#ancient sentinels made of sea water
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artemis-ches · 7 months ago
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So i'm slowly catching up with Candela Obscura and Tide and Bone, and shoutout to @quiddie for the amazing world and characters you give life to there. The glimpses we got of Oldfaire and the bits and pieces of magic were just *chief kiss*.
Thanks a lot for that.
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pretzel-box · 2 months ago
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Summary: You're a mortal fisher that catches the attention of an ancient sea god without knowing it.
Tags: Some 'fluff', mortal reader, sea god sebastian
Words: 2,6k
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There was a small village that was cradled on the edge of an unknown island like a forgotten secret among humans, made out of solid stone, earth and sand while being shaped by the restless waves of the deep ocean. Narrow cobbled streets would wound between the homes of sun-bleached woods and weathered bricks while fine smoke curled up from the going chimneys, mingling with the salty sea air. Many signs of a life gathered around this place despite its unknown status.
The endless ocean surrounded the village on all sides, an eternal sentinel, its deep blue waves gently lapping at the shoreline as if it were whispering ancient lullabies. The sun hung low in the sky, casting the world in hues of gold and lavender, where the horizon blurred into a seamless meeting of sea and sky. The sound of gulls crying in the distance echoed through the air, carried by the wind that rustled through the tall grasses and wildflowers growing at the island’s edge.
Farther out, where the cliffs rose jagged and defiant against the endless ocean, the waves crashed with a furious roar, sending white spray high into the air. Yet here, within the village, the sea was gentle—a mirror reflecting the sky’s fading light.
Small fishing boats bobbed in the harbor, tethered to wooden posts worn smooth by years of use. Their painted hulls were chipped and faded, yet they held a quiet dignity, as if they had borne witness to centuries of tides, storms, and the steady rhythm of life. Nets hung drying on the docks, draped like lace over the old wood, waiting for the morning light to send the fishermen back to the open sea.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of salt and damp earth. A few villagers, their faces lined with age and the sea’s touch, gathered in quiet conversation near the docks, their voices low, as if unwilling to disturb the peace. Lanterns flickered to life in the twilight, casting a soft, golden glow over the village, like stars scattered across the earth.
As the day gave way to dusk, the village seemed to breathe, a living thing, connected to the ocean and sky in a way that was timeless. The sea, the cliffs, the forest—they were all one with the village, woven into its very being. And as the stars began to emerge, one by one, above the endless horizon, the island seemed to settle into itself, cradled by the ocean’s eternal embrace, waiting for whatever secrets the tides might bring.
"Listen, my child. Our story began long ago, when the gods still walked the earth and the stars were young."
Once upon a time…
The land was molded by the hands of glorious deities, their fingers painting the skies and carving the rivers. They placed the sun on the horizon and the plains upon the earth. The world flourished, but with its growth came envy, as some gods overshadowed others. To gain power, they created life—humans, born from their desire for control.
At first, humans worshiped their creators with devotion, pledging loyalty to one deity, then betraying the next. They defiled the divine in their thirst for more, striking down gods one by one. Until, at last, only humans remained, reigning over the world they had once been given. The gods, once mighty, were destroyed by the very hands that they had shaped.
The lesson was clear for the mortals: gods could not be trusted.
You grew up in the small village, cradled by the sea, raised between the wind and the waves as if you were a child of nature itself. The first thing you learned was your origin, that you were descended from the gods—gods who were flawed and fallible. Your grandparents told you stories of your ancestors, how they fought with their lives for the right to live on this island, battling forces far beyond their comprehension.
Ages ago, a fierce god named Solace ruled over these waters. His rage, directed at both his siblings and their creations, churned the oceans into relentless fury. Your ancestors tried to cross the waters for months, many drowned and many got sacrificed to soothe the will of the deity that ruled in the waters. His anger blinded Solace, his envy and his feelings were like a sharp sword, pointed at himself. Your ancestors tricked him, like they did with so many other deities before. They sealed him into the ocean, robbing him of his necklace that he wore. And after they triumphed over him, the ocean came to rest. All thanks to the necklace that secretly holds Solace his powers.
A necklace that rested around your neck, a family piece that was given down as the generations passed. It was a sea shell pendant, reflecting in beautiful blue-silver hues as if the sea itself was placed upon you. And you wore it with pride.
Your mother gave it to you the day you joined the family tradition, stepping into the life of a fisher. It was a simple gift, passed down through generations, as much a symbol of your heritage as the sea itself. You learned to live in harmony with the waves, to respect the life beneath the surface, and to take only what was needed. Your family had always been blessed by the ocean, and so would you. It was honest work—give and take—where you not only harvested from the sea but also protected it, keeping it clean and honoring its depths.
"Keep calm," you murmured to yourself, the words a quiet mantra as you sat in your small boat. The sun was warm on your back as you focused on tying the loose strings of your net, the gentle rocking of the boat a familiar comfort.
Your mother had taught you to knit the nets in the old traditional way, every knot a connection to your ancestors. Your father, in turn, had shown you the art of fishing—how to hunt with respect, how to make the death of the fish swift and painless, and how to use every part of it in reverence for the life taken. A true fisher never wastes, for the sea gives generously but only to those who understand its balance.
The rhythm of your hands, the whisper of the wind, and the quiet lap of the waves against the boat—they all wove together like a song. You were part of something much larger than yourself, connected to the ancient currents of the sea, just as your family had always been.
You lifted your finished net, admiring the neat knots with a smile of quiet pride. A rush of happiness filled your chest as you hugged the net, feeling accomplished. You had honored the legacy of your ancestors, crafting the tool with care, just as they had done for generations. It was a simple but profound joy, knowing that you were connected to something so old and enduring.
With a steady breath, you prepared to cast the net into the water, hoping for a good catch to feed your family tonight. The gentle hum of the waves blended with your thoughts, and as the net unfurled, you missed the soft snap of a string breaking. But the sudden blue shimmer at the corner of your eye did not go unnoticed.
Your heart dropped as you realized it was your necklace—the one your mother had given you. Somehow, it had tangled itself in the net, and as you began to fish, it slipped from your neck effortlessly, tumbling into the water before you could react. You watched in stunned silence as the delicate jewelry disappeared beneath the surface, swallowed by the depths in an instant.
The sea, ever so calm just moments ago, now seemed impossibly vast and unyielding. That necklace was more than just a piece of jewelry; it was a part of you, a part of your family. And now, it was gone.
It sank slowly, the glimmering stone catching the last rays of sunlight as it shimmered just beneath the surface, suspended in the water like a delicate promise about to be broken. You watched, helpless, as it drifted deeper, the blue hue of the ocean swallowing it whole. Your heart pounded in your chest, a heavy sense of dread filling you as the necklace—your link to your family, your ancestors—vanished silently into the dark water below.
Your hands slackened, the net forgotten, slipping from your grasp into the boat. Without a second thought, instinct took over. Before you even realized what you were doing, you dove headfirst into the water, chasing the fading glint of silver.
The coldness of the ocean hit you like a shock, but you didn’t care. You kicked your legs, your arms pushing against the water, desperately reaching for the necklace as it continued its slow descent. The light above you grew dimmer as you sank deeper, the world around you a muffled echo of the surface. You could barely see now, the shimmering silver reduced to a distant gleam.
The water pressed in on you, chilling your skin and constricting your lungs. Panic began to claw at the edges of your mind, but you couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop. It was more than just an heirloom; it was the weight of your ancestors’ blessings, the legacy of your family, and it was slipping further and further away.
Your lungs began to burn, the pressure of the deep water pressing against your chest, but still, you reached out, fingers stretching into the darkness. The necklace was now just a faint blur, fading into the abyss. Desperation surged through you as your arms flailed in the icy depths.
The darkness was overwhelming, the cold water pressing in on all sides as you sank deeper, the faint shimmer of your necklace vanishing into the abyss. Your chest burned, lungs screaming for air, but your limbs were too heavy, too numb. The weight of the ocean dragged you down, and for a moment, you felt yourself surrendering to the pull, the necklace gone.
But then, something strange happened. A warmth surrounded you, gentle and reassuring, cutting through the icy water. A firm hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you upwards with a strength that felt both human and not. Yet, the darkness caught you and you passed out.
The first thing you felt was a pair of warm lips on yours, innocent, shy and yet somewhat dedicated. A wet hand was placed close to your throat. Then your head shot up as reality caught up to you, the water in your lungs creeping up your throat as you coughed it all out.
Coughing, disoriented, you blinked away the saltwater from your eyes, the world around you blurred. As your vision cleared, you found yourself being held by a man—no, something far more. His eyes, a deep and endless blue, locked onto yours. His presence was as overwhelming as the ocean itself, powerful and ancient, yet there was a softness in the way he held you.
You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. The stranger's arm was still wrapped around you, steadying you against the gentle rocking of the waves. His dark hair flowed around him, as though it were a part of the sea, and his skin, shimmering faintly in the light, seemed to glow with a quiet radiance. He wasn’t human, no, but he felt familiar.
“Breathe,” he whispered, his voice like the soft murmur of the tide, calming and steady.
You did, drawing in deep, shaky breaths, your heart still racing from the shock. “Who… who are you?” you stammered, your voice weak, barely above a whisper.
He gazed at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable but his eyes filled with something tender, something that made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. "Sebastian," he finally said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "I live within these waters."
You nodded slowly, still dazed, as you tried to comprehend what had just happened. The cold of the water, the rush of drowning, and now… this.
Then, the realization hit you like a wave crashing over your head. “My necklace,” you breathed, panic swelling inside you again. You turned to look down into the water, but there was no shimmer, no sign of the silverish blue. “It’s gone… my necklace… I lost it.”
Sebastian’s eyes followed yours, and for a moment, a flicker of something like regret passed over his face. “The sea does not return everything,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a kind of sorrow that seemed to echo from somewhere deep within him. "Not all that it takes can be given back."
Your heart sank, the weight of his words settling heavily inside you. The necklace—your family's necklace—was gone, lost forever to the depths. Tears pricked at your eyes, but you fought them back, not wanting to break down in front of this strange, beautiful man who had saved your life.
Sebastian’s gaze softened as he watched you, and before you could react, his hand reached up, brushing gently against your cheek, his touch feather-light. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and you could hear the sincerity in his voice, the sadness that lingered in his words. “I wish I could have saved it for you.”
You swallowed hard, nodding, though the ache in your chest was still raw. “It was my family…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “It was important.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, simply letting his fingers linger against your skin, his presence steady, grounding. “Your family's memory doesn’t live in that necklace,” he said softly, his eyes searching for yours. “It lives in you. In everything you carry with you. That cannot be lost, not to the sea or anything else.”
His words, gentle and warm, wrapped around your heart like a soothing balm. You nodded again, still feeling the loss, but somehow, in his presence, the grief didn’t feel quite so unbearable.
For a moment, you simply floated there together, the waves lapping gently against your bodies, the sun casting a warm, golden light over the surface of the water. Sebastian’s hand stayed close to yours, his touch lingering, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you go.
“Why did you help me?” you asked after a long silence, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you wanted the answer.
Sebastian’s gaze flickered, his deep blue eyes searching yours. “Because,” he said softly, a hint of something more in his voice, something unspoken, “I couldn’t let you go.”
There was something in the way he looked at you, an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. You couldn’t understand it, the pull between you two, but it was undeniable. He had saved you—not just from drowning, but from something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name.
For now, you let the quiet peace of the ocean surround you, content in his presence, even as the necklace drifted farther into the depths, lost but somehow no longer the most important thing in your heart.
You finally took the time to admire his large form, he was as pretty as the mermaids from the childhood stories, as gentle looking as the ocean and his eyes, his eyes were like the ones of a god. You never saw someone like him before, but he mesmerized you.
He had placed you back into your boat, his hand lingered a bit longer on your cheek than anticipated and you could feel a mutual spark between you two.
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pragerswoman · 2 months ago
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Hi! Could I make a request for something between Quaritch and Mansk? Something kinda awkward but fluffy at the same time?
Eywa loves us
Pairing: miles x mansk
Warnings: fluffy, sfw, MDNI
A/n: Hiya lovely hope you enjoy this thank you for the request 😌
Miles Quaritch stared at the horizon, his thoughts as vast and unpredictable as the jungle sprawling before him. His eyes traced the line where the vibrant blues of the Pandoran sky melted into the emerald sea of trees. The air was alive with the calls of exotic creatures, a soothing serenade to his weary soul.
Mansk hovered nervously by his side, his slender frame a stark contrast to Miles' military-honed physique. The young Na'vi's eyes darted from the horizon to Miles, as if seeking permission to speak. "Eywa... she... she loves us all," Mansk murmured, his voice as gentle as the sigh of the wind through the leaves.
Miles grunted in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on the horizon. The former marines's love for the Avatar world was anything but gentle. It was a fiery passion that had consumed him since he first stepped into his Avatar body. The connection to Pandora was something he never expected, especially not the bond he had formed with Mansk.
Mansk, on the other hand, was a creature of the forest. His social awkwardness was a badge of honor among his peers, a sign of his deep communion with the natural world. The Na'vi saw in him a kindred spirit, someone who understood the whispers of the land better than the loud, chaotic voices of their own kind.
As they stood there, the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. The light reflected off Miles' scarred exo-suit, casting an eerie glow across Mansk's expressive features. He reached out a tentative hand, the bioluminescent tips of his fingers brushing against Miles' armor. "You feel it too," he said softly, "the love of Eywa."
Miles looked down at the touch, feeling a warmth that wasn't just from the setting sun. He nodded, his voice thick with emotion. "I do."
Their friendship had grown over the months spent navigating the treacherous waters of human and Na'vi diplomacy. Miles had found in Mansk an unexpected confidant, a being who saw beyond his battle-hardened exterior to the man beneath. The Na'vi's gentle spirit had soothed his war-torn heart in a way nothing else ever could.
The silence between them was as vast as the world around them, yet it was filled with a comfort that neither had known before. They were two outsiders, bound by fate and an alien moon.
As the night grew closer, the jungle grew alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures. The scent of blooming flowers filled the air, a sweet perfume that promised rest and peace. Mansk leaned against Miles' side, his eyes closed in contentment.
Miles felt a pang of something he hadn't felt in a long time. It was more than friendship, more than camaraderie. It was an unusual love, one that transcended species and cultures. A love that had grown from shared experiences, from the quiet moments of understanding that passed between them without words.
The stars began to appear, one by one, like the eyes of ancient spirits opening to watch over Pandora. Miles felt Mansk's grip tighten on his armor, and he knew that in this alien world, he had found his place.
Their bond was as unpredictable as the jungle itself, a wild, untamed force that had taken root in both their hearts. And as the last rays of sun disappeared, leaving them in the gentle embrace of the moon's soft glow, Miles made a silent vow to protect Mansk, to be the sentinel that stood between him and the harsh realities of their intertwined destinies.
They shared a kiss, tentative and pure, filled with the weight of a thousand unspoken words. Mansk's lips were as soft as the petals of a Pandoran bloom, a stark contrast to the hardened metal of Miles' exo-suit. It was a moment of profound connection, one that transcended the boundaries of language and understanding, a declaration of their love that was as ancient as the world around them.
The kiss grew deeper, fueled by the intensity of their feelings. The bioluminescence of Mansk's skin danced across Miles' face, painting him in a kaleidoscope of colors that reflected their shared passion. The air around them seemed to still, the jungle holding its breath as it witnessed the union of two souls from different worlds.
Miles felt his heart swell in his chest, a sensation both terrifying and exhilarating. He had never felt so alive, so connected to another being. Mansk's eyes, open now, searched his own, seeking reassurance. The love in those deep, alien orbs was unmistakable, and Miles realized that he had found a home in Pandora, in the heart of this extraordinary creature who had taught him the true meaning of peace.
The kiss lingered, a promise of the future they would build together. The stars above them twinkled in approval, casting a soft light that illuminated the path ahead. As they pulled apart, both men knew that their lives had irrevocably changed, forever intertwined in the tapestry of Pandora's history. The whispers of the jungle grew louder, a symphony of acceptance and joy. They were no longer just two individuals but a bridge between two worlds, a testament to the power of love and understanding.
Their union was a declaration of hope in a world fraught with tension and misunderstanding. They were an anomaly, a beacon of unity in a land torn apart by greed and fear. With hearts bound by an unbreakable bond, Miles and Mansk turned to face the jungle, ready to tackle whatever challenges lay ahead. The night was theirs, filled with the sweet scent of promise and the gentle whispers of Eywa's love.
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bithand · 11 days ago
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THE POSTHOUSE.
This post gives an overview of the Crossroads Messengers' base. I'm also going to discuss some ideas on what precautions Solas took before bringing down the Veil. Obligatory disclaimer I won't hold any Solas rpers to this. Rook & co. will be able to visit this location throughout the game.
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FEN'HAREL'S AGENTS ACROSS THEDAS WEREN'T solely preparing for his ritual to bring down the Veil — not directly. In fact, awareness of that ritual and what it would entail varied widely across the cells. Fen'Harel was always careful with what he shared. Regardless, a good chunk of their work in the years preceding DA:TV involved doomsday preparation, especially as the ritual drew near. They reinforced the Veil at various locations so it could be brought down more smoothly. They noted what areas would likely be hit the hardest. They identified usable eluvians and corresponding pathways in the Crossroads. They excavated ancient safehouses and established new ones across the continent. They amassed emergency stockpiles such as preserved foods and medical supplies. He had a better idea this time around as to how the world would be changed, and he planned accordingly.
