( playlist )( the direwolves )
Songs were once carefree, lovely things that Sansa would bestow upon all who would listen and she thought worthy. In Winterfell there were few who did not seek the singing of Lord Stark's daughter, for although the winter was not yet upon them, the walls of stone were loathe to hold much heat and nothing burned brighter or felt warmer than one of Sansa's warbling refrains. Now, like all things -- a golden locket from a prince, a rook sent to the North bearing Sansa's hand -- those once gay and merry tunes held their treacheries. Nothing was sacred; no truly, nothing was good. The world had ways to rid itself of such goodness and, all at once, Sansa is filled with both a bracing terror for the fate of Robb's advance and trembling hope for his ultimate success. If there was a heart left in the Seven Kingdoms that beat with the fervor of an honorable knight, it would be her eldest brother, riding atop the wave of his glittering army, looking to purge the Lannisters and their merciless king from the Iron Throne.
That's righteous, isn't it? Her eyes seem to ask Littlefinger this question when she finally finds it in herself to meet his gaze again. To learn the things you teach, to wish their heads upon the wall. I am still good, aren't I?
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