Conflicting Views of the California High School Exit Exam Essay

Conflicting Views of the California High School Exit Exam - Essay Example First, what is the minimum education children should have to graduate Are there a set of standards which have to be met, and a certain level of proficiency achieved Secondly, what does a high school diploma symbolize If it is meant to suggest that a person has attended high school, than by all means drop the exam. However, if it is meant to suggest that this student has an education, and has learned and met minimum levels of ability, then the exam should stand. Otherwise the degree is devalued for all those who truly earned it. Finally, can California make a clear case for discrimination, and prove that the exam is not fair to underserved children If so, then the results can not be validated. If they can prove that all children (while possibly not evenly served) have had enough opportunity to pass the exam, then the results should be upheld. By reviewing a brief history of the exam, and looking at both sides of the argument, it is clear that the exam should remain valid, and those 47 ,000 students should not be awarded their diplomas. The California High School Exit Exam is a new and fairly untested program. Originally slated to count towards graduation for the class of 2004, the schools held off until 2006, after state wide improvements were made to the schools. The exam tests for proficiency in eighth grade level math, and tenth grade level English. A student must get a fifty-five percent or higher to pass, and has six chances to pass the test. All over California people are arguing about the California High School Exit Exam. They claim that it is unfair, and that it expects too much of the students. Randy Dong, a California journalist suggests that it is not in the interest of education that these children are being tested, but rather in the interest of social promotion. He says "we are throwing algebraic and geometric problems at students who cannot even perform basic arithmetic" (Dong 2006). However, the exam only tests through eighth grade math and tenth grade reading (Washburn 2006). These children have twelve or more years of education, yet they can not pass proficiencies below their own level of academia. While Dong is in the minority, arguing about content, his view is important. In reviewing what is at stake, it is important to ask how low United States citizens are willing to set the bar in education. What should be a minimum level or proficiency to have a diploma Where Dong argues that algebra is too high a stan dard for students graduating from high school, others argue that the standards set by the test are two low. In an editorial from the Press-Enterprise, it questions "Freedman decreed that requiring students in low-performing schools to answer correctly just 55 percent of the questions in eighth-grade math and 60 percent of the questions in 10th-grade English - even after six tries - is an arbitrary violation of the state constitution." For students whose education has respectively passed four and two years beyond those levels, those minimums seem low, not high. With six tries, and tutoring available, no child should be able to fail that test, and if they do, then why should they be allowed a diploma Judge Freedman ruled that denying students the diploma would negatively impact their self-esteem, but what about the devaluation of the

MATH Math Problem Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 250 words

Math Problem Example List multiple items in descending order of amount.) Quirk Company purchased office supplies costing 6,000 and debited Office Supplies for the full amount. At the end of the accounting period, a physical count of office supplies revealed 2,400 still on hand. The appropriate adjusting journal entry to be made at the end of the period would be Baden Realty Company received a check for 18,000 on July 1 which represents a 6 month advance payment of rent on a building it rents to a client. Unearned Rent was credited for the full 18,000. Financial statements will be prepared on July 31. Baden Realty should make the following adjusting entry on July 31: On July 1, Dexter Shoe Store paid 8,000 to Ace Realty for 4 months rent beginning July 1. Prepaid Rent was debited for the full amount. If financial statements are prepared on July 31, the adjusting entry to be made by Dexter Shoe Store is Southeastern Louisiana University sold season tickets for the 2008 football season for 160,000. A total of 8 games will be played during September, October and November. In September, two games were played. In October, three games were played. The balance in Unearned Revenue at October 31 is Southeastern Louisiana University sold season tickets for the 2008 football season for 160,000. A total of 8 games will be played during September, October and November.

