And then there’s Sansa. Sansa Stark who named her deadly, killer direwolf Lady. And she trained her to be gentle, and quiet, and sweet and loving. And then what happens? The Baratheons have her killed. So now Sansa is so alone, having lost her family, her home and her Lady. But she is the exact opposite of what her father said would happen to wolves who end up alone. Ned Stark said that the only way they could survive was to stick together, and that was never an option. Robb had their mother. Rickon and Bran had Winterfell and then each other. Jon is on the wall, with his brothers, and then across it with Ygritte, then back to the wall. Arya had Gendry, and is still linked to Nymeria. But Sansa has absolutely no one who is her family. So she takes the strength and poise of a lady, and turns it into something as deadly and defensive as a direwolf’s fangs and claws. She knows that she is alone, and that no one is coming for her, so she adapts. She plays the game, she keeps her mouth shut, she stays alive.
Because the best way to hide a wolf, to keep people feeling safe, is to make them think it’s just a well trained dog.
" - echrai (via tardispectre)I’ll grow old, start acting my age.
I’ll be a brand new day in a life that you hate.
A crown of gold, a heart that’s harder than stone,
And it hurts to hold on, but it’s missed when it’s gone.
Call me a safe bet, I’m betting I’m not.
they better fucking do a ten year anniversary tour for this album
one time i got a sample from the tea store at the mall and as i walked away the guy said “tea you later” and then his coworker smacked him
miley and liam out last night
Before you fuck up and call her anything less than her name, before you grab her by the arm you need to know the trigger that you are pulling at. You need to know that the safety is never on. You need to know her history before you tell me that this isn’t my business. You need to know that her history is my history. See, she and I, we come from the tribe of raw knuckled little girls who call our father by their first names and wear their mothers like bruise coloured war paint under eye. We grew thick skin before we grew permanent teeth. We learned to piece together our own families in the backyards of rented duplexes where we promised plastic faced babies better things in soothing tones that we mimicked from TV. We do not have daddy issues even though our daddy’s have issues. We have piercing eyes and promises to keep. We grew up to be nomads surveying domestic war zones with black eyeliner binoculars, always refusing to camouflage. We threw our heads back and laughed at oncoming explosions, never flinched, absorbing shrapnel, never let them see us cry.
We do not dream of boys who will save us from towers. We dream of boys with courage caked under their fingernails. Boys with hands rough enough to wipe metal tears from our faces but warm enough to mold them into stars. Boys with vertebrae strong enough to lock with ours so they can sleep sitting back to back with us and keep watch. And these are the boys, these are the boys who will find love under our armor. These are the boys who will find that we love selectively but we love fiercely. These are the boys who will learn that we love in ways that leave claw marks down the baseboard before we ever let go.
So do not think she doesn’t know how you fear her absence - you should. Your cage is not stronger than her will or her smile. Do not think you are good enough to tame her. You aren’t. And do not think you are the first to try because I have already closed your eyes and crossed your arms before your body hit the floor. And you think she deserves better than you. You are right. So be better than you.
Be thankful that she knows your name and be careful never to forget hers.
" - Rachel Wiley (via rabbitinthemoon)