The Crossroads navigators (of whom Vauquelin was an unofficial leader) were spread across the major safehouses. There's only a handful of them really, but that's all you need. Each of the major safehouses would have an eluvian. That eluvian would lead to another location. That location would have a hidden and locked eluvian leading to a central hub. That central hub would have — you guessed it — a locked eluvian, guarded by spirit sentinels, leading to the Crossroads. Each navigator and the leader of the cell they were coordinating with would be able to send messages via the eluvians as well. Ability to access the eluvians, however, would become more exclusive the deeper one went. The idea is to enable them to coordinate during the apocalypse without compromising the whole network.
Vauquelin was to stay in the central hub with a small group to maintain it. There he was during the failed ritual. As he establishes an alliance with Rook, reaches out to fellow navigators, builds up the Crossroads Messengers, they operate out of this hub. The group begins jokingly referring to it as the Posthouse and to him as the Postmaster. Alas, it sticks.
The Posthouse itself is a mix of ancient and modern. Located in the Sea of Ash, it was once the last hideaway of a former Evanuris who had tried to usurp Elgar'nan. He responded by scorching the land, raising volcanoes, and transforming the area into a volcanic wasteland. It hasn't recovered in thousands of years. All that remains after so long is the bones of that former Evanuris’ last refuge. Their power left the building intact, but they had nowhere to go and nothing else survived. There was only an eluvian whose twin Elgar’nan controlled. They elected to die there alone. Elgar’nan had a penchant of exiling people there (as is still done by the Seekers of Truth), so the eluvian pathway remained.
Fen’Harel’s agents were able to restore some of the defenses and build up the ruin over the years. It’s not a self-sufficient base. There are very few plants and animals and water sources, and what exists is unsuitable for consumption. A singular deep well was found preserved by the base’s enchantments; this is the only safe water source. Soil and seeds were moved into the building with the hopes of creating a magically-shielded greenhouse, but at least initially, they’re dependent on stockpiles and deliveries via eluvian. However, it’s remote and defensible, making the chances of siege or seizure infinitesimal.
The view is abysmal, but the building itself is quite nice. What started as a purely utilitarian project inevitably had artistic touches interwoven. It’s an eclectic blend of folk art (made by the agents) and fine rugs, paintings, etc. Much of the latter was stolen by Vauquelin over the years. He even smuggled out a prized set of stained glass windows plus the artisans to install it from Serault. (The Seraultine guilds are brutal, treating the members more like slaves in order to protect the craft.) The architecture overall prioritizes alleviating the heat and focusing the eye inward (rather than out on the wasteland); any windows are small, for airflow not the view — aside from that beautiful stained glass.
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theartificialintelligentsia · 8 months ago
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i have a lot of thoughts about City of Blades, because, good lord, i think it's one of the best books i've ever read as an adult
(spoilers below, duh)
City of Blades is ultimately a book about war, and the associated glorification of death that comes with it, the implication that, even if you die, it will be for a higher cause. it's a lesson that's been constantly repeated throughout history. you saw it in ancient times, with the Norsemen and the concept of Valhalla, that dying in battle would net you the most desirable of afterlives. you saw it with The Crusades and the retaking of the Holy Land, for the Chosen Ones, from the dirty, heathen Muslims. you saw it in the recent past, with the Cold War and the fight against the evils of Communism to spread Democracy across the world. you see it today, with the War on Terror, continuing the good fight to spread Freedom and Democracy.
but City of Blades serves as a deconstruction of that idea, to point and say, "is this not wholly and utterly insane? death is death, no matter how much you try to dress it up." many characters in this book thought they were giving their lives to something greater, and yet that turns out not to be true.
Rada Smolisk orchestrated her scheme because she thought it would jump-start the Night of the Sea of Swords and destroy the world that took everything from her. what did she get for it? a bullet to the face.
Sumitra Choudhry made her way into the City of Blades because she thought that she was going to make the ultimate hero play to stop the Voortyashtani sentinels. what did she get for it? a lonely death of dehydration.
Pandey picked a fight with Turyin because he thought that he would avenge his fallen love and exact a measure of revenge for the wrongs that had been done to him. what did he get for it? a blade to the heart.
Lalith Biswal orchestrated his scheme because he wanted his opportunity to start another war so that he could claim victory and be lauded for it as a hero. what did he get for it? a bullet to the chest.
you see so many descriptions of this disbelief over the shattering of the idea of a glorious death. Turyin, upon finding Sumitra Choudhry's corpse:
There's a trace of irritation or discomfort to [Choudhry's] large, dark eyes, as if she can't believe this is happening to her, that she should come so far just to die here, alone on a bridge over ghostly waters.
and, after she shoots Biswal:
He stares at her in disbelief. Then he says, "I'm ... I'm not going to die, am I? I can't. I just can't ..." Mulaghesh watches him. "I wasn't ... I wasn't supposed to die like this," he says softly. "I was supposed ... to have a hero's death. I'm owed a better death." [...] She can't quite tell when he dies. She can tell his vision is failing him, and then perhaps he's passed out from blood lost but is still alive ... and then ... Nothing.
all of these people died ignominious, unremarkable deaths. because war doesn't give you these hero moments like you would read about in an epic, or a movie or TV show. those are often written by those who weren't there and would never understand what kind of hell war is like. war just takes lives, without any regard for a narrative or a story.
but this is a story. and one could reasonably expect the narrative expectation of important characters meeting just fates, because they have importance to the plot structure. but this is where Bennett also plays very well upon the expectations of the readers, as well.
it's easy enough to assume that Signe would survive, because she's Turyin's sidekick, and, of course, she has to make it, right? nope! one would also assume that Vallaicha Thinadeshi would have merited a more meaningful and fulfilling death, right? nope! it's a common trope in fiction that the good guys live, and the bad guys die, because that's how it's supposed to work, right? but what we see here is that good guys and bad guys, alike, meet ends that feel hollow, unfulfilling, and meaningless. it's a very interesting subversion of expectations on Bennett's part.
and, of course, Turyin is the one that has to pick up the pieces from all of this. you would think that someone who committed as many atrocities as she did during the Yellow March and committed just as many heroic acts during the Battle of Bulikov would have merited a heroic end? nope! it's almost ignominious and unremarkable, in and of itself, for Turyin to be the last one standing at the end of all of this.
anyway. all of this is to say that i truly enjoy the thematic elements that have been employed here. it's easy enough to think back to all of the books that i read in primary and secondary education, where i only really thought of those books in terms of the themes that i would have to describe in a paper or on a test. this book has really employed such a theme in spades, but it's also provided a very enjoyable narrative to read.
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paramedicabroad · 10 months ago
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Fortress of Suomenlinna
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Today, let's embark on a virtual journey to the enchanting Suomenlinna, a UNESCO World Heritage site nestled in the heart of Finland's capital, Helsinki. Join me as we uncover the rich history, stunning architecture, and captivating landscapes of this historic fortress.
Step back in time as you wander through Suomenlinna's storied past. Originally built in the 18th century, this maritime fortress has stood as a sentinel guarding the waters of the Gulf of Finland. Delve into its fascinating history as a military stronghold, a symbol of Finnish resilience, and a vibrant cultural hub.
Marvel at the architectural wonders that dot the landscape of Suomenlinna. From the imposing walls and sturdy bastions to the charming wooden houses and picturesque courtyards, every corner of the fortress tells a story of centuries past. Let the juxtaposition of man-made structures against the backdrop of the pristine Finnish archipelago mesmerize your senses.
Immerse yourself in Suomenlinna's vibrant cultural scene, where museums and galleries abound. Explore the Suomenlinna Museum to uncover the fortress's secrets, visit the Military Museum for a glimpse into Finland's military history, and discover contemporary art at the various galleries scattered throughout the island.
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Indulge in moments of serenity amidst Suomenlinna's natural beauty. Take leisurely strolls along the fortress's cobblestone streets, breathe in the salty sea air as you walk along the rugged coastline, and savor panoramic views of Helsinki's skyline from strategic vantage points. Let the tranquil ambiance of the island soothe your soul.
Treat your taste buds to a culinary adventure in Suomenlinna. From cozy cafes serving freshly baked pastries to waterfront restaurants offering delectable seafood dishes, there's no shortage of gastronomic delights to savor. Don't forget to indulge in traditional Finnish delicacies like creamy salmon soup and hearty Karelian pastries.
Embark on outdoor adventures amidst Suomenlinna's scenic surroundings. Rent a kayak to explore the labyrinthine coastline, find a secluded spot for a picturesque picnic amidst lush greenery, or simply bask in the warmth of the sun as you soak up the island's laid-back vibe.
Can't visit Suomenlinna in person? No problem! Embark on a virtual exploration of the fortress through online tours, interactive exhibits, and immersive experiences. Engage with digital resources that bring Suomenlinna's history and heritage to life, offering a glimpse into Finland's maritime legacy.
In conclusion, Suomenlinna invites you to discover a world of history, culture, and natural beauty within its ancient walls. Whether you're strolling through its cobblestone streets, exploring its museums, or simply soaking in the breathtaking views, Suomenlinna promises an unforgettable experience for all who visit. 🏰🇫🇮
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Chapter 51- Sirin
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With the Leviathan's resurrection, her power had settled again into its familiar cycle: day and night, sleeping and waking. At noon, she sat on the schooner's deck, one leg dangling over the bowsprit, and stared at the sun, remembering the devastation of her power, remembering the unsounded depths of it.
It scraped at her, this binding, this balance. It howled, her grief. Destroyer, destroyer, she told herself, and yearned for shadows.
But that power was driving her fingers deeper into the wound, not sealing it. It was driving her hand into her own chest and tearing out her heart. Nothing healed that way.
Was this voyage to be another wound? As the trim, black-and-yellow schooner cut over the waves, as the seas grew darker and those waves grew colder, Sirin felt dread mount inside her, and the question went unanswered.
"We can still turn around," Luca told her one night on the icy deck. They held teacups close to their faces to stay warm, the sky a canopy of cold, distant stars. The ship that bore them was built by Luca and named, of course, the Hornet. In warmer waters, the sough and snap of the billowing sails was a comforting sound, a friendly presence. Here it chilled the bones; it filled Sirin's nerves, living memory, a constant reminder of their course.
"It's not too late," Luca went on, his voice soft.
Sirin blew a plume of steam off the surface of her tea and shook her head. She stared out past the prow, over the heaving gray shoulders of the sea.
Too late, she thought.
Was sixteen years too late? The last time she had seen Alkona, it was a hazy back-cast glimpse through a porthole, the island wreathed in smoke, a black column rising ever higher into the sky. Then it was fever dreams, and nothing. Only memories had remained, and in their way they had become warped and bruised. Some faded, some sharpened. None of them were right. None of them were real. Whatever else she would find, it would not be her Alkona. Not as she dreamed it, not as she wanted it. Not as she might have made it, deep in the dark throes of the Leviathan's power.
She set down her teacup and let out her breath. Her eyes were warm. Luca reached out, his gloved hand closing over hers.
"It's all right," he told her. "Whichever way. I'll be with you nevertheless."
Sirin didn't reply. Luca sat with her long into the night, the wind growing ever colder, the spray numbing her face. At last, she squeezed his hand.
Go belowdecks, she told him. You're freezing.
"A mere pittance to pay to keep you company."
I despise you.
"Ah, but you're still here. Come with me?"
In a moment.
He nodded, and kissed her knuckles, and retreated below.
Sirin faced the horizon, shaking her hood from her hair and letting the wind play through her curls. She felt those fever dreams pulse at her again. Rock crags, and green, misted slopes, and standing stones. Ancient things, sentinels against the weather. A cave, a darkness deep beneath the earth, and the eyes of grave-dolls glimmering as if watching her. As if waiting.
Watching what? Waiting for what? A lost child, her language, her culture, herself cut away at the roots. Would they remain silent, stolen, gone forever?
She was not that child. She would never be again.
It was too late for her people, too late for her family. What did she hope to find on Alkona's shores besides bones?
Was it too late for her to come home again?
The wind and stars gave her no answers. There was no comfort in the voice of the sea. She clenched her fists, and shadow unfurled around her, a whispering veil, familiar as a lullaby. She let it enfold her. She closed her eyes, and the dark was there, too.
***
Days passed, gray and looming, their nights wild with stars and scattered ice. The Hornet kept its course, traveling north past the distant austere cliffs of the Buyani archipelago, through the thousand islands of the Ork Roads, past nameless, abandoned islets, gray and desolate, crowned with ruins and haunted by seabirds.
Their cries and the distant boom of waves shuddered deep in Sirin's bones long after the schooner passed them by.
By day, she and Luca crewed the ship together; sometimes he sang to fill the silence. Sea-shanties and reaver songs and endless Lapidaean ballads, full of clever wordplay and legendary figures from antiquity Sirin didn't know. Nights they spent huddled round the tiny coal stove belowdecks, warming their hands in turn. Luca had taken to wearing a set of spectacles, and they suited him, his crooked nose and furrowed brow and the untidy gilt gleam of his hair. They made him look older, but Sirin liked them all the better for it. Most nights he read aloud- he'd brought far too many books in a battered old sea-chest- and she listened, curled under a ship blanket, watching the dance of the firelit shadows over the walls.
The cold sharpened day by day, a blade in her lungs with each breath. Luca shivered, but Sirin savored the burn. Too long she'd breathed the muggy southern heat. This was the stark chill she craved.
One morning they spied a pod of sea-orks breaching off the port side, great, glistening backs curving from the dark waves, streaming with spume and snorting gouts of hot steam into the sky. Tusks clashed and clattered, and bellows rumbled through the deck, the sound shivering in her bones. Sirin watched them, and let herself feel the thrill of it, the fragile, living delight of the moment, these bones she lived in, the way all things convened in her to make all things what they were.
"Amazing, aren't they?" Luca said, and Sirin nodded, and meant it.
Three mornings after, she woke in her bunk to a steady ship, and hush. The waves- that was it. They were quiet on the hull. The ship had slowed.
Luca was already on deck, at the wheel. Sirin came to his side. His eyes were narrowed, his blond hair whipped back from his forehead. The headwind was a strong one, bitter with ice. The sea spread dark as ink, seamed with whitecaps. Cloud gulls chased their mast, and Sirin felt her heart seized and stricken, and knew.
An island approached fast on the horizon. Mist veiled its lower slopes, but it rose above, towering into the sky: a vast, broken double-crag, upper ramparts touched with pale sunlight. Sirin's throat tightened. She felt her powers churn inside her, a creature, a scream, longing for night, longing to hide her from its sight.
This sea remembered her, this sky. This island, Alkona. How could it not? It had tasted her blood. It had held her screams, her last screams, echoes ringing off its stones.
She grabbed for the wheel, her fist crushing around one of its pegs. Wood crackled under her hand.
"It's still not too late, Sirin," Luca told her.
She shook her head, hard. No, she thought. She had to see it. She had to know.
They drew toward the island. Mist parted, revealing sheer dark cliffs nested by colonies of countless seabirds, rockfalls and deadly crags. The broad arc of a black-sand beach opened before them, a bay torn like a jagged bite into the south-facing reaches of Alkona's shoreline.
The air tasted clean, rain and salt and bitter, like the memory of old blood on the back of Sirin's tongue.
Luca sailed closer, as close as he dared. Breakers hissed and boomed against the cliff walls, a slow, heartbeat rhythm. The tide was low, and Sirin could see the jagged points of ship-breaking rocks jutting from the water. They would be invisible come high tide, but now, here, the seas were calm. The sunlight glistened on the waves, dappling them with its pale morning light.
Sirin felt her power calm inside her, felt it turn over, and sleep. It would return, as sure as the sun would set, as sure as the moons would rise. For now, it could rest.
Still, she couldn't slow the pace of her heart, couldn't stop her hands from quivering as she and Luca dropped the anchor and readied the skiff.
They rowed in, weaving between the deadly crags. The water was deep green and clear, and Sirin could see through it as if through cloudy glass: beds of ribbon grass and kelp like great whips, caught with motes of phosphorescent algae. The current swirled, a complicated flexion of force and give, a constant, mesmerizing dance. In it, a school of tiny fish flitted past, quick and agile. They flashed silver, then dark, then silver again as the sunlight caught them. Sirin trailed her hand in the water, and they darted away, vanished once more into the depths.
At last, sand scraped the keel. Together Sirin and Luca dragged the skiff up the shore, mooring it well past the tidemark. Sirin straightened, breathing hard. A deep hush rang. The surf, the seabirds, all seemed distant, as if held behind a barrier of mist. The beach shone like polished obsidian, sand carved into ripples by the current.
She expected a wall of memories, unendurable pain. Had she fallen there? Had one of the other children stumbled over that stone, or hidden by that boulder, as if the slavers might lose them in the mist? The blood was gone, washed clean by the tide. The air no longer smelled of smoke. The hush remained.
Sirin lifted her eyes up the sand, up the border of stones at tidemark, up the cliff, patchy with green moss. A sheer wall of dark rock. Sirin made out the island's twin crags. They loomed above the mist like some floating island from a cradle song.