Crash Movie Summary

Crash Movie Summary It addresses the problems of modern society, violence, cynicism of people towards each other and especially towards members of other ethnic cultures. This is especially actual for our country as it unites many nationalities, among which the conflicts are constantly arising. The film is not about few characters, but of many at once. Here are no main characters, but rather all the characters are the main and important (Miller 45). Every person, the member of the film is a separate story different from others, and at first glance, is unrelated to the others. The director shows the fate of fourteen people repeatedly cross over 36 hours. There are two policemen, one of which appears to be a total asshole, rude, harsh, embittered cad and racist, the other is still a young, inexperienced guy, who seems to be good and nice; but during the film they change their roles, and we see who is who. There are two Afro-American guys who steal cars and hate white people. We also see a man who is attorney and his wife, who is suspicious to all non-white people, whether Negro or Hispanic, but tells this only to her husband, being afraid of public condemnation. A young Latino man, who puts locks on doors and do not inspire confidence in clients. There is an Afro-American filmmaker who curries favour with police officers and wishes to be born white. We see Afro-American detective who forgets about his mother and brother and Persians` family, whose head is an American citizen, but not really knowing the language faces a lot of problems (Seller 2006). Throughout the film, we learn about every character, which they really are, if they are able to make sacrifices, to risk their lives, who can go against society, and who tries not to stand out. There ware no obvious good or bad characters. Each has its own truth, its own life. The film attracts as a magnet, enchants and you start to feel a part of it. All characters of the film are bright and deserve attention, but the most impression was made on my by two police officers: Tommy Hansen and John Ryan. Officer Tommy Hansen (Ryan Phillipe) is a young, white Los Angeles police officer who works as a partner with an older Officer John Ryan. At the very beginning we see Tommy as a fair, shy, inexperienced policeman. Once, after watching his partner John Ryan pull over black Cameron Thayer and his wife Christine and sexually molest Christine, Tommy desires to change of partner. He feels guilty over the incident and despises Officer John Ryan, so cant continue to work with his partner-racist. Such reaction on the situation characterized Tommy from a positive side and makes viewers sympathize him. Despite the request of Tommy, his supervisor Lieutenant Dixon doesnt satisfy the claim and agrees to transfer him only if he claims his uncontrollable flatulence requires him to drive alone in the car. Tommy has nothing to do, but to agree and th e next day he is reassigned to a single man patrol car (Ewing 2010). The same day, on his patrol he joins a police while chasing Cameron Thayer, who was being car jacked, but fought off his carjackers and is going away with one of carjacker being still in the car. Once after coming into a dead end Cameron, who is angry because of LAPD, confronts the police officers. Fair Tommy decides to solve the problem and tries to convince Cameron to come down to avoid a quarrel which could possibly end with Camerons death. Tommy defends Cameron, telling that he is a friend of his, and convinces the police officers to let Cameron go home with a harsh warning. This scene proves that Tommy influenced by remorse behaves fairly. He evokes positive emotions, and compared to other heroes looks as a real hero. After all, the director of the film shows the real face of Tommy in the case with Peters Waters. So, almost at the end of the film, Tommy is seen driving in his car and picking up Peter, a young black carjacker who was hitch-hiking. Being in one car with an African -Americans man, Tommy finds out his own insecurity with other races, and shows it through his treatment of Peter and their quarrel. Tommy quickly becomes angry when he assumes that Peter is laughing at him and asks him to leave the car. Peter starts to reach in his pocket and Tommy shoots him dead, wrongly assumes that the black guy is looking for a gun. Here, we see Tommy as totally frightened, lost and cruel man. He throws out the body of Peter from the car to cover up the incident. Here the viewers understand that Tommy is not a positive character, neither are the rest. Finally Tommy burns his car, trying to hide his involvement in the shooting. Once more we understand that this film doesnt have totally positive or totally negative characters, as all people are somewhere in the middle. At the same time, Officer John Ryan (Matt Dillon) shows his negative features from the very beginning of the film. He is a bigoted white police officer who is a partner of Officer Tommy Hansen. He is a rood, impolite, racist man who uses his social position and physically molests Christine (the wife of Cameron) under the pretense of looking for a gun after blaming Christine in performing fellatio on Cameron while he was driving a car. He molested the woman, thus humiliating her husband and forced him to apologize also. Watching this episode, the viewer feels disgust to the actions of the officer and him as a person. This makes his partner Tommy Hansen to believe in Johns racist tendencies. At the same time, Ryan is trying to find help for his father, who probably suffers from prostate cancer but whose treatment is ineffective. This shows him as caring and supporting person, but later he manifests his anger in prejudice. He manifests racist attitude towards an HMO employee who doesnt allow his father visit a desirable doctor (Crash (2004 film) 2009). It is understood that his racial prejudices seem to go from the destructive impact that local positive action policies had on his fathers business. As Officer Hansen decides to patrol alone, so Ryan is partnered with a Hispanic-American with whom he finds common language. The end of the Ryans story is positive as we see him from a good side. He risks his life trying to save Christine (the woman he molested a day before) from the death in a terrible car wreck. The viewer comes to the conclusion that all characters combine positive and negative features, having no idealization. For some reason, usually it is said that this film is about political correctness (as it received Oscar as the best film of 2005 (Beckman 45). However I am sure that Crash is not about political correctness, and nor even really about its ugly flipside. This film is about difficulties of coexistence in a huge multi-national state. About how difficult it is for people to understand each other, especially if they are from completely different culture and upbringing, and also about the tragic consequences of such failure. None of characters in Clash is a total villain or a hero. Almost every one of them is ordinary person with all his advantages and disadvantages. Thus, the film almost doesnt have uniquely right or guilty characters (Fevang 2006). The film consists of several smaller stories that are united by one theme: how people behave in extreme situations: crime, shootings, car crashes. The film Crash is an incredible intertwining of destinies of characters and original story. How is it possible to separate good from evil, a shadow from the light? It is probably impossible, as in the film Crash, it is impossible to determine who of the main characters is bad, and who is good. All of them make us think about our lives and society we live in.

