The Wolves Will Come Again.

The wolves will come again.

She pictured the two of them sitting together in a garden with puppies in their laps, or listening to a singer strum upon a lute while they floated down the Mander on a pleasure barge. If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa’s dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.

Hi there! ^__^ Idk if you still take requests, but in case you do, could i ask for a gifset of Sansa's released TWOW chapter?

Yes, here it is!! I’m sorry for the wait, I was taking a bit of a break but I am still taking requests!

"I dreamt of a maid at a feast with purple seepants in her hair, venom dripping down their fangs."

Sansa in the ghost of highhearts vision. I'm planning on doing an arya drawing to match.

female awesome meme: [2/10] female dynamics ➝ Sansa Stark and Arya Stark

"You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you."

    Once, when she was just a little girl, a wandering singer had stayed with them at Winterfell for half a year. An old man he was, with white hair and windburnt cheeks, but he sang of knights and quests and ladies fair, and Sansa had cried bitter tears when he left them, and begged her father not to let him go. “The man has played us every song he knows thrice over,” Lord Eddard told her gently. “I cannot keep him here against his will. You need not weep, though. I promise you, other singers will come.” They hadn’t, though, not for a year or more. Sansa had prayed to the Seven in their sept and old gods of the heart tree, asking them to bring the old man back, or better still to send another singer, young and handsome. But the gods never answered, and the halls of Winterfell stayed silent. But that was when she was a little girl, and foolish. She was a maiden now, three-and-ten and flowered. All her nights were full of song, and by day she prayed for silence. — Sansa I, A Feast For Crows