust of childish laughter drifted through the open doors behind him, and her uncle glanced darkly over his shoulder. â€Å"Well, I told her she could bloody well find herself a new Knight of the Gate. Black fish or no, I am still a Tully. I shall leave for Riverrun by evenfall.† Catelyn could not pretend to surprise. â€Å"Alone? You know as well as I that you will never survive the high road. Ser Rodrik and I are returning to Winterfell. Come with us, Uncle. I will give you your thousand men. Riverrun will not fight alone.† Brynden thought a moment, then nodded a brusque agreement. â€Å"As you say. It’s the long way home, but I’m more like to get there. I’ll wait for you below.† He went striding off, his cloak swirling behind him. Catelyn exchanged a look with Ser Rodrik. They went through the doors to the high, nervous sound of a child’s giggles. Lysa’s apartments opened over a small garden, a circle of dirt and grass planted with blue flowers and ringed on all sides by tall white towers. The builders had intended it as a godswood, but the Eyrie rested on the hard stone of the mountain, and no matter how much soil was hauled up from the Vale, they could not get a weirwood to take root here. So the Lords of the Eyrie planted grass and scattered statuary amidst low, flowering shrubs. It was there the two champions would meet to place their lives, and that of Tyrion Lannister, into the hands of the gods. Lysa, freshly scrubbed and garbed in cream velvet with a rope of sapphires and moonstones around her milk-white neck, was holding court on the terrace overlooking the scene of the combat, surrounded by her knights, retainers, and lords high and low. Most of them still hoped to wed her, bed her, and rule the Vale of Arryn by her side. From what Catelyn had seen during her stay at the Eyrie, it was a vain hope. A wooden platform had been built to elevate Robert’s chair; there the Lord of the Eyrie sat, giggling and clapping his hands as a humpbacked puppeteer in blue-and-white motley made two wooden knights hack and slash at each other. Pitchers of thick cream and baskets of blackberries had been set out, and the guests were sipping a sweet orange-scented wine from engraved silver cups. A fool’s festival, Brynden had called it, and small wonder. Across the terrace, Lysa laughed gaily at some jest of Lord Hunter’s, and nibbled a blackberry from the point of Ser Lyn Corbray’s dagger. They were the suitors who stood highest in Lysa’s favor . . . today, at least. Catelyn would have been hard-pressed to say which man was more unsuitable. Eon Hunter was even older than Jon Arryn had been, half-crippled by gout, and cursed with three quarrelsome sons, each more grasping than the last. Ser Lyn was a different sort of folly; lean and handsome, heir to an ancient but impoverished house, but vain, reckless, hot-tempered . . . and, it was whispered, notoriously uninterested in the intimate charms of women. When Lysa espied Catelyn, she welcomed her with a sisterly embrace and a moist kiss on the cheek. â€Å"Isn’t it a lovely morning? The gods are smiling on us. Do try a cup of the wine, sweet sister. Lord Hunter was kind enough to send for it, from his own cellars.† â€Å"Thank you, no. Lysa, we must talk.† â€Å"After,† her sister promised, already beginning to turn away from her. â€Å"Now.† Catelyn spoke more loudly than she’d intended. Men were turning to look. â€Å"Lysa, you cannot mean to go ahead with this folly. Alive, the Imp has value. Dead, he is only food for crows. And if his champion should prevail here—† â€Å"Small chance of that, my lady,† Lord Hunter assured her, patting her shoulder with a liver-spotted hand. â€Å"Ser Vardis is a doughty fighter. He will make short work of the sellsword.† â€Å"Will he, my lord?† Catelyn said coolly. â€Å"I wonder.† She had seen Bronn fight on the high road; it was no accident that he had survived the journey while other men had died. He moved like a panther, and that ugly sword of his seemed a part of his arm. Lysa’s suitors were gathering around them like bees round a blossom. â€Å"Women understand little of these things,† Ser Morton Waynwood said. â€Å"Ser Vardis is a knight, sweet lady. This other fellow, well, his sort are all cowards at heart. Useful enough in a battle, with thousands of their fellows around them, but stand them up alone and the manhood leaks right out of them.