a prayer fo owen meany :: essays research papers

A Critique of A Prayer For Owen Meany   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  In the novel written by John Irving, A Prayer For Owen Meany, the protagonist, Owen Meany, developed an unusual religious significance. Owen experienced visions of future events, he had a unique type of faith in God that is unusual of most people, and he speaks endlessly to inform people about God. Throughout Owen’s life he demonstrated the same characteristics as a prophet through his actions and his words.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Similar to a prophet, Owen was given precognitive powers that allowed him to see into the future. Owen’s first prophecy came to him on New Years Eve in 1953 during the community production of â€Å"A Christmas Carol†. The most obvious inference concerning the play was that Owen played the part of the ghost of Christmas yet to come. Owen had dehumanized this character to the point that children were leaving the theater crying and some were even wetting their pants. Both of them were told their futures, however Scrooge made and effort to change his, where as Owen did not. Owen’s revelation came through a vision he experienced during the graveyard scene of the play. He immediately fainted following the vision. The curtains went down, and members of the production all ran to help Owen. Owen believed he had seen his name on a gravestone along with the date of his death and no one could convince him otherwise. The fact that he was correct about the date of his death confirmed that he had visions and confirmed his qualities of being a prophet.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  A prophet uses his visions to not only prove they have powers, but also to benefit others. The second prophecy came to Owen in his dreams when he envisioned the reason and the way   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   Schaefer 2 his life would end. Owen wrote his dream in his diary. No one realized how detailed and precise it really was until they read it for themselves. Owen stated in his diary,† The way they look at me, I know two things. I know I saved them-I don’t know how. And I know that they’re afraid for me.† The entries in his diary revealed that he died saving Vietnamese children. God died for others too; this is why he is considered a true hero. (Sebsteph 1) A prophet uses their prophecies to benefit the world or allow people to learn from their visions and this is a prime example of this.

