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There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can’t be lies.

Sansa Stark (Sansa IV, ACoK)

Two of the most pervasive themes/motifs in Sansa’s narrative are “stories” and “lies.” And so far in the series, they have been tied together in such a cruel and tragic way. Sansa has been told time and time again that she’s a stupid girl; that she is naive and silly and shallow and wrong. She’s been told she needs to learn that “life is not a song.” That she is only lying to herself and that instead she needs to learn to lie to others.

She has been told she was wrong and silly to see the good in others, to have dreams, to want good things for herself, to believe she can have a happy ending, to want things to be beautiful like in the songs, to want to be loved. Truly that is what Sansa is being punished for: for wanting to be loved and give love in return.

She’s been told this so many times; so much so that she has come around to believing it for herself (“Is it all lies, forever and ever, everyone and everything?”) (But a voice inside her whispered, "There are no heroes, in life the monsters win.”) (”No one will ever marry me for love... They only want me for my claim.”) But in the end, it’s the biggest lie of all. It’s a lie she has been told to hurt her, to manipulate her, to make her loose hope, to control her, to break her down. And I hope that by the end of the series, Martin will use Sansa to expose this lie for what it is and prove it wrong.

#i told you...#it's a sansa day #(i mean ~everyday~ is a sansa day)#(but today is a Sansa Day)#sansa stark #asoiaf #acok #got for ts #alys meta

@parvadux

「 ✗ 」—» When HOMRA’s King walked into her palace, she’d find it bathed in red. Red Christmas lights twined around the bar and the corners of the room, whilst red tinsel glittered and twisted from the ceiling, great loops that sent starbursts of crimson spattering across the walls. A large present wrapped in shiny red paper sat on the bar, and the ground where she walked was strewn with soft red rose petals. Everything was competing shades of ruby and scarlet, rust and wine, candy apple and maroon. The whole room had been bathed in the color of the sunset, of cherries and strawberries, of the bright flame that burned in her heart. The space dripped with her colors, with the colors of the Red Clan and the Red King, with the colors of Mikoto and Totsuka, of what they had lost and gained and held onto. It spoke of memories and the future, of a bright passion and the warmth of family.

And, amidst it all, he stood. Upon the door’s opening, Yata grinned, his tousled chestnut hair dark with sweat and bare, his usual sweatshirt abandoned at the beginning of his work. It had taken days of planning to gather all he had needed, to haggle for the supplies and get Anna out of the bar long enough for him to bring it all together. Careful hands had twined the tinsel, hung the lights, scattered the rose petals. He’d struggled with wrapping paper and tape, with uncooperative folds and clumsy fingers, to get the present wrapped just right, had fallen off the ladder more than once teetering at precarious angles stringing the lights and tinsel, banged his head on the ceiling more times than he could count. It had taken hours of work to get it just right, just perfect, to pour his heart into making this day the perfect day for his King, and the perfect day for the little girl he’d regarded as a sister for so long.

If she would smile only once, his job would be complete, and everything would have been worth it. If she remembered warm summer days where the dust motes danced in molten gold while Kusanagi cleaned the glasses, of a chain softly clinking with each step and cigarette smoke that spiraled into the cold air. If she would smile and remember, and be happy, he would work as hard as he needed to.