This is just really for any little stories I come up with. Stay strong, lovelies, you'll be ok. (Ask is always open xx) Some NSFW stuff and trigger warning as what I write about may contain sensitive stuff. This is my main blog.
Ko-fi: raywren
writing your fave having sex with with their love interest is OUT writing your fave shamefully jerking off and coming pathetically fast at just the idea of fucking their love interest is IN
the issue with writing for yourself is that you will get sucked into rereading your own fic over and over and pretend it’s “editing,” but really you’re just reading because it’s exactly what you want to read. because you wrote it. for you.
If you're writing 18th century dialogue, this website lets you search words and phrases to double-check whether they were in use & meant what you intend. It doesn't include every period-accurate use of a word/phrase, but it certainly helped me separate genuine 18th century grammar from the vague tangle of 💬old-fashioned fancy-speak💬 I've internalized from TV and video games.
I can’t believe that in order to tell a story I need to withhold certain information from the reader at first. I’m excited about it and I want them to know.
A/N: Mentions of disordered eating, canon typical violence
Also available to read on AO3
Sansa Stark was tired. She was tired of trying to be the perfect little captive for the Lannisters in the hopes that they would not hurt her, it didn't work anyway and just left her hurt and tired instead of just tired so she’d decided to fight back in the only way she could. She didn’t have control over when she was summoned or what the King ordered be done to her but there were a few things Sansa could control.
Sansa could control which dresses she wore, so she started choosing the less gaudy ones, the more northern ones and never wore the dress given to her by the Queen Mother unless she was specifically called in front of the Queen which thankfully happened less and less these days.
Sansa could control her hair, so she started wearing it in the northern fashion, opting for simple braids and leaving her auburn hair long and unbound instead of allowing her handmaids to style intricate southern styles.
Sansa could control who she talked to and how. She would always be coldly courteous to any courtiers, lords or ladies she came across. The same could be said with any knight she came across, though she often chose not to speak to them at all. She treated the servants well unless she knew for a fact they worked for someone like the Queen then she was cold but courteous. She never trusted anyone, even her handmaid Shae, Sansa knew this approach left her feeling lonelier than before but it also made her safer and safe was more important than not alone.
The last thing Sansa could control was her own body. She got to decide when she ate, how much she ate, decided where to go and when unless summoned to the throne room or some other nonsense Joffrey wanted. The measure of control was small but it made Sansa feel like an actual person instead of just an object waiting on a shelf to be traded for some other shinier object.
She’d been exerting her control for two moons when she practically ran into the Hound on the serpentine steps leading to Maegors Holdfast. She was coming back from the godswood, feeling a bit light headed as she hadn't eaten that day instead only drinking water with lemon. When she walked into him in her rush to get back to her chambers he caught her easily around the waist, his other arm coming up to steady her shoulder.
“Easy Little Bird you’ll send us both over the edge.” he said and Sansa realized he was drunk.
Perhaps not belligerent but certainly tipsy and he seemed in a good mood though Sansa wasn't sure what could possibly put the Hound in a good mood.
“Wouldnt want to take anyone with me.” she quipped back without thinking.
The Hound gave her a questioning look, adjusted the hold he had on her waist before letting her go.
“We should get you back to your cage.” he told her, turning the same direction as her.
“I can get myself there just fine.” she told him.
“Should have a conversation with that handmaid of yours.” he mumbled, using the hand on her shoulder to steer her towards her chamber .
“Why would you need to speak with my handmaid?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
He didn't answer and that angered Sansa. She wasn't a child to be escorted about as if she had done something naughty. She was a grown woman, flowered and ready to wedded and bedded according to the court.
“She won't lay with you, she's already laying with Lord Tyrion.” Sansa snapped when they made it to her door.
“Not my type anyway.” he muttered, turning to look down at Sansa.
“Whats your type then? Paid?” she grouched throwing him a cold look.
She didn't wait for a response instead opening her chamber door and going inside but before she could close the door he was following her in.
“This is highly inappropriate.” she told him.
“You’re not eating.” he stated and Sansa blanched caught completely off guard.
“I eat.” Sansa argued.
“You’re barely skin and bones under that dress.” he nodded toward her.
“You’ve no idea what I look like under this dress and it's highly inappropriate for you to speculate.” Sansa's temper was rising.
“I felt it.” he argued back.
“If it displeases you then keep your hands to yourself.” Sansa bit back at him.
“Little Bird.” he growled but thought better of whatever he was going to say and stormed from her chambers.
Sansa didn't have the energy to stay angry so instead she dressed for bed and went to sleep where it was much easier to ignore the pangs of hunger in her stomach.
The next day she woke up to a tray of fruits, a hunk of fresh bread and water with lemon on her table though no handmaid had woken her. She eyed it suspiciously before deciding to leave it alone. Instead she busied herself picking out a simple grey dress with white embroidery and brushing her hair out.
When her handmaids, Shae and some girl named for a flower that worked for the Queen, came to dress her, Sansa said nothing about the food except to ask if either of them had brought it. When they both denied leaving it in her chambers Sansa was left with the choice of what to do with it.
It was good food and Sansa already had a hard time saying no but especially when she thought food would go wasted. She knew that in the city food was scarce and her northern upbringing had taught her the value of good food but not knowing where the food came from was a bigger fear than her consideration of food waste could compete with and so she let it sit there.
When her handmaids were finished Sansa dismissed them both. The sky outside was threatening rain and Sansa didn't feel like walking the gardens instead electing to stay in her chambers. Her handmaids had been gone only a handful of minutes when a loud knock sounded on her door. Sansa opened it to find the Hound on the other side in his Kingsguard garb.
“Morning.” Sansa greeted with a tight smile.
“Have you eaten?” he asked and Sansa's look turned cold.
“How dare you? That is none of your business.” Sansa was saying but the Hound had already shouldered his way into her chamber.
He looked at the tray of untouched food then back at her.
“I don't eat food left for me like some pet. I have no idea who left that, no idea if it is safe.” She reasoned her anger was still bubbling just under the surface of her skin.
“I left it.” he said as if challenging her further.
“You?” Sansa hadn't expected that, it threw her. “Why would you leave me food?”
“Because Little Bird you are not eating.” he told her gruffly.
“Why do you care if I eat or not? No one else does.”
He didn't say anything, just gave her a hard look before sitting heavily on one of the chairs at her table. He looked from the tray of food to her then back to the tray. Sansa sat demurely on the other seat but crossed her arms and gave him a hard look.