Coconut- Tree of Life Essay

The Coconut Tree (Cocos Nucifera L.) is called â€Å"The Tree of Life† because of the endless list of products and by-products derived from its various parts. Food, shelter, fuel – name it, the coconut has it. The coconut industry is considered a major dollar earner that provides livelihood to one-third of the country’s population. Coconut Meat From coco meat can be obtained coco flour, desiccated coconut, coconut milk, coconut chips, candies, bukayo or local sweetened shredded coconut meat, latik copra and animal feeds. Coco chips, which are curved and wrinkled coconut meat, is crisply toasted and salted. It is very popular in Hawaii. Coconut flour can be used as a wheat extender in baking certain products without affecting their appearance or acceptability. The coconut milk is a good protein source. Whole coco milk contains about 22% oil, which accounts for its laxative property. Coconut Oil Copra is dried coconut meat that has a high oil content, as much as 64%. Coconut oil is the most readily digested of all the fats of general use in the world. The oil furnishes about 9,500 calories of energy per kilogram. Its chief competitors are soya bean oil, palm oil and palm kernel oil. Coconut oil retards aging. It counteracts heart, colon, pancreatic and liver tumor inducers. And it is easy to digest. In the detergent industry, coconut oil is very important. Its most outstanding characteristic is its high saponification value in view of the molecular weight of most of the fatty acid glycerides it contains. An advantageous utilization of the coconut oil as a detergent was discovered in a May 1951 study wherein a formulation using coconut oil was found to be an effective sanitizer. Other products from coco oil are soap, lard, coco chemicals, crude oil, pomade, shampoo, margarine, butter and cooking oil. Coconut Leaves Cocnut leaves produce good quality paper pulp, midrib brooms, hats and mats, fruit trays, waste baskets, fans, beautiful midrib decors, lamp shades, placemats, bags and utility roof materials. Coconut Fruit The coconut fruit produces buko, often used for salads, halo-halo( crushed ice with sweetened fruit), sweets and pastries. Buko is of three kinds: mala-kanin, or having the consistency of boiled rice; mala-uhog, mucus-like consistency and ready for eating; and mala-katad, or like leather. The last kind is the one used for making sweets. A mature coconut, or niyog is used in making sweets and special Filipino dishes. The â€Å"sport fruit† of the coconut is the makapuno. Considered a delightful delicacy and largely used for making preserves and ice-cream, it cannot be kept in storage and will not germinate. It has three layers: semi-acid, soft and hard meat. Coconut Water Coconut water is also called liquid endosperm. It is thrown away during copra making and becomes a great waste. Uses of coconut water include: coconut water vinegar; coconut wine; production of the chewy, fiber-rich nata good as a dessert and as alaxative; as a growth factor; and as a substitute for dextrose. Another breakthrough use is in coconut water theraphy to cure renal disorders. â€Å"Bukolysis†, as it is also called, is the medical process of reducing or dissolving urinary stones of the urinary tract systems using buko water from 7 to 9 months old coconuts. Bukolysis is the brainchild of Dr. Eufemio Macalalag Jr., a urologist. For preventive medication, water from one mature coconut consumed daily, could almost guarantee that the formation of stones in the urinary tract will be avoided. To those already afflicted, the coconut water theraphy has been proven to be an inexpensive and effective cure. Coconut water is commonly promoted as an economical thirst quencher, hunger satisfier and medical cure for renal disorders all in one. Using coconut water, a nata de coco-like growth produced after 14 days which, when cooked in syrup, is apopular dessert. When mixed with other ingredients, like the making of fruit salad, it will enhance the flavor of the dish. And whoever said that nata de coco is just for food was wrong. This nata-like growth is dextran and can be made to comply with the specifications for clinical dextran, then we have in the coconut water an important contribution