madaboutasoiaf: Arya was in her room, packing a polished ironwood chest that was bigger than she was. Nymeria was helping. Arya would only have to point, and the wolf would bound across the room, snatch up some wisp of silk in her jaws, and fetch it back.
alaynesbaelish: She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.
galavantingtheon: so i was editing these and i was like…out of context they’re kind of sexy whoops um, enjoy?
My Type is Homicidal 