† â€Å"Say you have the truth of it, then,† Catelyn said with a courtesy that made her mouth ache. â€Å"What will we gain by the dwarf’s death? Do you imagine that Jaime will care a fig that we gave his brother a trial before we flung him off a mountain?† â€Å"Behead the man,† Ser Lyn Corbray suggested. â€Å"When the Kingslayer receives the Imp’s head, it will be a warning to him,† Lysa gave an impatient shake of her waist-long auburn hair. â€Å"Lord Robert wants to see him fly,† she said, as if that settled the matter. â€Å"And the Imp has only himself to blame. It was he who demanded a trial by combat.† â€Å"Lady Lysa had no honorable way to deny him, even if she’d wished to,† Lord Hunter intoned ponderously. Ignoring them all, Catelyn turned all her force on her sister. â€Å"I remind you, Tyrion Lannister is my prisoner.† â€Å"And I remind you, the dwarf murdered my lord husband!† Her voice rose. â€Å"He poisoned the Hand of the King and left my sweet baby fatherless, and now I mean to see him pay!† Whirling, her skirts swinging around her, Lysa stalked across the terrace. Ser Lyn and Ser Morton and the other suitors excused themselves with cool nods and trailed after her. â€Å"Do you think he did?† Ser Rodrik asked her quietly when they were alone again. â€Å"Murder Lord Jon, that is? The Imp still denies it, and most fiercely . . . â€Å" â€Å"I believe the Lannisters murdered Lord Arryn,† Catelyn replied, â€Å"but whether it was Tyrion, or Ser Jaime, or the queen, or all of them together, I could not begin to say.† Lysa had named Cersei in the letter she had sent to Winterfell, but now she seemed certain that Tyrion was the killer . . . perhaps because the dwarf was here, while the queen was safe behind the walls of the Red Keep, hundreds of leagues to the south. Catelyn almost wished she had burned her sister’s letter before reading it. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. â€Å"Poison, well . . . that could be the dwarf’s work, true enough. Or Cersei’s. It’s said poison is a woman’s weapon, begging your pardons, my lady. The Kingslayer, now . . . I have no great liking for the man, but he’s not the sort. Too fond of the sight of blood on that golden sword of his. Was it poison, my lady?† Catelyn frowned, vaguely uneasy. â€Å"How else could they make it look a natural death?† Behind her, Lord Robert shrieked with delight as one of the puppet knights sliced the other in half, spilling a flood of red sawdust onto the terrace. She glanced at her nephew and sighed. â€Å"The boy is utterly without discipline. He will never be strong enough to rule unless he is taken away from his mother for a time.† â€Å"His lord father agreed with you,† said a voice at her elbow. She turned to behold Maester Colemon, a cup of wine in his hand. â€Å"He was planning to send the boy to Dragonstone for fostering, you know . . . oh, but I’m speaking out of turn.† The apple of his throat bobbed anxiously beneath the loose maester’s chain. â€Å"I fear I’ve had too much of Lord Hunter’s excellent wine. The prospect of bloodshed has my nerves all a-fray . . . â€Å" â€Å"You are mistaken, Maester,† Catelyn said. â€Å"It was Casterly Rock, not Dragonstone, and those arrangements were made after the Hand’s death, without my sister’s consent.† The maester’s head jerked so vigorously at the end of his absurdly long neck that he looked half a puppet himself. â€Å"No, begging your forgiveness, my lady, but it was Lord Jon who—† A bell tolled loudly below them. High lords and serving girls alike broke off what they were doing and moved to the balustrade. Below, two guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks led forth Tyrion Lannister. The Eyrie’s plump septon escorted him to the statue in the center of the garden, a weeping woman carved in veined white marble, no doubt meant to be Alyssa. â€Å"The bad little man,† Lord Robert said, giggling. â€Å"Mother, can I make him fly? I want to see him fly.† â€Å"Later, my sweet baby,† Lysa promised him. â€Å"Trial first,† drawled Ser Lyn Corbray, â€Å"then execution.