She began forward. Luca hung back.
"You're really going up there?" he said, nodding toward the clifftop.
Yes.
"I can stay here, if you'd rather be alone."
Sirin shook her head. Come with me. Please.
"Of course." He came to her, shedding his gloves before squinting at the cliffside. "Well. Now that looks a delight." Steps wended down the cliff, dozens of them, near-vertical in places and hacked out by hand. Sirin remembered, all at once, the scrape of her bare, callused feet over stone, the frigid ache of her toes, the burn of her muscles. Most of all, the exhilaration of making the climb in one scramble, full of mad, childish glee.
She smirked. I can go first if you're nervous, Valere.
He bowed with a flourish. "By all means. I do so love making a fool of myself around you."
And I would have it no other way. She touched his cheek. Stay close. It is a long climb, but a longer fall.
She pulled off her boots and slung them around her neck, then left the beach, left the skiff and the sound of waves, and began to climb. At first her muscles shuddered, uncertain of the effort; within minutes, though, her breathing evened, and she remembered the rhythm of the climb. Her hands slipped into holds and niches, worn by centuries of effort. Her feet found the hidden crevices and patches of grit, gaining purchase on the slick stone.
Luca followed, somewhat more ungainly. Sirin couldn't blame him. The steps had been carefully maintained when she was a child, but nearly two decades of storms and merciless wind had warped them out of shape, even collapsed them in places, and the going was slow.  
What do you think will be waiting for you, my girl? her grandmother might have said. It was no difficult thing to imagine her climbing at Sirin's side, nimble as one of the goats that ranged like wild spirits over Alkona's peaks. More ruin? More decay? Or nothing at all? That is the way of things, to forget. The storm smooths the mountainside. The tide washes the sand clean. The seas rise, and they fall, and all things go on.
Sirin clenched her teeth. That's not my way.
Then how will you go on?
I must know.
Do you think you will be forgiven?
I must know, she insisted, to her dead grandmother's memory, to herself. It had only ever been herself. I must.
The wind howled, channeled through a pair of rock markers at the clifftop. Sirin scrambled the last few yards, then helped Luca up, standing with him as he doubled over, his hands braced on his knees.
"Triune," he panted, peering over the edge. "You weren't joking. That's a long bloody way down."
Sirin turned her face to the gray sky and listened. Luca straightened with effort; she heard him come to her side. The clouds scudded over the sun, throwing the mountainside into a shifting play of sunlight, shadow. The landscape before her was all jumbled rockfall and spreading green moss, dense and springy, cut with rivulets of clear water from higher on the mountain. No sisi blossoms dotted the moss; the little yellow flowers bloomed in spring, and died by summer's end. She tasted moisture in the air, noted the way the clouds loomed, their depths a pensive gray. Later, there would be rain.
"What is it?" Luca asked.
Sirin shook her head, her throat tight behind her scar. Nothing, she signed. Nothing but silence.
They moved on, feet crunching on loose stones. The steps led them higher. Standing stones swam from the light mist, each no taller than Sirin and marking their own pathways over the mountain. Some bore bullet pits; others simply leaned like tired old women, their bases eroded by time. She touched them as she passed them by, running her hands down their damp, lichen-crusted surfaces. She set her shoulder to one leaning far enough to fall, as if she might push it back into place. She didn't, but it was good to feel the stone, to feel again this ground under her feet, familiar as a song almost forgotten.
The sun emerged from the low clouds. Shafts of sunlight hung through the mist, as if through deep water. One illuminated a humped shape, what Sirin thought for a moment was a huge fallen boulder. Drawing close, she realized her mistake.
Houses. Of course. They stood on a flank of the mountainside, a terraced plateau, a village. Her village. The last time she'd seen this place it was an inferno of flames, of screams, the goats bleating in their pens. Now, it seemed almost peaceful. The beehive huts, made of stacked stone and driftwood, were empty. The fires were out.
She didn't enter the village. She crouched by the path marker and sifted through the dirt, then plucked an object from it: a bone pin shaped like a tiny fish, carved with skill and exquisite detail, its eyes two chips of amber. She cleaned the grime off it and held it to the light.
"It's beautiful," Luca said. "Something of yours?"
Sirin shook her head, bending to bury it again.
"Don't you want to keep it?"
No. It doesn't belong to me.
She straightened and turned from the village. There was nothing here, nothing for her. She lifted her gaze toward the lower of the twin crags, then turned from the village, leaving it once more to the mist.
"Up there?" Luca asked her, quietly.
Sirin nodded, her hands in fists at her sides.
This climb was easier, though each step tightened her breathing, sharpened the spike of her heartbeat. Luca must have sensed it; he slipped his hand over her wrist, his fingers light on her pulse. He said nothing as they ascended, mounting the steps, the world becoming jagged black shale around them, the crags sharp as broken glass.
Sirin knew this walk. She'd made it many times, her arms full of driftwood, or baskets of sisi, or fresh razor grass harvested from the beach. She'd made it with her grandmother before, helping her when she was very young, and then simply keeping her company when she grew old enough to climb on her own.
Nothing to be afraid of, she'd said, the first time she brought Sirin to the cave. She had been three or four, shivering at the thought of this place. The holiness had terrified her. So had the prophet's skull within with its strange whaleglass tongue, its whispers calling her. They had given her such strange dreams.
Witch dreams, her grandmother explained. Like your witch blood. The Leviathan knows you, Sirin, deep in its own dreams. Some say all the world is its dream.
Ghosts live up there, Sirin had said.
And the ghosts know you, too. Your mother is there. My mother with her. All of our beloved dead. You come to remember them. They know that.
Sirin pressed her eyes shut as she crested the steps, holding back tears.
Do they know me, now?
Do they remember me?
Is there more waiting for me than the dead?
Whispers, whispers. Her grandmother's voice in her head, as real as her own thoughts. She had to do this, this last thing. For her lost people, for this place that had not feared the sight of a slaver ship, that had known nothing of the world beyond its kind seas. Valeria had left the battleground; she had left the world behind, in her grief, in the failing of her faith. Now Sirin walked with her own grief, as she had for so long. She didn't know if she could leave it in the dirt, didn't know if she could walk away from it and find what lay beyond. But Sirin's grandmother had been right, and she trusted her now, as she had then, all those years ago.
Don't be afraid, she said. Her voice faded; it quieted. Luca's voice replaced it. "Sirin," he said, soft and reverent.
She opened her eyes.
It rose from the mist.
The crag, like a ship's prow. The cave below, a rough gash in the mountainside. The stone graves, like silent children in the mist.
The wind lifted, ruffling Sirin's hair. A piercing pain coursed through her, white-hot as lightning.
A trace of yellow fluttered in the wind- yellow sisi flowers.
Sirin drew in. Her limbs were numb; her pulse felt far away, far from her body. The wind fell as she climbed through the stone graves, as she knelt before the cave mouth, as she shivered there in its draught.
A grave-doll stood in the broken shale. The sisi flowers had been woven into a little wreath about its neck, not yet torn away by the wind. It was driftwood dried to a silvery sheen, its eyes carved of shell.
Sirin's breath hissed from her. She reached for the grave-doll. Her fingers brushed its driftwood cheek.
How long had it been there? Not long. Whoever had placed it here must have done so before the last of the sisi flowers died, before the end of summer. They had come here. They had carved this doll, weaved that wreath, had placed it on this holy ground.
It was not for the dead this time, but for a fellow lost child of Alkona like her, for the living. For a ghost that might find a way home.
Sirin felt herself shaking. Her heartbeat trembled in her fingertips. She couldn't hold it back any longer. The sob tore its way from her, and she collapsed to her palms, her spine bent, her forehead pressed to the shale. She sobbed there, facing the dirt; she let the tears come. She let them scour her, so many long years of them.
Luca knelt by her and touched her shoulder. She pulled him to her, her arms around his neck, her face pressed to the curve of his neck and shoulder. He was warm, steady and calm, and he didn't let her go, not for a long time. Not until the tears were done and she was empty, able to breathe, able at last to stand again.
***
Later, they lay curled together in the darkness of the Hornet's small single cabin. A single lantern burned, swaying with the movement of the waves. It cast soft amber light over Luca, limning his bare shoulder and chest, the mess of razor scars carving their way through his skin. Propped on an elbow, looking down at him, Sirin traced them. She traced the line of his arm, the curve of his wrist. Each finger, one by one.
He watched her, his gray eyes glinting under his lashes.
Sirin lifted her hands. What?
"It's good to be here, that's all. Good to be with you."
Beautiful fool.
"Even the nose?"
She ran her thumb down its crooked bridge. Especially that. Like I told you, Valere. It makes your face more interesting.
"How could I forget." He paused, shifting on the bunk. With an exaggerated sense of ease he folded an arm behind his head. His untidy hair spilled into the lamplight, golden waves glistening. "I do hope it might be something you'd be willing to look at most every day."
Meaning?
"I don't know what's going to happen, to me, to Lapide. I can't...I can't claim I'll get it right. But I do know we have a chance, you and I."
Are you a prophet now, making promises of the future?
"Only one." He paused, his smile fading. "That I love you. That I always will. Not much of a vow, I know. But I've heard worse."
Sirin had, too. Once, she knew, that vow might have placed a crown on her head, might have made her queen of the country she'd once been victim to, and which had been her victim in turn. She remembered her dream of herself beneath the cedars, Luca at her side, watching their children play in the sunlight. To be queen of Lapide, the witchborn queen, dressed in blue.
It was only ever a dream. That was not what she wanted, and not what Luca wanted, either. He knew that as well as she did.
She turned her head to the side, considering. Promise me a ship of gold.
"I can...paint one gold."
She let out a silent laugh. That's it?
"It's in your favor, Sirin. Gold is far too dense a metal to make a decent ship. All you'd be sailing is the seabed."
I made a promise too, once, to you. She touched his hair, letting it spill through her fingers. Do you remember?
"Yes."
I promised I would be the one to kill you. I promised I would see your blood on my hands, before the end.
"And?"
And?
"Will you swear to see your promise through as well as I have?"
Close your eyes.
He did. Sirin watched him, watched the lanternlight play over his face. She listened to the gentle rhythm of his breathing.
She pressed her fingertips to his throat.
A wisp of shadow unfurled against Luca's skin. His pulse spiked, but he didn't move. Sirin let her fingers fall, and replaced them with her lips. She kissed the side of his throat, softly, then his cheek. His lashes brushed her face as he opened his eyes again.
Maybe, Sirin signed.
"Maybe what?"
Lapide can never be my home. Not truly. But I love you, Valere. And my answer, to you, is maybe.
Luca nodded, then shrugged. "I've faced worse odds."
We both have.
"And here we are."
Unlikely. Yet I cannot complain.
"Can't you?"
She bent, and kissed him. It is good to be here with you, too.
A hint of Luca's smile returned as he brushed a curl from her face. "It's a fine enough place to begin."
Sirin stayed with him until he fell asleep, then wrapped herself in a blanket and slipped up the ladder to the deck.
Alkona was a great dark crag cut out against the stars, a vast looming presence like a sleeping creature. The clouds drifted, dense and heavy, the tang of approaching rain sharp on Sirin's tongue. She crossed to the bow and leaned against the railing, watching the play of the running lamps over the waves, turning their peaks clear and green.  
She set her eyes on the horizon.
A spark rose in her, wild and strange. It arced through her cold as the wind, a desire so vast it was close to sorrow. The first raindrop touched her cheek. She barely felt it. The rain spoke softly against the deck. It wreathed Alkona in haze, a specter glimpsed through mist.
She spread her arms and let her shadows unfurl, reaching to douse the running lights, reaching to the waves, to the fathoms below, upwards toward the stars and the empty night between them, to the line where the stars met the sea and were drowned in it. She willed it with all of her power, so hard it hurt. A glimpse, a sign.
Come back, Sirin urged. Come back to us.
The horizon remained dark. No flare of blue, no swell of light.
Sirin let out her breath, settling her hands on the icy gunwale. Her shadows released, chasing back to their right place. The stars shone past the clouds. The rain quieted to a whisper on the surface of the sea. She wouldn't see it tonight. Maybe she would never see it again.
It didn't matter. It was out there. The stars turned. The seas rose and fell with the moonset. As the world lived and died, so would the whale that swam it into being, whose life and death meant it would go on turning.
It was here, too, a part of her as much as she was a part of it. It was with Luca, by whose side she would soon go and sit, so he might not be alone when he woke up. It was with her power, the cycle of it unceasing. It was with her, she who had not abandoned herself, who against all odds had come back.
Sirin had walked one path for so long, sure it would end in dust, a lonely death in a lonely place. Now that surety was gone, and the sea spread before her. The world to come was full of pain, perhaps, but full of mercy, too. Both were infinite, in the great and terrible balance of all things.
Whatever came, only one truth was certain.
The Great Leviathan would return.
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the-faramir · 4 months ago
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Extinction Curse Session 2024/06/19 (part 2)
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The Siege of Willowside
Day 3 (Part 4)
Finding a dead-end alcove to be a bit suspicious, the party searched it for hidden passageways. Buffy found one in the northeast corner and opened the door. Everybody went through to the adjoining hallway. A stairway led down to the west, another led up to the east, and the hallway to the north had collapsed some time ago. To the south lay the room where the heroes fought the sodden sentinels.
Taking the lead, Midori scouted up the stairs to the east, finding a cleaner cavern with a dry floor. Shelves of books and parchments lined the walls. Above, carvings of lizards graced the surfaces.
The other heroes followed her into the room. Galon immediately pointed out a faint circle of runes on the floor to the others.
Midori quipped, "Maybe we should all stand equidistant around the circle and chant."
Lysander immediately interrupted with a "Nope. Nope. Nope."
Lysander and Midori studied the runes but could not identify the specific spell they held. They concluded that the runes made up a summoning circle of sorts.
The team searched the bookshelves for clues. One book mentioned a horrible creature called a mukradi that resembled a giant, three-headed centipede, capable of pulling people apart. Midori grasped her torso defensively. "I don't wanna get pulled apart! Let's hope we don't run into that thing!"
Other books described an ancient creature known as Bokrug: a giant lizard with tentacles at its neck and a spiked tail. Midori found a picture depicting exactly what she had seen in her nightmare the first night they stayed in Willowside. The heroes pocketed some valuable items: six rare books about Bokrug's faith, and two crude iron flasks shaped like Bokrug containing magical elixir that would enable a person to breathe underwater.
Looking again at the summoning circle, Lysander spoke up. "This summoning circle isn't safe. It's a trap. It needs to be deactivated. We definitely don't want to fight whatever this thing would throw at us. I'll just step in here and break the circle…."
Galon tried to stop him. "Are you kidding me? If you touch it, you'll activate it. Best to leave it alone. We all know it's there. Nobody will step inside."
Lysander replied indignantly, "Look, man. I know occultism. Touching the rune won't hurt anything." He proceeded to attempt to disable the summoning circle. All of a sudden, the circle began to glow.
A wild mukradi appeared!
"I'll distract it! Everyone else, run for it!" Lysander tried to rip the spirit out of the centipede-like monster, then ran through the hallway and down a set of stairs toward another lower, wetter cavern. "Let's see if this thing can swim!"
Buffy summoned a magical wall of force, preventing the mukradi from attacking Galon and Midori.
Midori took off running back toward the general store, shouting, "Yeah, try to drown it or somethin'!"
Galon followed Midori, yelling, "Or lure it toward the rock mouths!"
The mukradi ran toward Lysander, biting at him with three mouths. Lysander attempted to play dead, collapsing into a pile of bones and lamenting, "Ohhh, ya got me!" The mukradi, however, was not deceived and tried to pull Lysander apart. The skeleton bard managed to pull himself together, soothe himself with magic, and run toward the water. Buffy attempted to distract the monster with a cloak of colors.
Meanwhile, Galon and Midori continued to run away, arriving at the stairwell leading out of the sea caves.
Seeing the flashing colors, the mukradi attempted to break through the wall of force but failed. Lysander shot at it once, then turned and continued running, veering to the left into a watery cavern to the south in the hopes that he could get back to the rest of the party. Buffy followed him, granting him a life boost.
Catching her breath, Midori asked Galon, "What do we do? Wait for him to come to us?" Galon just shook his head and shrugged.
Running into the water, splashing about and making a great deal of noise, Lysander awakened two wight cultists that had been slumbering in the cavern. Taking him by surprise, they both attacked.
Lysander, out of breath for the moment, jumped onto the top of Buffy and shouted, "Let's get the fuck outta here!" He cast guidance on the automaton for good measure as Buffy started to run back to the exit.
Standing by the stairwell, Midori heard a clatter and shouting coming from the hallway to the north. "AAAAH! They're comin' right for us!" She and Galon prepared to attack any foes that would come around the corner.
Gaining on Lysander and Buffy, the mukradi came barreling into the watery cavern. Seeing a new foe moving through, the wight cultists attacked and followed the monster. Soon, the mukradi caught up with Buffy and attacked her with its three heads, bringing her to the ground. Lysander kissed her on the top of her "head," saying, "I love ya, buddy, but I gotta run!" He dismounted and ran down the hallway past Galon and Midori, shouting "That thing can fuckin' swim!" on his way out.
