of winter.

          Gentle Mother,           strength of women,           help our daughters           through this fray.    Soothe the wrath    & tame the fury,    teach us all a kinder way. indie. sansa stark.

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[sanguinesque]

cold wind (by nick lisitsin)/ nick lisitsin

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[ylfra]

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Saariselka

[libertyluna]

Hairpin by .monodrift on Flickr.

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            ’ ellaria? ‘

            a soft laugh cuts from the prince; he lays a hand over his own hip. 

           ’ she is my paramour. in dorne, we do              not hold marriage so strictly. it is not              necessary, nor is it frowned upon. ‘ 

      ’ foremost, she is the mother          of four of my daughters. ‘

[sanguinesque]

               her brow arches, and tully-blue eyes gleam with a spark they haven't                held in a very long time. the little girl that she once was stirs within her                 gentle heart -- she even begins to smile,                                          'paramour? that sounds so ... romantic.'               there was a time when she believed in romance,               but such days have burned to the ground with               the ashes of winterfell. 

[super-tramp]

[sanguinesque]

               'i don't mean to be bold, your grace, and i beg your pardon --'                          sansa motions her pale hand vaguely toward ellaria.                                           '-- is she your wife?'

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Littlefinger never lifted so much as his little finger for her. 

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              ‘ i am sorry. ‘

            disturbed, petulant, cruel, vicious; all words befitting of their boy king on his wedding day. the torture has accumulated for well over an hour now, and the boy has attempted to subject his lady-wife to his torment — to which tyrion has defended her, each time. verbal insults are rebuffed, physical disturbances are cared for (whether it be a flicking of food or something otherwise). 

           ’ our king seems to have had a bit too much wine. ‘

[sanguinesque]

                '      you needn't apologize, my lord.'                the smile she offers her husband is tight-lipped and only half genuine, a                reflection of her restraint. in truth, joffrey's needled aggressions cut deeper                than swords, but sansa's expression remains remarkably stoic, a skill                she refined long ago.                                                             ( wordlessly, she reaches for tyrion's hand. )                           'i endured the king's --'                  her voice falls hush, for fear of                                                                                       prying ears.                                       '-- abuse -- for a very long time. his grace                                                won't shatter me yet.'

[inalionsden]

' it's unique. tully red, is it not?                          such a striking , fiery colour.’

[sanguinesque]

                  '          my mother was a tully.                       the wildlings -- the people who live beyond the wall in the north --                              say it means you've been kissed by fire.'

[sanguinesque]

               ’in the north — they say that red hair like mine is lucky.’                                    sansa doesn’t believe this, of course.

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                                “i don’t even like to wear dresses, stupid!”

[sanguinesque]

                'i know you did it.'

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