A Pure World, Sansa Thought. I Do Not Belong Here. She Could Feel The Snow On Her Lashes, Taste It On

A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.

Valentines Rare Pairs Week: Day 5 ~ Love Letters ↳ In an effort to reforge a bleeding Westeros into one united realm, Queen Daenerys negotiated a series of political marriages. When she suggested a match between Sansa Stark and Willas Tyrell, the two began writing to each other to see how well they might suit. Sansa well remembered the tales Margaery told of her brother with his bad leg and good heart as well as the glories of Highgarden. But she wished to learn what she could from the man himself and he genuinely wished to know her as well.

The letters began formal and proper at the start. She asked polite questions about Highgarden and his love of animals, while he inquired after her interests and hobbies. Soon she was sending him drafts of her poetry while he was having a barge built for her called “Sweet Sansa” and training a few pups she might like.

With all the letters Sansa and Willas exchanged during their engagement, by the time they wed at the Great Sept of Baelor, they were half in love with each other. Though they were rarely apart from that day on, through the rest of their lives they continued exchanging love letters and notes with verses.

“A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here.“ (Late happy birthday @valesska )

Ser Loras Tyrell presents a rose to Sansa Stark, by Jonathan Burton, for The Folio Society’s illustrated collector’s edition of A Game of Thrones

Ser Loras was the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. At sixteen, he was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. Sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful. His plate was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Ser Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd. His last match of the day was against the younger Royce. Ser Robar’s ancestral runes proved small protection as Ser Loras split his shield and drove him from his saddle to crash with an awful clangor in the dirt. Robar lay moaning as the victor made his circuit of the field. Finally they called for a litter and carried him off to his tent, dazed and unmoving. Sansa never saw it. Her eyes were only for Ser Loras. When the white horse stopped in front of her, she thought her heart would burst. To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. “Sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you.” Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, his eyes like liquid gold. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off. When Sansa finally looked up, a man was standing over her, staring. He was short, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair, almost as old as her father. “You must be one of her daughters,” he said to her. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. “You have the Tully look.” –A Game of Thrones, Sansa II

SANSA OF HOUSE STARK

             lady of winterfell, queen in the north

                                                          ✧˖*°࿐

PERSEPHONE 

            daughter of zeus and demeter, goddess of spring and nature, queen of the underworld

a quick Sansa in her amethyst hairnet