A sword shivers from a scabbard. A lion banner flaps in the early winter wind. The moors are disquiet. To the north are the cold mountains and crags; to the south are the lands of decadence; to the east are the horselords and their strange wild customs. To the west is the open sea, the end of the world, from which no sailor returns. Kings brood in golden halls. Something that isn’t quite the Catholic Church holds sway with the peasantry.

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The Medieval European Milieu Experience (MEME for short) is the most common setting for fantasy stories through the last century. That’s not to say there aren’t exceptions – there are tons of exceptions – but the image of fantasy is a decidedly French-British-Germanic one, variations on the theme of the heyday of feudal Christendom.

A Song of Ice and Fire, aesthetically, fits this milieu. The swords are broad and the armor is plated. The main players are kings, queens, lords, and ladies, all dressed in Ren Fest gear, boiled leather, and jeweled hairpieces. It’s a comfortable place for many fantasy fans, this MEME. But while ASOIAF dwells in the MEME, the meat of the series – the blood and sinew, the stuff that makes it move – is uniquely, categorically, American.

In the following essay, I will talk about the myth of the self-made man in America, and how many characters in ASOIAF explore this idea, both in a historical sense and in a literary one, arguing that ASOIAF is a much a part of the Great American Novel Canon as it is the Sci-Fi/Fantasy Hall of Fame.

The Self-Made Man as American Myth

Back in the fine halcyon days of 2013, when the world was young, GRRM went to go see a movie. He liked this movie so much he wrote a several-hundred-word review on his NotABlog livejournal.

The film was Baz Luhrmann’s THE GREAT GATSBY.

GRRM loved the film, and had plenty of praise to heap on Carrie Mulligan and Leo DiCaprio. But he ends the post by admitting some prejudice. THE GREAT GATSBY, he says, is one of his favorite books:

This is a book that has vast personal meaning to me, one that has affected me deeply. The romantic in me identifies strongly with Jay Gatsby (and sometimes with Nick Carraway). I know what it is to chase after that green light. So I will not pretend to be disinterested.

The myth of Gatsby is that of the American Dream. I won’t write a tenth-grade paper on GATSBY here (been there done that), but Gatsby’s creation of himself, a literal self-made man, is a central American myth. The idea has been around as long as the country itself; Benjamin Franklin is often credited as the “original” modern self-made man, rising from his station as candle-maker’s son to become a titan of politics.

The term “self-made man” was coined by Very Loud Senator Henry Clay in 1832, and was expanded on at great length by Frederick Douglass. Self-made men, were, according to Douglass:

…the men who owe little or nothing to birth, relationship, friendly surroundings; to wealth inherited or to early approved means of education; who are what they are, without the aid of any favoring conditions by which other men usually rise in the world and achieve great results…

Source

The self-made man is a man who rises from “hunger, rags and destitution” to become “the architects of their own good fortunes.” Rags to riches by the strength of one’s own will.

Of course, Douglass, in that same lecture, also noted that there were “no such men” as self-made men:

That term implies an individual independence of the past and present which can never exist…We have all either begged, borrowed or stolen. We have reaped where others have sown, and that which others have strown, we have gathered.

The Self-Made Men Of Westeros

There are plenty of “self-made men” in Westeros, of course. Varamyr Sixskins, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Varys, Petyr Baelish – the list could stretch on, and could include concepts as broad as Ironborn culture. But let’s talk about these four examples in particular.

First, Varamyr Sixskins. He is very much the image of the self-made man. He is born Lump, an essentially nameless wildling boy, a sickly second child. Literally cast out into the wilds, he learns the ways of skinchanging from Haggon. He names himself Varamyr, and when Haggon dies he steals Haggon’s legacy from him to build the legend of Varamyr Threeskins (later Fourskins, rimshot). He builds a hall of wattle and daub, where he rules as a petty lord, stealing from the weaker folk who lack his magic. He abducts and impregnates women at will, murdering their would-be-rescuers with his skinchanging prowess.

In this way, Varamyr believes himself to be a self-made man. He does not see the ways in which he “reaped where others have sown;” he sees only himself, taking and taking by his wits and will. His is a parody of the American myth of the self-made man. There are plenty of analogues for Varamyr throughout the last century, men who lied, cheated, and stole their way to the top, banking on some sort of innate privilege to be their aegis, and convincing themselves all the while that their life was evidence of some inner greatness. I don’t need to list them. I know you’re thinking of them now.

Let’s move to Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. We know little of his background, although he certainly had a rough childhood, killing his first man before the age of twelve. With his ruthlessly amoral approach to life, he works his way up – first as a sellsword in Catelyn Stark’s employ, then a bodyguard to Tyrion Lannister, then captain of Tyrion’s guards, then knight, then husband to a lady, then Lord Stokeworth. At every decision point, it is Bronn’s self-serving instincts that bring him up through the ranks. He kills his fellow wounded sellsword, Chiggen. He befriends a very rich man, Tyrion Lannister, and jumps ship when it becomes clear that Tyrion’s star is falling. And once he’s married to Lollys Stokeworth, he makes every move necessary to reach the lordship.

For a quick summary: Bronn is married to the second daughter of the reigning Lady, Tanda Stokeworth. The elder daughter, Falyse, is married to Ser Balman Byrch; they have no children. While at Stokeworth, Lady Tanda experiences a tragic accident: she falls from her horse when the saddle girth bursts. A stable boy is blamed, as he should’ve seen the strap was worn. It’s far more likely, of course, that Bronn paid off a stable boy to arrange for the fall, which does eventually claim Tanda’s life.

Ser Balman Byrch is convinced by Cersei Lannister to make an attempt on Bronn’s life. Balman, being a dunce, challenges Bronn to a duel. Balman loses badly, and Bronn kills the man in cold blood. He then threatens Lady Falyse into fleeing Stokeworth, leaving Lollys as the reigning Lady…and Bronn as her reigning Lord.

