#cersei is the most jerkin' girl in the world!

[agentrouka-blog]

Do you think Sansa is attracted towards women? Her inner monologue towards Margaery, Mya or Myranda suggests me so or maybe George is just writing her thoughts towards these girls through the lens of a man.

I don't know? I know that many fans read her this way, and that's perfectly valid and lovely? It's not a vibe I personally got while reading, but that doesn't mean it's not notable for others.

I don't think GRRM The Author is intentionally writing her that way, not any more than I think he meant for Ned's infamous descriptions of Young!Robert to sound as bedazzled as they do. It's less ambiguious with Jon and Satin, where the descriptive language focuses on his scent and softness Very Repeatedly, but even there I think GRRM isn't necessarily trying to say something about the specific relationship between the characters and more about the aesthetic relationship of the POV to the world around them. Specifically with Jon, you also have his descriptions of Val, which certainly make note of her beauty but - to me(!) - feel notably devoid of any actual sexual component. Unlike, say, Sansa mentally undressing Loras or Cersei's immediately loaded language describing Taena Merrywheather.

Sansa, Ned, Jon, even Jaime, certainly Brienne, and Quentyn, probably others - most characters associated with a certain romanticism or (broken) idealism also have a distinct eye for beauty and imagery in the world around them, and strong opinions on it, their perception of the world is guided by a focus on where things align in a particularly striking way, or where they fail to, and they make note of it frequently.

Take this introductory paragraph in Jaime's first POV. He gets visceral pleasure from the sheer force of the natural beauty around him, and then immediately makes note of Brienne's imperfections to the point of imagining them in even greater detail, too. That's not necessary, neither thing, but it tells us a lot about Jaime's relationship with whimsy and ideals and how harshly he judges deviation.

An east wind blew through his tangled hair, as soft and fragrant as Cersei's fingers. He could hear birds singing, and feel the river moving beneath the boat as the sweep of the oars sent them toward the pale pink dawn. After so long in darkness, the world was so sweet that Jaime Lannister felt dizzy. I am alive, and drunk on sunlight. A laugh burst from his lips, sudden as a quail flushed from cover.

"Quiet," the wench grumbled, scowling. Scowls suited her broad homely face better than a smile. Not that Jaime had ever seen her smiling. He amused himself by picturing her in one of Cersei's silken gowns in place of her studded leather jerkin. As well dress a cow in silk as this one. (ASOS, Jaime I)

Whether that kind of focus on imagery has to intersect into attraction every time is for the individual reader to decide. I lean toward less so, others freely enjoy the appeal of it.

A good time for all.

[dwellordream]

for the prompt fill- antiscians for jon and dany pretty please?

antiscians (n.) - people who live on opposite sides the world, “whose shadows at noon are cast in opposite directions”

Dany lands in the Stormlands after four brutal hours in the air. She'd only dared stop once to rest, along the Trident. Even then she'd been wary and tense the entire time, a hand hovering near her sword as she smashed ice with a small pick-axe she'd brought in her saddle bags so she and Rhaegal could drink.

Her muscles are screaming when she landed again, and she knows her naked exhaustion must show on her face, even when all that is visible are her violet eyes, her mouth and nose muffled by a white scarf.

Her breeches are warm white lambskin, and the jerkin over her layered tunic and furred vest is covered with a thin coat of mail. Besides that, she had her short sword, a shield at her back, and a dirk that used to belong to Lord Stark. He left it behind when he went to war with the Lannisters.

She should not mourn him, she should not mourn his wife, she should not mourn the children they lost. She was their hostage, their ward, and they cut her off from the only other family left to her. She only met her brother Viserys once before he died, and he spat in her face and called her a whore from the crime of being alive when their mother was not.

But she does mourn them. They were not her kin but there were moments of warmth and kindness all the same and while part of her will always loathe Brandon Stark, another part of her remembers him putting her on his shoulders, or how his wife taught her how to hold a needle and thread.

They were not cruel, spiteful people, certainly not towards her, when others might have been, and they did not deserve to die the way they did.

She can't bring them back. She's not here as a representative of Winterfell, anyways. She is no Stark.

She's here as herself, Daenerys Targaryen, and she's here to stop the Others, and if the rumors are true, if the young man who overthrew Cersei and her cronies is truly of Targaryen blood, he may be able to ride a dragon as well, to help her throw back the Others.