† A moment later the two champions appeared from opposite sides of the garden. The knight was attended by two young squires, the sellsword by the Eyrie’s master-at-arms. Ser Vardis Egen was steel from head to heel, encased in heavy plate armor over mail and padded surcoat. Large circular rondels, enameled cream-and-blue in the moon-and-falcon sigil of House Arryn, protected the vulnerable juncture of arm and breast. A skirt of lobstered metal covered him from waist to midthigh, while a solid gorget encircled his throat. Falcon’s wings sprouted from the temples of his helm, and his visor was a pointed metal beak with a narrow slit for vision. Bronn was so lightly armored he looked almost naked beside the knight. He wore only a shirt of black oiled ringmail over boiled leather, a round steel halfhelm with a noseguard, and a mail coif. High leather boots with steel shinguards gave some protection to his legs, and discs of black iron were sewn into the fingers of his gloves. Yet Catelyn noted that the sellsword stood half a hand taller than his foe, with a longer reach . . . and Bronn was fifteen years younger, if she was any judge. They knelt in the grass beneath the weeping woman, facing each other, with Lannister between them. The septon removed a faceted crystal sphere from the soft cloth bag at his waist. He lifted it high above his head, and the light shattered. Rainbows danced across the Imp’s face. In a high, solemn, singsong voice, the septon asked the gods to look down and bear witness, to find the truth in this man’s soul, to grant him life and freedom if he was innocent, death if he was guilty. His voice echoed off the surrounding towers. When the last echo had died away, the septon lowered his crystal and made a hasty departure. Tyrion leaned over and whispered something in Bronn’s ear before the guardsmen led him away. The sellsword rose laughing and brushed a blade of grass from his knee. Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, was fidgeting impatiently in his elevated chair. â€Å"When are they going to fight?† he asked plaintively. Ser Vardis was helped back to his feet by one of his squires. The other brought him a triangular shield almost four feet tall, heavy oak dotted with iron studs. They strapped it to his left forearm. When Lysa’s master-at-arms offered Bronn a similar shield, the sellsword spat and waved it away. Three days growth of coarse black beard covered his jaw and cheeks, but if he did not shave it was not for want of a razor; the edge of his sword had the dangerous glimmer of steel that had been honed every day for hours, until it was too sharp to touch. Ser Vardis held out a gauntleted hand, and his squire placed a handsome double-edged longsword in his grasp. The blade was engraved with a delicate silver tracery of a mountain sky; its pommel was a falcon’s head, its crossguard fashioned into the shape of wings. â€Å"I had that sword crafted for Jon in King’s Landing,† Lysa told her guests proudly as they watched Ser Vardis try a practice cut. â€Å"He wore it whenever he sat the Iron Throne in King Robert’s place. Isn’t it a lovely thing? I thought it only fitting that our champion avenge Jon with his own blade.† The engraved silver blade was beautiful beyond a doubt, but it seemed to Catelyn that Ser Vardis might have been more comfortable with his own sword. Yet she said nothing; she was weary of futile arguments with her sister. â€Å"Make them fight!† Lord Robert called out. Ser Vardis faced the Lord of the Eyrie and lifted his sword in salute. â€Å"For the Eyrie and the Vale!† Tyrion Lannister had been seated on a balcony across the garden, flanked by his guards. It was to him that Bronn turned with a cursory salute. â€Å"They await your command,† Lady Lysa said to her lord son. â€Å"Fight!† the boy screamed, his arms trembling as they clutched at his chair. Ser Vardis swiveled, bringing up his heavy shield. Bronn turned to face him. Their swords rang together, once, twice, a testing. The sellsword backed off a step. The knight came after, holding his shield before him. He tried a slash, but Bronn jerked back, just out of reach, and the silver blade cut only air. Bronn circled to his right. Ser Vardis turned to follow, keeping his shield between them. The knight pressed forward, placing each foot carefully on the uneven ground. The sellsword gave way, a faint smile playing over his lips. Ser Vardis attacked, slashing, but Bronn leapt away from him, hopping lightly over a low, moss-covered stone. Now the sellsword circled left, away from the shield, toward the knight’s unprotected side. Ser Vardis tried a hack at his legs, but he did not have the reach. Bronn danced farther to his left. Ser Vardis turned in place. â€Å"The man is craven,† Lord Hunter declared. â€Å"Stand and fight, coward! † Other voices echoed the sentiment. Catelyn looked to Ser Rodrik. Her master-at-arms gave a curt shake of his head. â€Å"He wants to make Ser Vardis chase him. The weight of armor and shield will tire even the strongest man.