Illusiveone
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231: Redoing My Life, Damn you, Adler. Damn you to…
🕑 Added 2025-07-28 18:11:15 +0000 UTCEllie sat curled into the corner of the couch, arms crossed, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against her thigh. Her eyes flicked between the TV screen and the front door, as though she could summon the sound of a delivery knock by sheer will.
It was nearly noon.
The package was late.
Today was release day for A Storm of Swords: Part II, and Ellie had pre‑ordered the hardback the moment it was announced. It was supposed to arrive this morning. Now, as midday loomed, excitement was rapidly giving way to frustration.
Beside her, Jacinda sat with a bowl of cereal in her lap, spoon dangling over the edge. She was less twitchy, more resigned. The TV played quietly in the background—CNN, volume just high enough to hear yet low enough to ignore. Or at least try to.
Ellie tapped her foot again. “Where is it?”
“I’m telling you,” Jacinda said, still staring at the screen, “if some porch pirate took it like last time—”
Ellie cracked a smile. “Let’s not get violent, Jace.”
She turned her attention to the TV. Beneath a red banner, white text scrolled:
ACADEMY OF MOTION PICTURE ARTS & SCIENCES EXPELS HARVEY WEINSTEIN
Ellie’s fingers froze.
For nearly two weeks, the coverage had dominated every channel, each new detail worse than the last. It began with rumors and anonymous quotes, but now the floodgates were open.
The chyron shifted:
ANGELINA JOLIE, GWYNETH PALTROW COME FORWARD WITH ALLEGATIONS
“Wow,” Ellie breathed.
Another headline followed:
MAJOR STUDIOS CONDEMN WEINSTEIN AS AUTHORITIES IN NY, LONDON, LA LAUNCH CRIMINAL REVIEWS
The screen split into a montage past red‑carpet interviews with Weinstein, old Oscar speeches, archived footage from premieres. Scenes once celebrated now played like evidence, tinged with a hindsight that felt poisonous.
“More than twenty women have now come forward with accusations of sexual harassment, assault, and misconduct spanning nearly three decades,” the anchor said. “The fallout is rapidly spreading, with legal investigations under way in New York, London, and Los Angeles….”
“Fuck that scum,” Jacinda muttered, jaw clenched.
Ellie’s voice was quieter. “Some of them were forced to—”
Jacinda flinched. “Yeah, well… I did not need that image in my head.”
Ellie looked down, fingers curling into her sleeves. “How’s Jen?”
Jacinda hesitated a beat. “She’s one of the anonymous women who came forward. She… she seems lighter now. Happier, somehow.”
“That’s good,” Ellie said softly.
Jacinda exhaled through her nose and muted the TV. The silence was immediate and thick. Ellie pulled out her phone and began scrolling through Twitter, thumb moving slowly.
She stopped when a rare Daniel Adler tweet appeared.
“Daniel Adler just posted a statement,” she said.
Jacinda looked up. “What did he say?”
Ellie read aloud:
“I’m absolutely disgusted. The women who’ve spoken out are brave beyond words; they must be heard, believed, and protected. We need to stop rewarding power without accountability. If you knew and said nothing, you’re part of the problem.”
“Damn right,” Jacinda said, nodding.
The doorbell rang.
Ellie squealed so loudly it startled her cat, Nigel, who was sleeping on the windowsill. Jacinda whipped her head around and grinned; the heavy mood from moments earlier evaporated.
“It’s here!” Ellie shouted, practically sprinting to the door.
She flung it open to reveal a medium‑sized box sitting neatly on the floor.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, as if it might vanish if she spoke too loudly.
Bending down, she scooped the package up as though it were made of glass, then turned back toward Jacinda, cradling it like treasure.
“Open it. Open it!” Jacinda demanded, hopping to her feet like a kid on Christmas morning.
Ellie carried the box to the coffee table, grabbed a pair of scissors, and sliced through the tape with surgical precision. She lifted the flaps and peeled back a layer of black tissue paper.