In the distance came the sounds of Buffy casting a spell. Galon and Midori followed Lysander up the stairs and into the general store's basement.
Suddenly, Buffy's voice silenced and the sound of rending metal carried up the stairs. Midori hastily closed the doors and locked the padlock before the party left the general store and returned to the circus to rest and heal.
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xasha777 · 7 months ago
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In the lustrous emerald city of Elysian, where bioluminescent flora climbed the crystal spires and the waters mirrored the perpetual aurora of the skies, there thrived a civilization guided by the principles of the Fluctuation Theorem. This principle, once an abstract concept from the ancient tomes of thermodynamics, had been harnessed and transformed into the core of their technology.
At the heart of Elysian stood a grand figure, Aria, the Guardian of the Equilibrium. Adorned in robes that seemed woven from the very essence of the green spectrum, Aria stood sentinel beside the Lotus of Light - a sacred construct that balanced the energy flows of the city.
The Lotus of Light was no ordinary flower. It was the physical embodiment of the Fluctuation Theorem, an advanced AI-driven reactor that converted and distributed energy with perfect efficiency. It drew upon the stochastic resonance of the universe, ensuring that for every bit of energy lost, an equal part was gained, maintaining an equilibrium that sustained the utopia.
But equilibrium was not merely physical; it was the ideology that underpinned Elysian society. The fluctuation of energy was mirrored in the fluctuation of ideas, the cyclical nature of culture, and the ebb and flow of life itself. Aria, through her connection to the Lotus, was the interpreter of these patterns, a guide for her people.
A crisis loomed on the horizon, however. A colossal disturbance in the cosmic seas of energy, foretold by the erratic pulsations of the Lotus. Aria sensed an imbalance that threatened to unravel the fabric of Elysian life. She knew the Fluctuation Theorem’s promise: in every system, the probability of an energy fluctuation is not zero; the improbable must be anticipated.
As the Guardian, Aria had to venture beyond the city's borders to the origin of the disturbance. She traversed the interstellar wilderness, guided by the theorem’s wisdom. In the vacuum of space, she confronted the anomaly - a dark singularity that consumed energy, violating the sacred balance.
With her knowledge of the theorem, Aria understood that to restore balance, she must catalyze a reciprocal reaction. She channeled the Lotus's energy, initiating a rare and monumental fluctuation. Light streamed from her being, a verdant aurora reaching out to the singularity. The singularity, unable to withstand the theorem's truth, began to fluctuate in turn, becoming a radiant beacon rather than an abyss.
The energy that had been devoured was returned in a brilliant cascade, and equilibrium was restored. Aria returned to Elysian, her city celebrating the Guardian who had embodied their greatest principle. And the Lotus of Light bloomed brighter than ever, a symbol of the eternal balance between loss and gain, predicting the fluctuations yet to come, in the vast cosmic dance of the universe.
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mudaship39 · 1 year ago
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Heart of Dragon Fire, Soul of Phoenix Flame, & Ocean Blood of Sea Fairy 
Chapter 5: Verse:
A War Dance of Defiance, A Love Song of Resilience, & A Battle Cry of Resistance:
This is a war dance, this is a love song, & this is a battle cry
This is a war dance!
This is a war dance that can even intimidate, daunt, & terrify even an enemy army of even a million strong!
This is a war dance that can inspire, strengthen, & cure an exhausted and discouraged army of a couple hundred thousand strong!
This is a battle cry!
This is a battle cry that can even quake the earth, tremble the seas, & shake the skies themselves! 
This is a battle cry that can move the planets, moons, stars, the heavens, & the universe not just people!
This is a love song! 
This is a love song that can stir people’s souls, inspire people’s minds, & rouse people's hearts!
This is a love song of resistance, defiance, & resilience, solidarity, community, & intersectionality 
We are survivors 
We are an echo
We are a dream
We are a whisper
We are a memory
We are a story
We are a voice
We are a reminder
We are a song
We are a nightmare
We are a bold roar 
We are an echo of a people that you try to erase with cultural genocide
This is a story of my ancestors
This is the whisper of my elders or kupuna 
This is the myth of my people
This is the voice of my nation or iwi 
This is the story of my family or whanau 
This is the song of my clan or hapau
Ever since the very beginning! 
This is a story of a people forged in the fire of community, intersectionality, & solidarity 
This is a song of a people baptized in the flame of resistance, resilience, & defiance 
This is why they should fear the story of the children of the dragon of the stars 
This is why they should fear the song of the children of the phoenix of the heavens 
This is why they should fear the whisper of the children of the fairy of the cosmos 
This is why they should fear the stories and songs of the children of the earth, the seas, & the sky
This is my blood right as a scion of my bloodlines 
This is my inheritance, my legacy, my heritage, & my bequest as a child made of earth, ocean, & sky 
This is my story as a child with the heart of a celestial and stellar dragon, the soul of a divine and heavenly phoenix, & the blood of the ancient and cosmic fairy
This is my voice as someone born of a spark of fire of the stars, born of ember of flame of the heavens, & born of the drop of blood of the cosmic ocean 
I am both an ancestor and a descendant at the same time 
I am their hopes, their dreams, & I am their love 
I am their rage, their fury, their hatred, & their wrath! 
I am a fury, radiance, power, & wrath of the earth, the skies, the ocean, the heavens, the stars, moons, & the planets of the universe itself
I am their charity, I am their pride, I am their dignity, & I am their mercy 
I am their happiness, their joy, & their contentment
I am resistance, I am resilience, & I am defiance
I am community, I am intersectionality, & I am solidarity 
I am made of earth, made of ocean, & made of sky
I am born of fire of stars, flame of heavens, & water of the cosmic seas
I have a fire dragon heart, I have a flame phoenix soul, & I have sea fairy blood
As a storyteller I am healing myself, healing others in the Indigenous community, healing my ancestors, & healing my descendants as well 
As a storyteller my ancestors and my peoples they speak through me 
I come from two long ancient and powerful bloodlines who upheld noble and proud traditions 
From my French and Polynesian Tahitian Indigenous Pasifika mother’s adoptive Vietnamese parents 
I am a regent of an ancient and powerful family
We were a family of a thousand generations of military officers 
Soldiers and warriors or kekoa that defended my nation’s monarchy 
Our legacy and heritage was we were the wardens, guardians, & sentinels of kings and queens
That is why my chosen Polynesian Indigenous Pasifika middle name is Aitonui for great warrior 
I am not a warrior and I am not a soldier though 
That is more my older brother who was a marine
From my Southeast Asian Vietnamese and Chinese father 
I am scion of an ancient and powerful family who upheld a noble and proud tradition 
A family of a thousand generations artists, actors, dancers, singers, poets, & playwrights
A legacy and bequest of storykeepers, orators, & storytellers
I carry on that inheritance and heritage build my own legacy and bequest as a storyteller, writer, artist, & orator
Passing on the stories, legends, and songs of my people, my clan, my nation, & my ancestors, & my family 
To pass it on to the next generation as an orator 
I take pride to be a storykeeper and storyteller 
Preserving my people’s folklore, my family’s stories, & my ancestor’s songs to memory 
And carving it into stone, granite, rock, & even diamonds
Immortalizing it forever in books, shows, films, songs, & spoken word as an artist and writer
It is an honor for me to do
That is why my chosen Polynesian Indigenous Pasifika first name is No’eau 
Long ago the flame phoenix, the sea fairy, & the fire dragon they gave me a gift of fire my earth voice as a storyteller
Long ago the earth, the ocean, & the sky they gave me a present of flame my ocean song as an orator  
I myself am not a warrior 
I myself am not a soldier 
I would rather create not destroy 
I would rather heal than hurt
But I have the blood of fishermen, hunters, explorers, sailors, & navigators flowing in my sea fairy ocean veins 
I have the minds of scientists, astronomers, mathematicians, academics, inventors, & engineers in my earth, ocean, & sky mind
I have the hearts of actors, singers, dancers, poets, artists, & playwrights beating in my fire dragon heart 
I have soul of warriors, soldiers, monarchs, & leaders flowing in my flame phoenix soul 
I am both ancestor and descendant at the same time
Carrying the memory of my ancestors or na kupuna, my elders or kupuna, my people, my clan or hapau, my nation or iwi, & my family or whanau
I am a storyteller who is the voice of my people as an orator 
I tell my people’s stories and I sing their songs that is my kuleana or obligation and responsibility 
My Vietnamese name is Ngoc Dinh Nguyen 
My English name is Christian Nguyen 
I chose a first and middle Polynesian Indigenous Pasifika name of No’eau Aitonui 
I will chose a Polynesian Tahitian Indigenous Pasifika surname of Hoata as displaced state side disconnected diaspora
I will one day reclaim my Polynesian Tahitian Indigenous Pasifika grandmother’s last name
I will one day find my clan or my hapau
I will one day find my family or my whanau by finding my mother’s birth family
I will one day find my family or whanau by choosing my chosen family
I will one day find my iwi or my nation
I will one day find my sacred mountain or male ancestor
I will one day find my sacred river or female ancestor
I will one day find out what my clan’s and family’s elders or kupuna did as their duty and responsibility 
What did my whanau or hapau do as their kuleana I wonder 
Were they artisans who were artists
Were they warriors who defended chieftains and elders
Were they clerics who spoke to our polytheistic gods and goddesses 
I am a phoenix who has died and has been reborn in fire and flame
I am a tempest and I am a storm 
I am an echo of a people who are still here 
Despite you trying to erase us 
Against all odds we are still here 
I am a survivor
I am an echo
I am a dream
I am a whisper
I am a memory
I am a story
I am a reminder
I am a song 
I am a nightmare
I am a bold roar
I am a writer
I am an artist
I am a storyteller
I am an orator 
I am a war dance
I am a love song
I am a battle cry
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wbficaholic · 3 years ago
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At the End of the World, a SessKag fanfiction
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Now available on AO3! -> Link
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☾*✲⋆. A PMO exclusive fic!! Read it here first ⇒ Part 1
Summary:
Years after the well has shut, during a getaway trip to the mythic Irish coast, Kagome encounters a familiar figure from her past.
A modern fairytale, told in four parts.
Excerpt:
There wasn’t much of a road leading up to this landmark. The dirt path just faded to grass. But with her bike this made little difference. At a decent clip, Kagome sailed on toward the steely gray glint of the sea.
She wondered if the lack of a paved road was intentional. According to her driver, the locals held this spot to be haunted by a white ghost. Even on the map of the area, it seemed to be palely marked, compared to the rest.
But more than likely, it just wasn’t all that popular with tourists. From a distance, Kagome could see why this might be. As the rolling green slopes gave way to plunging sea cliffs, she saw the ruined dark towers that stood like crumbling sentinels at the steep mouth of an inlet. It looked as though at any moment, this old ancient fastness might decide to tumble straight down into the churning waters below.
Leading up to the towers were structures still more eldritch and eerie—pillars of standing stone, erected in the grass in some inscrutable array. Dismounting, Kagome approached them. It seemed irreverent to her, to lean her bike against these structures. Since it didn’t have a kickstand, she laid it down carefully in the grass and then crossed over to the stones. Smoothing her palm across the pitted, lichen-crusted granite, she closed her eyes. Like the soundless tolling of a bell, she felt a curious resonance in her soul.
It was a while before she opened her eyes again. Before her, the dark rock faintly glowed. Kagome drew her hand away in surprise. She glanced around furtively on impulse—though of course there was no one else on this forgotten peninsula but herself.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she wandered on ahead. About a quarter mile farther, the ruined towers lay, black and dilapidated as if they’d weathered a fiery hailstorm or two. The scent of the sea filled her nose—briny and crisp, and softly stinging. Pausing, Kagome bound back her hair against the relentless, bitter lashing of the wind.
The closer she drew to the blasted old castle, the sadder and bleaker it looked. Really it was just an old pile of rocks, still stacked up together in a vague semblance of pattern. The insides were hollow as old bones, full of moss and dry dirt. If it weren’t for the warped pits of the window-holes, it wouldn’t look like much of anything at all.
It was strange, Kagome reflected, how this castle must be so much younger than those standing stones. Yet somehow they were stouter, better preserved through the decay of time. Could it be that human hands hadn’t shaped them? That curious, ethereal reaction to her touch made her question…
Lost in thought, Kagome meandered around the outskirts of the towers. Circling toward the sea, she froze. At the very knifepoint of the peninsula she saw it—
Not the ‘white ghost’ of legend, but a phantom of another sort.
“Sesshoumaru?” she said, almost a whisper.
The wind and waves swallowed up the slip of sound. But the distant figure turned toward her all the same.
To see him so suddenly after all this time left her stunned mind briefly blank. Then, as the moment of blank shock passed, she was left reeling in a jumble of inner chaos. His face was the same, and it wasn’t. Kagome struggled to process the change. Without his markings visible, he looked startlingly like a man.
Startlingly like his younger brother.
Yet his hair was still long and silver—though only about shoulder-length now, and bound at the nape—and his eyes were still light, like burnt amber. And the cool, keen look he fixed her with—well that was the most familiar of all. Whether it was the lingering hangover, or the terrible excitement of this discovery, she felt her head go perilously light.
“Kagome,” he said back to her, and she fainted on the spot.
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Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash  
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butterflies-dragons · 4 years ago
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i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)
(Title from the namesake poem by e.e. cummings)
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Jon Snow, Sansa Stark & Winterfell. An exploration.
A/N: This composition in no way denies the connection of the other Stark children, Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, with the north, Winterfell, the weirwood tree, and the old gods, but focuses primarily on Jon and Sansa.
I. WHITE AS BONE, RED AS BLOOD
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(Art credit: White Wolf by  Kay-Ra)
Have you ever stopped to think about how Ghost, Jon's direwolf, is always described as the weirwood tree?
The weirwood is a species of deciduous trees found in Westeros, now found most commonly in the north and beyond the Wall. The five-pointed leaves and the sap of weirwoods are blood-red, while the smooth bark on their wide trunks and wood are bone white. Most weirwoods have faces carved into their trunks. This was done by the children of the forest in ancient days, and is now done by the free folk as well as other descendants of the First Men, such as followers of the old gods in the Seven Kingdoms praying to heart trees in godswoods. In some cases sap has collected in the crevices of the carved faces, giving the trees red eyes which have been known to drip sap as if the trees were weeping. A weirwood will live forever if undisturbed. Weirwoods are considered sacred to the followers of the old gods, and children of the forest believe weirwoods are the gods. [Source]
The weirwood tree is always watchful and silent:
The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.
—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I
Bran had always liked the godswood, even before, but of late he found himself drawn to it more and more. Even the heart tree no longer scared him the way it used to. The deep red eyes carved into the pale trunk still watched him, yet somehow he took comfort from that now. The gods were looking over him, he told himself; the old gods, gods of the Starks and the First Men and the children of the forest, his father's gods. He felt safe in their sight, and the deep silence of the trees helped him think. Bran had been thinking a lot since his fall; thinking, and dreaming, and talking with the gods.
—A Game of Thrones - Bran VI
The weirwood tree is also called the heart tree:
At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. "The heart tree," Ned called it.  The weirwood's bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle's granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea.
—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I
The most famous weirwood tree in Westeros is the one in the godswood of Winterfell:
When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Now, let’s see how Ghost is described:
"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said. "Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup.  His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.
—A Game of Thrones - Bran I
And suddenly Ghost was back, stalking softly between two weirwoods. White fur and red eyes, Jon realized, disquieted. Like the trees …
—A Game of Thrones - Jon VI
Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Benjen watched Ghost with amusement as he ate his onion. "A very quiet wolf," he observed. "He's not like the others," Jon said. "He never makes a sound. That's why I named him Ghost. That, and because he's white. The others are all dark, grey or black."
—A Game of Thrones - Jon I
Even Ghost backed off a step, baring his teeth in a silent snarl. The direwolf was big, but the mammoths were a deal bigger, and there were many and more of them.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon II
In the dark, the direwolf's red eyes looked black. He nuzzled at Jon's neck, silent as ever, his breath a hot mist.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon III
As the weirwood is called the heart of Winterfell, Ghost is also part of Jon:
When he finally put the quill down, the room was dim and chilly, and he could feel its walls closing in. Perched above the window, the Old Bear's raven peered down at him with shrewd black eyes. My last friend, Jon thought ruefully. And I had best outlive you, or you'll eat my face as well. Ghost did not count. Ghost was closer than a friend. Ghost was part of him.
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon III
The face carved in Winterfell’s heart tree, is described as “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding”:
At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. "The heart tree," Ned called it. The weirwood's bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful.
—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I
At the heart of the godswood, the great white weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black pool, its leaves rustling in a chill wind.
—A Game of Thrones - Bran III
When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father's face.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI
When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
These features: “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding,” are distinctive of House Stark, and we find them specially in Ned Stark and Jon Snow:
Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.
—A Game of Thrones - Bran I
"I see." His uncle glanced over his shoulder at the raised table at the far end of the hall. "My brother does not seem very festive tonight." Jon had noticed that too. A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes. His father was observing all the courtesies, but there was tightness in him that Jon had seldom seen before. He said little, looking out over the hall with hooded eyes, seeing nothing. Two seats away, the king had been drinking heavily all night. His broad face was flushed behind his great black beard. He made many a toast, laughed loudly at every jest, and attacked each dish like a starving man, but beside him the queen seemed as cold as an ice sculpture. "The queen is angry too," Jon told his uncle in a low, quiet voice. "Father took the king down to the crypts this afternoon. The queen didn't want him to go." Benjen gave Jon a careful, measuring look. "You don't miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall."
