no, don't, don't cut my hair.
Mariana, Portugal, 22. Married. Enjoys flailing at TV and pretty people.

I have an obsessive personality and this blog is, as they say, not quality. 'K. There is an intro post of sorts here.

Reading: A Song of Ice and Fire

Watching: Community, Downton Abbey, Fringe, Game of Thrones, Leverage, Modern Family, Pan Am, Parks and Recreation, Rizzoli & Isles (!!!), Up All Night

Pottermore username:
NewtPatronus57




She cannot speak, but she remembers. Not me though, Sansa thinks, she doesn’t remember me. What stands before her is a husk of a woman, no more than skin and fat and bones, and the blood running underneath. The hair that Sansa had admired in her youth is scraggily now, falling off in thick chunks, the skin of her fair face is gaunt, pulled tightly back so her cheekbones stand in stark contrast. And her throat—her throat. Sansa cannot bear to look at it. The ghastly thing, the wide cut that stretches from one end to other, a mockery of a smile. Sansa’s stomach roils, thinking about it and thinking about where it comes. But the sickness burns up in the flames of her rage, and she feels the bite of her nails down into the skin over her palm. She knows she means to say mother, but it comes out, “Lady Stoneheart.” Fingers, long and narrow, curl around that hideous wound, as if to hold her together, like a broken doll poorly sewn together. The skin is white like sun bleached bones, with deep purple veins crawling like spider webs up her arms. But Sansa thinks there might be something, in her eyes, something straining to chip into the frigid ice. A rattle escapes her, like a skeleton being shaken in its coffin. “Kill them,” she hisses out, her voice so low Sansa can only just make out the words—or maybe she’s not making them out at all. Maybe it’s her heart, recognizing what it has already spoken to her over and over again. “All of them. Die.” The fire of her rage has always been so banked, so carefully managed, but now it flowers like a wildfire in her heart, eats her alive until she is nothing but the ashes—the ashes of Winterfell, we are both the rotted remains of Winterfell. “Yes. All of them. They will all die.” She can almost taste the blood. Sansa Stark, who has never been anything but the gentle bird, feels a wolf prowl beneath her skin, restless and hungry. The husk reaches out, and Sansa steps forward, suddenly unafraid. Once, this was my mother, she thinks. A hand closes around her shoulder, as if for support. It’s not warm, like a hand should be. It’s cold as a corpse. My mother, Sansa thinks but does not weep. The fire eats that alive, too, evaporates her tears until they are nothing but steam rushing up to meet the sky. My mother, what have they done to you? When she had seen her last, her mother had been a woman of renowned beauty and kindness and warmth, had smiled her secret smile at Sansa as she rode away from their walls of Winterfell, walls that would be turn down, gutted, molted. A sacrifice to an unmerciful god. “Winter,” the stoneheart says, but cannot finish it. It scraps against her gullet, comes out with a heave. The nails dig through the fabric of Sansa’s gown, biting down into flesh. Sansa doesn’t flinch, doesn’t feel the pain. The words don’t need to be said, not between them. They are carved into their bones, they pour out with each measure of their heart. Winter is coming.

She cannot speak, but she remembers.

Not me though, Sansa thinks, she doesn’t remember me.

What stands before her is a husk of a woman, no more than skin and fat and bones, and the blood running underneath. The hair that Sansa had admired in her youth is scraggily now, falling off in thick chunks, the skin of her fair face is gaunt, pulled tightly back so her cheekbones stand in stark contrast.

And her throat—her throat. Sansa cannot bear to look at it. The ghastly thing, the wide cut that stretches from one end to other, a mockery of a smile. Sansa’s stomach roils, thinking about it and thinking about where it comes. But the sickness burns up in the flames of her rage, and she feels the bite of her nails down into the skin over her palm.

She knows she means to say mother, but it comes out, “Lady Stoneheart.”

Fingers, long and narrow, curl around that hideous wound, as if to hold her together, like a broken doll poorly sewn together. The skin is white like sun bleached bones, with deep purple veins crawling like spider webs up her arms.

But Sansa thinks there might be something, in her eyes, something straining to chip into the frigid ice.

A rattle escapes her, like a skeleton being shaken in its coffin. “Kill them,” she hisses out, her voice so low Sansa can only just make out the words—or maybe she’s not making them out at all. Maybe it’s her heart, recognizing what it has already spoken to her over and over again. “All of them. Die.”

The fire of her rage has always been so banked, so carefully managed, but now it flowers like a wildfire in her heart, eats her alive until she is nothing but the ashes—the ashes of Winterfell, we are both the rotted remains of Winterfell.

“Yes. All of them. They will all die.” She can almost taste the blood. Sansa Stark, who has never been anything but the gentle bird, feels a wolf prowl beneath her skin, restless and hungry.

The husk reaches out, and Sansa steps forward, suddenly unafraid. Once, this was my mother, she thinks. A hand closes around her shoulder, as if for support. It’s not warm, like a hand should be. It’s cold as a corpse.

My mother, Sansa thinks but does not weep. The fire eats that alive, too, evaporates her tears until they are nothing but steam rushing up to meet the sky. My mother, what have they done to you? When she had seen her last, her mother had been a woman of renowned beauty and kindness and warmth, had smiled her secret smile at Sansa as she rode away from their walls of Winterfell, walls that would be turn down, gutted, molted. A sacrifice to an unmerciful god.

“Winter,” the stoneheart says, but cannot finish it. It scraps against her gullet, comes out with a heave. The nails dig through the fabric of Sansa’s gown, biting down into flesh. Sansa doesn’t flinch, doesn’t feel the pain.

The words don’t need to be said, not between them. They are carved into their bones, they pour out with each measure of their heart. Winter is coming.

(Source: widowmaker, via previouslyhighgardens)



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