“Starving yourself has made you either brave or stupid girl.” he commented as she stared him right in the eye.
“You don't scare me.” Sansa countered looking very pointedly from his eyes to his scars and back again.
“Stupid it is then.” he grumbled, pushing the tray toward her.
“I’m not stupid.” Sansa said an edge to her voice she hadn't heard since her days of arguing with Arya.
“Starving yourself is stupid.” he said.
“I’m not starving myself.” she insisted.
“Then eat,” he ordered.
Sansa let out a big sigh before stealing herself.
“I don't take orders from you.” she told him.
“You do not want me to tell.” he warned.
“Go ahead. Run to your masters and tell them all about the bad Little Bird who won't peck at her food.” she told him and she saw the anger spark in his eyes, “what do you think they’ll do?”
“Do you think they’ll have the kingsguard watch me eat? Or have them hold me down to force it down my throat? You’ve never been instructed to hit me but do you think he’d have you hold me down, force feed me?” she asked him, noting how his breath picked up and the burnt corner of his mouth twitched.
“Little Bird.” he growled but Sansa cut him off.
“Or do you think they’ll just beat me? Rip my dress off in the throne room again before Trant or Blount are ordered to take their longsword to my back. Will you cover me in your cloak again or maybe this time it’ll be your turn.” Sansa pushed the tray of food back to the center of the table.
They stared at each other in angered silence. His grey eyes like smokey steel, his mouth set in a scowl while Sansa did her best to give him icy indifference though she was sure her eyes betrayed her anger.
How dare he think he had any right to make any demands of her? She couldn't help but think. Who was he to question her, he who didn't even care about her, didn't even like her if one took all evidence into consideration. The thought made her angrier.
“Why do you even care? It's not as if you like me.” Sansa finally ventured.
“Is that what you want Little Bird to be liked?” he asked.
“Everyone wants to be liked.” she told him.
“Not everyone.” he grumbled.
“Right not you. No you only care about the next flagon of Dornish Red or the next whore or vengeance or whatever it is you tell yourself you care about.” she said, rolling her eyes at him and picking pretend lint off her dress.
“Didnt know you knew the word whore Little Bird.” he quipped.
“I know lots of words.” she told him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.
He looked at her for a moment before nodding and leaning back in his chair.
“Suppose we’ll just sit here then.” he told her, looking for all the world as if he meant to get quite comfortable.
“Dont you have patrol or something?” she asked.
“Day off,” he told her.
“Bullshit.” she said before she could catch herself.
She almost laughed at the shocked look that came over the Hounds face for a moment before his indifferent mask reappeared.
“Dont worry about my duties Little Bird.” he said.
“Then don't worry about my eating habits.” she countered.
Silence fell again and this time neither of them moved to break it. Sansa took the time to study him as his eyes seemed locked onto her. She looked at his hair, then his face, his grey eyes, the hook in his nose that made her wonder how many times he’d broken it then down to his mouth and then very quickly away to his broad shoulders and chest until finally landing on his hands before following her path back up.
“Something catch your eye Little Bird?” he asked after her second pass.
“Can I try something with your hair?” she asked, deciding the worse he could do was say no.
“Do what?” he asked suspiciously.
“Just want to try out a style, see how it looks. A northern look.” she told him.
“If you eat five grapes,” he told her.
Sansa thought about it then nodded, getting up and going to her vanity. She pulled out a leather cord that men in the north often used to tie their hair back from their face and her brush before moving to stand behind him where he sat.
“Count out five grapes please.” she told him before she began brushing his hair.
She brushed his hair just as she did her own, softly making sure all the tangles were gone before pulling the the two sides together to tie it away from his face while leaving some down to cover his neck. He really did have lovely hair, it was dark like ink and soft despite how little effort he clearly put into it. Sansa quite enjoyed fixing his hair.
When his hair was tied back and the five grapes counted Sansa sat back down putting her hair brush on the table between them. She looked up at him before popping a grape into her mouth, she had to stop herself from groaning. The grape was ripe and juicy giving a perfect pop when her teeth bit into it filling her mouth with sweet fresh flavour.
“Hows it feel?” Sansa asked after her second grape.
“I’m sure I look ridiculous," he told her.
“I think you look handsome.” she told him honestly popping a third grape into her mouth to distract from her words.
“Handsome? Your eyes need checking.” he told her and Sansa glared at him.
“Go look in the mirror then, if my eyes can't be trusted.” She waved him off before eating her fourth grape.
She watched as Sandor got up and made his way over to her vanity. She watched as he bent over, looked in the mirror, scoffed, then turned back to take his chair again.
“My scar is more visible.” he stated.
“What, you thought you were hiding it before?” Sansa asked a little coldly, popping her final grape into her mouth.
“You’re a mean Little Bird you know that.” he said but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his mirth, along with the little glint in his eyes.
“I’ve been told.” she folded her arms again.
He didn't say anything to that so Sansa asked the first question that popped into her head, “you like when I’m mean?”
“I like when you're honest,” he told her.
“I’m always honest with you.” she told him.
“Is that right?” he asked and Sansa nodded.
“So,” he popped a grape into his mouth, “if I were to ask you something you’d give me an honest answer?”
“If I answered.” she told him.
“Alright, what do you say to a little game then?” he asked.
“What are the rules?” she asked.
“Answer or eat. I ask you a question you can either answer or you can eat.” he told her.
“Do I also get to ask questions?”
“Yes.” he acquiesced.
Sansa thought about it before nodding and waiting for his first question.
“Why aren't you eating?” he asked and Sansa almost rolled her eyes.
“I’m not not eating, I’m just controlling my intake.” she told him.
“I asked why.” he emphasised.
“I control very little of my life but I can control what and when and how much I eat.” she admitted looking away from him before meeting his eyes again.
“Little Bird,” he said but Sansa cut him off.
“My turn, what's your favorite color?”
“What?” he asked.
“Favorite color.” Sansa repeated.
“Black.” he answered, thrown by the question but Sansa just nodded.
“Whats the goal of not eating?” he asked.
“I don't have a goal, I just want to feel human instead of like a shiny object waiting to be traded for something shinier.” she told him.
“Whats your favorite food?” she asked.
“Chicken.” he answered and she nodded.
“Roast chicken is good.” she agreed.
“How do you get away with not eating?” he asked.
“No one pays attention to me, I’m not the King's betrothed anymore and I’m not really invited to dine with anyone.” she shrugged.
