“What are you gonna do now, then?”
“I’ve won every battle, but I’m losing this war.”
A real mother is the most wonderful person in the world. She’s someone who loves and cares for you and tells you stories. She’s the angel voice that bids you good night, kisses your cheek, whispers, “Sleep tight.”
She was sixteen, brown-haired and brown-eyed, slender and beautiful. The people called out her name as she passed, held up their children for her blessing, and scattered flowers under the hooves of her horse. Her mother and grandmother followed close behind, riding in a tall wheelhouse whose sides were carved into the shape of a hundred twining roses, every one gilded and shining. The smallfolk cheered them as well.
The same smallfolk who pulled me from my horse and would have killed me, if not for the Hound. Sansa had done nothing to make the commons hate her, no more than Margaery Tyrell had done to win their love