† She had seen men practice at their swordplay near every day of her life, had viewed half a hundred tourneys in her time, but this was something different and deadlier: a dance where the smallest misstep meant death. And as she watched, the memory of another duel in another time came back to Catelyn Stark, as vivid as if it had been yesterday. They met in the lower bailey of Riverrun. When Brandon saw that Petyr wore only helm and breastplate and mail, he took off most of his armor. Petyr had begged her for a favor he might wear, but she had turned him away. Her lord father promised her to Brandon Stark, and so it was to him that she gave her token, a pale blue handscarf she had embroidered with the leaping trout of Riverrun. As she pressed it into his hand, she pleaded with him. â€Å"He is only a foolish boy, but I have loved him like a brother. It would grieve me to see him die.† And her betrothed looked at her with the cool grey eyes of a Stark and promised to spare the boy who loved her. That fight was over almost as soon as it began. Brandon was a man grown, and he drove Littlefinger all the way across the bailey and down the water stair, raining steel on him with every step, until the boy was staggering and bleeding from a dozen wounds. â€Å"Yield!† he called, more than once, but Petyr would only shake his head and fight on, grimly. When the river was lapping at their ankles, Brandon finally ended it, with a brutal backhand cut that bit through Petyr’s rings and leather into the soft flesh below the ribs, so deep that Catelyn was certain that the wound was mortal. He looked at her as he fell and murmured â€Å"Cat† as the bright blood came flowing out between his mailed fingers. She thought she had forgotten that. That was the last time she had seen his face . . . until the day she was brought before him in King’s Landing. A fortnight passed before Littlefinger was strong enough to leave Riverrun, but her lord father forbade her to visit him in the tower where he lay abed. Lysa helped their maester nurse him; she had been softer and shyer in those days. Edmure had called on him as well, but Petyr had sent him away. Her brother had acted as Brandon’s squire at the duel, and Littlefinger would not forgive that. As soon as he was strong enough to be moved, Lord Hoster Tully sent Petyr Baelish away in a closed litter, to finish his healing on the Fingers, upon the windswept jut of rock where he’d been born. The ringing clash of steel on steel jarred Catelyn back to the present. Ser Vardis was coming hard at Bronn, driving into him with shield and sword. The sellsword scrambled backward, checking each blow, stepping lithely over rock and root, his eyes never leaving his foe. He was quicker, Catelyn saw; the knight’s silvered sword never came near to touching him, but his own ugly grey blade hacked a notch from Ser Vardis’s shoulder plate. The brief flurry of fighting ended as swiftly as it had begun when Bronn sidestepped and slid behind the statue of the weeping woman. Ser Vardis lunged at where he had been, striking a spark off the pale marble of Alyssa’s thigh. â€Å"They’re not fighting good, Mother,† the Lord of the Eyrie complained. â€Å"I want them to fight.† â€Å"They will, sweet baby,† his mother soothed him. â€Å"The sellsword can’t run all day.† Some of the lords on Lysa’s terrace were making wry jests as they refilled their wine cups, but across the garden, Tyrion Lannister’s mismatched eyes watched the champions dance as if there were nothing else in the world. Bronn came out from behind the statue hard and fast, still moving left, aiming a two-handed cut at the knight’s unshielded right side. Ser Vardis blocked, but clumsily, and the sellsword’s blade flashed upward at his head. Metal rang, and a falcon’s wing collapsed with a crunch. Ser Vardis took a half step back to brace himself, raised his shield. Oak chips flew as Bronn’s sword hacked at the wooden wall. The sellsword stepped left again, away from the shield, and caught Ser Vardis across the stomach, the razor edge of his blade leaving a bright gash when it bit into the knight’s plate. Ser Vardis drove forward off his back foot, his own silver blade descending in a savage arc. Bronn slammed it aside and danced away. The knight crashed into the weeping woman, rocking her on her plinth. Staggered, he stepped backward, his head turning this way and that as he searched for his foe. The slit visor of his helm narrowed his vision. â€Å"Behind you, ser!