Y o u may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood runs through both your hearts. You need her as she needs you…
And later I dreamed that maid again, slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow.
Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loved silks, songs, chivalry and tall gallant knights with handsome faces.
They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They’ve never seen a battle, they’ve never seen a man die, they know nothing. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way hers had been before Joffrey cut her fathers head off. Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.
"Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor."
The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same.
'Life is not a song, sweetling,' he'd told her, 'You may learn that one day to your sorrow.'
“Here, girl.” Sandor Clegane knelt before her, between her and Joffrey. With a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip. The moment was gone. Sansa lowered her eyes. “Thank you,” she said when he was done. She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.
"You will see, Sansa." She took her by the hand and gave it a squeeze. "Sister.”