in the atomic defense against radiation sickness. Coconut Husk Coconut husks are made of bristle fiber (10%), mattress fiber (20%) and coir dust and shorts or wastes (70%). The abundance of fiber nakes it good, stable supply for cottage industries that make brushes, doormats, carpets, bags, ropes, yarn fishing nets, and mattresses, etc. Coir fiber can also be used as substitute for jute in making rice, copra, sugar, coffee, bags and sandbags. It is also suitable for making pulp and paper, etc. For the first time, the Philippines can export coir fiber to Japan, Germany and the United States with the proper assistance extended by the government, the industry being new. The well board is manufactured from coir dust and short fibers. No binding materials are needed as lignin is inherent in the coconut husk. Also it is termite-proof because creosote is present in the new material. The board produced is as good as narra, plywood or masonite. Coir yarn, coir rope, bags, rugs, husk decor, husk polishes, mannequin wig, brush, coirflex, and fishnets are other products that can be obtained from coco husk. Out of coir dust can be obtined coco gas, lye insulator, insoflex and plastic materials. Coconut Pith Out of its pith can be produced coco pickles, guinatan and lumpia. Its guinit can produce helmets, caps, wooden shoe straps, handbags, fans, picture and house decor like lamp shades and guinit flowers for the table. Ever heard of the â€Å"Millionaire’s Salad†? It’s fit for any ordinary man though, it is made up of â€Å"palmetto cabbage† which, when translated properly, is simply the local ubod or the â€Å"heart† of the coconut. Actually, ubod is considered one of the finest vegetables in the Philippines. It can be served in many appetizing ways. Cubed in fairly large bits, it makes wonderful addition to Spanish rice, or in their long strips, to Arroz a la Cubana. As a salad, it is mixed with mayonnaise or thousand island dressing and heaped onto lettuce leaves, red pepper, chopped spring onions, paprika, or a combination of some of those may be used to garnish this all-white salad. Crab meat with ubod in lumpia can prove to be very delicious. Infloresence Out of the bud of the coconut tree’s infloresence is a juice called coconut toddy or tuba. The fermented juice is the common alcoholic drink in the coconut region. The fermented tuba would be a good drink even to those who enjoy the finer things. The principal uses of the toddy are: as fresh beverage; for producing alcoholic beverages; for producing vinegar; for making sugar; and as a source of yeast for making bread. Coconut toddy, after being left for five days then distilled, produces an alcoholic spirit known locally as lambanog which is more or less 98% proof. In its taste, sweet toddy is a liquid containing essentially 12 to 18% sugar (sucrose). Other products from the coconut tree’s infloresence are gin, vinegar, candy trays, Christmas and wall decor. Coconut Shell Coconut shell produces the core of the most saleable household products and fashion accessories that can be turned into lucrative, wide-selling cottage industries. Among them are shell necklaces, shell bags, cigarette boxes, shell ladles, buttons, lamp shades, fruit and ash trays, guitars, placemats, coffee pots, cups, wind chimes, â€Å"coco banks†, briquetted charcoal and activated carbon. The most important use of coconut shell is activated carbon produced from its charcoal. It is utilized in air purification systems such as cooker hoods, air conditioning, industrial gas purification systems, and industrial and gas masks. Coconut Trunk & Roots Out of the coconut trunk, hardy and durable wood is obtained to make benches, tables, carvings, picture frames, tables, tool boxes, and construction materials, among many others. Paper pulp can also be extracted from the coconut trunk and other woody parts of the tree. Among the woody parts of the tree, the trunk gives the highest pulp yield of 43%; the midribs, 41%, and the petiole or the slender stop that support the leaf, 32%. Tests also show that coconut coir (80%) and abaca bleached sulfate pulp (40%) are a good combination in the production of offset bookpaper. Medicine, beverages and dyestuff are obtained from the coconut roots.