—A Game of Thrones - Jon I
Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did.
—A Game of Thrones - Arya I
She [Arya] even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I
She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him.
—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn II
The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son.
—A Game of Thrones - Tyrion II
When he had gone, Eddard Stark went to the window and sat brooding. Robert had left him no choice that he could see. He ought to thank him. It would be good to return to Winterfell. He ought never have left. His sons were waiting there. Perhaps he and Catelyn would make a new son together when he returned, they were not so old yet. And of late he had often found himself dreaming of snow, of the deep quiet of the wolfswood at night.
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VIII
"Why should Lord Karstark want him dead?" Catelyn asked. Robb looked away into the woods, with the same brooding look that Ned often got. "He … he killed them …"
—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn X
Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow's face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own. If the gods frowned so on bastards, he thought dully, why did they fill men with such lusts? "Lord Baelish, what do you know of Robert's bastards?" "Well, he has more than you, for a start."
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard IX
When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father's face.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI
All in black, he was a shadow among shadows, dark of hair, long of face, grey of eye.
—A Clash of Kings - Jon I
“Who’s this one now?” Craster said before Jon could go. “He has the look of a Stark.” “My steward and squire, Jon Snow.”
—A Clash of Kings - Jon III
And after the war, at Winterfell, I had love enough for any woman, once I found the good sweet heart beneath Ned's solemn face.
—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V
Even after stumbling into his narrow bed, rest had not come easily. He knew what he would face today, and found himself tossing restlessly as he brooded on Maester Aemon's final words. […] Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born."
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II
As you can see, Jon Snow’s face is as “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding” as the face carved in Winterfell’s heart tree.
To sum it up:
The children of the forest believe that the weirwoods are the old gods themselves.
In Ghost (red eyes, white fur, watchful eyes, silent), we have a symbol of the weirwood tree (red leaves, white bark, watchful eyes, silent).
The weirwood is called a heart tree, and Winterfell’s weirwood in particular is called the heart of Winterfell.  
The weirwood is a part of Winterfell (its heart) as Ghost is part of Jon.
The face carved in Winterfell’s heart tree, is described as “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding”. This description also fits Ghost’s master: Jon Snow.
In Jon Snow and Ghost we really have symbols of the weirwood tree. Jon Snow and Ghost represent the heart of Winterfell.
Now, let’s talk about Winterfell.
II. RAISED AFTER THE LONG NIGHT
Have you ever wondered what the name Winterfell means? Has it something to do with the Stark’s motto Winter is coming?
Let’s analyze the semantics of the words that form the name. The word ‘winter’ doesn’t need a major explanation, we all know its meaning. And for the word ‘fell’, we have this:
Noun: 1. The English word fell comes from Old Norse fell and fjall (both forms existed). It is cognate with Danish fjeld, Faroese fjall and fjøll, Icelandic fjall and fell, Norwegian fjell with dialects fjøll, fjødd, fjedd, fjedl, fjill, fil(l) and fel, and Swedish fjäll, all referring to mountains rising above the alpine tree line. [source] 2. A hill or other area of high land, especially in northwest England. [source] 3. A high barren field or moor. [source]
So, the name “Winterfell” could mean “wintry mountain(s)”.
Verb: 1. Past simple of “fall.” 2. Transitive verb: a) to cut, knock, or bring down; b) kill.
Adjective: 1. evil or cruel [source] 2. a) fierce, cruel, terrible b) sinister, malevolent c) deadly [source]
I think George masterly played with the word “fell” as a verb and as an adjective here, because:
As the past simple of “fall,” winter + fell could refer to “the arrival of winter.”
For example:    
"You mean the Others," Bran said querulously. "The Others," Old Nan agreed. "Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks." Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, "So, child. This is the sort of story you like?"
—A Game of Thrones - Bran IV
It is also from these histories that we learn of the Long Night, when a season of winter came that lasted a generation—a generation in which children were born, grew into adulthood, and in many cases died without ever seeing the spring. Indeed, some of the old wives' tales say that they never even beheld the light of day, so complete was the winter that fell on the world.
—The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: The Long Night
Rhaenyra's chief supporters were her good-father Lord Velaryon, her cousin Lady Jeyne Arryn, and Lord Stark (though his help was slow in coming, as he kept every man to harvest what they could before winter fell on the North).
—The World of Ice and Fire - The Targaryen Kings: Aegon II
Then, “Winterfell” (winter + fell) could be used as the Stark motto, once the winter arrived.
But the verb “fall” also means:
1. to be beaten or defeated [source] 2. to be defeated or fail [source] 3. to suffer ruin, defeat, or failure [source]
So, “Winterfell” (winter + fell) could mean that “the Long Winter (Long Night) was defeated.”
Indeed, Brandon the Builder could have chosen the name “Winterfell” (winter + fell) for everyone to remember that the First Men and the Children of the Forest defeated the Long Night:  
The greatest castle of the North is Winterfell, the seat of the Starks since the Dawn Age. Legend says that Brandon the Builder raised Winterfell after the generation-long winter known as the Long Night to become the stronghold of his descendants, the Kings of Winter.
—The World of Ice and Fire - The North: Winterfell
But if we use “fell” as an adjective for winter (fell + winter) it means: a fierce, cruel, terrible, sinister, malevolent, deadly winter, that would be the perfect description for the Long Winter (Long Night).
For example:  
However, if this fell winter did take place, as the tales say, the privation would have been terrible to behold. During the hardest winters, it is customary for the oldest and most infirm amongst the northmen to claim they are going out hunting—knowing full well they will never return and thus leaving a little more food for those likelier to survive. Doubtless this practice was common during the Long Night.
—The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: The Long Night
I think George paid homage to J.R.R. Tolkien with the Long Winter (Long Night), because some similar events happened in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings World:
Fell Winter (First Age), was an especially long and bitter winter, with ice and snow from November to March.
Long Winter, was an extremely cold and long-lasting winter in Middle-earth, covering Eriador, Dunland and Rohan.
Fell Winter (Third Age), was an extremely cold and long-lasting winter in Middle-earth.
See: “Fell + Winter” (The Long Night) & “Winter + Fell” (Victory over the Long Night). We have to admire George here, it's amazing how good he is with the English Language.
Now let’s go back to Winterfell the castle. “Legend says that Brandon the Builder raised Winterfell after the generation-long winter known as the Long Night.” A castle rising after the end of winter... Where did I read about a castle rising after the winter fell before??? Oh yes! That’s from my favorite Sansa chapter:
The snow fell and the castle rose. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
This is such a beautiful scene with such a beautiful wording. GRRM not only gave us foreshadowing of Sansa re-building Winterfell in the future, but he also crafted that scene as a reminder of the First Men and the Children of the Forest victory over the Long Night at the Battle for the Dawn.
Dawn is what follows after the night ends, and it is Sansa Stark, a descendant of Brandon The Builder, a character heavily linked with the sun and morning and light (in other words: heavily linked with the Dawn), that wakes up, at dawn, to build a castle out of the snow that fell over the Eyrie’s Godswood, to build her home, the greatest castle of the North, Winterfell.
And as history repeats itself, the Long Night could be back again, so that’s why the Starks are always saying that “Winter is coming”. The Stark’s motto sounds like a warning for all the realm.
Yes, suddenly all of the Stark’s sayings, pronounced by our good old Ned, sound like warnings about the Long Night:
"The winters are hard," Ned admitted. "But the Starks will endure. We always have."
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I
When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths.
—A Game of Thrones - Arya II
And my favorite line from Ned:
'In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it's true … but what if we prevail?'
—A Dance with Dragons - Davos I
So, the second coming of the Long Night is certain, this has been foreshadowed since AGOT:
North and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks. Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. "Why?" Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling.
—A Game of Thrones - Bran III
But we also know that the Starks will endure and prevail at the end. Even if Winterfell should fall, which is very probable, a new symbol of their victory over the Long Night will rise again. With a new Dawn, there will be a new Winterfell.
Now, let's talk about what Winterfell means to Jon.
III. HE WANTED IT AS MUCH AS HE HAD EVER WANTED ANYTHING
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(Art credit: Jon finds Ghost, by Magali Villeneuve © Fantasy Flight Games)
In a few words, Winterfell is what Jon wanted, as much as he had ever wanted anything. He had always wanted Winterfell. But of course, since we are talking about Jon Snow, his strong desire for Winterfell would fill him with an enormous guilt; first and foremost due to his bastard status and secondly due to his vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch:
When Jon had been very young, too young to understand what it meant to be a bastard, he used to dream that one day Winterfell might be his. […] All he had to do was say the word, and he would be Jon Stark, and nevermore a Snow. All he had to do was pledge this king his fealty, and Winterfell was his. All he had to do … …was forswear his vows again.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI
“That morning he called it first. “I’m Lord of Winterfell!” he cried, as he had a hundred times before. Only this time, this time, Robb had answered, “You can’t be Lord of Winterfell, you’re bastard-born. My lady mother says you can’t ever be the Lord of Winterfell.” […] Why am I so angry? he asked himself, but it was a stupid question. Lord of Winterfell. I could be the Lord of Winterfell. My father’s heir. […] Stannis wants me to be the Lord of Winterfell. But what do I want? […] He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. 
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
In the end Jon rejected Stannis’s offer and gave up Winterfell and he did it mainly for the love he had towards his family. With that decision he also remained loyal to his vows to the Night’s Watch, so, in other words, he kept his honor by doing his duty.Someone please tell Lady Stoneheart that Jon Snow, among all the Stark children, is the one who more profoundly internalized the Tully words: “Family, Duty, Honor”.
If Jon had accepted Stannis’s offer, he would have had Winterfell, but at an extremely high price: burning the weirwood tree, which, to him, would be sacrilege:
When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
What precisely helped Jon find an answer to Stannis’s offer was his beloved direwolf, Ghost; that is to say, a symbol of the weirwood tree.
Indeed, after their separation beyond the Wall, Ghost returned to Jon just in time to help him choose between his deepest desire and his family and duty:
It was a long moment before he understood what was happening. When he did, he bolted to his feet. “Ghost?” He turned toward the wood, and there he came, padding silently out of the green dusk, the breath coming warm and white from his open jaws. “Ghost!” he shouted, and the direwolf broke into a run. He was leaner than he had been, but bigger as well, and the only sound he made was the soft crunch of dead leaves beneath his paws. When he reached Jon he leapt, and they wrestled amidst brown grass and long shadows as the stars came out above them. “Gods, wolf, where have you been?” Jon said when Ghost stopped worrying at his forearm. “I thought you’d died on me, like Robb and Ygritte and all the rest. I’ve had no sense of you, not since I climbed the Wall, not even in dreams.” The direwolf had no answer, but he licked Jon’s face with a tongue like a wet rasp, and his eyes caught the last light and shone like two great red suns. Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one. And he alone of all the direwolves was white. Six pups they’d found in the late summer snows, him and Robb; five that were grey and black and brown, for the five Starks, and one white, as white as Snow. He had his answer then.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
And at this point, we all know what was Jon’s answer, right?
“By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon I
Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV
Yes, Jon’s answer was Sansa. Winterfell belongs to Sansa. He could have said ‘Winterfell belongs to my sisters Sansa and Arya’ or ‘Winterfell belongs to my trueborn sisters’ or ‘Winterfell belongs to the Starks’ but no. He said, more than once, that Winterfell belongs to Sansa. And I think there is an important reason for this wording. And that reason is that Jon and Sansa are destined to rebuild Winterfell and continue the Stark legacy.  
Now let’s talk about Sansa, Winterfell and the weirwood tree.
IV. COME TO THE GODSWOOD TONIGHT, IF YOU WANT TO GO HOME
Sansa’s journey back home starts with a godswood.
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(Art credit: Sansa meets Ser Dontos in the godswood of the Red Keep by Jonathan Burton)
“Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home.” With these words Littlefinger trapped Sansa using her deepest desire to go back home, to Winterfell.
"But . . . my lord, you said . . . you said we were sailing home." "You look distraught. Did you think we were making for Winterfell, sweetling? Winterfell has been taken, burned, and sacked. All those you knew and loved are dead. What northmen who have not fallen to the ironmen are warring amongst themselves. Even the Wall is under attack. Winterfell was the home of your childhood, Sansa, but you are no longer a child. You're a woman grown, and you need to make your own home."
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI
Littlefinger words were a vile lie, but the author’s words were telling the truth: Come to the godswood and you will be home, only in the godswood you will find home. But not any godswood. Only Winterfell’s Godswood is Sansa’s home.  
It’s not a coincidence that every castle that Sansa visited in the south so far, had a godswood but not a weirwood tree. This image represents Sansa (the godswood) without Lady (the weirwood tree).
The south meant loss after loss for Sansa. And every one of those losses were seen as a cut from her northern roots. Without Lady, she lost her connection to the old gods. Without Ned, she lost her connection to House Stark. Without her hair color and true born status she lost her own identity and pride (Sansa may be dead as well. There’s only Alayne Stone).
But while at a superficial level Sansa could be seen as not a Stark anymore, she was always a Stark, a wolf, a skinchanger, a child of the wintry mountains of the north, it’s just that the author decided to make it subtle, hiding all those signs of Sansa’s Starkness in a form of poetry that can be easily ignored at a cursory reading.  
IV.1. SANSA AND WINTERFELL
The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter.
Sansa Stark was born at Winterfell, most probably during winter. She was the first Stark of the current generation that was born at Winterfell. Robb was born at Riverrun, Jon was born in Dorne, and while Arya, Bran and Rickon were born at Winterfell as well, they came to life during the long summer.  
Sansa feels pride to be a Stark of Winterfell and she uses that pride as a source of courage in frightening situations:
Sansa struggled to steady herself. She felt like such a fool. She was a Stark of Winterfell, a noble lady, and someday she would be a queen.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I
The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI
Sansa tried to run, but Cersei’s handmaid caught her before she’d gone a yard. Ser Meryn Trant gave her a look that made her cringe, but Kettleblack touched her almost gently and said, “Do as you’re told, sweetling, it won’t be so bad. Wolves are supposed to be brave, aren’t they?”
Brave. Sansa took a deep breath. I am a Stark, yes, I can be brave.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III
She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.
—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I
Sansa would shine in the south.
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(Art credit: Loras Tyrell gives Sansa Stark a rose at the Hand’s Tournament by Jonathan Burton)
Sansa has always loved Winterfell, I have no doubt about it. But she wanted to see more, the whole new world of the south, warmer and colorful places like the Riverlands from her mother’s childhood tales, she wanted to attend tourneys and feasts, to listen the songs from famous singers and poets, to play the high harp, to dance with gallant knights. In a few words, Sansa wanted to be a lady in a song, she wanted to live her own song.
But the north and Winterfell lacked all of that:
Amon Shin in Maine asks, “If you lived in Westeros, which house would you like to be part of, or in which area would you like to live?” GRRM: Well, you know, there’s something to be said for being an honorable Stark, but you’re kinda cold all the time and poor and so forth. And you have a lot of land, but there’s not a lot of stuff on it, you know? On the other hand, if you’re a Lannister, you have a nice house and all the gold you want and all of that stuff.  So, there’s a lot to be said for being a Lannister.  I don’t know.  Maybe I could probably see me being a Lannister.  And I would always pay my debts.
—A Dance with Dragons | George R.R. Martin | Talks at Google - July 2011
And so they left her direwolf and his bodyguard behind them, while they ranged east along the north bank of the Trident with no company save Lion's Tooth. It was a glorious day, a magical day. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the woods here had a gentle beauty that Sansa had never seen in the north. Prince Joffrey's mount was a blood bay courser, swift as the wind, and he rode it with reckless abandon, so fast that Sansa was hard-pressed to keep up on her mare. It was a day for adventures. They explored the caves by the riverbank, and tracked a shadowcat to its lair, and when they grew hungry, Joffrey found a holdfast by its smoke and told them to fetch food and wine for their prince and his lady. They dined on trout fresh from the river, and Sansa drank more wine than she had ever drunk before. "My father only lets us have one cup, and only at feasts," she confessed to her prince.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I
Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa’s breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind…and the knights themselves, the knights most of all. “It is better than the songs,” she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II
She loved King's Landing; the pagaentry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all.
[...] They were going to take it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, they were going to send her back to the bleak grey walls of Winterfell and lock her up forever. Her life was over before it had begun.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III
Once, when she was just a little girl, a wandering singer had stayed with them at Winterfell for half a year. An old man he was, with white hair and windburnt cheeks, but he sang of knights and quests and ladies fair, and Sansa had cried bitter tears when he left them, and begged her father not to let him go. “The man has played us every song he knows thrice over,” Lord Eddard told her gently. “I cannot keep him here against his will. You need not weep, though. I promise you, other singers will come.”   They hadn’t, though, not for a year or more. Sansa had prayed to the Seven in their sept and old gods of the heart tree, asking them to bring the old man back, or better still to send another singer, young and handsome. But the gods never answered, and the halls of Winterfell stayed silent.  
