I feel like as the resident dishonor/honor guy enjoyer I have to speak on honor as a construct and how it seems to operate in asoiaf in my eyes. I will be stating the obvious here imo but: violence IS inherent to it. Be it directly or through the enablement of it. “Honor”, as a feudalistic moral construct, revolves around the reinforcement of a status quo. It is a moral construct that is embedded into a feudalistic structure, one that is inherently violent. It can be deeply flawed and destructive as a result of deeply rooted systemic issues. Being “honorable” is very complicated because, again, it does not exist based on a very sensible moral framework. It ends up contradicting itself because the way society is structured in Westeros.
Almost nothing embodies this more clearly than the KG. They are supposed to be the paragons of honor: an unsoiled white cloak.
Vows are social contracts this society is built on. This is why Jaime is very restricted in a lot of ways in his world by his label. Breaking one of the most important contracts (one that happens to be key in reinforcing a feudalistic structure: it places the king’s will above every single other moral or ethical code) makes it so he is not believed or trusted and he is unable to operate properly within their society in a lot of circumstances, as we witness in his chapters. It is honorable to protect the weak and the innocent, but it is honorable to protect your king in all circumstances and reinforce a status quo. To obey your family and play your societal role. To obey laws, even if they are unjust. To keep your word, to be honest. Loyalty to a tyrant has to be inherently more honorable (especially in certain positions) to maintain this status quo, even though it contradicts other oaths and we know it is inherently immoral. Balancing values is the most interesting aspect of characters dealing with ‘honor’ and morality. Feudalism is what makes the honor system collapse. Honor itself can be a more vague concept, “the quality of knowing and doing what is morally right”, but the way it is defined and how it operates within this society is so fucked. The KG appear in the weirwood dream (mirroring the imagery of The Others, conflating the honorable white cloak with snow and cold and death.) “You swore to keep your king safe” “and the children as well.” Yeah, the innocent children of kingslanding as well, that would have burned to ash. It is honorable to save your king, to protect the weak, to save the children, to save the innocents of KG, to obey your father. He tells this to them in the dream, he explains his reasoning for killing Aerys, but they do not budge. That is what Jaime fears the most, the complete collapse of everything that holds meaning to him, heroism becoming undefinable with these conflicting moral codes, which is likely another huge part of him keeping it a secret. It is something he feels powerless against. The way things are prioritized is wrong. Morality becomes skewed. In Jaime’s mind the enemy and primary source of doom is this nonsensical moral construct that contradicts itself represented by institutions that make no sense. It is what makes his symbolic fire go out. His moral code conflicts with this society’s code of ethics, which eventually leads him to cynically accept amorality. It is disillusionment that tears the idea of heroism and being “honorable” apart and leads to moral nihilism.
Another aspect of the honor code and its violence is the fact that it places more value to individuals based on class. It is dependent on class and a flawed social structure. This is despite the fact that vows of knighthood call for the protection of those that are too weak to protect themselves: the underprivileged. Jaime keeps having this epiphany of an inherent equality in death that seems to contradict the way society is structured. Aerys’ life is worth inherently more according to the honor code than Rhaella’s, than the lives of thousands of innocents, than Jaime’s. Yet, a lowborn hand, no one, seems to die harder than Aerys does (and nobody cares). A crown is worth nothing when crows feast on victors and vanquished alike, and the rightful heir himself. We are all equal in death, so the text is indicating that something is not right here.
When it comes to characters and their relationship with honor the important through-line is examining whether they are being “honorable” in the abstract sense, if they base their actions around empathy and a sense of actual justice, or if they are abiding by made up flawed constructs. Being viewed as honorable by this society does not make you a good person. In fact, in order for you to abide by the honor code you would likely have to turn into an amoral individual. For example, if you try to keep the cloak pure white you will metaphorically soil it. Like every one of Aerys’s kingsguard did. To keep their oath to the king, they broke vows to protect innocents and protect women. They should lose their honor by a lot of definitions, but that would mean the status quo collapses. Jaime’s knighting for this reason is very much like a boy being sacrificed at an altar. It is not just about drawing a parallel between young girls and boys being sentenced to bloody doom by violent constructs created for their gender.
“Blood is the seal of our devotion.” He bleeds on his plain white tunic. It was never “pure white”, it was always all tainted in blood. It is inherently violent. You can argue that is when “the boy died.”