“Other than … well him, do you have any other siblings?” she asked.
“Had a sister,” he said, his voice gruff.
“Oh, I’m sorry. It's very hard to have had.” she told him and he nodded.
“What else do you do to feel in control?” he asked.
“I wear my hair how I like, the dresses I want and speak how I wish to speak to people within reason of course.” she told him.
“You want to wear dresses too small for you?” he asked and Sansa tsked.
“My turn.” she told him instead of answering, “do you really not like what I did to your hair?”
He ate a grape and Sansa frowned.
“Fine, I’ll answer your question though.” she told him, “I don't like wearing dresses too small but I have no coin or the leave to get measured for new dresses so I make do.”
“Would your opinion on the hairstyle change if I told you that I really like it?” she asked and he ate another grape.
“Are you upset that your betrothal was put aside?” he asked.
“No.” she said, “have you ever thought of getting married?”
“Why you proposing Little Bird?” he asked and Sansa frowned at him.
“No,” he answered, “Who do you want to marry?”
Sansa said nothing instead breaking a piece off of the bread and eating it demurely.
“Do you think you’d ever be able to go an entire day without drinking wine?” she asked, feeling the need to poke him with her question.
“Yes.” he answered, “have you ever gotten drunk?”
“No,” she told him, “when is this game over?”
“When I decide it is.” he answered.
He was quiet for a minute before he asked another question, this one quieter, his face more serious, “do you think about hurting yourself Little Bird?”
“Hurting myself?” Sansa asked.
He gave her a look and Sansa suddenly understood but she also understood that she already was hurting herself. Not eating hurt, and she didn't exactly turn from that pain but had she thought of hurting herself in other ways?
“No more than I already am.” she answered honestly.
“How are you hurting yourself Little Bird?” he asked and Sansa ignored that technically it was her turn.
“By not eating.” she told him feeling ashamed.
“Are you hurting yourself any other way?” he asked and again she ignored that it was her turn to ask.
“No.” she told him and he nodded.
“You owe me two questions.” she told him after a moment.
“Ask then.” he told her.
“Why do you care?” she asked quietly.
He didn't answer just ate a slice of apple.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked not looking at him.
“No.” he said before getting up and leaving her alone.
Sansa stared at the door for too long before getting her embroidery and starting a new project, a black dog sitting under a weirwood tree on a white handkerchief that still had a small blood stain in the corner faded to pink with cleaning.
Over the rest of the day Sansa ate the rest of the platter, picking at it between embroidery, reinforcing a seam on one of her older dresses and reading from the book of prayers Septa Mordane had given her years ago.
When the sun set Sansa made her way to Godswood craving the serenity of the night air as the ocean breeze off the Blackwater helped turn the always hot Kings Landing into something at least tolerable. She picked her way across from Maegors to the garden of Oak trees that stood in place of a real Godswood before finding herself kneeling in front of the biggest Oak there, a crude face carved into the bark.
Sansa stared at the face before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath before letting it out. She repeated it three times before a twig snapping alerted her to someone approaching. She turned to look over her shoulder to see someone standing in the shadows who could only be the Hound.
“Come to pray?” she asked.
“No gods here.” he answered and Sansa let out a derisive hollow laugh.
“I’m aware.” she told him and she wondered if the silence that followed was in shock or for lack of something to say.
“If there are no gods here, why do you pray here?” he asked, approaching her.
“The Old Gods may not be able to see or hear me this far south especially without a heart tree but … well I suppose it makes me feel closer to them.” she answered looking at the face on the Oak.
“Closer?” he questioned.
“Do you know anything about the Old Gods and the North?” Sansa asked.
“Not really, grew up in the Westerlands.” he said leaning against the tree next to the heart tree.
“Fair I suppose I don't know much about the Westerlands.”
“Come on Little Bird, I’ll escort you back to your cage.”
Sansa looked to the tree one more time before nodding and following him. They walked side by side though they didn't touch, even if Sansa could feel the want to wrap her hand in his or around his arm practically burning in her hand. She put it out of her mind as they entered her chamber.
“The tray is gone,” he said.
“I ate it.” she said simply.
“They’ll be a new one tomorrow.” he told her.
“Will we play a game again tomorrow?” she asked.
“Is that the only way to get you to eat?” he asked.
“I suppose we shall see.” she smirked at him before closing her chamber door on him.
When she woke the next day there was indeed a new platter on her table this time with two goblets of lemon water that made her smile despite herself. As soon as her dress was on that morning she dismissed her handmaids promising to call them should she need anything and then she waited for the Hound.
When he knocked she opened the door, leaving it open for him as she retreated back to her chair. He handed her the leather cord she put in his hair the day before and Sansa took it with a smile before getting back up and grabbing her hairbrush.
He let her do his hair again and this time she braided the little tail of hair that came out of the leather cord so it sat flat with the rest of his hair, when he looked in the mirror he put six grapes in front of her. Sansa sighed but started popping them into her mouth.
“You go first.” she told him when it seemed no questions were forthcoming.
“Do you believe in the gods?” he asked.
“Woah, heavy. No easy ones today?” she quipped, popping another grape into her mouth, “I suppose the best way to put it is that I practice a belief in the gods.”
“Uh uh,” she said when he looked about to ask another question, “my turn. What would you like me to call you?”
“Sandor, at least in private. Clegane anywhere else.” he answered and Sansa nodded.
“What do you mean you practice a belief in the gods?” he asked.
“I practice the rituals, I say the prayers, I hope for guidance but do I think the gods really have a hand in our lives? No I don't think so because if they did,” Sansa swallowed hard, looked away and then back at him, “what kind of gods let a little boy be burned, let another fall from a tower, let an honorable man die for the truth. I find it difficult to put my faith in gods like that.”
He looked about to speak again but closed his mouth into a hard line.
“Do all in the Westerlands follow the Seven?” she asked.
“No, some have an older belief from before the Andals, before the Lannisters. Stories and folklore.” he told her, “who told you about my burns?”
“Littlefinger, after the hands tourney. He was trying to scare me.” she answered, “Is Littlefinger … worth allying with?”
“No he betrayed your father and even if he didn't he peddles flesh, lies and spreads rumors that he took both your mother and aunts maiden heads.” he answered, “Do you believe in the Old Gods?”
“The Old Gods do not care if I believe or not they simply are. Whether they hear my prayers or watch over me has nothing to do with my prayers or my acts. They were here before me and they will be here long after I am gone and my name forgotten.” she explained.
