They Say Aryas The Wild One, Filled With Vengeance Andblood Lustas She Is; Butthere Are Whispers Lady

“They say Arya’s the wild one, filled with vengeance and blood lust as she is; but there are whispers Lady Sansa is the one to look out for, truly. She smiles sweetly but behind her Tully blue eyes there is a darkness that goes unseen until her victim has already sipped his poison. The boys, the little lords of Winterfell skulk through the shadows with their wolves. There isn’t much to be said of Bran, so far in the north; news of him is hard to come by. But Rickon, tales of him spread far and wide. His cruel savagery on the battlefield, but also of the deep sorrow he carries with him that comes from such loss it can’t be fathomed. They remain apart still, these wolf pups. But winter is coming, and the whispers have already begun. The wolves will rise again.”

The Wolves Will Come Again

Robb Stark: The Young Wolf

He grows as lean and hungry as his direwolf.

Sansa Stark: The Lovely Wolf

“Lady,“ she whimpered softly.

Jon Snow: The White Wolf

Half a wildling half a wolf.

Arya Stark: The She Wolf

I am not a lady I am a wolf.

Bran Stark: The Winged Wolf

“I will not go,” he cried. “I am a wolf, I will not go.”

Rickon Stark: The Wildling Wolf

The wolf was near as wild as Rickon.

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.

a song of children;                             the starks

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

character quotes: the sansa storyline

I most certainly have not forgotten that little she-wolf. I ought to have shown her to the black cells as the daughter of a traitor, but instead I made her part of mine own household. She shared my hearth and hall, played with my own children. I fed her, dressed her, tried to make her a little less ignorant about the world, and how did she repay me for my kindness? She helped murder my son. When we find the Imp, we will find the Lady Sansa too. She is not dead … but before I am done with her, I promise you, she will be singing to the Stranger, begging for his kiss. - C.LANNISTER