—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I
And who could blame her for those dreams and wishes? Certainly not the author. GRRM has projected his love for medieval tourneys, heraldry, pageantry, knights and chivalry on Sansa Stark:  
That whole story (The Hedge Knight) is built around a tournament. I love medieval tournaments, reading about them, writing about them. There's of course some of them in the main books, but this was an oportunity in a time of peace, not war, to look at a mediaval tournament with all its pageantry and the jousting and the combat and reveal a little of Westerosi History.
—In conversation: George R.R. Martin with Dan Jones FULL EVENT- August 2019
Tolkien imitators who came after him, a lot of them created a sort of Disneyland Middle Ages, you know, a sort of Middle Ages like you might see at a Renaissance Faire, but you don't have the dysentery, or the torture, or the leprosy, or the innate sexism, or classism, or racism that was so built into so much of that world for so many centuries, you really have to take, you know, I like the knights in shinning armor, the heraldry and pageantry as much as anyone, but you also have to include the fleas.
— Neuchâtel International Fantastic Film Festival - NIFFF 2014
The novelist is midway through something of a European tour. After his trip to Switzerland, he is due in Scotland for the Edinburgh book festival. It has often been suggested that Ivanhoe (by the Scottish 19th-century novelist Walter Scott) was, alongside the War of the Roses, a major influence on A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones. Martin was first turned on to Ivanhoe by the 1952 MGM movie starring Robert Taylor, George Sanders and a young Elizabeth Taylor. "I think it was Elizabeth Taylor at the peak of her...," his voice tails off before he clarifies. "She was the most beautiful woman in the world. I think I was nine years old when I saw that movie. How could you not fall in love with her? But the jousting and the pageantry of it made me love that story. Later, in high school, I did read that book. For a modern reader, it's a little tough to get through. The prose is very Victorian and thick but if you fight your way through it, the story is there. It has everything the movie has and more – the heraldry and jousting and the insight into the times. It was an influence in that sense."
—GRRM - Independent - 2014
Firstly, thanks for that very thorough response on the tournaments and knighthood. Fascinating. In particular given the notes about _Ivanhoe_ and its influence -- I've only witnessed the A&E production of it, although maybe about time I read it. Seems it might be ripe for ideas. GRRM: IVANHOE is well worth a read, although the style is very old fashioned, of course. Still it has some fabulous characters and scenes, and so far as I know the definitive portrayal of a medieval tournament, both melee and joust. It has been filmed three times that I know of. The recent A&E production had some good moments, as did the older Sam Neill version... the CLASSIC version, however, is still MGM's 50s version, starring Robert Taylor, Elizabeth Taylor, and George Sanders. The jousts are wonderful, Liz is radiant, and George Sanders steals the film as Bois-Gilbert. You should definitely rent that one and have a look.
—GRRM - 1999
He was asked or mentioned most of the stuff that’s already been covered, but one thing he talked about that I found particularly interesting was Romanticism. He said that he is a romantic, in the classical sense. He said the trouble with being a romantic is that from a very early age you keep having your face smashed into the harshness of reality. That things aren’t always fair, bad things happen to good people, etc. He said it’s a realists world, so romantics are burned quite often. This theme of romantic idealism conflicting with harsh reality is something he finds very dramatic and compelling, and he weaves it into his work. Specifically he mentioned that the Knight exemplifies this, as the chivalric code is one of the most idealistic out there, protection of the weak, paragon of all that is good, fighting for truth and justice. The reality was that they were people, and therefore could do horrible cruel things, rape, pillage, wanton killing, made all the more striking or horrifying because it was in complete opposition to what they were “supposed” to be. Really interesting stuff.
—US SIGNING TOUR (SEATTLE, WA) - NOVEMBER 21, 2005
Happy Anniversary Parris, Here's to almost 40 years and hopefully many more <3  The motto of chivalry is also the motto of wisdom; to serve all, but love only one. ~Honore de Balzac
—GRRM - 2021
So, the perfect opportunity to leave the north and start to live her song came in the form of a betrothal with the Crown Prince and Sansa left her home with a heart full of hope and illusions:
She had last seen snow the day she’d left Winterfell. That was a lighter fall than this, she remembered. Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged me, and the snowball Arya tried to make kept coming apart in her hands. It hurt to remember how happy she had been that morning. Hullen had helped her mount, and she’d ridden out with the snowflakes swirling around her, off to see the great wide world. I thought my song was beginning that day, but it was almost done.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
But the great wide world outside Winterfell wasn’t as idyllic as Sansa has thought…   On her journey to King’s Landing, she lost her direwolf Lady.
Lady wasn’t there. Lady was good. Lady never hurt anyone. She was innocent. But they kill her anyway.  
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(Art credit: Sansa with Lady. Illustrated by Smirtouille © Fantasy Flight Games)
All of the Stark children were blessed with a direwolf and the ability to change skins with those magical creatures.
The direwolves were sent by the old gods to protect and guide the Stark children:  
Arya darted back, frightened now, but Joffrey followed, hounding her toward the woods, backing her up against a tree. Sansa didn't know what to do. She watched helplessly, almost blind from her tears.
Then a grey blur flashed past her, and suddenly Nymeria was there, leaping, jaws closing around Joffrey's sword arm.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I
Bran’s wolf had saved the boy’s life, he thought dully. What was it that Jon had said when they found the pups in the snow? Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord. And he had killed Sansa’s, and for what? Was it guilt he was feeling? Or fear? If the gods had sent these wolves, what folly had he done?
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard IV
She showed Brienne her palms, her fingers. “These scars … they sent a man to cut Bran’s throat as he lay sleeping. He would have died then, and me with him, but Bran’s wolf tore out the man’s throat.” That gave her a moment’s pause. “I suppose Theon killed the wolves too. He must have, elsewise … I was certain the boys would be safe so long as the direwolves were with them. Like Robb with his Grey Wind. But my daughters have no wolves now.”
—A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VII
“Any man Grey Wind mislikes is a man I do not want close to you. These wolves are more than wolves, Robb. You must know that. I think perhaps the gods sent them to us. Your father’s gods, the old gods of the north.
—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn II
Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
"The king is gone hunting, but I know he will be pleased to see you when he returns," the queen was saying to the two knights who knelt before her, but Sansa could not take her eyes off the third man. He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. Slowly he turned his head. Lady growled. A terror as overwhelming as anything Sansa Stark had ever felt filled her suddenly. She stepped backward and bumped into someone.
[…] He did, and had since she had first laid eyes on the ruin that fire had made of his face, though it seemed to her now that he was not half so terrifying as the other. Still, Sansa wrenched away from him, and the Hound laughed, and Lady moved between them, rumbling a warning. Sansa dropped to her knees to wrap her arms around the wolf.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I
Sansa found herself thinking of Lady again. She could smell out falsehood, she could, but she was dead, Father had killed her, on account of Arya.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II
The direwolves share the eye colors of the Children of the Forest:
“In a sense. Those you call the children of the forest have eyes as golden as the sun (Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria and Summer), but once in a great while one is born amongst them with eyes as red as blood (Ghost), or green as the moss on a tree in the heart of the forest (Shaggydog). By these signs do the gods mark those they have chosen to receive the gift. The chosen ones are not robust, and their quick years upon the earth are few, for every song must have its balance. But once inside the wood they linger long indeed. A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. Greenseers.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Bran III
Read more about the direwolves’s eye colors here.
The direwolves are not only protectors and guides for the Stark children, they are also one with them, since every Stark child is a warg:  
And there’s the heart of it, Catelyn thought. “He is part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you.”
—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn II
Ghost was closer than a friend. Ghost was part of him.
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon III
"Bran the boy and Summer the wolf. You are two, then?" "Two," he sighed, "and one."
—A Storm of Swords - Bran I
“Lady,” he said, tasting the name. He had never paid much attention to the names the children had picked, but looking at her now, he knew that Sansa had chosen well. She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur.
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III
With Lady’s death, Sansa not only lost a protector and guide, and the possibility to develop her warging abilities, Sansa lost a part of herself.
But what is the meaning of Lady’s death? For the story and especially for Sansa’s arc?
As a plot device, Lady’s death directly meant a breach in Sansa’s relationship with her father and sister. As foreshadowing, Lady’s death presaged Ned’s own death. Furthermore, the sacrifice of the direwolf’s life was also necessary for Bran to wake up from the coma (only death can pay for life).
But in a more profound and personal level, Lady’s death intertwined Sansa’s story with Lyanna’s and Jon’s story, and it also deeply connected Sansa with Winterfell by foreshadowing that she will be the Stark in Winterfell at the end of the story. Let’s see.  
Sansa lost Lady as a result of several factors:
Prince Joffrey Baratheon being his usual psychopathic self, hurting Mycah and threatening Arya.
Arya Stark striking a royal (*).
Queen Cersei Lannister’s vengeance. Nymeria, defending Arya, bit Joffrey’s arm; but since Nymeria ran away, Cersei demanded for Sansa’s direwolf’s life.
King Robert Baratheon’s allowance of Cersei’s vengeance as a way to apease his wife’s wrath.  
Eddard Stark’s lack of reaction against the unfairness of Robert’s decision.
Joffrey’s true nature was known by Robert, and the King also knew of Cersei’s bad influence on his heir. Even so, Robert didn’t do anything to try and rectify that situation before or after the Trident incident:  
"I am sorry for your girl, Ned. Truly. About the wolf, I mean. My son was lying, I'd stake my soul on it. My son … you love your children, don't you?"
"With all my heart," Ned said.
"Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that's what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You know what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?"
"He's only a boy," Ned said awkwardly. He had small liking for Prince Joffrey, but he could hear the pain in Robert's voice. "Have you forgotten how wild you were at his age?"
"It would not trouble me if the boy was wild, Ned. You don't know him as I do."
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII
(*) Arya’s actions, despite being a crime, were made to defend Mycah. Arya Stark, a child of 9 years old, defied an unjust rule in order to protect and save an innocent boy,  something that not even the honorable Lord Stark was capable of doing in order to save Sansa’s direwolf.
So, Sansa was put in a very difficult situation, she was left to chose between her royal betrothed, the Crown Prince, and her sister and family. Take note that Sansa told the truth to her father, but at the prospect of defying a royal and her future husband or admit that her sister committed a crime punished by maiming or death, she opted for not agreeing with any of the parties, she said: “I don’t know, I don’t remember”.
So, let’s talk about adults actions here, because whatever Sansa might have said, either agreeing with her betrothed Prince Joffrey’s version or agreeing with her sister Arya’s version, it wasn't going to change Lady's fate.
Even before Arya was found, Queen Cersei Lannister, wanted her maimed or dead. And Jaime Lannister was very willing to do it:
"Do you see that window, ser?" Jaime used a sword to point. "That was Raymun Darry's bedchamber. Where King Robert slept, on our return from Winterfell. Ned Stark's daughter had run off after her wolf savaged Joff, you'll recall. My sister wanted the girl to lose a hand. The old penalty, for striking one of the blood royal. Robert told her she was cruel and mad. They fought for half the night . . . well, Cersei fought, and Robert drank. Past midnight, the queen summoned me inside. The king was passed out snoring on the Myrish carpet. I asked my sister if she wanted me to carry him to bed. She told me I should carry her to bed, and shrugged out of her robe. I took her on Raymun Darry's bed after stepping over Robert. If His Grace had woken I would have killed him there and then. He would not have been the first king to die upon my sword . . . but you know that story, don't you?" He slashed at a tree branch, shearing it in half. "As I was fucking her, Cersei cried, 'I want.' I thought that she meant me, but it was the Stark girl that she wanted, maimed or dead." The things I do for love. "It was only by chance that Stark's own men found the girl before me. If I had come on her first . . ."
—A Feast for Crows - Jaime IV
King Robert Baratheon was done with Cersei’s wrath about the incident, and even knowing Joffrey’s true nature, he let Cersei kill a direwolf, because at least it didn’t involve maiming or killing Arya Stark, a member of a great noble and allied house, and the daughter of his best friend.  
So, since Arya was exonerated of the penalty for striking a royal, and Nymeria ran away, Cersei took away the least she could get, the life of Mycah, the butcher’s boy, and Lady, the direwolf that wasn’t even there.
Now, about Ned Stark, he could have done a lot more. I can understand that he was astonished by his best friend Robert Baratheon not being the just man that he used to be in his youth, even after Catelyn had warned about it. I can also understand that he was triggered by his memories of Lyanna begging him to protect Jon’s life from Robert’s wrath in the past. But still, he could have done a lot more to stop Lady’s sacrifice. Jory did more by helping Arya to protect Nymeria.
In the end, after some attempt to beg for Robert’s change of mind or mercy, Ned Stark complied with an unfair rule, and following a flawed sense of honor and duty, he killed Lady. He killed an innocent. He was part of Sansa’s punishment for a crime she didn’t commit. He left his own daughter unprotected, depriving her of a gift sent by the old gods.    
Ned’s inaction are a contrast to Arya’s actions that impulsively defied Joffrey’s status as a royal member in order to protect an innocent. Arya’s actions emulated Dunk’s actions striking Prince Aerion Targaryen in order to defend Tanselle, the puppeteer girl. A true knight.
And this is not the first time that Ned’s actions were called out by one of his children (the heroes of the story), this happened before with Bran questioning this flawed sense of honor and duty after witnessing Gared’s execution.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.
Two of the responsibles for Lady’s death, Robert and Ned, were deeply associated with Lyanna Stark. GRRM has also used Robert and Ned to connect Lyanna with Sansa:
"Come south with me, and I'll teach you how to laugh again," the king promised. "You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I
Before Lady’s death, Ned pleaded to Robert to change his decision on putting down the direwolf, appealing to the memory of Lyanna, the woman Robert loved:
All Ned could do was take her in his arms and hold her while she wept. He looked across the room at Robert. His old friend, closer than any brother. “Please, Robert. For the love you bear me. For the love you bore my sister. Please.”
— A Game of Thrones - Eddard III
Sansa’s pleading for Lady’s life and repeating the word “promise”, triggered Ned’s trauma over Lyanna’s death, who dies while pleading to Ned to protect her newborn son Jon:
"Stop them,” Sansa pleaded, “don’t let them do it, please, please, it wasn’t Lady, it was Nymeria, Arya did it, you can’t, it wasn’t Lady, don’t let them hurt Lady, I’ll make her be good, I promise, I promise …” She started to cry.
—AGOT - Eddard III
He could still hear Sansa pleading, as Lyanna had pleaded once.
—AGOT - Eddard IV
“Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna’s statue whispered. She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept blood.
—AGOT - Eddard XIII
Promise me, Ned, his sister had whispered from her bed of blood. She had loved the scent of winter roses.
—AGOT - Eddard XV
Ned carried Lyanna’s bones from Dorne to the north, to be buried in the crypts of Winterfell, the same way he ordered his men to carry Lady’s bones from Darry to the north, to be buried in the lichyard of Winterfell. Lyanna’s and Lady’s bones being buried at Winterfell, makes them literally Ladies of Winterfell:  
“She was more beautiful than that,” the king said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna’s face, as if he could will her back to life. Finally he rose, made awkward by his weight. “Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?” His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. “She deserved more than darkness …”
“She was a Stark of Winterfell,” Ned said quietly. “This is her place.”
— A Game of Thrones - Eddard I
They were all staring at him, but it was Sansa’s look that cut. “She is of the north. She deserves better than a butcher.” […] Shortly, Jory brought him Ice. When it was over, he said, “Choose four men and have them take the body north. Bury her at Winterfell.” “All that way?” Jory said, astonished. “All that way,” Ned affirmed. “The Lannister woman shall never have this skin.”
— A Game of Thrones - Eddard III
Bran felt all cold inside. “She lost her wolf,” he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father’s guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady’s bones. Summer and Grey Wind and Shaggydog had begun to howl before they crossed the drawbridge, in voices drawn and desolate. Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones had returned.
— A Game of Thrones - Bran VI
I like that Ned unofficially name Sansa, “Lady of the North” (Lady of Winterfell), when he said: She (Lady) is of the North.
The fact that Lady’s bones have already returned to Winterfell, makes Sansa the first Stark children that returned home. Also, at this point of the story, Lady being buried in Winterfell, makes Sansa the Stark in Winterfell.
In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm.
The day of the Trident incident that later would determine Lady’s fate, Sansa, inadvertently, sensed Ned’s death at the hands of Ilyn Payne the first time she met the King’s Justice, that’s why she felt such a terror that made her step backward and bump into the Hound, and for a moment she thought he was her father.
Another passage that foreshadows Ned’s death, that is also related to killing a magical creature like Lady, is Sansa’s wish for Joffrey to capture the white hart: 
“I had a dream that Joffrey would be the one to take the white hart,” she said. It had been more of a wish, actually, but it sounded better to call it a dream. Everyone knew that dreams were prophetic. White harts were supposed to be very rare and magical, and in her heart she knew her gallant prince was worthier than his drunken father. “A dream? Truly? Did Prince Joffrey just go up to it and touch it with his bare hand and do it no harm?” “No,” Sansa said. “He shot it with a golden arrow and brought it back for me.” In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm, but she knew Joffrey liked hunting, especially the killing part. Only animals, though. Sansa was certain her prince had no part in murdering Jory and those other poor men; that had been his wicked uncle, the Kingslayer. She knew her father was still angry about that, but it wasn’t fair to blame Joff. That would be like blaming her for something that Arya had done.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III
In the end Joffrey showed Sansa that he not only enjoyed killing animals, but he also enjoyed killing men. It was not the white hart what Joffrey brought back for her, it was her father’s severed head. 