“Were you ever religious?” she asked.
“No, my sister was.” he said and Sansa nodded, “Why pray in the Godswood then?”
“It makes me feel closer to my father, my brothers and my sister. The trees watch over us, or at least that's what Old Nan said. The faces were carved into the weirwoods by the Children of the Forest in the time before and during the First Men. Blood of the First Men flows in my veins, eight thousand years of history and legacy and if Old Nan is to be believed all of it witnessed by the old Gods.” she told him.
“Were your parents good people?” she asked.
“My mother was.” he answered and Sansa nodded.
“Why does the Godswood make you feel closer to everyone but your mother?” he asked and Sansa almost ate.
“My mother thought the Old Gods and the old ways were savage, unrefined. She followed the Seven so my prayer book makes me feel closer to her as I don't visit the sept anymore.” she told him.
“Does your family have any northern in it?” she asked.
“Apparently my mother was from a mountain clan, Locke or some other.” he answered but Sansa cut him off before his question.
“The Lockes are one of the poorest of the Northern clans, they live in the mountains and follow the Old Gods. Practically wildings my father used to say but he always smiled when he said it. The mountain clans are some of the most loyal vassals of House Stark.” she told him.
“Did you always want to come south?” he asked.
“Yes, I dreamed of golden princes and white knights, I was foolish but I was also a child.” she told him.
“Do you think I’m too skinny?” she asked.
“Yes.” he answered easily and Sansa frowned, “what do you dream of now?”
Sansa looked at him and very pointedly ate a slice of apple.
“Did you like Winterfell?” she asked.
“Didnt have much time to really explore it.” he told her and Sansa accepted his non answer.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked and he ate another grape but looked at her the whole time.
“Is being pretty important to you?” he asked.
“In certain instances.” she told him and he let her get away with a non answer.
“Do you have more scars?” she asked.
“Yes.” he answered, “what instances?”
Sansa ate another slice of apple.
“Do you truly enjoy killing?” she asked.
“I enjoy being good at things.” he told her, “do you have any scars?”
“Yes.” she said demurely.
“Do you trust me to tell you the truth now?” she asked.
“Yes.” he answered and Sansa smiled.
“I should get to my patrol, Little Bird.” he said after a moment and Sansa's smile fell.
“Of course, I shall see you around though I plan to spend most of my day here.” she told him.
He nodded, looked at her for a long moment and then left.
Sansa ate the tray of food again just like the day before as she embroidered, sewed and read. It was after mid-day and the sun was getting low in the sky when a knock came.
She smiled slightly to find Sandor outside her door.
“Eaten Little Bird?” he asked.
“Yes, almost all of it.” she told him leaving the door open for him.
He entered and followed her to the balcony where she had been sitting working on her embroidery, the food tray on a small table beside her.
“You eat like a Little Bird.” he commented seeing the tray as he leaned against the balcony railing.
“I was raised to be a great lady, ladies eat slowly.” she told him sitting down and taking up her embroidery again.
“What are you working on?” he asked, nodding toward her hands.
“A gift.” she told him.
“For who?”
“Someone I’d like to give my favor to.” she told him hiding her face by looking at the embroidery in her lap.
“Found a knight, have you Little Bird?” he asked and she noticed a steel edge to his voice that made her smile slightly though she didn't really know why.
“No, no knights.” she told him before continuing on cutting off whatever he was going to say, “Did you know knights are much less prevalent in the North and practically non-existent in the Neck?”
He didn't answer, just folded his arms across his broad chest and watched her.
“Knights are anointed with the seven oils of the seven gods but Northerners don't believe in the seven so you don't get many knights. My younger brother Bran, the one who fell, wanted to be a knight. He would have been the first knight in the Stark family.” she told him taking up her needle again to distract herself as she kept talking.
“He would listen to all the songs and stories with me. He’d pretend to be a member of the Queensguard or the Dragon knight or Duncan the Tall while I just wanted to be a princess or a queen. Silly to think about now. I’m a prisoner princess who’ll hopefully never be queen and Bran is dead and even if he wasn't he’d never ride a horse or swing a sword or compete in a great southern tourney.” tears escaped silently from her eyes.
“He was supposed to come south with us. Father thought of fostering him with Lord Stannis or some other southern lord so he could squire. He’d have been the only one of us to foster with another house. He was so looking forward to an adventure, it's so unfair and I’m so angry for him that I don't know what to do or where to put it.” she finished.
“I wanted to be a knight until …,” he shrugged and Sansa nodded, “I’m sorry about your brother Little Bird.”
“Brothers.” she reminded him.
“Brothers,” he reiterated.
“Everyone forgets Rickon but … but,” and she broke.
A sob escaped her without her permission and Sandor seemed to leap to action kneeling in front of her and pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve.
“Shh, Little Bird. You don't forget him, that's enough.” he told her softly and Sansa couldn't help but look at his face.
“I used to call him my practice baby,” she said quietly, “he was so little and everyone else was busy so I spent all the time I could with him. He had the most beautiful auburn curls and these wide grey eyes that seemed to sparkle with joy. I … I can't help but imagine what his last days might have been like.” she admitted and Sandor closed his eyes.
“They say Theon burned them, and I can't help but hope they were already dead when he did. Does that make me awful?” she asked.
“No Little Bird, it makes you human.” Sandor told her.
“How could Theon, how could he do that?” she asked, looking at Sandor as if he really had the answer.
“Some people are just rotten.” Sandor answered and Sansa nodded.
They stayed like that for a few minutes before Sansa’s tears mostly dried and Sandor leant against the railing again as night fell.
“Do you want to go to the Godswood Little Bird?” he asked looking out over the keep.
“Not tonight, thank you though.”
“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.
“No.” she answered.
“What would you like, Little Bird?” he asked.
“There are a great many things I would like Sandor.” she told him.
He nodded but said nothing and Sansa let it sit, the air cooled around them as the stars began trying to peek through the smog and lights of the city.
The next morning the platter of food was there again but the knock on the door came before she dismissed her handmaids. When Shae opened the door it was not Sandor but Ser Meryn Trant waiting for her, the King had called her to court.
When Sansa entered the Throne Room, Sandor was standing guard behind the King as Joffrey sat uneasily on the Iron Throne. Sansa could already see where the chair had nicked the boy king that day, it did not bode well for Sansa.