Very rigid and hypocritical honor codes built for feudalism lack nuance and lead to amorality. I think George aims to address, interrogate, deconstruct, and then reconstruct honor, as with most other key concepts present in fantasy. Honor can be redefined. Examples like “No chance, and no choice”, among many others, are at the root of that reconstruction. Even then, the reconstruction does not conflate it with pacifism necessarily. For example, Chelsted did the ‘honorable’ thing, in the abstract moral sense, of quitting his job and not supporting a tyrant anymore, but that act achieved nothing in preventing the wildfire plot. Same with essentially everyone important at court abandoning the situation that is Aerys, turning away from a gaping wound and not addressing it before it was too late. Jaime had to soil the ‘white cloak’ and disrupt the status quo and lose his “honor” within those terms by murdering his king and his pyromancers as a kingsguard and actually save half a million lives. It was not glorious, nor was it anything like the songs, and the city is still doomed because there is no way to get that festering corruption out of there at this point, metaphorical of the greater problem with KG, but it was heroism, a choice with meaning, and a form of triumph, even if the consequences break Jaime down the line. He gets no answer to the question of what it means to be a knight and a man of honor if society’s version of it is so skewed. Then, Jaime and the readers get an answer in the form of Brienne: “I dreamed of you.”
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The lights suddenly burn out.
Only a circle illuminates the pavement.
The room is now a theater.
Pohatu stares, bathed in the shadow of a well-known back; beyond him, beyond it, Beings of flesh and skin (Beings he looks too much alike) stare at his little brother as he stands before them.
"I am Takanuva, Toa of Light and Shadow."
One seems to reach out; another stops them, eyes shining in the dark, curious and excited. To him, it's the apex of a thesis.
"But in the time before time, I was Takua, chronicler of Mata Nui."
There is a familiar theatricality in the voice as it fills every nook of the room, a familiar tone and pronunciation. Vakama would be - will be, when he returns, because Pohatu has decided his little brother will return, alone or otherwise - proud.
"It was my duty to write down the tales of my people: their strife and peace, their virtues and flaws, their victories and defeats, their sorrows and joys."
Through the silver sheen of his mask comes a vibrant golden glow.
"This is the weapon I raise against you."
His metal hand rises, obscure coils snaking through his tendons and robotic components - not as a threat. Merely a command.
"A story."
Then, there is light.
And upon the light, the shadows dance.
Before the stunned silence of the Great Beings' bewildered eyes, once Takua, now Takanuva recounts wordlessly every single chronicle he's ever seen and heard upon and within the Great Spirit Robot in a marvelous display that seems to go on for ages, tirelessly, endlessly, trying to spare no details for his audience although he knows he is missing parts that he will never be privy to. He shimmers like a sun reflected in the pieces of a broken mirror, blindingly bright; Pohatu shields his eyes before they burn completely before his glow, but still feels a warmth envelop him gently in a tight hug that doesn't pierce through his fragile flesh.
The shadows dance upon him kindly, so different from the Makutas', so exactly identical that it feels terribly surprising to realize that their element had been just as natural as his own, that their element had never been as evil as Teridax's actions had convinced them it was.
Through the sliver of his eyelids he sees his little brother's dark puppets dance, fight, cry, fall. He recognizes himself. His skin burns from dysphoria.
He shuts his eyes again before the light or the shadow can tear unwillingly through his flesh once more.
It feels like hours.
The story is a long one.
It's a hard one to tell quickly, after all.
The embrace eventually lightens. The light eventually dims. Pohatu looks: Takanuva is still in front of him, quiet, focused; the Great Beings seem overwhelmed.
One smiles.
It's a smile that misses the point.
"Old legends must be taught," Takanuva speaks once more. His voice is vast, stern, stalwart, still. "But new ones await to be made."
"You were not destined to make any legends!" one among the public shrieks at last, every drop of patience scattered in the still air hanging above them all, their face burning red, their eyes ablaze, their teeth gleaming angrily from the shade: "You had a clear purpose, a simple purpose! You were not destined to be anything! No need for all of this - these wars, these fights, this iniquity, this relentless destruction and death! You were cogs of a machine!"
Their anger turns to a specific face, twists into fury upon seeing that ever present smile. They cannot do anything against it; so their finger points back to Takanuva.
"You are defective! All of you! You're merely a primitive copy of our own world! A distorted image of our old failures, repeated! Our own past mistakes, coming to haunt us!"
"And you blame us?"
Takanuva's voice commands silence.
"You abandoned your people to their fate, shirked away from your duties when the time called, left your world to fester and rot: and you blame us?"
No response.
"Us, who never knew anything? Us, who you have kept on the dark about the reality of everything? Us, who you had destined to die without living from the moment you'd made us?"