† Lord Hunter shouted, too late. Bronn brought his sword down with both hands, catching Ser Vardis in the elbow of his sword arm. The thin lobstered metal that protected the joint crunched. The knight grunted, turning, wrenching his weapon up. This time Bronn stood his ground. The swords flew at each other, and their steel song filled the garden and rang off the white towers of the Eyrie. â€Å"Ser Vardis is hurt,† Ser Rodrik said, his voice grave. Catelyn did not need to be told; she had eyes, she could see the bright finger of blood running along the knight’s forearm, the wetness inside the elbow joint. Every parry was a little slower and a little lower than the one before. Ser Vardis turned his side to his foe, trying to use his shield to block instead, but Bronn slid around him, quick as a cat. The sellsword seemed to be getting stronger. His cuts were leaving their marks now. Deep shiny gashes gleamed all over the knight’s armor, on his right thigh, his beaked visor, crossing on his breastplate, a long one along the front of his gorget. The moon-and-falcon rondel over Ser Vardis’s right arm was sheared clean in half, hanging by its strap. They could hear his labored breath, rattling through the air holes in his visor. Blind with arrogance as they were, even the knights and lords of the Vale could see what was happening below them, yet her sister could not. â€Å"Enough, Ser Vardis!† Lady Lysa called down. â€Å"Finish him now, my baby is growing tired.† And it must be said of Ser Vardis Egen that he was true to his lady’s command, even to the last. One moment he was reeling backward, half-crouched behind his scarred shield; the next he charged. The sudden bull rush caught Bronn off balance. Ser Vardis crashed into him and slammed the lip of his shield into the sellsword’s face. Almost, almost, Bronn lost his feet . . . he staggered back, tripped over a rock, and caught hold of the weeping woman to keep his balance. Throwing aside his shield, Ser Vardis lurched after him, using both hands to raise his sword. His right arm was blood from elbow to fingers now, yet his last desperate blow would have opened Bronn from neck to navel . . . if the sellsword had stood to receive it. But Bronn jerked back. Jon Arryn’s beautiful engraved silver sword glanced off the marble elbow of the weeping woman and snapped clean a third of the way up the blade. Bronn put his shoulder into the statue’s back. The weathered likeness of Alyssa Arryn tottered and fell with a great crash, and Ser Vardis Egen went down beneath her. Bronn was on him in a heartbeat, kicking what was left of his shattered rondel aside to expose the weak spot between arm and breastplate. Ser Vardis was lying on his side, pinned beneath the broken torso of the weeping woman. Catelyn heard the knight groan as the sellsword lifted his blade with both hands and drove it down and in with all his weight behind it, under the arm and through the ribs. Ser Vardis Egen shuddered and lay still. Silence hung over the Eyrie. Bronn yanked off his halfhelm and let it fall to the grass. His lip was smashed and bloody where the shield had caught him, and his coal-black hair was soaked with sweat. He spit out a broken tooth. â€Å"Is it over, Mother?† the Lord of the Eyrie asked. No, Catelyn wanted to tell him, it’s only now beginning. â€Å"Yes,† Lysa said glumly, her voice as cold and dead as the captain of her guard. â€Å"Can I make the little man fly now?† Across the garden, Tyrion Lannister got to his feet. â€Å"Not this little man,† he said. â€Å"This little man is going down in the turnip hoist, thank you very much.† â€Å"You presume—† Lysa began. â€Å"I presume that House Arryn remembers its own words,† the Imp said. â€Å"As High as Honor.† â€Å"You promised I could make him fly,† the Lord of the Eyrie screamed at his mother. He began to shake. Lady Lysa’s face was flushed with fury. â€Å"The gods have seen fit to proclaim him innocent, child. We have no choice but to free him.† She lifted her voice. â€Å"Guards. Take my lord of Lannister and his . . . creature here out of my sight. Escort them to the Bloody Gate and set them free. See that they have horses and supplies sufficient to reach the Trident, and make certain all their goods and weapons are returned to them. They shall need them on the high road.† â€Å"The high road,† Tyrion Lannister said. Lysa allowed herself a faint, satisfied smile. It was another sort of death sentence, Catelyn realized. Tyrion Lannister must know that as well. Yet the dwarf favored Lady Arryn with a mocking bow. â€Å"As you command, my lady,† he said. â€Å"I believe we know the way.†