Or she may be offering tremendous power to a young tyrant and madman. That remains to be seen, and that is why she only brought Rhaegal with her. They could kill her and attempt to seize her dragon, but she is banking on the Golden Company being no fools.

Aegon, as he calls himself, Aegon VI Targaryen, asked her to land in the Stormlands first, near Bronzegate, and meet with one of his 'most trusted lieutenants'.

One of his 'most trusted lieutenants', as it turns out, is not much older than her. A wiry boy with thin brown hair scraped back into a braid, a lean, suspicious face, dressed in plain and nondescript armor in muted black and grey. He's taller than her, but not the tallest man among them, and there's nothing particularly striking about him save his piercing grey eyes.

"Princess," he says, and while he does not bow, he does incline his head. One corner of his mouth is twitching. Does the sight of her bemuse him? A tiny girl dressed in white and chainmail, descended from dragonback? She doesn't wish to strike fear into anyone's hearts, has been stung by enough terror and mistrust, but for a moment she wants him to fear her.

Then it passes.

"I am Jon," he said. He doesn't offer a surname, if he even has one. Many of these sellswords don't. "His Grace has requested that I host you in Bronzegate before he arrives for your meeting. Will that be suitable?"

"Yes," she says, mildly. "It's good to meet you, Master Jon. Or is it Captain? Captain Commander? I'm sorry, but your titles confuse me."

It does not hurt to play the naïve northern-raised bumpkin, overawed by these bold foreigners who've conquered so much so quickly. What they did in months, she could have done in days, with Rhaegal.

"Captain-lieutenant," he says, quietly. "I am Harry Strickland's second in command."

"Of course." She pretends to have immense knowledge of Harry Strickland, and smiles winsomely. "You must be a fierce fighter, Lieutenant Snow, to have risen so high so young."

He can't be more than a year or two her elder, if that. His face is unlined, and his eyes are fierce, but he is still clearly little more than a boy. if an experienced killer.

"I would be happy to give you a demonstration, Princess."

Is he being provocative, snide, or genuinely teasing her? She can't decide if she's irritated or oddly charmed by his nerve. She smiles in return and walks forward towards him, as Rhaegal takes off into the air again with a roar.

[katlyn1948]

“The Archer” from “Lover”

So I finished it...took me like three weeks, but I had a severe case of writer’s block so...

A lot of the time it was just me staring at the computer screen thinking of what the hell to write, but I figured the shit out! 

I would like to warn you that I have ONE line of dialogue in the story. Literally just one. It is filling with a lot of emotions and angst, so you have been warned! 

Anyway, hope you enjoy! 

Be my wife. Be the Lady of Storm’s End

The words echoed through Arya’s head as she mindlessly wandered through the desolate castle. The rest of her family al with whoever lived through the battle, were all gathered in the great hall feasting to the victory.

Although she knew the immediate threat was nothing more than a pile of ice, the threat hundreds of miles away was still at large. She needed to focus on the task at hand and not the “what ifs” she left in the storeroom.

Arya expected Gendry to find her after the battle. She had left so abruptly; before the horns were even called and before he had a chance to awaken from his slumber. The actions of their coupling were ones she would never forget, yet she knew that it could create a lot of unanswered questions, especially if they survived the battle.

She had not expected to live; none of them did, yet here they were celebrating; trying to forget that there was still another battle to be fought and won.

She was ready for combat yet seeing the look of joy and happiness in Gendry’s eyes made her question whether she truly was ready.

As she wondered through the hallways, her mind kept drawing up hundreds of speeches she could have-should have said to him, but they all remained unspoken. It was not like her to have those thoughts swirl around her head. She was the kind of person to stick to her wits and to never let anyone change her mind otherwise. Unless, of course, it was her family.

Was he her family?

No, because if he were, then he would have left with her all those years ago.

She finally reached her destination, quickly latching the lock of the door behind her as she entered her bedroom.

She needed seclusion; time to herself, to think about what had transpired between she and Gendry.

If Arya were to go back to the feast, her sister would take one look at her face ahs realize something was amiss. Normally, she was good at keeping her expressions and feelings at bay, but the realization that Gendry lover her more than a friend (and she most certainly felt the same way) shocked her to her core. So much so, that it made her body flush with heat.

Her rooms were considered the coldest in the castle, and although it has never bothered her before, she needed the cool stone to quench her heated body. She stripped quickly, perhaps faster than her night with Gendry, discarding her breeches and jerkin. She nearly threw her shift off, but quickly came to her senses and realized she would need some layer of protection between the cold air and her nearly naked form.