Of course, Bronn has to rely on an enormous amount of luck. In the Battle of the Blackwater, his chain gambit (Tyrion’s idea) succeeds wildly, but would’ve mattered little if not for the unforseen, last-minute cavalry charge by Renly’s Ghost. He positions himself as an important political pawn and lets himself be used – Cersei jumps his station up as a way to get back at Tyrion, and Bronn is all too happy to take her up on it. And while he does eliminate Lady Tanda and Lord Balman, it is also Cersei Lannister who decides to fling Falyse in the dungeon, leaving nothing to stop Bronn’s meteoric rise.

He is a self-made man, yes, but also a man made through the machinations and games of the ruling class. Only by taking advantage of the worst in the ruling class – Lysa’s stupidity, Tyrion’s worst proclivities, Cersei’s…everything – is he able to rise.

So too with Varys the Spider.

Born a slave. Apprenticed for a time with some mummers, until they sold him to a magician. Mutilated. Varys’ young years were the definition of “owing little or nothing to birth, relationship, friendly surroundings.” When he finally befriended Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos, the two developed a scheme that systematized Bronn’s natural talent: exploiting the weaknesses of the rich. Varys stole objects from lesser thieves, and Illyrio returned the objects to their original owners – for a fee, of course. This grew into Varys’ legendary information network, as he and Illyrio realized that secrets were worth far more than vases and tapestries.

The irony comes at the end of A Dance with Dragons, when we learn that Varys has, for some time now, been buying into the fantasy of his own power. He, too, wishes to play the game of thrones. He wants to cast down the Tom Buchanans of the world and replace them with his brand of success He is no longer satisfied with success outside the system: he needs to beat the system.

And that brings us to Littlefinger.

Jays and Mockingbirds: Littlefinger and Gatsby

Petyr Baelish is the most direct Jay Gatsby-esque, self-made-man icon in ASOIAF. Like Gatsby, he comes from nothing. Like Gatsby, the encounters of his youth define his lifelong drive to defeat those individuals who represent that which he can never capture. For Petyr Baelish, Tom Buchanan is Brandon Stark – and Ned Stark, and Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully, and all those men whose martial might made Littlefinger feel little.

Like Bronn and Varys, Littlefinger understands that the best way to climb the ranks is by taking advantage of the weaknesses of the ruling class. And like Jay Gatsby, Littlefinger understands the need for appearance – the need to bait a hook with a juicy worm. Each of these “self-made” men has something to offer the ruling class. Varamyr’s skinchanging earns him a place of honor in Mance’s army. Bronn has, well, brawn. Varys has secrets. Jay Gatsby has pomp and splendor. Littlefinger has basic competency in mathematics. He rises to power by making himself an indispensable asset to Jon Arryn, the most powerful man in Westeros (next to the King, of course). And he feigns a persona that lets the rich assume he’s harmless.

The parallels between Gatsby and Baelish, frankly, deserve their own essay-length investigation. For those who haven’t read Gatsby – first off, go do that. Second: here’s a quick summary to get you by. Jay Gatsby is a mysterious millionaire with a passionate interest in Daisy Buchanan, wife of Very Manly Guy Tom Buchanan. Jay Gatsby is new money, while Tom is old money, and this division drives a lot of the story as Jay woos Daisy while Tom steps out with a woman named Myrtle. Gastby’s affair eventually ends when Tom confronts him with his past: he is a criminal, a former bootlegger, the dirtiest possible version of new money. Tom (and maybe Daisy?) set Gatsby up for Myrtle’s murder (via vehicular homicide), and Myrtle’s enraged husband murders Gatsby.

It’s not an optimistic story, exactly. The American Dream is unattainable for Gatsby. His past as a bootlegger – that which makes him a self-made man – is ultimately his undoing. The rich continue to play their games with his life. Gatsby is sympathetically tragic.

Not so Littlefinger.

Littlefinger is a contemporary re-interpretation of the self-made man in a capitalist society: that is, a man who only succeeds because of a combination of luck, knowing the right people, and a ruthless willingness to tread on the bones of his contemporaries. And while Jay Gatsby’s love affair with Daisy Buchanan is a pseudo-romantic thing, Petyr Baelish’s love “affair(s)” with Catelyn, Lysa, and Sansa are troubling to say the least. Petyr ultimately needs to control one of these high-born women, because this is the only way he can prove that he’s just as good – nay, better – than Brandon Stark and Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn and all these highfalutin dudes. Petyr’s story interrogates the Gatsby myth in this way. Gatsby is a romantic. Petyr is a romantic trying very, very hard to be a cynic.

I understand that what I have just said is both controversial and brave. I point you to this passage from The Great Gatsby:

“I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.”

“Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!”

He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.

“I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” Gatsby, Chapter 6

(The first-person narrator here is, of course, Nick Carraway, our mostly-reliable protagonist).

I challenge you to tell me that there is not a voice deep in Littlefinger that repeats this as a mantra every night. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” Petyr Baelish tells himself as he creates complex scenarios to control Cat or Sansa. “She’ll see.”

And So We Beat On…

GRRM himself has, of course, said that “there’s a lot of Gatsby in Littlefinger.” I’m wandering a little from my core point here: Littlefinger is part of the greater conversation ASOIAF has with American myths – American myths, not just common Western European fantasy tropes, but American myths of American success. There are few books more singularly American than The Great Gatsby. Moreover, ASOIAF isn’t just “Gatsby plus dragons” – it’s not just a transplant of earlier narratives into a different setting. ASOIAF grows on the American novels that came before it – not just Gatsby, but also All the King’s Men, and so on, and so on. It is itself a participant in the American canon.