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Wk 5 Global and US Legislative response to Human Trafficking - Essay Example From this, it is a can be assumed that nearly every country is affected by trafficking, either as a nation of origin, transfer or terminus for victims (George, 2005). This paper will seek to discuss the global and US legislative responses to human trafficking. The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) being a custodian of the United Nations Convention against Transnational Organized Crime (UNTOC) and its Protocols helps countries in their struggles to execute the Trafficking in Persons Protocol. UNODC does not only assist countries in drafting legislations and creating comprehensive countywide anti-trafficking policies; but also help with resources to execute them (George, 2005). The Trafficking in Persons Protocol is aimed at providing consensus and consistencies globally on the problem of trafficking of persons. Domestic legislations should be adopted in accord with domestic legal systems in order to give end product to the concepts in the Protocol. Therefore, apart from criminalizing trafficking; efforts to commit trafficking offense, directing others to commit trafficking or participating in trafficking are also considered as criminal acts. In conclusion, it is important to note that the Trafficking Victims Protection Act of 2000 in the US has played a great role in fighting the vice of human trafficking. This is ascribed to the fact that it has three phases: prevention, protection, and prosecution (George, 2005). This implies that it prevents people from being trafficked, protect those found in transit, and prosecute trafficking

Supply chain management at Toyota motors Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 2500 words

Supply chain management at Toyota motors - Essay Example However, Toyota commenced its automobile manufacturing as early as 1934 functioning under Toyota Industries (Toyota, 1996). The first product of the company was Type A engines and Toyota AA passengers car which were manufactured in 1936. The company is celebrated as one of the world’s largest automakers mainly because of the company’s stupendous sales record over the last two decades. Toyota also ventures into the financial service provision, an exercise supervised by Toyota Financial Services. The company also produces robots. Alongside the father company (Toyota Industries), Toyota forms the majority shareholders in Toyota Group. Being the Leading shareholder in Daihatsu Motors, Toyota owns the operations of Lexus, Scion, and Toyota brands. The company is also the minority shareholder in Isuzu Motors, Fuji Heavy Industries, Hino Motors, Mitsubishi Aircraft Corporation, and Yamaha Motors and craft manufacturers. In india, Toyota established a partnership agreement with Kirloskar Group to forming Toyota Kirloskar Motor Private Limited (TKM); a company formed with sole objectives of creating employment to the unemployed youths as well as serving the automobile industry. As at March 2012, Toyota had about 529 subsidiaries globally, and manufactured more than 11.5 million vehicles (Toyota, 1996). SUPPLY CHAIN MANAGEMENT IN TOYOTA            Toyota supply chain management is one of the elements of the operational strategy which is founded on Toyota Production System (TPS). The system was proposed by Taiichi Ohno and Shigeo Shingo in 1940’s as the company gained global success in the automotive industry. TPS was founded on the principle â€Å"lean manufacturing†. The two partners indentified the components of this tool as: mutual trust and understanding, interlocking structures, compatible capabilities, control systems, joint improvement activities, learning, and information sharing. As stated by Krajewski, Ritzman & Malhotra (200 9), â€Å"JIT system – a system that organizes the resources information flows and decision rules that enable a firm to realize the benefits of JIT principles† (Burnes & New, 1996). Total Quality Management, reduces waste, and inventory by involving suppliers in continuous improvement, planning process, focusing on co-operation and improving machinery. The capacity planning method adopted by Toyota was based on inventory elimination. To achieve a zero-inventory, the company