Inside lay two identical hardcovers thick, heavy, their jackets a deep matte black with silver embossing that shimmered in the light. A Storm of Swords was etched across each cover in crisp Valyrian‑style lettering.
Ellie gently removed one and turned it over. A small stamp on the inside back cover read:
#718 of 1,000 – Collector’s Edition
Jacinda had already grabbed her copy, holding it to her chest like a newborn.
“Okay,” Ellie said breathlessly. “I’m going to get started.”
But Jacinda didn’t answer; she was already halfway to her bedroom, the door clicking shut behind her.
Ellie grinned and headed for her own room. She set the book on her desk, then moved quickly to prepare the perfect atmosphere for what she always called reading time.
Curtains drawn, string lights off. She switched on the single lamp beside her bed—the one whose soft golden glow wrapped the room in warmth. After fluffing the pillows, she slipped beneath the comforter and set the hardcover carefully on her lap.
Slowly she opened it, breathing in that unmistakable new‑book smell.
The first chapter located in the middle because this edition bound Parts I and II together was told from Jaime’s point of view.
Ellie had hated Jaime Lannister since the very first book: arrogant, cruel, incestuous. He had shoved Bran out of a tower window. There was little room for redemption after that.
But Adler was trying.
He had been patiently crafting a redemption arc for Jaime. This chapter picked up as he and Brienne made their way to the capital, Brienne’s stubborn honor clashing with Jaime’s emerging self‑awareness. He wasn’t likable.. not yet but Ellie could feel the shift.
Adler seemed intent on giving him a Zuko‑level redemption arc.
She turned the pages faster.
Later after what felt like mere minutes but was actually more than an hour she flipped to the next chapter and saw a name that made her sit up straighter.
Sansa.
Alternating Sansa and Tyrion chapters covered Joffrey’s wedding, a grotesque circus of extravagance. Every sentence trembled with tension. What Ellie loved most was Sansa’s growth; it finally felt as though the girl had come of age.
But what struck Ellie wasn’t the death she knew was coming, it was Sansa herself. She navigated the poisonous garden of the court with more grace than anyone gave her credit for. Adler had deepened her—her thoughts, her instincts, the quiet horror she endured.
Ellie had always liked Sansa, but now… she respected her.
And Tyrion?
She finally understood what Jacinda had meant. Beneath his clever words and sharp tongue lingered something unsettling—the way he watched Sansa. Ellie had always considered Tyrion one of the better Lannisters, but maybe… being better didn’t necessarily mean good.
Ellie’s eyes darted across the page, heart pounding, breath caught somewhere in her chest.
“My uncle hasn’t eaten his pigeon pie.” Holding the chalice one‑handed, Joff jammed his other hand into Tyrion’s pie. “It’s ill luck not to eat the pie,” he scolded, stuffing his mouth with hot, spiced pigeon. “See? It’s good.”
She grinned. Here we go.
Spitting out flakes of crust, he coughed and helped himself to another fistful. “Dry, though. Needs washing down.”
Ellie bit her lip to keep from giggling. Her eyes flicked to the next line, and the breath she’d been holding finally escaped in a rush.
Joffrey took a swallow of wine and coughed again, more violently.
She sat upright.
“I want to see—kof—see you ride that—kof, kof—pig, Uncle. I want…”
Her grin widened with every word.
“Your Grace?” Margaery asked, alarmed.
“It’s—kof—the pie, noth—kof—pie.”
The book trembled slightly in Ellie’s hands from sheer, almost euphoric anticipation.
Joffrey took another drink—or tried to—but all the wine spewed back out when another bout of coughing doubled him over. His face was turning red.
She gasped theatrically. “It’s happening. It’s happening!”
“He’s choking,” Queen Margaery gasped.
“Help the poor boy!” the Queen of Thorns screeched.
Ellie practically bounced in bed, blanket kicked off, pillow shoved behind her. She read faster now, devouring the lines.