No response.
"Our consciousness was a whim of yours. Yes, it is a defect, I suppose - yet we recognize it as something that is only ours, that you have nothing to do with. Our mistakes, our rage, our flaws and bloodied hands are nobody else's but our own. We do not blame you for our history, for the evil that might lurk within ourselves. We have every right to pin our misfortunes on you, who made us to toil away until we would have outgrown our purpose, but we do not."
Pohatu remembers this steadfast determination. He remembers it in a blue Pakari of a Matoran standing his ground with a group of misfits to defend Kini Nui.
"Has your distance from life made you blind, too? Did you not see what I showed you, at the side of destruction? Did you ignore the unity that binds us, that moves us to call one another brother and sister? Did you not recognize love when I put it before your eyes, over and over again?"
No response.
The quiet is embarrassed.
The quiet is thoughtful.
The quiet is ashamed.
"It was planned," a voice rises eventually, meekly. It answers a different question. "We had it all figured out. It was destined to be as we wrote."
"Destiny is seldom written," Takanuva shuts them down. "And when it is it's never clear, nor impervious to being reshaped. Not even those who claim to know it can predict which of its form is the correct one."
It's hard to understand.
Pohatu gets it.
It's the Cordax. It's the thousands of years rotting in a shell. It's the stars being rearranged. It's the poisoned bite. It's the plan from an opposite perspective. It's the betrayal by omission. It's the deceit. It's the defeat. It's the secrecy. It's the carelessness for the lives entrusted to it. It's the death. It's life striving to emulate the death. It's the herald who is at once both correct and wrong. It's the prophesized hero who defeats no villain.
It's growing a body that rejects you. It's being the ticket for an audience with the gods because of it.
It's a virtue. It's a curse. It's nothing.
Pohatu gets it.
"So?" a voice laments. "We too have made mistakes. We need not be reminded; we know too well. What do you want us to do, then?"
"FIX THEM!"
Silence.
Takanuva's words echo through the room.
"Like the Toa Metru returned to save the Matoran! Like the Toa Nuva fought back after Teridax won! Like the Toa Mahri struggled to revive Mata Nui!"
The walls tremble and shake before him.
"Like I failed Jaller, and accepted who I was!"
The gold in his mask is still dim, yet it glows harder as his voice cracks.
Pohatu's hand is warm and kind on his shoulder.
Breathe, little brother. Breathe.
I am proud of you.
Takua breathes heavily, on the verge of tearing up. He is so small and so alone upon this dark stage.
He is not a lone wanderer anymore, with no Koro to call home and no friend to his name; he is not an impatient Matoran anymore, searching for adventure without knowing how far he can go; he is not a young Toa anymore, confusedly holding onto a world of dichotomies that don't quite exist.
He is a storyteller before the Amaja circle.
He knows the story cannot end like this.
He knows there is one last thing.
His brother's hand on his shoulder is a gentle familiar weight that carries the warmth of the Island of Mata Nui's sun.
Takanuva breathes in.
There is a part of his voice that is young when he speaks again - like a child reciting a play as he tries to stave off the stage fright. There is a part of his voice that old and wise beyond its years, saddened, carrying a low rumble of solemn gravity within itself.
He sounds steady.
"Reunite with your people. Make amends for your wrongs. Guide them towards better futures."
That is a command.
"That is the way of the Bionicle."
Silence falls.
No curtain closes.
Someone claps.
Earnestly, vigorously, exhilarated, someone claps.
Someone claps as hard as possible, in genuine awe, and laughs loud, breathlessly.
Velika claps and laughs, smiling bright and wide, eyes twinkling with admiration and respect and unbound joy.
"Bravo! Bravo!"
None of that is for Takanuva.
"What a performance! What a speech!"
None of that is for Takanuva's story.
"Such a range of emotions! Such a variety of experiences! Such rethoric technique!"
Velika claps, and laughs, and smiles, and misses the point.
"Almost like a real person!"
Pohatu is a Toa.
Pohatu is still a Toa.
And only because Pohatu is still a Toa, and only because Takanuva wraps his metal hand around his unnaturally organic arm to shield him, Velika is not yet dead where he stands and keeps on clapping and laughing and smiling until his palms are ablaze, his voice is gone, his face hurts, and silence drapes itself across all beings in the room, across the smile that still doesn't fade.
Angonce looks straight ahead.
His lips are pursed, shut tight, his face looks livid.
Takanuva looks back at him.
They stare in silence.
Not a word.
Not.
A.
Word.
Angonce steps forward.
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