Sansa dipped into an elegant and deep curtsey before directing her eyes to the floor and waiting for Joffrey to state his reasons for calling her from her cage. It didn't take long, apparently Robb had won a great victory in the West and captured the Kingslayer. Joffrey was fuming and one quick look at the Queen told Sansa the Lannister Queen felt the same. Today would not be a good day for Sansa.
It was Ser Trant who ripped her dress to expose her back as she was shoved to the floor, he smacked her across the face as well and Sansa could feel the cut in her lip start to bleed before Joffrey reminded Trant to ‘keep her pretty’. The knight moved to strike Sansa across the back with the flat side of his sword instead, eventually the beating was interrupted by Tyrion Lannister, the acting hand of the king.
Sansa rose from her knees, clutching her dress to her front and keeping her eyes demurely down. She was promptly dismissed, she curtsied again before walking as gracefully as she could out of the Throne room until she finally met with an abandoned corridor where she broke into a run for her chambers.
It seemed hours later when a soft knock sounded at her door. Sansa moved gingerly from her bed wrapped in a dressing robe before opening the door just a crack to see Sandor on the other side.
“I’m not very entertaining tonight.” she told him.
“Please Little Bird I just …” he sighed and looked around the empty corridor then back at her.
Sansa moved out of the way letting him decide if he was coming in or not. She didn't wait for him, instead going back to her bed and laying under the covers as she had been doing since that morning. She turned toward the balcony as Sandor brought one of the table chairs over to sit near her.
“You didn't eat today.” he said but Sansa didn't answer.
“You need to eat for strength.” he told her.
“Have you even drank anything today?” he asked
“If I start drinking will I stop caring? Will it hurt less?” she asked him.
“It’ll dull it but it won't stop it.” he answered and looked away from her.
“Dulling it is pointless if it's still there come morning.” she told him.
“Has anyone looked at your back?” he changed tactics.
“No.”
“Someone should.” he told her.
“No.”
“Little Bird.” he said imploringly but Sansa was having none of it.
“I don't want Pycelle.” she told him and he nodded.
“What if I looked?” he asked after a few quiet moments and the question startled her from her blank staring.
“Ok.” she said realizing she didn't much mind the thought of Sandor seeing her without clothing though all she did was turn on the bed so her back faced him and dropped her robe so it pooled around her hips in the back but stayed up in the front.
He seemed to be hardly breathing Sansa noticed as a rough hand lightly ghosted over her back. The first time Joffrey had had her beaten Sansa had been obsessed with how it healed, she spent hours looking at her back using her vanity and a hand mirror but she’d stopped checking after the third time. She had no idea what her back looked like these days but clearly Sandor found it wanting for he said nothing as he lightly touched.
“The bruising will go away but the …” he began and Sansa finished for him, “the strikes will scar. Little white ones.”
“Yes,” he told her.
“There’s an ointment for pain.” he told her, still looking at her back though now it was his knuckle ghosting over her spine.
“I don't want it.” she told him.
“I can see every knot of your spine Little Bird.” he said quietly and Sansa righted her robe quickly.
She turned to look at him and then away. She wanted to apologize but she knew she’d done nothing wrong, she just hated that he was displeased with her. She wanted to correct it, to gain his approval but it seemed so silly to even try. Sansa had so rarely gained the approval of anyone, even with her mother Sansa had always been striving to be a better lady, a better daughter for her father, a better representation of House Stark. It made her mad, at herself, at her parents and at Sandor that she would still seek others' approval so much when all it had done was hurt her.
She covered herself with her robe and blankets, remaining silent as long as he did.
“Whats your favorite food?” he asked suddenly.
“Lemoncakes, I’m not allowed to have them.” she told him.
“Why not?” he asked.
“The King.” she said by way of explanation.
“If I get you lemoncakes will you eat them?” he asked.
Sansa studied him then, there was an almost wild desperation in his eyes that made Sansa feel guilty.
“Why?” she asked because she truly did not understand.
“Because I want you to eat,” he said.
“Why?” she asked again.
“I can’t … Little Bird I can’t watch you waste away. Don’t make me watch that.” His voice was sad, almost pleading.
“You care?” she asked her voice little.
“Yes,” he said after a moment, “Yes Sansa I care.”
“Why?” she asked, her chin wobbling.
“Because it's you,” he answered.
“Just me?” she asked, so scared of his answer.
“Just you.” he said firmly, Sansa nodded as tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I’m gonna run out of handkerchiefs Little Bird.” he tried to joke and Sansa gave him a little huff of a laugh.
“I’m returning one.” she told him pointing over to her other night stand where she had put her finished embroidery the night before.
She’d wanted to present to him on a nice day with no tears but she supposed now was a good time too. She watched him go over to it and pick up the finished handkerchief. Sansa sat up pulling her thin robe around her as she settled sitting up against her headboard with a pillow behind her back to cushion it.
She watched as Sandor lightly traced the embroidery almost reverently before he noticed the little pink spot of old blood and turned to her.
“You kept it?” he asked, almost amazed.
“I keep everything you give me.” she told him as if it was obvious.
“Sansa,” he said but stopped looking down at the handkerchief again as if it held some answer.
“Would you like to sit Sandor?” Sansa asked, looking at the bed beside her then up at him.
He nodded, before sitting uneasily on her bed, his back against the headboard. Sansa moved closer before laying her head on his shoulder.
“Next time no armour.” she told him quietly after a few minutes.
“Next time?” he asked, still playing with the cloth in his hand.
“Do you not want there to be a next time?” she asked.
“Next time no armour.” he agreed and Sansa smiled.
They sat quietly for a bit, Sandor absentmindedly playing with the cloth in his hand while Sansa closed her eyes and listened to their collective breathing.
“Have you ever played the what if game?” Sansa asked him.
“The what if game?”
“Jeyne, Beth and I used to play it when Septa Mordane had to run off to find Arya for lessons. Someone says what if and proposes a scenario and the other person has to come up with what would happen if.” she told him.
“So I would say what if I was low born and you would say,” she prompted.
“Then you would never have been betrothed to the King,” he answered.
“See, easy.” she told him.
“Here I’ll go again,” she told him, “What if we met but I was lowborn?”
“I suppose if you were lowborn and we met I may have tried to get to know you.” he said.
“And if I wanted to get to know you as well?”
“Then I would, seven hells Little Bird.” she could have sworn he was blushing.
“What if we got to know each other in the way that common people get to and you decided you liked me quite a bit?” she tried skipping over part of the what if.