“Thank you,” she whispered then, louder, to no one in particular, “Thank you, Daniel Adler!”
And when she reached the part where Joffrey convulsed on the floor, purple‑faced and spewing blood she let out a small, gleeful cackle.
“Noooo,” Cersei wailed. “Father, help him—someone help him—my son, my son…!”
“Hah!” Ellie barked, turning the page. “Fuck you, Cersei! And fuck your incest‑born demon child.”
She continued, eyes racing over the paragraphs.
Cersei sat in a puddle of wine, cradling her son’s body, her gown torn, her face pale as milk. A thin black dog sniffed at the corpse.
“The boy is gone, Cersei,” Lord Tywin said coldly.
Ellie’s smile never faltered.
Then came the turn:
He did not choke.”
“My son was poisoned.”
“Arrest my brother,” she commanded. “Him—and his little wife. They killed my son.”
Ellie’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, shit.”
Her eyes darted back up the page.
“Tyrion’s screwed.”
Then a new thought struck her—Wait. What about Sansa?
She scrambled ahead, flipping pages so fast they whispered, desperate to know: Was Sansa safe? Had she escaped? Did anyone realize what had really happened?
It was chaos. It was glorious. It finally felt like justice.
Ellie sank deeper into her pillows, pulling the comforter over her lap as she exhaled. The Starks are finally getting a win, she thought, a smile tugging at her lips.
But Tywin’s earlier line echoed in her mind—“The North is handled.”
Handled how?
Her smile faded. She needed a Stark chapter—now. Riffling through the pages, she scanned for any familiar name: Arya. Bran. Jon. Even Catelyn.
She wasn’t ready to stop.
Ellie hugged her knees to her chest, adjusted the reading lamp, and dove back in.
=========
The highs didn’t last.
Ellie had devoured the Joffrey chapter with manic glee sweet, satisfying, long overdue but now the taste had turned sour.
Catelyn’s point of view had returned.
With it came a slow, smothering dread that wrapped icy fingers around Ellie’s chest and squeezed.
Everything was leading back to the Twins, back to Walder Frey, back to the wedding.
She didn’t want this. She did not want to read about Edmure’s wedding.
She wanted Robb celebrating Joffrey’s death, wanted him charging south to King’s Landing to tear down the Lannisters and rescue Sansa from Littlefinger’s greasy grip.
But that wasn’t this chapter.
THE DRUMS WERE POUNDING, pounding, POUNDING, and her head with them.
Pipes wailed and flutes trilled from the musicians’ gallery at the foot of the hall; fiddles screeched, horns blared, and the drums drove them all.
Ellie swallowed hard.
She didn’t like this.
The page felt heavier beneath her fingertips. Her heartbeat quickened; a headache pressed behind her eyes as she read line after line.
“My lord grandfather offered Roose my bride’s weight in silver as a dowry, so my lord of Bolton chose me. I weigh six stone more than Fair Walda, but for once I was glad of it. I’m Lady Bolton now….”
“Damn, Roose that’s fucked up,” Ellie muttered.
Adler wrote it so every smile seemed forced, every joke fell flat, and every beat of the drums tightened the knot in her stomach.
She kept reading, knees drawn up beneath the blanket. Though she sat perfectly still, it felt as if the world were shifting around her.
Pieces slid into place the ominous looks, the off‑hand lines, the foreshadowing threads she’d refused to tug on before.
It is nothing, Catelyn told herself. You are seeing grumkins in the woodpile. You are becoming an old, silly woman, sick with grief and fear. But even Ser Wendel had noticed.
“Is something amiss?” he asked, lamb shank in hand.
“What the fuck,” Ellie whispered, the words barely escaping her lips.
She read faster.
Then it came.
With scarcely a moment’s respite, the musicians struck up a very different tune. No one sang the words, but Catelyn knew The Rains of Castamere the instant she heard it.