Film Analysis on There Will Be Blood and the Bicycle Theif Essay

Ladri di Biciclette and There will be Blood Character Analysis Ladri di Biciclette takes place in 1948 post-World War II Rome and is considered one of the best works of Italian Neorealism. There will be Blood is an American drama film set in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. It is considered one of the best films ever created. Despite their many differences, these two films share plenty of common ground. The theme of these two powerfully inspiring movies is that of a broken relationship between a father and a son. Ladri di Biciclette is one of the few films that do not follow the hero cycle. At no point in the plot does Antonio Ricci, played by Lamberto Maggiorani, ever redeem himself. Instead, he plummets down to the shocking level of stealing another’s bicycle. It is at this point in the story line Bruno, his son played my Enzo Staiola, will forever see his father differently. When Antonio slaps Bruno, Bruno’s world changes drastically. He has never been treated so harshly like this by his father, someone he loves and trusts dearly. This is the first time his perfect image of his dad is shattered. Even though Antonio is put in multiple moral situations, he truly loves and cares for his son. For example, when he hears the cries of a little boy drowning he rushes over to the commotion worried the little boy is Bruno. Fortunately, the boy is not Bruno and he picks up his son in a tight embrace. There are some moments in the film where Antonio forgets his son is with him. For instance, when he spies the thief he will run after him not thinking of his son and whether or not he will get lost trying to keep up in the chase. Still, he will look down to his son and ask if he is tired or hungry. Then he accommodates to the little boy’s needs. Antonio is trying to provide the best life possible for his family even if it meant doing something morally incriminating. Although his father has treat him wrong a few times, Bruno knows how stressful of a situation his father is in and tries to keep his dad in good spirits. In the last scene Antonio has a blank stare and is fighting the urge to cry. Bruno, watching his father, takes his hand. As Antonio looks at Bruno, the camera watches as they disappear into the crowd. They know that the bicycle will never be found, and the defeat can clearly be seen in Antonio’s blank stare. In There will be Blood Daniel Plainview, brilliantly acted by Daniel Day-Lewis, adopts one of his deceased  worker’s o rphaned son, played by Dillon Freasier. Plainview names his son H.W. and he becomes Plainview’s business â€Å"partner†. Later, his son loses his hearing in a drilling accident. Daniel boards a train with his boy and gets up, not looking back as he abandons the train and his child. Daniel doesn’t really feel a loss when sending his son away since the kid is not blood related. He feels H.W. does not have any of his qualities or personality. He eventually reunites with his son, who has now steadily built resentment for his father. H.W.’s teacher and interpreter becomes his new father figure in life as he and Daniel drift apart with his taking to be a drunkard and his more aggressive behavior. In one of the last scenes H.W., played by Russell Harvard) has married his childhood sweetheart and is visiting his now wealthy father to discuss ending their partnership and starting his own oil company in Mexico. Daniel mocks his son and tells H.W. that he is an orphan by saying, â€Å"You’re an orphan from a basket in the middle of the desert. And I took you for no other reason than I needed a sweet face to buy land. Did you get that? Now you know. Look at me. You’re lower than a bastard. You have none of me in you. You’re just a bastard from a basket.† H.W. leaves his father with no regrets and tells his â€Å"father† he is glad he doesn’t have any of Daniel in himself. Clearly these two have had relationship problems from the beginning. H.W. loved and idolized Daniel Plainview, even though the love was usually not returned. His deep interest for oil drilling started and grew all because of Daniel, and for that reason he was grateful and still loved his father, Plainview. Plainview only cared about money and power, so when his son lost hearing, due to the explosion at the oil site, he simply thought of the money he would make not about the well bein g of his only child. When he leaves his child to help with the fire, H.W. for the first time is lost, confounded, scared, and feels betrayed as his father lets go of him, leaving him in the dark with unanswered questions. Daniel Plainview never realizes that even though H.W. is not blood related he still raised, cared, and provided for this â€Å"bastard from a basket†. In both films the two father figures struggle with the yearning for power, money, social gain, and their ambition. Antonio cannot stop thinking of the money he would make if his bicycle is found. He thinks of the different life style he and his family would get to live with the salary he would be making. Anderson, the director of There will be Blood, was inspired by the fact that Sierra  Madre is â€Å"about greed and ambition and paranoia and looking at the worst parts of yourself†. All of those traits can easily be found in Daniel Plainview. Daniel even admits to his half brother’s imposter that he has this hatred and competition in himself. The character Daniel Plainview shows the savagery and obsession in humanity by draining the land of its natural resources for power and wealth. There will be Blood not only addresses the broken father son relationship but also the dark heart of free enterprise. It displays the inner workings of capitalism and how not only gain but domination is the ultimate goal in this grand scheme called politics. These two films are great influences in not only the film industry but also give great messages about life. Neither of the films follow the hero cycle and  the fathers never redeem themselves. This adds to the magnitude of these pieces of art for the reason that it makes them unique and sets them apart from other great works of art in film.