The fires had nearly died down and the tub filled with hot water was beginning to cool. She gathered her small frame on a chair perched by the fireplace and watched as the last embers slowly extinguished.

The only light left was provided by two flickered candle sticks, one on the nightstand by her feather bed and the other on a table in the corner of her room.

Darkness never scared Arya. There had been many a night through her life where there was nothing but darkness surrounding her. Her mind had plunged into a layer of darkness so profound that she was sure there was no way of finding a guiding light. Yet, as her time here with her family and the realization that she was no longer alone seeped into the crevasses of her darken mind, she could finally see the small flickering candle in the distance, and that’s what scared her the most.

The pieces of Arya Stark that she had buried so long ago where now crashing through with such a force, that she was sure that she would break. Raw emotion had taken over and Arya had now lost control.

It was terrifying for her to think that she no longer could control the one thing she had control of for so long: her life. She had a plan and although there were some alternate paths that she had taken to complete that plan, she had never expected love to take over.

How could anyone love me?

The question was simple, yet empowering.

Arya was sure she was surrounded by people who loved her, she just could not understand why. With everything that she had done to get her life where it was at that very moment would be shunned by many of the Gods. Even Sansa was mortified by her bag of faces not so long ago.

Yet, even her hard exterior, nor her skillful abilities deterred Gendry’s feelings.

If he was mortified of who she had become, then he would not have sought her out during the feast. He would have not professed his love to her; bearing his heart and soul for her to see. She did not hide who she was with him, not while on those grain sacks. Not while his fingers glided over her scars, gently rubbing them as if to make them disappear. Not while his lips had captured her as she slowly glided down the base of his cock.

He could have asked her a thousand questions, she knew this, but instead he let her take the reigns and enjoy what very well could have been their last night alive.

Gendry had proved to Arya that, despite her past, he was willing to love her and cherish until his dying breath.

He was the only one who could see right through her façade, gazing upon the most intimate parts of her soul, that it nearly shook her to her core.

It was a surprise to see that someone still cared about the girl she used to be and not the girl she had to become.

But she couldn’t let the prospect of a “what if” get in her way of finishing her list.

She would ride off to King’s Landing and she would kill Cersei, even if it meant her demise.

Shaking the creeping thought from her mind, she lifted from the chair and blew out the last remaining light in her chambers. She buried herself under the furs and prayed to the Gods that sleep would take her from this day.

Her body was still weak from the battle; her muscles screaming as she stretched them thin.

Although the furs were plenty, Arya could still feel the slight chill in the air as she drifted to darkness. It reminded her of the nights she had to spend under the stars or in the rain; never fully being able to get warm.

Once dipped into deep sleep, she found that her mind ran wild with dreams and thoughts that she tried to keep at bay when awake. Her conscious was thrust into a world of wonder and fantasies that she had no time for. But just as soon as those dreams went, the nightmares came.

The bright happiness that had taken over her mind were quickly diminished by the cold grasp of icy fingers squeezing the life out her. She had grabbed her dagger, yet it was no where to be found. The grip around her neck began to tighten and she was sure that her life was now slipping, but she saw something from the corner of her eye. A figure that looked all to familiar.

He had his dragon glass Warhammer at the ready, charging to the monster ahead of him.

The actions were so quick, that Arya barely had any time to react.

The grip on her neck loosened and the monster turned, plunging his icy sword into the raging bull.  

Arya tried to scream, tried to crawl to where his now limp body lay. She could see the blood pooling on the white snow, staining it crimson. His eyes were beginning to glass and Arya tried to reach for him, tried to hold onto his hand one last time, but the point was moot. The monster had returned his attention back to her, his sword at the ready. She knew her life would be ending, and although she had never been afraid of death, she did not want to see if happen.

She closed her eyes and took one last breath before meeting her demise.

She woke with a gasp, clutching her chest as she sat up from her bed.

Her furs were soaked with sweat and the weight of them on her small body was suffocating.

Arya stumbled out of her bed and began to pace the room, trying to bring the air back to her lungs. It was like the room around her was on fire, invisible smoke suffocating her even further.

She knew what this was, and she had to calm her beating heart before the panic became worse.

Although the events that had played out in her nightmare were nothing but that, she couldn’t help but feel the heaving reality of it all.

Breathing slowly, she tried to ease her nerves and bring herself back to the room she was standing in, not the snow-covered ground with seeping crimson blood. Arya shook the imaging from her head, bringing herself down from the panic.

