Death And The Dancer

i know in my heart that modern au sansa has an instagram entirely devoted to lady and posts videos captioned "bath routine of my direwolf 🥰 #dogbath #doggrooming #direwolf" where she's filing lady's nails and applying lotion to her paw pads while lady sits there with big loving eyes and all the comments are like "GIRL THIS IS AN APEX PREDATOR WHY IS IT IN YOUR HOUSE"

unironically love the phrase “but I’m being so brave about it” because truly, like, what other choice do we have in this wretched existence? what a beautiful way to remind yourself to keep going, even if only out of spite

Winter's Child Preview WIP (Surprise!)

Some of the pieces I have written for Winter's Child are more edited than I realized, so I thought I'd share one here as a treat for all of you who have stuck with the story through my accidental hiatus. We start reeeeally getting into some of the lore I've developed for the story going forward, and I'm excited to hear what you think of it!

“It’s so dark, father.” Sansa shuddered as her eyes flicked around her and she clutched tight at her father’s hand. She was all of eight years old, and had never been this far back into the crypts. Her other hand was firmly ensconced in Bael’s fur as she held onto his leg. “Why must our kin rest in such a- a lonely place?”

Her father chuckled, the sound echoing in the cavern.

“’tis not lonely, child.” He told her, easily lifting her up onto his hip. “Our crypts hold our kin- the history of our house. Hard men and honorable men and men who survived many winters. Can you think of better company for us in death?”

Sansa had to admit that this made sense. she snuggled closer to her father, tucking her head in his neck. Lady seemed wary as well, sticking close by Bael’s side. She was still tiny, next to the massive adult direwolf, and kept darting under him, eyes flicking around at the stone figures.

“You’re freezing already, sweetling.” Her father frowned, putting a hand to her cheek. “Your skin is like ice.”

“I’m not cold.” Sansa insisted, stubbornly. She didn’t want to go back yet. The crypts frightened her, but it was so rare that her father’s attention was focused on her and her alone. “Why are our crypts underground?”

“Where should they be?”

“Mother’s family lay their kin to rest in the rivers.” She murmured, playing with a lock of her father’s dark hair. “The Targaryens burned their dead, Maester Luwin said.”

Her father smiled at her.

“Would that your brothers paid half as much attention in their lessons.” He shook his head. “We return to the embrace of the earth- to rest under the roots of the weirwood and the eyes of the old gods.” he was quiet for a moment as they reached her aunt Lyanna’s tomb. “The old gods grant us the privilege of their power while we live.”

“Our gifts.” Sansa murmured. “The direwolves.” Bael leaned his head down, nuzzling at her dangling feet and she giggled.

“Yes, sweetling.” her father murmured, his eyes flashing for a second. “We return that gift to the earth when we die. The stone keeps in our bones, but our ancestors rest on the earth itself.” he gestured towards the older tombs, overrun with great, twisting white roots. “We feed the weirwood in death, allowing her to take back our magic.”

“Old Nan told me that the crypts are deep enough to keep our wild magic in.” Sansa told him. “Especially the Starks of old. Before Torrhen. The kings of winter.”

“Perhaps she is right.” Ned murmured, setting Sansa down to stand next to him in front of Lyanna’s statue. His gaze was indecipherable as he looked on her stone face. She had been beautiful, Sansa knew. Everyone always said so. She was beautiful even in stone, her companion, Alya, carved beside her. “The gift granted to the Starks of old was different from the wolves, sweetling. Harsher, wilder- more dangerous. Those who could call winter to their fingertips do not rest easily.”

“Why not?”

“To hold sway over winter was to call and command death itself.” Her father told her, his voice soft. “To live with one foot in the world of the gods. It was a wild gift, Sansa, and not one to be taken lightly.”

She nodded, solemnly. She had read the stories of the Stark kings of old. She wasn’t sure she would ever want to meet one, even if they were kin. One question kept tugging at the back of her mind, though.

“Father?”

“Yes, sweetling?”

“Why did the gods take it from us? The winter-blood gift, i mean.”

“I wish I knew.” Ned told her, his gaze not directed towards her, but rather to his sister’s face. “But none but Torrhen Stark and his immediate kin would know, and his bones remain silent. They hold no answers for us here.”

The two were silent for another moment.

“Do you think the gods will ever give it back to us?” Sansa asked, softly.

Her father’s face momentarily crumpled into a deep grief before he seemed to steady himself, digging a hand into Bael’s thick fur.

“Perhaps.” he murmured, laying a wreath of evergreen atop his sister’s tomb. There were snowflakes etched up and down the stone. Sansa had always thought it oddly beautiful for something so grim. “We can only wait on the gods, sweetling. One day, they may answer your question.”

Game of Thrones by Pablo Olivera

insp. by x

Sansa: I kissed Jon. Margaery: You kissed Jon? Sansa: In the elevator. Margaery: Why’d you kiss him in the elevator? Sansa: I was having a bad day. I am having a bad day. Margaery: This is what do you do on your bad days, make out with Dr. McBroody?

@jonxsansafanfiction remix free day meredith grey x derek shepherd (grey’s anatomy)

Winter's Child

Chapter 6: A Harsh Reality

In Westeros, each noble house is known to have an affinity for a particular type of magic. For thousands of years, House Stark was stronger than all of them- holding the north with mages who could command winter herself. When Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon Targaryen to protect The North from the wrath of dragon flame, however, the Starks forgot the language of winter- their gifts faded into legend. Since then, the children of House Stark have traditionally been born as wargs, or skinchangers.

Sansa Stark is neither- an outcast in her own family, no matter how hard she prays. Years pass, and Sansa’s dreams remain silent, devoid of wolves, while water refuses to rise at her fingertips as it does for Robb. Only Jon, who keeps the secret of his own magic, comes close to understanding. No matter how Sansa wishes she could stay with him, they walk different paths, and she has to travel south- reconciling herself to a life away from Winterfell.

Until they cut off her father's head, and Sansa Stark freezes over all of Blackwater Bay in her grief.

Sansa’s fury awakens in her a power that hasn’t been seen in Westeros since the arrival of Aegon the Conqueror. As a result, the very fate of Westeros is altered.

-

From Essos across the Narrow Sea- from the furthest reaches of the North to the balmy days of the South, the world is a harsh place. Amidst its severity, though, it is filled with wonders beyond even imagination.

HELP

‘Morning Stretching’, watercolor by ENDRE PENOVÁC