"You Westerosi are all the same. You sew some beast on a scrap of silk, and suddenly you are all lions or dragons or eagles."
Illyrio Mopatis
Animals
They are animals.
Once, we were ruled by the dragons. Creatures of fire and wing, tooth, and claw. Creatures that set the lands of their foes aflame, and threatened to do likewise to those who might reconsider bending the knee. Terror, and the threat of the inferno. Such was the way of the dragon's rule. And for a time, the realm had order. Yet order enforced by the mouths of dragons, and the horror that entailed.
The dragons were animals. They ruled, until their dance, where 'lesser creatures' suffered as the dragons soared. The creatures of their namesake died, and the dragons…true dragons…endured. And did so until the stag rose up.
Stags are animals. They graze within the forest, eating grass in the summer, and bark in the winter. They are proud creatures. Proud enough to challenge dragons. To fight for ownership of the realm, to walk tall and defy the natural order. Nature cannot abide a vacuum. If one species declines, another will rise to take its place. Stags are, after all, animals.
Some say it was ultimately the lion that overthrew the dragon. That while the stag stood tall, it was the lion who played the long game. That it was the lion who bided his time. Who fooled the dragon. Who encircled its prey before pouncing. Who sunk tooth and claw into the hide of a dying animal, and brought it to its knees. The lion beheld its domain, its pride, and agreed to share power with the stag.
The lion knows how to hunt. The lion can wait for prey. The lion is, after all, an animal.
Time are different now, yet also the same. Once again, the realm is at war, as beasts squabble over its carcass. This time, it is the falcon that plays the long game. The falcon waits in its aerie, and like a raptor, observes its prey. Waiting for the moment to swoop. Letting instinct guide it. Falcons are, after all, animals.
The wolves are out in force. Once allies of the stag, they now form their own pack. They tear into the lands of the lion, leaving death in their wake. Their own lands are beset by the kraken, but still the wolves press on. And why not? Wolves are creatures of the hunt. They are animals. And they cannot turn back when they have already tasted blood.
And here in what was once the lair of the dragon, the stag and lion do battle. Battle of the lair's heart, presided over by the one that some call stag, and others lion. They fight like animals, the stag beating at the door of the lion, and the lion standing proud, even as its roar falters. Yet the stag has lost. For more than lions have come. After all, the lion knows to bide its time. The lion knows how to pounce.
And we are with these creatures, these lions. We, who were once with the stag. We, who are called flowers, and bear its symbol.
We tear into the stags, and force them into retreat. We fight, and try to forget the truth. That the flower too, is no different from a beast. That we are not flowers, any more than our foes are stags, or our allies lions. That in the end, we are just men.
That in the end, we are all animals.