She sat herself on her bed once more, trying to regain her composure.

At that moment, in her dark cold room, she wanted him. She wanted his strong arms to hold on to her and tell her that everything would be alright. She needed the false hopes and affirmations of peace. She needed to be told that her whole family would not meet their demise in the war to come.

She needed to be put back to together.

But why fill herself with these falsities if she knew exactly what they were?

She could not be put back together, no matter how hard he tried.

So, steading herself once more, she slipped under her furs and stared at the stone ceiling.

“I’m ready for combat.” And waited for day to come.

[chillyravenart]

You mentioned you might do a post on the outfits you hated the most? Not to pole the bear too much but I would love to hear your opinion! I love talking costumes on the show.

Ok I hope you’re ready, because I was largely very unimpressed with a lot of the outfits on the show- several of these are truly terrible, and several are just too repetitive and boring, make of that what you will. Whilst I’m glad we didn’t get typical medieval reenactment attire (and skimpy hose lmao) and I am appreciative of the unique twist they tried to give the clothing on GoT, a lot of it was very lacklustre and boring and should have stayed as curtains or sofa fabric.

A wise man once said, “Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab.” Unfortunately we got a LOT of drab.

 Again this is just my personal opinion, if anyone liked any of these outfits, I’m glad you could find some joy from all the misery. Its going to be a long post so I’ve added a ‘read more’ break, but I doubt it will work because Tumblr likes torturing us. Right, off we trot!

1. I have to mention this one first because I fucking hated it so much lmao. Basic, dull, blue on blue, awful heavy cape for the climate, plain boring sick of it haha I won’t linger, I have a lot to get through.

2. I’m going to bunch these all together because these dresses were all awful. When I was in Year 8 we had a Design & Textiles class and I remember sewing something equally misshapen and sack-like. long story short, it ended up in the bin. What the fuck was that neckline, lord it turned my stomach. (This ghastly neckline will make several reappearances, rest assured).

3. Same goes for Catelyn, her dresses were drab and dire (no pun intended) and the neckline made me want to kill myself. She just looked like a frumpy old school teacher, not the wife of the Warden of the North. ( I did like the fur detail on the sleeves of the first dress, however the main body of the dress itself is very dull)

4. Shit dresses seemed to be a trend for the Tully sisters, and my God, Lysa’s were no better. I expected better from the Arryn seamstresses. What is it with the heavy collars and same fucking drapey arms???

5. Really wasn’t a fan of Arya’s “on the run” outfit, it looked moldy and vile and I know she’s meant to be an impoverished urchin but I’d rather it was a plain tunic/jerkin combo that this rotten mess. And that fucking awful neckline again.

6. Ok so Margaery had some overall nice outfits, but what was this fucking catastrophe? Was Olenna Tyrell away from home the day they commissioned this tragedy? She looked like a lampshade- or as @naomimakesart put it a ‘soda-can’.

7. This deserved a separate post because after leaving the South to head up North, Sansa clearly couldn’t find a decent dress designer, and I don’t blame her. It’s the North remember? Her wedding dress was a cross between an anaemic peanut and a marshmallow, the neckline, the sleeves- vomitous! And her Winterfell dress was no better. The Boltons probably had shit tailors.

8. Look I know Jon was in the middle of a war but that’s no excuse to wear a ratty old surcoat nicked off a decaying corpse. No excuse. You are the Warden of the North Jonathan! 

9. Let’s do Dany again. I’ve said time and time again that if anyone deserved to be dressed in silken grandeur with embellishments and veils and jewels and intricate bodices, then it was Daenerys fucking Targaryen, but instead we got this plain, curtain-like shroud. Why is the material so heavy and thick AND UNADORNED???? Boring boring boring, yawn, next.

10. Did they seriously lack for creativity when it came to Dany? Why were all her outfits cut from the same cloth/template? Why did she have massive shoulder pads like an 80s businesswoman? Why did they dress her in the drab habit of a nun???? Why can I upholster my sofa in that same fucking fabric, are DFS in breach of copyright here????? So boring, so homogeneous, so fucking disappointing. Not to mention the pukesome hemline and dreary shade of charcoal- where was the pitch black and vivid scarlet combo I dreamt of???? Oh but it had red detailing- bitch where???? Can’t see a thing without a magnifying glass!