heavily depended on pull systems. Toyota also pioneered an operational excellence commonly referred to as â€Å"Lean Concept†. This concept was adopted by a number of companies in the manufacturing sector. The philosophy of this principle (lean philosophy) aimed at eliminating all wastes, and prioritizes customer care (Burnes & New, 1997). Lean philosophy closed linked with the JIS inventory management system to add to the competitive edge of Toyota. Therefore, the production of new material was only possible when the existing stock of inventory is exhausted. Toyota operated under â€Å"non-value-adding waste in business and manufacturing† (Liker, 2004) which were overproduction, unnecessary transport/ conveyance, waiting, over-processing, unnecessary movement, excess inventory, unused employee creativity, and defects. The improvements in the supply chain management at Toyota are cited as the key element for the increased competitiveness of the company in the fierce motor market. Besides, the improvements made in the supply cha

The relationship between asthma medications and periodontal disease Essay

The relationship between asthma medications and periodontal disease - Essay Example Herein, the reasons asthmatic patients are more prone to gum disease will be discussed. As well, what asthmatics can do to help prevent tooth and gum decay will be a source of study. Periodontitis is a "condition characterized by inflammation of the periodontal tissues, leading to tissue destruction, bone resorption, attachment loss, and, in some cases, tooth loss" (Saver, Hujoel, Cunha-Cruz, and Maupome, 2007). Asthma, on the other hand, is a "common [breathing] disorder, especially in the industrialized part of the world" (Sulssa and Ernst, 2001). When asthma episodes, or "attacks" occur, many patients rely on the use of handheld inhalers, which deliver a corticosteroid medication from the mouth, into the airway. The inhalation of the corticosteroid causes a dilatation, allowing for more air to pass into the lungs. It would seem, then, that gum disease and asthma are unrelated, but the life-saving corticosteroid could, in fact, have a negative impact on oral health. Nebraska dentist Dan Peterson devotes a website to, in part, the link between asthma medication and periodontitis. In his section "Oral Health Changes in Individual with Asthma," it is written that asthmatic patients have an "increased rate of caries." Many things cause dental caries, or cavities, but asthma inhalers usually contain sugar, which is a culprit in tooth decay. The website also lists the problems of "reduced salivary flow due to inhaler use and increased prevalence of oral tissue changes" as other reasons that asthmatic face mouth trouble. Dry mouth, also called xerostomia, can be caused by inhaler use. It is problematic because it causes "tooth decay and gum disease and makes you more vulnerable to inflammation" (Schaaf and Higbee, 1993). An article in Harvard Women's Health Watch adds, "Persistent xerostomia is a serious and often uncomfortable condition that can jeopardize oral health. It makes eating and swallowing difficult, causes bad breath, and may irritate mouth tissues, leaving them more vulnerable to infection". The article goes on to explain that inhalers can cause a reduction in saliva. The moisture of saliva is absolutely necessary. Its decrease, which can also be caused by painkillers, blood pressure medications, antidepressants, etc., is cause for concern. Advice is offered to combat dry mouth. The article offers that over-the-counter products that increase saliva production are one way to go. It also suggests trying to drink lots of water, limiting sugar intake, and chewing sugar-free gum. Avoiding de hydrating habits like drinking alcohol, smoking, or consuming caffeine might also help when the use of inhalers make xerostomia a problem. Inhalers aren't perfect, but they are necessary. "Sustained use of inhaled corticosteroids reduces the risk of severe exacerbations requiring hospitalization as well as death from asthma and therefore provides a simple and effective tool by which to eliminate major adverse events for patients with this common disorder" (Suissa and Ernst, 2001). Since asthmatics can't ignore breathing problems for fear of gum disease, advice is offered for sustained good oral health. Peterson's website suggests frequent dental check-ups and cleanings. It also suggests fluoride treatments, a proper at-home routine, the