#[ oHMYGOD HEADCANON ALERT ]#[ sansa use to build snow castles with robb ]#[ and so like when she builds it in s4 ]#[ she’s not just doing it for herself but for him too and the rest of her family ]

#first of all how dARE YOU #secondly hEADCANON ACCEPTED

emmaz0n:

the question is who in your otp is the enthusiastic parent that cheers way too loudly at soccer games

:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::

        As a child, Sansa grew up in Winterfell
where songs are scarce and bards earn
little singing in their halls. Yet, this does 
naught to curb her love for them, music
ringing in her head where no one else can
seem to hear. She developed a love for
dancing, spinning around with an imaginary
partner, giggling coquettishly at a prince who
isn’t there. 

         "Dance with me, Robb!“ she’ll ask of
him, carmine locks curling around her ears.
Her laugh seems to thaw even the coldest
of nights when he twirls her around, more
times than not, their dancing a haphazard
jump and spin that will end in a tumble of
flushed faces and barely hidden giggles.

         It’s her lord father that indulges her the
most; carefully fitting her small hands in his,
humming almost certainly off-key but in time.
He will look her in the eyes, lead her in circles
around the solar while a pregnant Catelyn
watches on. She sways so gracefully, feels so
special in those moments. Love in its various
adaptations seem to bloom in those quiet nights.

        Sansa even watched her lord father and
lady mother dance once, and the way he strokes
her hair is the way dreams unfurl in our little lady’s
mind. One day, she thinks with childish optimism.

                                                         ｏｎｅ ｄａｙ．

:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::

Sansa Alayne Sansa has a collection
of fairytales. It’s small but it’s growing.
It’s not an obsession, it’s not, but she
had long since came to realize those
happily ever afters weren’t originally
very happy. Her first book was from
Joffrey; a taunting gift, a present borne
out of vile hatred and sadistic pleasure.

Sansa read it only a month after. He
may not know it, but his words still
ring in her ears, ‘maybe you’d grow a
spine, you worthless bitch’ and that
book became her spine. It’s macabre and
violent and angry– much like the storm
in the center of Sansa’s core. When
Joffrey died in a pool of his own vomit,
Sansa thought of her book. It’s the only
thing she took with her while on the run.

Her collection expanded, little by little,
one book at a time. Each story, each word
is a cautionary tale, a warning song that
she tucks beneath her skin like armour for
the sharp knives that demand for her blood.

duskendales:

future dreamcast // sansa stark

:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::

lady was hers. 
lady was perfect for her.
lady was ｈ ｅ ｒ.

      { her quiet, clever, intuition;
 the presence at the back of her mind–
  if only she hadn’t went on that walk,
  if only she hadn’t left you behind. }

it’s a part of her that’s missing, now.
a phantom limb, a faraway warmth.
the moons turn but she never forgets.

okAY BUT CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW MUCH SANSA’S COLOR SCHEMES REFLECT HER MATERNAL PARENTAGE??!?!? becAUSE lets talk about how she’s growing into catelyn, her colors, her style, the way she does her hair– im so. lets talk about how its in remembrance, a mourning song but its also like an armour, just another layer she wears to protect herself with– a southern woman with northern blood. thats what she is now isn’t she? in some ways, she has to be like her mother. in all the ways that count, she has to be like cat.