“I don't know, I have no keep or lands so I suppose if we got to know each other and I quite liked you I suppose we would get a place in the city proper.” he said and now Sansa was sure there was color on the top of his cheeks.
“What if I didn't want to live in the city?” she asked.
“Then I suppose we could find some land, would you like that Little Bird?” he asked.
“If we found some land would you know how to work it?” she asked.
“Yes, I know more than swinging a sword.” he almost smiled and Sansa chuckled, taking her head from his shoulder but moving closer to him so his arm was between her and the headboard.
“Good, so if we found some land then you could work it and teach me how to help.” she told him.
“What kind of animals would you want, Little Bird? We’d need some.” he told her.
“Oh, you’re right,” she smiled up at him, “we would have to bring Stranger, and he would need space, maybe even his own paddock but we could get some goats or a cow or chickens, but we would have to have dogs.” she said excitedly.
“Stranger huh?” he asked, looking at her but Sansa couldn't read his expression.
“Of course. We couldn't leave him behind, he means so much to you.” she told him leaning back into his side to think more on what their little homestead would have.
“We would need a hearth big enough to cook in, and at least two rooms beside the common area, one for us and one for any children that come along.” she started rambling.
“Children?” he broke in with an unbelieving tone.
“Of course children, don't you want children?” she asked.
“I’ve never really thought of it.” he told her.
“Well I have, and in our what if we have children.” she told him firmly.
“Oh yeah Little Bird got it all planned out?” he asked.
“Planned? No. Dreamed up maybe.” she joked and he looked at her sharply.
“Dreamed?” he asked.
“Is there a grape I could eat?” she asked and an almost feral smile overtook his face that made Sansa squirm in a very pleasant way.
“What are you dreaming about Little Bird?” he asked looking into her eyes.
“Many things.” she told him.
“Name one.” he challenged.
“Did you know that wildings beyond the Wall steal their brides?” she asked and had to suppress her smile when his head turned exactly like a confused dog.
“Steal their brides?” he asked.
“Yes. All maids in the North are warned of it though they don't often come as far as Winterfell but both the Umbers and the Mormonts have had daughters stolen. They come over the wall, search for a woman they like and take her back to their village beyond the wall. If the wildling is still alive come morning they’re married before the heart tree.” she explained.
“Still alive?” he asked.
“Its the responsibility of the woman and her male relatives to kill the man if she does not wish for the wedding to take place. They have until morning to kill him, if he is alive come morning they assume she is ruined and the marriage goes but wildlings dont care much about things like maidenheads or well laws.” she told him.
“Do you dream of being stolen Little Bird?” he asked, his voice a little husky.
“Sandor what if?” she asked quietly.
“That's a big what if Sansa.” he said and she nodded.
“But what if?” she insisted.
“If,” he paused, “If I stole you Little Bird I would only do so if I had a plan and if it was something you wanted.”
“Maybe you should come up with a plan,” she said before adding, “if that would be something you wanted.”
He nodded but said nothing else and Sansa settled into the little area she’d taken up under his arm. They stayed there for a bit before Sandor mentioned having to get back to duty and Sansa bid him goodbye with a soft smile.
Sansa didn't eat, instead going to sleep and dreaming of a tall wildling with hair black as ink and eyes of smoky steel stealing her away over the Wall.
Albinism is a genetic disorder that results in decreased production of a pigment called melanin in the skin, hair, and eyes, resulting in light color or no color. Albinism is not a disease, nor do people "suffer" from it — though every albino person has their own thoughts and feelings regarding their condition. There's no cure for albinism. People with albinism are more likely to be diagnosed with skin cancer, as well as dealing with things like sun burns, but besides sight problems and eye sensitivity, most people with albinism are just as healthy as everyone else.
People with albinism are typically diagnosed at birth, as doctors can tell by their appearance. If albinism is suspected, a doctor can order a genetic test to get the most accurate results regarding type and gene mutation. Due to eye complications that come with albinism, some doctors will asks for babies to be seen by optometrists. During those eye examinations, doctors can find out if the patient has rapid eye movement, sensitivity to bright light, or misalignment of the eyes. Most people with albinism have photophobia (extreme sensitivity to bright lights), refractive errors (such as astigmatism, myopia, hyperopia), nystagmus (involuntary movement of the eyes, which can lead to abnormal head positioning), or strabismus (misalignment of the eyes).
Due to low or reduced melanin, people with albinism are extremely vulnerable to UV sun damage. To avoid damage from the sun, people with albinism are advised to wear protective clothing, hats, and sunscreen.
Along with that, people with albinism wear glasses that block out UV rays. They also use softer lights in their homes and on their electronic devices. Some albinos experience pain or headaches after being exposed to intense bright colors or eyestrain, which causes them to lean more towards pastels when regarding things they'll have to look at a lot.
People do not always like being referred to as albino, sometimes preferring the term "person/people with albinism." Many don't care, but it's overall regarded as disrespectful and sometimes derogatory to call someone "an albino/albinos" rather than an albino person or the previous listed term.
2) Types of Albinism:
There are two main types of albinism: oculocutaneous albinism (OCA) – the most common type, affecting the skin, hair and eyes, and ocular albinism (OA) – a rarer type that mainly affects the eyes. OCA is the type of albinism that most people are familiar with and that is represented more in the media. People with OA typically look the same as non-albino people, with the exception of their eyes. However, some do have slightly ligher hair and skin colors from their family members, but not by a very big extent. Their visual acuity is typically lower than normal, ranging from 20/60 to 20/400.
OA1 is caused by a change in the GPR143 gene that plays a signaling role that is especially important to pigmentation in the eye. OA1 follows a simpler pattern of inheritance because the gene for OA1 is on the X chromosome. Females have two copies of the X chromosome while males have only one copy (and a Y chromosome that makes them male). To have ocular albinism, a male only needs to inherit one changed copy of the gene for ocular albinism from his carrier mother. Therefore almost all of the people with OA1 are males. While possible if the mother is a carrier of ocular albinism and the father has ocular albinism, it is extremely rare.
As for OCA, there are currently seven forms of oculocutaneous albinism recognized – OCA1, OCA2, OCA3, OCA4, OCA5, OCA6 and OCA7. Some are further divided into subtypes. For OCA, both parents must carry the albinism gene for their child to inherit the condition.
