#goodqueenalys

[ladystarks]

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

EMMA. (2020) dir. Autumn de Wilde

[dcbicki]

Jon/Sansa AU: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

“The Visitor and the Talebearer,” a soft horror fic (partially) inspired by the story will be coming soon.

“Sir, am I to presume this quaint little village of which you speak may very well be haunted? Or visited, rather.”

The older man smoothes a couple of fingers over his upper lip then, rough skin callously scratching against the graying whiskers there. There’s an ashiness to his coloring; beard several shades lighter than the thinning hair of his head but warmer still than the prickly little strands he’s twisting and plucking at now.

Stark parts his lips for just a moment, tongue dashing out to cure them of dryness ever so gingerly before he returns, “Well, that would depend on what you consider a visitor, Mister Snow. We haven’t known no company ‘cept for ghosts and headless men riding horseback for some years now. Three almost.”

“Headless... men?” The collar of his shirt scolds hot against his flesh at the thought. Jon pulls at the cotton in discomfort, material pressed tightly between sweat-drenched fingers. “Men with no heads, you say.”

“Aye. Only one, mind. One man, one horse-”

“And only a single head between them.” Jon clarifies, “I see. And have you… seen this man for yourself, Mister Stark?

“I haven’t, no. But my missus is half-convinced he visited her in our own bed several moons ago. And my daughter—my eldest—says she saw him out by the Weirwood just the other day.”

“I should speak with your family then. If you would permit me, that is.” With a nod of approval, Jon reaches down to retrieve his bag, the thick, worn leather handle clutched so tightly in his fist his knuckles whiten. “And this Weirwood-”

“Aye, the Tree. We townsfolk always liked to think it was connected to God, but the truth is it’s prolly just as ungodly as the headless rider. Ghastly thing to look at in the winter, too. Nobody here has prayed for days.” Taking several steps toward the door to the entryway, Stark turns sharply on his heel to address the young man. “I do have to wonder how you plan on ridding us of this evil. We can’t have no more deaths around here.”

He doesn’t say it outright, but he needn’t have to. The skepticism in his voice is laid out plain; it’s laced into his words like poison, like a snake slithering down a rabbit hole ready to release its venom in self-defense. He doesn’t trust Jon—his abilities, rather—and wants it to be known that the people come before the stranger.

“Rest assured, Mister Stark, my sole mission here is to chase away any stranger who lurks in your woods and preys upon your women. As it always is, As long as nothing distracts me, I should be out of your hair in a matter of days. A couple dozen at best.” Jon could mention that he was invited to this town by this very same man who now seems to doubt him so. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets the words sit on the tip of his tongue and hold on tight as he plasters the limpest of smiles on his face—ever so passive. “Now, your family.”

“Aye. Upstairs.”

Stark pushes the door open an inch, and suddenly there’s a flurry of russet hair breezing into the room. The girl is about twenty, eighteen years old at a push, and she has a basket full of what looks to be rags in her hands. “There you are.” She’s talking to Jon.

“Mister Snow, meet my eldest.” Stark waves a hand about, though the other remains behind his back. Jon can see his fist clench, unclench, repeat in the broken mirror against the wall. Perhaps the man is fatigued, tired of his daughter “Eldest daughter, that is. She’s second, elsewise.”

“Father, I’m sure our dear horseman-hunter here doesn’t care much for pleasantries. He doesn’t… look the type.” She argues, shooting a look up and down the young man in the room.

Suddenly a single sharp brow hitches on her face and Jon feels under scrutiny, “See? He looks fed up already.” She pushes the basket—made up of wicker and rope. Very neatly wound, plainly handmade—into her father’s chest, waiting for him to grab ahold before she lets go. “I’m sure my father has already told you about me, Mister Snow. I had a run-in with the headless man, you see, and I’ve been the talk of the town ever since.” She extends her arm, holding out a lace-clad hand for him to shake—or kiss. Who could say? “Sansa. Shall I begin, or would you rather settle in to your rooms first?”

[bartonclinton]

I've been the archer I've been the prey Who could ever leave me, darling? But who could stay?

[ohbellamy]

1.01 x 8.01

[daeneryskairipa]

for @goodqueenalys​

[incorrect-game-of-thrones]

Sansa: You're a very nice boy-

Joffrey: I'm not a boy, I'm a MAN!

Sansa: Well, you're actually a bitch but I was trying to be nice.

[luminiesbackup]

cutest assassin (๑°꒵°๑)･*♡

[cindy-clawford]