The Illad essays

The Illad essays "The Iliad", an epic tale told by the famous Greek author Homer, is focused primarily on the Trojan War between the Greeks, or Argives, and the Trojans. This war was filled with bloody battles and a massive loss of life. Homer tells stories about a duration of time during this fighting, and not the entire war. He uses his story-telling abilities to focus the audience on the garish and sometimes mundane drudgery of war. Due to his removal from the actual time of these battles, his stories may be embellished or not completely accurate descriptions of what did or did not happen. Overall, however, the Iliad is believed to be mostly true. Homer was born, most likely, in the 8th Century B.C. He is widely believed to be the best and most popular of the Ionian poets. His birthplace is not known beyond a doubt. Some have even said that he may have been blind. This idea has its share of critics though, since Homer details specific landscape scenes all throughout his works, and most of his writing is focused on the vision of the scene in which he describes. Homer relies heavily on descriptions to get his points across to the audience. In Homer's time, stories were told orally. Therefore, as a good writer, he attempted to write eloquently to convey to the audience the overall feeling of his stories. William Shakespeare did the same thing in his writing. Shakespeare knew that his work was going to be performed, and that his audience was predominantly illiterate. He knew that if he created a quality story and told it in an interesting way, he would gain greater popularity by allowing those who didn't understand to be entertained anyway. Homer used this to his advantage in his time also through the use of elaborate descriptions of battles and scenes, and with similes and metaphors. The similes and metaphors of The Iliad, in my opinion, are the real attention-grabbing parts of the story. Homer's descriptions using similes are mostly very deta...

Jeremy Bentham essays

Jeremy Bentham essays Jeremy Bentham was an English philosopher who founded the principle of utilitarianism. Under utilitarianism, everything is classified by its utility or usefulness. Utility is the objects ability to produce happiness. Bentham wanted to create happiness in his society. He believed that happiness can be measured in exact quantities and that individuals only care about their own pleasure and ways of increasing it. According to these principles, a person should always act for the greater good of the community rather than themselves. As Mr. Spock put it, The needs of the many outweigh the needs the one. Jeremy Bentham was a child prodigy, at the age of three he was reading and not only that, he was reading important political manifestos. By age five, he was quite proficient at playing the violin and was studying Latin and French at age six. As if this wasnt amazing enough, he enrolled at Oxford when he was twelve and, presumably, four years later was granted admittance into the Bar. Instead of practicing and studying to be a lawyer, he spent most of his time in his room reading about the English government. His personal goal was to write fifteen pages a day, criticizing the government. In 1766, he published a book titled A Fragment on Government which criticized Blackstone, an English author who published books on law. The book was popular at first, but when the public found out who had written it, they soon lost interest. His book did gain the attention of a Lord Shelburne, who introduced him to the world of the upper class. Shelburne also inspired Bentham to criticize the constitutional laws in addition to the civil and penal laws. Bentham was a revolutionary in his time; no one would dare criticize the government and certainly not the British Constitution. Perhaps his greatest accomplishment is his second book, An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legi ...