11. I’m not done, you all asked for this haha. It pains me to dredge up this memory, especially when I’ve spent every moment since season 7 aired trying to expunge it from my mind. What. In. The. Name. Of. Fuck. Was. This. Shit? I’m not even going to talk about the casting choices or the wig, I won’t, you can’t make me, but why in Aegon’s name was he wearing an old potato sack and she a Forever 21 2017 summer collection dress the colour of snot? Someone explain this to me right this minute. And what is that wrapped all around it? Did someone make that from papier-mâché??? HEINOUS.

12. The Sand Snakes. Oh the Sand Snakes. Poor girls. Done so so so dirty it makes a wartime latrine look sanitary. What the fuck were they wearing? Where were the elaborate outfits Oberyn’s daughters dressed in (bar Obara ok)???? What is this mess????

13. Erm so I know Euron was a bit of a joke but I didn’t expect him to dress like a washed-up Alice Cooper fanboy. Then again none of the Greyjoys had decent outfits and travelling all around the world surely didn’t improve Euron’s dress sense either. Next!

14. Now I know people loved Dany’s fur coat, however I was not one of those people. Fine, I was willing to endure it the first time, notwithstanding the fact that she was swamped in it yet again and it’s a good thing Em is adorable and gorgeous otherwise she would have looked like an albino hamster, but why in heaven’s name was the design recycled so often and so unvaried? Furry stripes and shoulder pads folks! Oh adding red to the stripes was a great touch was it? Groundbreaking! It all looks the same, in fact the striped leather coat looked like the fur one after it had been scalded and plucked. Yes I said what I said.

15. I don’t usually rant but lately, I’ve felt the need to get things off my chest. And so I have to add this monstrosity. The hair looks like someone coiled an old hemp rope and pinned it to her head, and the dress, good god the dress is so fucking ugly???? Easily the worst thing Cersei’s ever worn, good thing her gowns improved in the later seasons because holy shit this dress was as grim as the execution itself.

16. Last but not least, this leather coat was ugly and I hated it. So glad we never saw it again after season 1. I’ll add here that the men were all given the same jerkin/surcoat combo with pants and boots and it became very boring after a while. No variance, no style. The only ones with swag were Joff and Oberyn, and dare I say it even Littlefinger’s coats were better than the recycled swill we got with the others.

And that concludes this shitshow. I know we’ve been slating D&D’s writing and the shit plot and awful direction the show took but the costumes were always so underwhelming for me. I expected colour and variety and texture from a fantasy/pseudo-medieval setting, not my grandma’s curtains. And the black emo phase was just laughable, but clearly it reflected the deep sense of mourning and tragedy that befitted the end of this memorable show. Sigh. Thank you for bearing with me. I’ve left LOADS of outfits out FYI but you get the gist haha.

[ladystarks]

The theonsa fic of my dreams: instead of going to Pyke, Theon goes to KL without permission to rescue (aged up)Sansa. Not to be a hero, for GLORY bc he's a fuckboy pre-Ramsey. But I still love him. Anyway Sansa is wonderstruck and has hearteyes for Theon. She's also gotten hot since he's last seen her. They fuck, ofc. Then he's like 'oh shit, I fucked Robb's sister'. But only after.

Of your dreams? Then I have to write it! :P

Theon didn’t expect it to be this easy. True, he’d been in the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of the procession after they left the docks, but when the riot breaks out and he catches sight of Sansa’s red hair in the crowd, he’s on his feet immediately. She’s been dragged off her horse, away from her guard in the chaos, and the smallfolk are grabbing at her hair, her blue dress, greedy hands trying to take.

No matter. They may have the numbers, but Theon’s got a sword on him, and he knows how to use it. He nearly loses sight of her in the confusion, sees her dragged under a sea of dirty urchins and smelly fishwives. Drowned God, but they are filthy here. Forget Northmen. These were the real savages.

Perhaps that is why her mouth drops open in a soundless oh when Theon shoves them out of the way and takes her by the waist. In his dark blue tunic and the gleaming silver buttons, he must look like a prince. Perhaps that is why she scrambles towards him, tucks herself into his side and clutches at his jerkin. Gods know Sansa never willingly touched Theon before.

When they are free of the mob, Theon wraps his cloak around her and tucks her bright hair beneath the hood. She is shaking still, but Theon—Theon has the biggest grin on his face when they make it to the dock.

Robb had commanded Theon to go to Pyke. Commanded him. As if Theon were not a prince himself now. As if Theon were a subject of the North, as if he were the green boy and Robb the man. The order had rankled him, and when Theon had commandeered the Lannister vessel with a skeleton crew of 9 men off the Myraham, he’d turned south instead of north, east instead of west.

