joffreyrules:

  — The boy motioned to his chalice, this particular chalice golden, with bright shining emeralds outlining the rim. ❝Yes, you shall.❞ Almost immediately the girl was pouring the dark red wine, and once she had finished, Joffrey grasped his chalice with a firm hand, raising and pressing it to his lips. He slightly tilted the cup, allowing a thin line of the wine to pour into his mouth, and further down his throat. The taste was delightful, as was most everything the king received, for it was his right, common filth just would not do. It was one of the sweetest wines the young king had tasted throughout his years, which were not of plenty. Even sweeter than the ripe grapes it had been crafted from, for the winemakers knew just how to improve the taste, and to the king’s liking. Before the boy knew it, his first taste of the vintage was gone, and so he immediately asked for another glass.

:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::

               It is an exercise in r e s t r a i n t, in 
       patience for she feels like a deer, caught
       in the middle of a ｄｒｙ hunt– no sudden
       movements or an arrow bolt will strike her
       flank. Lions have claws, wolves have teeth
       and she is disguised as a sheep, a little bird.

               Keeping her gaze averted, Sansa picks
        up her utensils once again, spearing the cut
        slices of meat to feed them to herself. There
        is little else to cover the sound of her knife
        scraping the bottom of the plate. Candlelight
        casts menacing shadows on the wall. She
        scarcely has time to finish one portion when
        the king orders for a refill. Quietly, demurely,
        o b e d i e n t l y, she moves to pour for him
        another. It looks like blood, she thinks.

               But Sansa doesn’t speak, letting her 
         voice fall away to disuse because words
         are ammunition and she cannot spare any
         for the one wielding the knife.