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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Girls Primary Schools in United Kingdom - Coursework Example This does not promote feminism or any related activities thereof but uses their works to relay situational analysis. This serves to focus change mainly in the designation of school curriculum basing on gender abilities, skills and intellect at still a very young formative age which is mostly subject to resigned domestic and weak place in society. This dissertation is an amalgamation of the work carried out over centuries by precursors of the feminist movement which abolished the sign of male dominated tactics where imparting equal education in qualitative and quantitative terms was concerned. This topic is a challenging one as it focuses on a specific area in gender philosophy. The parameters to be studied are now deeply rooted in the history of our educational system and thus hold a large amount of interest and fascination for a student of feminist issues. Further, the time period being studied is of utmost importance where revolutionary trends in feminist approaches are concerned. In this regard, the work of feminists was the foundation stone for modern day theories in a very subtle manner. Every change happens through education and the study of changing trends in education to show the elements of emerging feminist trends of the period is a challenging and fascinating subject. The dissertation progresses on the general hypotheses of social criticism and the trends that emerged thereof, in context of feminist and gender philosophy conceptions. In this way, the underlying model is a realistic one, unlike the predictable idealistic one due to the fact that Wollstonecraft's work demonstrates the fact that she had great foresight. This dissertation will basically focus on the Education Acts of 1870, 1902, 1944 and 1968. In this regard, the dissertation will analyze the various trends that were followed when these acts were formulated in context of pressures like the importance of women's education as well as the situation of young women. Further, the curriculum and activities revolving around primary education will be discussed in context of the three Rs - religion, reading and writing. The issues and questions are ones pertaining to the general climate for change and whether or not it facilitated the trends that emerged in the area of a change in curriculum for the primary education of girls in UK during that period. The work will also pose the question of how these kinds of changes in education tend to influence the general outlook of society over the years. In this way the acts will be analyzed to find evidence surrounding whether or not they were successful and the criticisms that demonstrate their failures and flaws. These acts in general brought about a climate for change and the emergence of a new feminist perspective. Also, it helped change the curriculum and include more women oriented studies that did not necessarily revolve around

MBA or Ms in Management Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1000 words

MBA or Ms in Management - Essay Example I have also previously attended various speeches and seminars in the field of finance and economics. I have previously held the position of a human resource specialist in the group I was working with while undertaking my bachelor’s degree. The experience gave me the opportunity of understanding the real world and how it works while equipping me with clear visions concerning my future. Since graduating, I have worked in a financial group known as the Alrajhi Bank, Saudi Arabia as their recruitment officer. Five years after earning the degree, I anticipate that I will a human resource manager with a financial organization or a general manager at Alrajhi Bank. I would like to get another job at another, larger organization to increase my experience and expand my knowledge. 2. Give A Candid Appraisal Of Yourself. Include Some Discussion Of Your Strengths And Weaknesses While I was studying to obtain a bachelor’s degree in the field of business administration, I worked as a part time human resources specialist in a group consisting of 350 employees. I have also expanded my skills in the field by attending seminars and speeches concerning finance and economics. ... My strengths include the fact that I have a bachelor’s degree in business administration and vital working experiences as a specialist in human resources and recruitment of job applicants. I also have attained diverse forms of knowledge in the course of my studies that will make an asset for any organization I work for. However, I have a weakness – I do not have enough time to adequately satisfy my career desires and responsibilities. 3. Discuss Three Of Your Achievements Or Accomplishments. First of all, I have been able to successfully work part time as a specialist in human resources for an organization that was comprised of over 350 employees. I was able to achieve this while attending classes for my bachelor’s degree in business administration and completing the course successfully. This was very challenging for me, because I had to schedule the limited time that was available for the both tasks while ensuring I achieved success in both of them. Secondly, af ter graduating with my bachelor’s degree in business administration, I was able to secure a job with the Alrajhi Bank in Saudi Arabia, which is one of the country’s financial groupings. I worked in the company as a recruitment officer and have additionally developed competence in the interviewing and advertising for jobs among applicants in the process. Lastly, I have been able to remain competent by acquiring vast knowledge in the fields of business administration, finance, and economics through the process of attending classes, speeches, and seminars. All these events were located in places and were also addressed by different prominent people in the business world who had different ideas and vast experiences in the field. 4.