“Imagine the glory!” He’d told his crew, raising the horn of ale he’d taken from the captain’s quarters. “Stealing the rose of the North right out from under the lion bitch’s nose!”

He’s not quite sure when the plan—if it could be called such a thing—solidified. Perhaps between his fourth and fifth drink, perhaps after his euphoria had reached its high. Finally, finally, Theon had his own ship. It was a small trading galley, but it was his. He wouldn’t return as the ward, the hostage that the honorable Ned Stark stole away a decade before. He’d return to Pyke a hero, the dashing rogue who did what even the King in the North couldn’t accomplish—waltz into the most guarded city in the world and steal a princess from under the Lannisters without them being the wiser.

Imagine the glory. Theon had imagined it. He knew what it would look like. The women he’d meet would beg him to bed them after they heard what a hero he was. They’d fall to their knees for just a chance to be fucked by Theon Greyjoy, prince of the Iron Isles. They’d thank him after, pray to whatever greenlander gods they had to see him again.

And with his head full with dreams of glory and that soft warmth between a woman’s thighs, Theon sailed into the lion’s den.

Sansa was silent for long after they’d sailed away. When Theon returned belowdecks to check on her, she was staring out of the porthole at the distant smudge of the city on the horizon. Turned away from him, she seemed small, doll-like.

“You’re out, then,” Theon says, cheerily, leaning against the door. Sansa starts, and turns to him. Drowned God, but she’d gotten prettier in the two years since Theon’s seen her. When she left Winterfell as a girl of fourteen, she’d been a sight to see, but Theon had always thought of her as a child. She’s devastatingly lovely now, with the candlelight throwing soft shadows across her, the pale line of her throat, the clear blue of her eyes offsetting the golden red of her hair. Theon knew that the pretty child would become a beautiful woman, but still…his mouth goes dry. He masks his staring with a rakish grin.

“Thank you for that,” Sansa says, her voice clear as a bell. “I—I thought I’d die in that place. Thank you for getting me away from there.”

Theon smiles widely. Appreciation. Finally.

She ruins it, though. “Did Robb—did he send you?”

His smile freezes, and he can feel it—the cruel tilt to his mouth. “No,” he says, fighting to sound jovial. “I came myself. I thought I’d rescue you, see. You’re missing all the good stuff, you know. War makes for exciting times! Couldn’t let you stay cooped up in King’s Landing the entire bloody time.”

Sansa looks faint, but Theon wonders if it’s not the dim light and the shadows and the way he’s studying her face. She closes her eyes briefly. “He didn’t send you?”

“No,” Theon repeats, firmly.

With a shuddering breath, Sansa opens her eyes. To Theon’s surprise, they are full of tears. “Theon—” she begins, her voice hitching. She never says his name. That alone is enough to wipe the smile from his face. “Theon, they were so horrible there. It was awful. Joffrey is a monster, and I—I want my mother and Robb and Arya. Won’t you take me to them? Please, Theon, if you use me for something else, I—I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Theon’s never seen Sansa this way, poised but crumbling, still but almost broken, blinking back tears. Use her for something else? Why would she think—

Before he can comprehend what he’s done, he’s taken three long strides across the berth and she’s in his arms. He’s got a nose full of red hair that smells like flowers and can feel every inch of Sansa against him.

“I’ll take you to him,” he promises, hardly recognizing the voice coming from his throat. It’s too soft, mumbled against her hair. This wasn’t the plan, but Theon’s the first to admit he’d hardly planned anything, really. “I’ll take you to Robb, Sansa, and then…you can go home, I promise.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, and he can feel her tears against his collarbone. Gods, she’s gotten tall. “Thank you, Theon.”

When she pulls away, she’s teary and more beautiful than Theon’s ever seen. He doesn’t think he’s laid his eyes on a sight so lovely in years. He’s so caught up in her, dazed that he barely has time to react. When she rises to her toes and presses her lips to Theon’s cheek, he freezes.

When she pulls away, her cheeks look flushed…but no, that must be the poor light. Theon fights the urge to place a hand on the burning spot where her lips touched his skin.

“I prayed for a knight, some hero to take me away,” she confesses, her voice soft in the dark. “I prayed and prayed, every time Joffrey had me beaten or Cersei called me her little dove in that awful way. The gods answer our prayers.” She clutches at his hands. Her fingers are still shaking. “I’m glad it was you.”

Fuck.