Read more about the white hart here.
But the paragraphs that are more laden with symbolism and foreshadowing for Ned’s death are the ones leading to Lady’s execution.
After Lady’s death, Ned lost Sansa’s trust. Sansa was left deeply wounded, she resented her sister because Lady paid for Nymeria’s fault, and she resented Ned, because he did close to nothing to save Lady’s life and was the executioner himself. That’s why, when Ned told her that she is returning to Winterfell without a proper explanation, she felt that Ned is taking away beloved things from her once again, as he did with Lady. That prompted Sansa to defy her father’s orders and tell Cersei about Ned’s plans:  
"I didn't do anything wrong," Sansa pleaded with him. "I don't want to go back." She loved King's Landing; the pagaentry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all. "Send Arya away, she started it, Father, I swear it. I'll be good, you'll see, just let me stay and I promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen." […] Sansa cried as Septa Mordane marched them down the steps. They were going to take it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, they were going to send her back to the bleak grey walls of Winterfell and lock her up forever. Her life was over before it had begun.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III
"It was for love," Sansa said in a rush. "Father wouldn't even give me leave to say farewell." She was the good girl, the obedient girl, but she had felt as wicked as Arya that morning, sneaking away from Septa Mordane, defying her lord father. She had never done anything so willful before, and she would never have done it then if she hadn't loved Joffrey as much as she did. "He was going to take me back to Winterfell and marry me to some hedge knight, even though it was Joff I wanted. I told him, but he wouldn't listen." The king had been her last hope. The king could command Father to let her stay in King's Landing and marry Prince Joffrey, Sansa knew he could, but the king had always frightened her. He was loud and rough-voiced and drunk as often as not, and he would probably have just sent her back to Lord Eddard, if they even let her see him. So she went to the queen instead, and poured out her heart, and Cersei had listened and thanked her sweetly … only then Ser Arys had escorted her to the high room in Maegor's Holdfast and posted guards, and a few hours later, the fighting had begun outside. "Please," she finished, "you have to let me marry Joffrey, I'll be ever so good a wife to him, you'll see. I'll be a queen just like you, I promise."
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV
By deciding to kill Lady himself, Ned killed a part of Sansa, his own daughter, so he not only killed a magical beast (In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm), but this could also be considered kinslaying, both crimes forbidden and punished by the gods, the old and the new.  
By defying Ned’s orders and telling Cersei her father’s plans, in order to stay in King’s Landing and marry Joffrey, Sansa unwillingly took part of the events that ended up with Ned’s execution.    
During the “trial”, Ned pleaded King Robert to change his decision on putting down the direwolf, appealing to the memory of Lyanna, the woman Robert loved. Then Ned decided that he will take Lady’s life himself using his sword Ice, in order to avoid having a butcher like Ilyn Payne do the execution. Before he struck, he pronounced Lady’s name in the same fashion Robb and Jon called the name of their direwolves before they both died.
Similarly, before Ned’s execution at the steps of the Sept of Baelor, Sansa pleaded to King Joffrey to spare her father’s life, appealing to the love he has for her.
But, as we all know, both pleas fell on deaf ears and both Lady and Ned lost their lives; bringing the story full circle, as Ilyn Payne himself cut off Ned’s head with Ice.
North and north and north again, stood Winterfell.
If Lady’s death wasn’t enough to open Sansa’s eyes and see the true nature of Cersei and Joffrey, Ned’s death certainly was:
"I don’t want to marry you,” Sansa wailed. “You chopped off my father’s head!” “He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I’d be merciful, and I was. If he hadn’t been your father, I would have had him torn or flayed, but I gave him a clean death.” Sansa stared at him, seeing him for the first time. He was wearing a padded crimson doublet patterned with lions and a cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar that framed his face. She wondered how she could ever have thought him handsome. His lips were as soft and red as the worms you found after a rain, and his eyes were vain and cruel. “I hate you,” she whispered.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI
Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I
When Joffrey took her to the battlements to force her to see her father’s severed head on a pike, Sansa chose to focus on looking north, longing to return home:
And to the north … She turned that way, and saw only the city, streets and alleys and hills and bottoms and more streets and more alleys and the stone of distant walls. Yet she knew that beyond them was open country, farms and fields and forests, and beyond that, north and north and north again, stood Winterfell. "What are you looking at?" Joffrey said. "This is what I wanted you to see, right here."
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI
Sadly, Ned’s death was the catalyst for Sansa to finally open her eyes to reality, but that event also awakened her inner ‘Starkness’, because if any of the Stark children is the epitome of endurance, that is Sansa.
So, after Ned’s death, we see Sansa always finding her strength and courage in the memories of Winterfell and her family, yearning to go back north, to home, to Winterfell:
The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that. She had not washed since the day her father died, and she was startled at how filthy the water became.
— A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI
“Do as you’re told, sweetling, it won’t be so bad. Wolves are supposed to be brave, aren’t they? “Brave. Sansa took a deep breath. I am a Stark, yes, I can be brave.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III
That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so … She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now. […] Sansa was tempted to beg off. I could tell him that my tummy was upset, or that my moon’s blood had come. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back in bed and pull the drapes. I must be brave, like Robb, she told herself, as she took her lord husband stiffly by the arm.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV
The Broken Tower was easier still. They made a tall tower together, kneeling side by side to roll it smooth, and when they’d raised it Sansa stuck her fingers through the top, grabbed a handful of snow, and flung it full in his face. Petyr yelped, as the snow slid down under his collar. “That was unchivalrously done, my lady.” “As was bringing me here, when you swore to take me home.” She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell. […] I am a Stark of Winterfell, she longed to tell him. Instead she nodded, and let him escort her down the tower steps and along a bridge. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.
—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I
They made a race of it, dashing headlong across the yard and past the stables, skirts flapping, whilst knights and serving men alike looked on, and pigs and chickens scattered before them. It was most unladylike, but Alayne sound found herself laughing. For just a little while, as she ran, she forget who she was, and where, and found herself remembering bright cold days at Winterfell, when she would race through Winterfell with her friend Jeyne Poole, with Arya running after them trying to keep up.
—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I
No matter how many time she has to say she loves her enemies, no matter how many times they put another house’s cloak on her shoulders, no matter how many times she has to pretend be another person, no matter how many times she has to lie, deep down she is always Sansa Stark:
"My father was a traitor," Sansa said at once. "And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well." That reflex she had learned quickly. "I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey." "No doubt. As loyal as a deer surrounded by wolves." "Lions," she whispered, without thinking. She glanced about nervously, but there was no one close enough to hear.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I
"Robb's a traitor." Sansa knew the words by rote. "I had no part in whatever he did." […] Robb will kill you all, she thought, exulting. “It’s…terrible, my lord. My brother is a vile traitor.” […] "Well, Robb Stark is my father's bane. Joffrey is mine. Tell me, what do you feel for my kingly nephew?" "I love him with all my heart," Sansa said at once. “Truly?” He did not sound convinced. “Even now?” “My love for His Grace is greater than it has ever been.” […] "They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, Sansa?" I pray for Robb's victory and Joffrey's death . . . and for home. For Winterfell. "I pray for an end to the fighting." […] Robb will beat him, Sansa thought. He beat your uncle and your brother Jaime, he’ll beat your father too.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III
You may never love the king, but you'll love his children." "I love His Grace with all my heart," Sansa said.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV
"I never meant . . . my father was a traitor, my brother as well, I have the traitor's blood, please, don't make me say more."
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I
They have made me a Lannister, Sansa thought bitterly. […] "You loved your brothers, much as I love Jaime." Is this some Lannister trap to make me speak treason? "My brothers were traitors, and they've gone to traitors' graves. It is treason to love a traitor."
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV
"So, who are you?" "Alayne . . . Stone, would it be?"
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI
I am a Stark of Winterfell, she longed to tell him. Instead she nodded, and let him escort her down the tower steps and along a bridge.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard’s daughter and Lady Catelyn’s, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.
[…] “You are Alayne, and you must be Alayne all the time.” He put two fingers on her left breast. "Even here. In your heart. Can you do that? Can you be my daughter in your heart?" "I . . ." I do not know, my lord, she almost said, but that was not what he wanted to hear. Lies and Arbor gold, she thought. "I am Alayne, Father. Who else would I be?"
—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I
As you can see, Sansa never loses her identity as a Stark of Winterfell. She is forced to lie and pretend, to hide and disguise, to play with false identities and loyalties, but deep within she was always a Stark, Sansa Stark of Winterfell.    
That’s why her journey back home is so important for her story, is the way to claim back her true name and identity, her agency and heritage, her home and heart.  
The man who weds Sansa Stark can claim Winterfell in her name.
The south stripped Sansa of her wolf and her father, of her name and her identity, and later constantly tried to strip her of her claim to the north and Winterfell.
After the Lannisters killed Robb without an heir (childless), with Bran and Rickon presumed dead, and Arya lost and also presumed dead, Sansa, aged 12/13, became the Heir to Witerfell and by far the most eligible single young heiress in Westeros. Then Sansa suffered constant objectification, by every character she interacted with. She was practically transformed into a stone castle, Winterfell, and the north itself, since the one that controlled her would obtain all her lands and power. Or, to use the euphemism from the Books, Sansa Stark was the “key to the north.”
Alone in the capital, she was spurned by King Joffrey Baratheon and became a ward hostage of the crown. The kingdom was at war and the grasping people around Sansa pretended to make her a Baelish and a Tyrell, but at the end they made her a Lannister. After that they made her a bastard and then they tried to make her an Arryn, twice. But these ambitious houses and men only wanted her for her claim. She was a means to get Winterfell and the north.
Sansa Stark was thrust into the world of medieval politics in her early teens and played a vital role in these power struggles. Despite the many discussions about the legitimacy of her claim to the North and the secret will of Robb Stark, Sansa is considered the heir of the ancestral lands and domains of House Stark, she is called ‘the key to the north’ by Tywin Lannister, the man behind his royal grandsons, King Joffrey and King Tommen Baratheon.  The North is the largest region of Westeros, and Sansa Stark’s claim to Winterfell and the Wardenship of the North is coveted by many lords in order to gain political power and influence.  
Most of these suitors were representatives from the ex seven independent kingdoms of Westeros, with the only absentees being from the Kingdom of the North (the bride’s homeland) and the Principality of Dorne. It was like a quest for the conquest of the north, the largest region of Westeros.
1. Joffrey Baratheon, Crown Prince and then King of Westeros (representative from the old Kingdom of the Storm). 
Sansa’s first betrothed, a match arranged by Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. When King Robert proposed Joffrey and Sansa’s betrothal, he was trying to reenact his own betrothal to Lyanna Stark, that was part of the so called Southron Ambitions Theory.
"Come south with me, and I'll teach you how to laugh again," the king promised. "You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I
After Ned died as a traitor and House Stark declared Northern Independance, Joffrey broke the betrothal and married Margaery Tyrell.
2. Willas Tyrell, Heir to Highgarden (representative from the old Kingdom of the Reach). 
Sansa’s second betrothed, a match planned by Olenna Tyrell who secretly arranged this betrothal in order to expand their power over another great region of Westeros.
“I will be safe in Highgarden. Willas will keep me safe.” “But he does not know you,” Dontos insisted, “and he will not love you. Jonquil, Jonquil, open your sweet eyes, these Tyrells care nothing for you. It’s your claim they mean to wed.” "My claim?" She was lost for a moment. "Sweetling," he told her, "you are heir to Winterfell." He grabbed her again, pleading that she must not do this thing, and Sansa wrenched free and left him swaying beneath the heart tree. She had not visited the godswood since. But she had not forgotten his words, either. The heir to Winterfell, she would think as she lay abed at night. It's your claim they mean to wed. Sansa had grown up with three brothers. She never thought to have a claim, but with Bran and Rickon dead . . . It doesn't matter, there's still Robb, he's a man grown now, and soon he'll wed and have a son. Anyway, Willas Tyrell will have Highgarden, what would he want with Winterfell?
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II
The Lannisters discovered this secret betrothal (thanks to Dontos and Littlefinger) and Sansa ended up married to Tyrion and Cersei betrothed to Willas.
"Yes. You are a ward of the crown. The king stands in your father's place, since your brother is an attainted traitor. That means he has every right to dispose of your hand. You are to marry my brother Tyrion." My claim, she thought, sickened. Dontos the Fool was not so foolish after all; he had seen the truth of it. Sansa backed away from the queen. "I won't." I'm to marry Willas, I'm to be the lady of Highgarden, please . . . […] If I had refused you, however, they would have wed you to my cousin Lancel. Perhaps you would prefer that. He is nearer your age, and fairer to look upon. If that is your wish, say so, and I will end this farce." I don't want any Lannister, she wanted to say. I want Willas, I want Highgarden and the puppies and the barge, and sons named Eddard and Bran and Rickon. But then she remembered what Dontos had told her in the godswood. Tyrell or Lannister, it makes no matter, it's not me they want, only my claim. "You are kind, my lord," she said, defeated. "I am a ward of the throne and my duty is to marry as the king commands."
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III
3. Tyrion Lannister, Heir presumptive to Casterly Rock (representatives from the old Kingdom of the Rock). 
Sansa Stark’s husband, a match arranged by Tywin Lannister without Sansa’s free consent. He married Sansa following his father’s orders in order to take control over the north.
“I will not have the rose and the direwolf in bed together,” declared Lord Tywin. “We must forestall him.” […] "The girl's happiness is not my purpose, nor should it be yours. Our alliances in the south may be as solid as Casterly Rock, but there remains the north to win, and the key to the north is Sansa Stark." "She is no more than a child." “Your sister swears she’s flowered. If so, she is a woman, fit to be wed. You must needs take her maidenhead, so no man can say the marriage was not consummated. After that, if you prefer to wait a year or two before bedding her again, you would be within your rights as her husband.” […] “She must marry a Lannister, and soon.” “The man who weds Sansa Stark can claim Winterfell in her name,” his uncle Kevan put in. “Had that not occurred to you?” “If you will not have the girl, we shall give her to one of your cousins,” said his father.” […] The key to the north, you say? The Greyjoys hold the north now, and King Balon has a daughter. Why Sansa Stark, and not her?" […] Come spring, the northmen will have had a bellyful of krakens. When you bring Eddard Stark's grandson home to claim his birthright, lords and little folk alike will rise as one to place him on the high seat of his ancestors. You are capable of getting a woman with child, I hope?" […] “You shall never have Casterly Rock, I promise you. But wed Sansa Stark, and it is just possible that you might win Winterfell.” Tyrion Lannister, Lord Protector of Winterfell. The prospect gave him a queer chill. “Very good, Father.”
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion III
They have made me a Lannister, Sansa thought bitterly.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV
The marriage was never consummated and after Joffrey’s death Sansa ran away from King’s Landing. Tyrion was accused of murdering Joffrey and condemned to die, but he escaped King’s Landing before his execution. Littlefinger is waiting for news of Tyrion’s death for Sansa to become a widow and then marry her with Harrold Hardyng; if not, she would need and annulment by the High Septon.    
4. Robert Arryn and Harrold Hardyng, Heir and second in the line, respectively, to the Vale of Arryn (representatives from the old Kingdom of the Mountain and Vale).
4.1. Robert Arryn, Heir to the Vale of Arryn. 
The match with Sweetrobin was proposed by Lysa Arryn, the mother of the little bridegroom. Lysa tried to manipulate Sansa to marry little Robert, calling her a beggar, and warned her to put aside her pride and be a submissive wife for her sickly son:  
"I . . . I am married, my lady." "Yes, but soon a widow. Be glad the Imp preferred his whores. It would not be fitting for my son to take that dwarf's leavings, but as he never touched you... How would you like to marry your cousin, the Lord Robert?” The thought made Sansa weary. All she knew of Robert Arryn was that he was a little boy, and sickly. It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love. But lying came easy to her now. “I … can scarcely wait to meet him, my lady. But he is still a child, is he not?” "He is eight. And not robust. But such a good boy, so bright and clever. He will be a great man, Alayne. The seed is strong, my lord husband said before he died. His last words. The gods sometimes let us glimpse the future as we lay dying. I see no reason why you should not be wed as soon as we know that your Lannister husband is dead. A secret wedding, to be sure. The Lord of the Eyrie could scarcely be thought to have married a bastard, that would not be fitting. The ravens should bring us the word from King's Landing once the Imp's head rolls. You and Robert can be wed the next day, won't that be joyous? (…) Do you read well, Alayne?"
"Septa Mordane was good enough to say so." "Robert has weak eyes, but he loves to be read to," Lady Lysa confided. "He likes stories about animals the best. Do you know the little song about the chicken who dressed as a fox? I sing him that all the time, he never grows tired of it. And he likes to play hopfrog and spin-the-sword and come-into-my-castle, but you must always let him win. That's only proper, don't you think? He is the Lord of the Eyrie, after all, you must never forget that. You are well born, and the Starks of Winterfell were always proud, but Winterfell has fallen and you are really just a beggar now, so put that pride aside. Gratitude will better become you, in your present circumstances. Yes, and obedience. My son will have a grateful and obedient wife."