Edwyn hurried toward a door. She hurried faster, driven by the music.
Ellie clamped a hand over her mouth.
“No. No, no, no, no, no,” she said aloud, shaking her head.
Her whole body tensed, bracing for impact.
“Please,” she whispered to the page. “Please don’t do this.”
But she kept reading.
He did it, she realized as her eyes devoured the next line.
Daniel Adler had done it again this time more shockingly than ever.
“Mercy!” Catelyn cried, but horns, drums, and the clash of steel smothered her plea. Ser Ryman buried the head of his axe in Dacey’s stomach.
“Fuck… fuck!” Ellie hissed, voice sharp and trembling. Her grip on the book tightened. “I liked Dacey.”
She read on, heart racing, eyes wide. More names. More deaths. Familiar faces disappeared in a sentence, a paragraph—gone.
The Smalljon fell. Wendel too. Then others—houses she’d only just begun to care about.
It was chaos, yet meticulously crafted; she could feel the walls closing in, as if Adler had laid the groundwork for a hundred chapters and was now snapping the trap shut.
“I take you for a father. Keep me for a hostage—Edmure as well, if you haven’t killed him. But let Robb go.”
“No,” Robb whispered. “Mother, no…”
Ellie’s hands trembled.
“Yes. Robb, get up. Get up and walk out—please, please. Save yourself… if not for me, for Jeyne.”
“Jeyne?” Robb clutched the edge of the table and forced himself to stand. “Mother,” he said, “Grey Wind…”
Tears pooled in Ellie’s eyes.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you, Adler,” she choked, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve.
But it didn’t stop. It never stopped.
“A son for a son, heh,” Frey repeated. “But that’s a grandson… and he never was much use.”
Ellie’s stomach twisted; her breath hitched.
A man in dark armor and a pale‑pink cloak, splotched with blood, stepped up to Robb.
“Jaime Lannister sends his regards.” He drove his longsword through Robb’s heart—and twisted.
“Fucking Bolton!” she shouted louder than intended. Her voice echoed through the quiet apartment, her own anger startling her.
“I knew it,” she muttered. “I knew it.”
But it was Catelyn’s end that shattered her.
Her final thought: No, don’t—don’t cut my hair. Ned loves my hair.
Something inside Ellie broke.
She closed the book gently, then sat perfectly still, hands pressed to the sides of her head, eyes shut. For a long moment she didn’t move.
She’d thought she had endured every shocking death this book could offer, but this—this was beyond words.
She didn’t pick the book back up, not right away. Her fingers remained curled, as if still gripping the volume now lying closed beside her. Her mouth was dry; her whole body buzzed with adrenaline.
She glanced at the clock.
12:03 a.m.
Midnight.
She hadn’t eaten, at least not properly. Just chips, a few gummies, and a bag of sour candy. Now she was hungry, acutely so.
With a heavy breath she stood. Her legs wobbled, as though her body were emerging from shock in slow stages.
As she stepped into the hallway, Jacinda’s door flew open.
“Fuck no. Fuck no,” Jacinda snapped, looking ready to fight someone.
Ellie blinked. “You read it too?”
Jacinda’s eyes were wild. “Oh, I read it. He is not going to kill Arya too, I swear to God.”
“WHAT?!” Ellie yelled, heart slamming back into overdrive. “Arya?”
She had completely forgotten: three chapters earlier, Arya and the Hound had been approaching the Twins.
“Oh my God oh my God—” Ellie spun and bolted back to her room, grabbing the book as though it were the last life raft on a sinking ship. “Don’t do this to me, Adler,” she muttered, flipping pages.
Jacinda followed, face tight.
Ellie whirled, breathless. “Did he kill her?”
“I don’t know!” Jacinda threw up her hands. “It looked like it fuck I couldn’t keep reading.”
Ellie stared at her, then down at the book.
“Fuck that,” she said. “I have to know.”
Jacinda sighed. “Fine. Let’s do it together.”
So they did.
