I Would Be Gladder If It Were The Hound, Sansa Thought.

I would be gladder if it were the Hound, Sansa thought.

requested by @thehound

moodboards: Sansa Stark

My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

“There’s a whole world out there,” he’d said, with a smile on his face and a gentle pull on her hand. He means to take me away, she thinks, from here, from home, from everyone– but no. No, she musn’t forget. Alayne doesn’t have a family, not any more than Young Griff.

The phone goes off, the photo taken, he turns his bright violet eyes on her and grins.

“Ready?”

She smiles, “ready.”

@jeynewesterling

is this an OTP now? yes, yes it is.

The North Remembers by Westling

My rendition of Sansa Stark from the books.

porcelain, ivory, steel.

Sansa in the godswood, by Jonathan Burton, for The Folio Society’s illustrated collector’s edition of A Clash of Kings

By the time she reached the godswood, the noises had faded to a faint rattle of steel and a distant shouting. Sansa pulled her cloak tighter. The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood; even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes. Sansa had favored her mother’s gods over her father’s. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli. Yet she could not deny that the godswood had a certain power too. Especially by night. Help me, she prayed, send me a friend, a true knight to champion me… She moved from tree to tree, feeling the roughness of the bark beneath her fingers. Leaves brushed at her cheeks. Had she come too late? He would not have left so soon, would he? Or had he even been here? Dare she risk calling out? It seemed so hushed and still here… “I feared you would not come, child.” Sansa whirled. A man stepped out of the shadows, heavyset, thick of neck, shambling. He wore a dark grey robe with the cowl pulled forward, but when a thin sliver of moonlight touched his cheek, she knew him at once by the blotchy skin and web of broken veins beneath. “Ser Dontos,” she breathed, heartbroken. “Was it you?” “Yes, my lady.” When he moved closer, she could smell the sour stench of wine on his breath. “Me.” He reached out a hand. Sansa shrank back. “Don’t!” She slid her hand under her cloak, to her hidden knife. “What… what do you want with me?” “Only to help you,” Dontos said, “as you helped me.” –A Clash of Kings, Sansa II