OCA1, or tyrosinase-related albinism, results from a genetic defect in an enzyme called tyrosinase. This enzyme helps the body to change the amino acid, tyrosine, into pigment. (An amino acid is a “building block” of protein.) There are two subtypes of OCA1. In OCA1A, the enzyme is inactive and no melanin is produced, leading to white hair and very light skin. In OCA1B, the enzyme is minimally active and a small amount of melanin is produced, leading to hair that may darken to blond, yellow/orange or even light brown, as well as slightly more pigment in the skin.
OCA2, or P gene albinism, results from a genetic defect in the P protein that helps the tyrosinase enzyme to function. People with OCA2 make a minimal amount of melanin pigment and can have hair color ranging from very light blond to brown.
OCA3 is rarely described and results from a genetic defect in TYRP1, a protein related to tyrosinase. People with OCA3 can have substantial pigment.
OCA4 results from a genetic defect in the SLC45A2 protein that helps the tyrosinase enzyme to function. People with OCA4 make a minimal amount of melanin pigment similar to people with OCA2.
OCA5–7 were recognized in humans in 2012 and 2013. They have reported mutations on three additional causative genes. As gene testing becomes available, and more people with these types of albinism are identified, the complete range of physical manifestations will be recognized, and may overlap with other known types of OCA. Currently, these types of albinism are considered to be uncommon.
Albinism occurs in all race and ethnic groups across the world, but there are some types that are more common amongst certain groups. The most common types of albinism found in the black population of Southern Africa are OCA2 and OCA3. OCA3 is also the most common type found amongst Asian populations. It's important to do research on people with albinism who are the same ethnic/racial group as your character(s) to make sure you are representing them correctly as albinism looks different for each group of people.
As a side note, it's important to know that people with albinism do not always have red eyes. Even those who appear to have red eyes don't actually have that eye color, but it's rather a result of the lack of pigment, which makes the iris paler and thus, the retina more visible. People with albinism can have pretty much any eye color as long as it's a light shade; I've personally met other albino people who've had blue, red, pink, green, purple, and even yellow. In pictures, however, they eyes typically always appear some shade of red.
3) Recognize How People With Albinism Are Treated:
In places like China, having albinism is considered bad luck and many who have it are ostracized and excluded from mainstream society. They're also considered unattractive and inferior to many. Besides their physical disabilities, many Chinese people with albinism say that finding a partner is their biggest struggle.
Africa is one of the most dangerous places for albino people. In West Africa, some communities and families consider it a misfortune to give birth to Albinos and hence, attempts are made to either kill them at birth or banish them from the community. They are constantly abused and ridiculed by the public with derogatory names and social tags that serve as a form of stigmatization.
In many countries of sub-Saharan Africa, people with albinism suffer discrimination and ostracism and are seen as a curse. Many superstitions look at people with albinism as a source of income, so they are mutilated and the parts of their bodies are used in rituals of black magic, under the belief that they give wealth and fortune to those who own them. Some cultures believe that they do not die, but disappear, or that having sex with a person with albinism cures AIDS — which causes a high rate of sexual assault amongst those with albinism.
Not all places view albinism as bad though. In Panama, many people view those with albinism as lucky. In America, many people don't may much mind to those with albinism besides staring and making comments.
Overall, it's worthy to note how people with albinism are treated in the country your character(s) live in. Albinism dictates a lot in people's lives, but for some it can be the cause of their death or severe injury and trauma. People with albinism don't want extensive descriptions of their own trauma, but it's important to not gloss over how they're treated. If your character is from a fantasy setting then you can attempt to reflect how they're treated by looking at countries in the real world most similar to your fictional one.
4) Things To Avoid:
In Hollywood, people with albinism are often depicted as evil. It's become very rare that someone with this condition is viewed positively, they're always either a villain or a comedic relief character whose condition is used to mock them. Avoid both of these as much as you can. If you'd like to make your character with albinism a villain, make them compelling and give them a justifiably reason for their path: don't just make them someone whose naturally evil. If they're comedic relief, don't make them being albino apart of their jokes — give them a personality and make them likable.
Don't make them albino just because you think it's cool. Almost every person with albinism identifies as disabled and it's important to showcase their struggles, specifically with their sight and how they interact with situations that involve bright lights and such. Make sure you're not making them into a pity show, though, as disabled characters shouldn't solely revolve around their disabity. A good example of a character whose disability is a main part of her character but not the only part of it is Toph Beifong from Avatar: The Last Airbender, who is blind like many albino people. That's not to say that people with disabilities are or should be defined by their struggles, but that those struggles are real and often difficult to navigate. They are part of us and help to make us who we are. It might just be my opinion, but if you can ignore all their hardships then that's not an authentic portrayal of anything, really.
People with albinism are also very likely to be bullied for their appearance and viewed as unattractive, so it can be very positive representation to show your albino character as attractive. They don't have to be the most beautiful person in the cast, nor should you fetishize them for being disabled, but it can be nice to show other characters having feelings for them or giving them a romantic partner.
And most importantly, don't make them albino for no reason. Why does your character have albinism? What character or narrative purpose does it serve? How would the story be different if they didn't have albinism? Ask yourself these questions, and if you can't come up with good answers then maybe your character shouldn't have albinism. Think about how being albino affects them, the people around them, their story, and the overall plot. Are you making them albino for the sake of seeming diverse and woke or because you want to represent this group of people?
If your story is leaning into fantasy then you can come up with very easy explanations for why your character is albino. Maybe their people live underground and evolving to have albinism was what as best for their survival. Maybe your character is a clone, in which case they don't need their parents to have the albinism gene.
5) Closing Notes
This is just a general overview for people to get started on writing their albino characters. It's important to talk with actual albino people as you continue writing. Please do your own research on people with albinism to get more detailed insight on the condition.
If you're making a professional piece of work then you consider hiring an albino sensitivity reader to help ensure your depictions are appropriate. If there's anything you're unsure of in the meantime, researching or asking an albino person is best.
[ID: X posts from user @/bluewmist. The posts say:
"the fastest way to kill motivation is to make your identity depend on the outcome. it's called ego involvement. when failing become failing as a person, your brain starts avoiding the whole thing. not because you don't care, but because you care too much."
"you don't need lower standards. you need less self-worth tangled up in your goals. the work gets easier when it's not about proving who you are." /End ID]
Zoom In, Don’t Glaze Over: How to Describe Appearance Without Losing the Plot
You’ve met her before. The girl with “flowing ebony hair,” “emerald eyes,” and “lips like rose petals.” Or him, with “chiseled jawlines,” “stormy gray eyes,” and “shoulders like a Greek statue.”