They sat side by side on the bed and continued to read.
“Stupid little bitch.” Firelight glinted along the snout of his helm, making the steel teeth shine.
“You go in there, you won’t come out. Maybe Frey will let you kiss your mother’s corpse.”
Ellie’s fists clenched in the blankets.
“Maybe we can save her—”
“Maybe you can. I’m not done living yet.”
“Stay or go, she‑wolf. Live or die. Your—”
Arya turned and ran—not for her brother now, not even for her mother, but for herself.
Ellie held her breath. Oh you poor girl.
She ran faster than she had ever run before …
And then—
His axe caught her at the back of the head.
Silence.
The Hound had only struck her with the flat of the blade hard enough to knock her out, not kill her. Arya was safe.
“This sucks,” Ellie said quietly.
Jacinda nodded, voice flat. “Yeah. It really, really does.”
They closed the book together and sat in wordless shock.
Ellie finally exhaled. “There’s some leftovers from yesterday. Want to just… eat and crash?”
“Yep,” Jacinda answered at once.
In the kitchen they moved quietly. Ellie slid the container into the microwave, her thoughts still circling the story.
If Robb and Catelyn weren’t safe, then who is?
Daenerys. Jon. Surely Adler wouldn’t touch them… right?
“Meh…Jon,” Ellie muttered. “He’ll never kill Jon.”
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Extra
Meanwhile another person is having a different reaction…
Mike leaned back in his chair, legs propped on the coffee table, a smug grin spreading across his face as he turned the last page of the Catelyn POV chapter.
“Oh yeah, baby,” he said to no one. “Lannisters win.”
He actually laughed—out loud.
“God, what a chapter,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Adler, you mad bastard. You did it.”
He stood and stretched, adrenaline still fizzing through his bloodstream. For Mike, this was the moment—the one where Daniel Adler proved beyond doubt that he wasn’t just good. He wasn’t merely great.
He was the best writer in the world.
No one else would’ve had the guts to do what he’d just done.
No one else could have made it work this well.
Mike considered tweeting something snarky like “Lannister supremacy secured,” but got distracted rereading his favorite lines. He grinned. He loved Tywin—cold, calculating, unshakable, the ultimate chess master. And now the Lannisters had everything.
Victory had never tasted so sweet.
A Day Later
He stared at the page, jaw slack.
His hand dropped from his mouth as he blinked, stunned.
The words glared back at him, cruel and final:
Tywin Lannister, the Lion of Casterly Rock—the Hand who outlived kings—died on a privy.
Mike shot to his feet so fast the couch tipped over behind him.
“WHAT?!” he roared. “What the fuck?”
The book sailed across the room, landing with a dull thud on the carpet.
“How can you kill the best character in the whole series?!” he ranted.
“Tywin Lannister on the toilet? What the hell?”
He marched to his desk, snapped his laptop open, and began typing furiously:
Adler is a hack. He kills characters for shock value and wants people to think that makes him deep. Tywin was the best‑written character in the entire series. He held the whole thing together. What’s next, huh? Jon? Daenerys? Gonna end it with a dragon farting the Iron Throne into ashes?
He hit Post and leaned back, arms folded, seething.
“Fucking Adler,” he muttered, glaring at the book lying innocently across the room, as though it hadn’t just ruined everything.
He stood there a while, stewing.
After a full minute of silence, he sighed.
“...Shit.”
Crossing the room, he picked up the book, brushed it off, and flipped to the next chapter.
“Just one more,” he murmured, sinking onto the couch. “I’ll read just one more.”
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Okay, it's done.
How was it? Never written book reactions before, so I'd really like your opinion on this chapter.
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Comments
Illusiveone
That guy is based on someone I once knew.
JL
Lol how can people read ASOIAf and root for Lannisters? Crazy
JL
His speech to Briene about conflicting Oaths to me is what redeemed him mostly in my eyes to at least just being a person doing bad things, opinion of him drastically improved
