#wulfmaed

@wulfmaed sent in : ❛ So, what was the fucking point in all this then? ❜ angry cracking sansa :///// i’m scared pick me up mom / hotd s2 sentence starters.

" the point ? the point is --. " aurane has to stop himself from slamming down his wine goblet, or throwing it against a wall. he knows he isn't angry directly with sansa, but why must everyone ask something of him ? how does no one understand him, and shockingly so, the prince discovers that fact through his wife's own anger. 

" the point, sansa, is family ! it is legacy, it is protection. i cannot just stand by while my siblings fight an impossible civil war. you understand this, don't you ? " he starts pacing, doing his best to control his tone, the volume of his voice, but the prince cannot. he stops in front of sansa, reaching out midway for her shoulders and then freezes, and pulls away. he wants to scream. he wants to grab sansa and shake her and force her to understand. aurane wants to grab her by her cheeks, to stare into her eyes until she comes to recognition.

' forget baelish and his scheming for a moment. '

easier said than done, apparently, given that the little snake has managed to slither his way into the internal politics of the vale and insert himself where he is very much not wanted. everywhere harry turns, it seems littlefinger is already there, with that smarmy smirk on his face — it is truly a shame harry cannot simply knock his teeth down his throat. wouldn't have much to smile about then, would he? he's tempted to do it anyway, despite the disastrous repercussions such an action would likely have, even if only because of the way the slimy twat comports himself with his betrothed. he's flagrant about it, which is galling considering the man is both her uncle - by - law and had attempted to pass her off as his own daughter.

observing his bride - to - be with narrowed eyes, harry leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk and lacing his fingers together, and his head tilts in a curious manner. vexing. that's what she is. but fascinating, in equal measure. infuriating, and intriguing. often, he finds himself rising to a challenge she has set before him and, oddly enough, finding himself excited to do it. whether they are exchanging barbs disguised as casual conversation or forming a united front in their pointed social commentary because he certainly does not gossip, harry readily meets her at her level — though, admittedly, much of the time she is dragging him out of the mud so they might meet where she is. it makes her unique, among the fawning young ladies that fall over themselves to express their admiration for him. she's more like to tell him he's got a fat head, though hardly in so many words. he feels the corners of his mouth quirking up against his own volition at the thought.

' forget baelish — tell me what it is that you want out of all this. not what he has impressed upon you to want. '

me, for the longest time: yeah no I don’t think Sansa would ever be Maron’s type

@wulfmaed : -exists-

what  was  this?  the  witcher  turned  his  head,  creasing  his  brows  and  narrowing  his  eyes  as  he  peered  over  at  sansa  as  she  lay  between  the comfort  of  a  thick  woolen  blanket  and  a  bed  — the  only  bed  in  existence  as  they  made  their  stop  to  rest  at  yet  another  seemingly  abandoned  home.  not  only  did  geralt surrender  the  luxury  to  her,  but  he insisted  that  she  take  the  bed.  after  all  —  although  there  had  been no  present  dangers  in  some  miles  now  —  someone  had  to  keep  watch,  and  geralt  was  glad  to  do  it. he  was  built  for  it.

and  although  he  had  been well  trained  to  always expect  the  unexpected,  a  kiss  good  night  was  certainly  a  suggestion  that  went far  beyond  anything  else  that  could  have  been  unexpected.

❝      surely  you  have  some  more  mercy  in  you  than  to  suggest  such  a  thing.       ❞       the  tone  he  used  and  the  way  that  his  lips  slowly  curved  into  a  slight  smile  left  no  doubt  of  the  playfulness  in  his  words.

in  fact,  he  was  already  closing  the  small  gap  between  them,  hovering  his  large  frame  over  hers  as  he  sat  on  a  vacant  spot  at  the  edge  of  the  bed,  moving  to  bring  his  face  closer  to  hers.  it  wasn’t  so  much  that  he  felt  obligated  to  grant  her  request,  but  there  was  also  a  part  of  him  that  wanted  this.  but  what  kind  of  a  noble  lady  would  ever  ask  such  a  thing  of  a  witcher?

but  for  reasons  in  which  geralt  still  could  not  bring  himself  to  understand, sansa  was  different;  more courteous  than  he  truly  even  deserved.  he  could  still  remember  how  she  had  thanked  him;  his  heart  still burning  madly  at  the  memory.  she  made  him  feel  decent; made  him  feel  human  in  ways  that  no  one  has  ever  done  before.

and  what’s  more,  if  she  with  even  slightly  repulsed  by  the  yellow  slitted  eyes  of the  mutant,  the  gruesome  scars  on  his  face,  or  the  stink  of  his  clothes,  then she  gave  no  sign  of  it.  she  didn’t  flinch,  nor  cower  away  when  he  leaned  down  far  enough  to  softly  press  his  rough  lips  on  her  softer  and  delicate  pair.  he  didn’t  even  take  the  time  to  consider  the  socially  wrongness  of  what  he  was  doing.  everything  else  be  damned,  this  was  what  he  wanted.

his grandmother had plans, of that he knew. but poisoning a king seemed excessive, though kidnapping sansa had to him - seemed reasonable. so it was with this belief that he continued to explore where sansa stark might have gone as he went about his family's business. this journey through westros had lead him from kings landing through the midlands and riverlands, until he'd reached the eyrie.

the boy ruler had only petyr baelish to untrue him now. and that seemed rather like sending a chick into a pit of vipers. but the greatest surprise had been when he'd seen her. alayne stone.

but of course, she wasn't. she was sansa stark. he'd remember her anywhere. she looked a little healthier now than she had at the wedding when she'd sat with his late wife and her imp of a husband. but it was her. still wane and sorrowful. with dark hair and solemn clothes. but it was sansa stark.

' my lady stark ! it is good to see you again. i was worried when you were gone. though if we speak plainly i do not blame you. are you well? do you still wish to visit highgarden? my father remains in kings landing, but willas rules highgarden in his absence and he's both kind and clever and more than willing to honor the agreements we'd made before. i'll send a raven immediately! '

there's a boyish exctement in him. he does not play of politics. but of the decency that seems so obvious to those who might see him. though he dresses in the warm greens of his family, he does wear the black band of mourning on his upper arm.

' leonette would have been so glad to see you well. she worried for you. we both did. '

𝔖ansa's hair, cold with the damp of the drizzle that had floated down from the sky and chased them into the castle-she takes it apart gently from braid to pin, never hurrying, her harsh fingers minding themselves to neither tug nor yank while unweaving her lady love's blazen locks. ' they will be cross with me for having you this late. '

this is the second time she has had a woman straddle her stomach, a woman who is naked and made of milken flesh prickled by gooseflesh from the slope of her thigh to pinked tit.

" 𝔄𝔶𝔢 , 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔬 . 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡 . " But to call it love she could not - were it a fondness found in the heart of the wyr serpent it could only be so surmised , albeit she could compel - the strange grunting upon first sighting the lady , the way she bows the gargantuan crown 'pon her gnarled head with such controlled care to know the touch of @wulfmaed 's fingers upon that thorny brow , the undercarriage of her massive and crooked jaw . perhaps , she thinks , in the end it is not all so strange . turstin has neither heard nor seen the targaryen dragons mingle among others without the touch of their rider . but then , perhaps , ozgog was not of the targaryens .