We don’t know them.
We’ve just met their tropes.
Describing physical appearance is one of the trickiest — and most overdone — parts of character writing. It’s tempting to reach for shorthand: hair color, eye color, maybe a quick body scan. But if we want a reader to see someone — to feel the charge in the air when they enter a room — we need to stop writing mannequins and start writing people.
So let’s get granular. Here’s how to write physical appearance in a way that’s textured, meaningful, and deeply character-driven.
1. Hair: It’s About Story, Texture, and Care
Hair says a lot — not just about genetics, but about choices. Does your character tame it? Let it run wild? Is it dyed, greying, braided, buzzed, or piled on top of her head in a hurry?
Good hair description considers:
Texture (fine, coiled, wiry, limp, soft)
Context (windblown, sweat-damp, scorched by bleach)
Emotion (does she twist it when nervous? Is he ashamed of losing it?)
Flat: “Her long brown hair framed her face.”
Better: “Her ponytail was too tight, the kind that whispered of control issues and caffeine-fueled 4 a.m. library shifts.”
You don’t need to romanticise it. You need to make it feel real.
2. Eyes: Less Color, More Connection
We get it: her eyes are violet. Cool. But that doesn’t tell us much.
Instead of focusing solely on eye color, think about:
What the eyes do (do they dart, linger, harden?)
What others feel under them (seen, judged, safe?)
The surrounding features (dark circles, crow’s feet, smudged mascara)
Flat: “His piercing blue eyes locked on hers.”
Better: “His gaze was the kind that looked through you — like it had already weighed your worth and moved on.”
You’re not describing a passport photo. You’re describing what it feels like to be seen by them.
3. Facial Features: Use Contrast and Texture
Faces are not symmetrical ovals with random features. They’re full of tension, softness, age, emotion, and life.
Things to look for:
Asymmetry and character (a crooked nose, a scar)
Expression patterns (smiling without the eyes, habitual frowns)
Evidence of lifestyle (laugh lines, sun spots, stress acne)
Flat: “She had a delicate face.”
Better: “There was something unfinished about her face — as if her cheekbones hadn’t quite agreed on where to settle, and her mouth always seemed on the verge of disagreement.”
Let the face be a map of experience.
4. Bodies: Movement > Measurement
Forget dress sizes and six packs. Think about how bodies occupy space. How do they move? What are they hiding or showing? How do they wear their clothes — or how do the clothes wear them?
Ask:
What do others notice first? (a presence, a posture, a sound?)
How does their body express emotion? (do they go rigid, fold inwards, puff up?)
Flat: “He was tall and muscular.”
Better: “He had the kind of height that made ceilings nervous — but he moved like he was trying not to take up too much space.”
Describing someone’s body isn’t about cataloguing. It’s about showing how they exist in the world.
5. Let Emotion Tint the Lens
Who’s doing the describing? A lover? An enemy? A tired narrator? The emotional lens will shape what’s noticed and how it’s described.
In love: The chipped tooth becomes charming.
In rivalry: The smirk becomes smug.
In mourning: The face becomes blurred with memory.
Same person. Different lens. Different description.
6. Specificity is Your Superpower
Generic description = generic character. One well-chosen detail creates intimacy. Let us feel the scratch of their scarf, the clink of her earrings, the smudge of ink on their fingertips.
Examples:
“He had a habit of adjusting his collar when he lied — always clockwise, always twice.”
“Her nail polish was always chipped, but never accidentally.”
Make the reader feel like they’re the only one close enough to notice.
Describing appearance isn’t just about what your character looks like. It’s about what their appearance says — about how they move through the world, how others see them, and how they see themselves.
Zoom in on the details that matter. Skip the clichés. Let each description carry weight, story, and emotion. Because you’re not building paper dolls. You’re building people.
If you're writing limited POV, then consider what the POV character would notice and/or pay attention to. Do they note a marker of affiliation or socioeconomic status and then disregard everything else? Do they compare someone to how that person would normally look, to the people around them? Are they trying to memorize details in order to recognize or describe somebody later? Would they know specific terms, general terms, only be able to describe it in terms of what it reminds them of?
Think of what vibe they get from a character, what conclusions they draw, because THAT will determine how they respond to someone; and THEN think of how they would GET that vibe.
Conversely, a character whose narration describes others in "passport" style -- height, build, hair and eye colour -- tells you something about that character (likely that they have a problem with faces and/or relating to others), but ONLY if it's in contrast to the narration of other characters; otherwise it just seems like you don't know how to write descriptions.
Remember: people notice CONTRAST. If you're among a group of dedicated runners, you don't notice their athletic builds or running shoes; you notice the person who's more muscular or lean, the person whose shoes are old or new or bright neon green. (The exception here is if you want to make a point that the POV character thinks all of them look alike, in which case you should absolutely focus on the shared features.)
Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.
I CANNOT stress enough to the history blogs innocently reblogging this post that it is NOT about historical figure julius caesar, it IS about a shitty dumbass bastard cosplayer in a wildass video game
When the funny character who only ever cracks jokes—even in the face of certain doom— stops cracking jokes.
That’s when you know you’ve got ‘em.
Maybe that last bit of torture worked. Can’t joke when you’re choking on sobs.
Or maybe it was leaving them on their own for months on end without no one to joke to. Laughing at your own jokes in the suffocating silence just doesn’t work as well.
Or maybe it was when they were shown just how desperate the situation was. How completely futile having hope was. It’s hard to joke when there’s no hope left at all.
One of the best writing advice I have gotten in all the months I have been writing is "if you can't go anywhere from a sentence, the problem isn't in you, it's in the last sentence." and I'm mad because it works so well and barely anyone talks about it. If you're stuck at a line, go back. Backspace those last two lines and write it from another angle or take it to some other route. You're stuck because you thought up to that exact sentence and nothing after that. Well, delete that sentence, make your brain think because the dead end is gone. It has worked wonders for me for so long it's unreal
I don't remember where I heard this now, but I absorbed the advice, "if you're stuck, count ten sentences back and start again from there". It's not always ten sentences back, for me, but it does force me to look at the last handful of lines I've actually written on a sentence instead of a story level, and that is eminently helpful in unsticking myself most of the time.
I recently resolved a point where I'd been stuck for months not by changing anything in the scene I was currently writing, but by realizing I needed to add another scene before that one to establish key information I couldn't work into the current one
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