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI
"I don't want to be leeched!" "My lord, your blood needs thinning," said Maester Colemon. "It is the bad blood that makes you angry, and the rage that brings on the shaking. Come now."
They led the boy away. My lord husband, Sansa thought, as she contemplated the ruins of Winterfell. The snow had stopped, and it was colder than before. She wondered if Lord Robert would shake all through their wedding. At least Joffrey was sound of body. […] “I will tell my aunt that I don’t want to marry Robert. Not even the High Septon himself could declare a woman married if she refused to say the vows. She wasn’t a beggar, no matter what her aunt said. She was thirteen, a woman flowered and wed, the heir to Winterfell. Sansa felt sorry for her little cousin sometimes, but she could not imagine ever wanting to be his wife. I would sooner be married to Tyrion again.”
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
But Littlefinger had other plans…  
4.2. Harrold Hardyng, second in line to the Vale of Arryn. 
Harry is betrothed to Alayne Stone, a match arranged by Petyr Baelish and Anya Waynwood. When Petyr Baelish proposed Harry and Alayne/Sansa betrothal, he was trying to gain more political power to further his own agenda.  
Her eyes widened. "He is not Lady Waynwood's heir. He's Robert's heir. If Robert were to die . . ." Petyr arched an eyebrow. "When Robert dies. Our poor brave Sweetrobin is such a sickly boy, it is only a matter of time. When Robert dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord Harrold, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa . . . Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. That's worth another kiss now, don't you think?"
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II
Harry, though... My Harry. My lord, my lover, my betrothed. Ser Harrold Hardyng looked every inch a lord-in-waiting; clean-limbed and handsome, straight as a lance, hard with muscle. Men old enough to have known Jon Arryn in his youth said Ser Harrold had his look, she knew. He had a mop of sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes, an aquiline nose. Joffrey was comely too, though, she reminded herself. A comely monster, that's what he was. Little Lord Tyrion was kinder, twisted though he was. […] This time her eyes met Harry's. She smiled just for him, and said a silent prayer to the Maiden. Please, he doesn't need to love me, just make him like me, just a little, that would be enough for now. Ser Harrold looked down at her coldly. "Why should it please me to be escorted anywhere by Littlefinger's bastard?"
—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I
5. Theon Greyjoy, heir presumptive of the Iron Islands (representative from the old Kingdom of the Isles and the Rivers). 
There was never a betrothal between Theon Greyjoy and any daughter of House Stark. But Theon’s case was particular, because he got to invade and control Winterfell, but he never got a Stark bride.
The maester inclined his head. "I make no apologies for oathbreakers. Do what you must. I thank you for your mercy." Mercy, thought Theon as Luwin dropped back. There's a bloody trap. Too much and they call you weak, too little and you're monstrous. Yet the maester had given him good counsel, he knew. His father thought only in terms of conquest, but what good was it to take a kingdom if you could not hold it? Force and fear could carry you only so far. A pity Ned Stark had taken his daughters south; elsewise Theon could have tightened his grip on Winterfell by marrying one of them. Sansa was a pretty little thing too, and by now likely even ripe for bedding. But she was a thousand leagues away, in the clutches of the Lannisters. A shame.
—A Clash of Kings - Theon IV
Later, as Reek, Theon witnesses how the Lannisters and the Boltons use Jeyne Poole, disguised as Arya Stark, to tighten their grip on Winterfell, marrying Jeyne with Ramsay Bolton, the same way Theon wanted to use Sansa when he usurped Winterfell.
Lord Ramsay filled his cup with ale. "That would spoil our celebration, my lord. Reek, I have glad tidings for you. I am to be wed. My lord father is bringing me a Stark girl. Lord Eddard's daughter, Arya. You remember little Arya, don't you?" Arya Underfoot, he almost said. Arya Horseface. Robb's younger sister, brown-haired, long-faced, skinny as a stick, always dirty. Sansa was the pretty one. He remembered a time when he had thought that Lord Eddard Stark might marry him to Sansa and claim him for a son, but that had only been a child's fancy. Arya, though … "I remember her. Arya." "She shall be the Lady of Winterfell, and me her lord."
—A Dance with Dragons - Reek I
Sansa ignores Theon’s past pretensions to be her husband, and the only time she thought about her father’s ward, she called him Bran’s killer.
6. Petyr Baelish, Lord of the Fingers and Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn. 
After Ned’s death, Petyr Baelish proposed himself to marry Sansa Stark. His proposal was rejected by the Crown, because he was too lowborn.
It came to her suddenly that she had stood in this very spot before, on the day Lord Eddard Stark had lost his head. That was not supposed to happen. Joff was supposed to spare his life and send him to the Wall. Stark's eldest son would have followed him as Lord of Winterfell, but Sansa would have stayed at court, a hostage. Varys and Littlefinger had worked out the terms, and Ned Stark had swallowed his precious honor and confessed his treason to save his daughter's empty little head. I would have made Sansa a good marriage. A Lannister marriage. Not Joff, of course, but Lancel might have suited, or one of his younger brothers. Petyr Baelish had offered to wed the girl himself, she recalled, but of course that was impossible; he was much too lowborn. If Joff had only done as he was told, Winterfell would never have gone to war, and Father would have dealt with Robert's brothers.
—A Dance with Dragons - Cersei II
Sansa ignores Littlefinger’s past pretensions to be her husband. Petyr Baelish publicly acts as Alayne’s father, but at the same time Littlefinger is grooming Sansa while they are alone.    
As you can see, despite their intentions, Theon and Littlefinger were never betrothed to Sansa, neither secretly nor officially, and their pretensions were unknown to her. Sansa is only aware of five of these suitors: Joffrey Baratheon, Willas Tyrell, Tyrion Lannister, Robert Arryn and Harrold Hardyng. A Baratheon, a Tyrell, a Lannister and a Hardyng… Where did I read about all these last names before??? Oh yes! That’s from The Hedge Knight and the Tourney of Ashford Meadow.
The Hedge Knight novella was built around the Tourney at Ashford Meadow. Lord Ashford staged the tourney to celebrate his daughter's thirteenth name day. His daughter was the queen of love and beauty and would have five champions to defend her honor. All other entrants were the challengers, and if anyone defeated a champion, they would take their place as the new champion. After three days of jousting, the champions would determine if Lord Ashford's daughter retained her title or if another would wear it. But we only know who were the last five champions after the first day of jousting.
The last names of four out of five of these five champions, match with the last names of the men betrothed or already married to Sansa Stark:
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This could be a mere coincidence, as many had claimed, because after all, there wasn’t an Arryn champion in the Tourney at Ashford Meadow, they say. But I disagree.
As I explained before, GRRM has projected his love for medieval tourneys, heraldry, pageantry, knights and chivalry on Sansa Stark. So George writing a tourney in honor of a thirteen year old maiden, the same age of Sansa, can’t be a mere coincidence.  
Five final champions deciding if the thirteen year old maiden retained her Queen of Love and Beauty title or if another would wear it, as a simil of the greatest houses of Westeros deciding who would take away Sansa’s claim, can’t be a mere coincidence.  
The fact that Ser Tybolt Lannister and Ser Lyonel Baratheon defeated Lady Ashord’s brothers, Androw and Robert, during the jousting, the same way the Lannisters and Baratheons killed Sansa’s family and then married her with the suitor of their choice, can’t be a mere coincidence.
The fact that there is a Hardyng, instead of an Arryn, among the champions of the tourney, that illustrates the conflict in the succession to the Vale of Arryn, with Harry Hardyng waiting for Sweetrobing to die, to become Lord of the Vale, can’t be a mere coincidence. If you don’t believe me, ask Littlefinger why he replaced Sweetrobin with Harry as Alayne/Sansa betrothed?
The fact that Ser Humfrey Hardyng won a previous great melee at Maidenpool, where he “overthrew Ser Donnel of Duskendale and the Lords Arryn and Royce in the lists,” can’t be a mere coincidence. Ser Donnel of Duskendale and the Lords Arryn and Royce… Are these names unfamiliar to you? Because they remind me of Dontos Hollard, Robert Arryn and Waymar Royce. All of them romantically linked with Sansa. See? This can’t be a mere coincidence.
The Hedge Knight was originally published on August 25, 1998, in “Legends,” an anthology edited by Robert Silverberg. GRRM has said that he wrote this tale while he “was still in the middle of writing Clash of Kings.” A Clash of Kings was published on November 16, 1998. The deadline to send the works to Robert Silverberg was December 31, 1997, and GRRM surprisingly sent the tale on the deadline.
Willas Tyrell appears for the first time in A Storm of Swords (Sansa I), published on August 8, 2000. And Harrold Hardyng appears for the first time in A Feast for Crows (Alayne I), published on October 17, 2005. So I think there is no coincidence here, GRRM has planned the list of Sansa’s main suitors since he “was still in the middle of writing Clash of Kings,” back in 1997.
This repetition of the pattern in these two lists of men (Ashford champions & Sansa’s suitors), accentuates the importance of Sansa and her claim in the political scene of Westeros. After all, all of Sansa’s betrothals were arranged to gain political power through her claim to the north, which is the largest region of Westeros.
Will there be a Targaryen suitor for Sansa? There is a lot to say about it, but the Tourney at Ashford Meadow deserves its own post, one that will be finished soon, with the blessing of the old gods and the new.
Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.
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(Art credit: Jon Snow and Ghost by Lauren K. Cannon)
In the south, every great house of Westeros were fighting to get Sansa’s hand in marriage in order to take Winterfell and the north under their control.
Sansa reflects about this objectification in the Books and gives us one of the saddest lines in ASOIAF, especially coming from a girl who yearns to be loved and always dreamed of getting married: “No one will ever marry me for love,” (because everyone only wants her for her claim to Winterfell and the north).
Meanwhile at the Wall…
Jon Snow was offered legitimation, Winterfell’s Lordship and a wildling bride (Val) by King Stannis Baretheon, in order to gain the northern lords and the wildlings support to his claim to the Iron Throne:
Your northmen do not know me, have no reason to love me, yet I will need their strength in the battles yet to come. I need a son of Eddard Stark to win them to my banner."
He would make me Lord of Winterfell.
[…] When the cold winds rise, we shall live or die together. It is time we made alliance against our common foe." He looked at Jon. "Would you agree?"
[…] "I agree."
"Good," King Stannis said, "for the surest way to seal a new alliance is with a marriage. I mean to wed my Lord of Winterfell to this wildling princess."
[…] "Does this mean you will not wed the girl? I warn you, she is part of the price you must pay, if you want your father's name and your father's castle. This match is necessary, to help assure the loyalty of our new subjects. Are you refusing me, Jon Snow?"
"No," Jon said, too quickly. It was Winterfell the king was speaking of, and Winterfell was not to be lightly refused. "I mean . . . this has all come very suddenly, Your Grace. Might I beg you for some time to consider?"
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI
And Jon Snow rejected it all!    
“By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon I
Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV
Yes, once again, Jon’s answer was Sansa. Winterfell belongs to Sansa. He could have said ‘Winterfell belongs to my sisters Sansa and Arya’ or ‘Winterfell belongs to my trueborn sisters’ or ‘Winterfell belongs to the Starks.’ But no. He said, more than once, that Winterfell belongs to Sansa.
Unlike Tyrion, Willas, Theon, Littlefinger or even little Robert, who pursued Sansa’s claim over her, there was a man who was offered Winterfell and chose Sansa over her claim: “By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.” – “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.” Among all the high lords interested in becoming the Lord of Winterfell by marrying Sansa Stark, the bastard Jon Snow refused to despoil his sister Sansa of her rights, even if her claim is the one thing he has wanted as much as he had ever wanted anything.
It only remains for me to say that, if there is to be a Targaryen suitor for Sansa, I believe that man will be Jon Snow, not Aegon (Young Griff). Because, who else would be a better correspondence for Valarr Targaryen, “the black prince with the white guardian,” than Jon Snow, the black knight of the Wall with the white guardian Ghost? But this is a matter for another post.
And for the readers that support the argument that Dunk was the one that crashed the tourney and later won the Trial of Seven (hence Dunk was the winner at Ashford), let me tell you that Dunk and Jon Snow are more similar than you think. Another character linked with Dunk is of course Brienne of Tarth. Brienne has sworn her sword Oathkeeper (made of Ice) to find and protect Sansa Stark.
Now, let’s talk about Sansa and Godswoods.
IV.2. SANSA AND GODSWOODS
She's gone back north, she has. That's where her gods are.
As I said before, Sansa’s journey back home starts with a godswood, the moment she got the anonymous note with this message: "Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home."
Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home. The words were the same on the hundredth reading as they'd been on the first, when Sansa had discovered the folded sheet of parchment beneath her pillow. She did not know how it had gotten there or who had sent it. The note was unsigned, unsealed, and the hand unfamiliar. She crushed the parchment to her chest and whispered the words to herself. "Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home," she breathed, ever so faintly.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II  
But the godswoods in the south are not like the one at home:
In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch. Up here it was different. Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.
—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I
After Sansa left Winterfell, she went south and got to live in two great castles that although they had a godswood, they didn’t have a weirwood tree. But no matter that, the godswood of the Red Keep in King’s Landing and the godswood of the Eyrie in The Vale were very important in Sansa’s arc. But there was another castle and another godswood…  
Only trees bare and brooding, their black branches scratching at the sky.
Ned killed Lady at Darry. The castle had a godswood, but not a weirwood:
The castle yard was full of eyes and ears. To escape them, they sought out Darry's godswood. There were no sparrows there, only trees bare and brooding, their black branches scratching at the sky. A mat of dead leaves crunched beneath their feet.
—A Feast for Crows - Jaime IV
There is no other description of Darry’s godswood. Jaime would have noticed if there has been a weirwood there; instead he mentions the black branches of the trees, the opposite to the white bone branches of a weirwood.
During the “trial,” Sansa chose to keep quiet about the Trident incident, she didn’t support Joffrey’s nor Arya’s version, she just said “I don’t know” and “I don’t remember”. And while it wasn’t exactly a lie, many readers considered her silence a betrayal to House Stark and they think she was punished with Lady’s sacrifice for not telling the truth.
It was a very complicated situation for Sansa, and as I said before, Lady’s death was the result of the sum of several factors (several other character’s actions/inactions), but this absence of weirwoods in the south (In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago), also serves to illustrate how the further Sansa goes south, the more she losses and the more lies she is forced to say.      
Later, Arya was glad to know that Darry was going to be burned by northern men, remembering that it was there where Lady was killed:  
Arya was glad to hear that the castle of the Darrys would be burned. That was where they'd brought her when she'd been caught after her fight with Joffrey, and where the queen had made her father kill Sansa's wolf. It deserves to burn.
—A Clash of Kings - Arya X
Arya’s reaction is very similar to Sansa’s wish for the Sept of Baelor to be burned by Stannis, since that was the place where Ned was killed:  
Dontos nodded. "He made a great pyre of the trees as an offering to his new god. The red priestess made him do it. They say she rules him now, body and soul. He's vowed to burn the Great Sept of Baelor too, if he takes the city." "Let him." When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she'd thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. "I want it burned." "Hush, child, the gods will hear you."
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV
Perhaps the gods heard Sansa's wish, and it will come true... We'll see.
The heart tree there was a great oak, brown and faceless.
The Red Keep had a godswood, but not a weirwood. Ned and Sansa could still sense the presence of the old gods, nonetheless:
The godswood was empty, as it always was here in this citadel of the southron gods. Ned's leg was screaming as they lowered him to the grass beside the heart tree. "Thank you." He drew a paper from his sleeve, sealed with the sigil of his House. "Kindly deliver this at once." [...] How long he waited in the quiet of the godswood, he could not say. It was peaceful here. The thick walls shut out the clamor of the castle, and he could hear birds singing, the murmur of crickets, leaves rustling in a gentle wind. The heart tree was an oak, brown and faceless, yet Ned Stark still felt the presence of his gods. His leg did not seem to hurt so much.
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard XII
By the time she reached the godswood, the noises had faded to a faint rattle of steel and a distant shouting. Sansa pulled her cloak tighter. The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood; even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes. Sansa had favored her mother's gods over her father's. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli. Yet she could not deny that the godswood had a certain power too. Especially by night. Help me, she prayed, send me a friend, a true knight to champion me . . .
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II
Ned took his daughters to pray in the Red Keep’s godswood after knowing that Bran woke up from the coma:
Arya bit her lip. "What will Bran do when he's of age?" Ned knelt beside her. "He has years to find that answer, Arya. For now, it is enough to know that he will live." The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling."
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard V
Sansa’s dream about Bran smiling is very telling, since Bran woke up from the coma precisely thanks to Lady’s sacrifice (only death can pay for life).
In this passage we can also appreciate the moon and sun imagery around the Stark sisters: Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later (Arya is the moon). When dawn broke over the city... "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling." (Sansa is the dawn/sun).
Sweet lady, I would be your Florian.
Littlefinger not only used the godswood and the old gods to lure Sansa into his trap, he also used the songs. That’s why he sent Dontos Hollard, a defenestrated knight turned fool, a poor version of the legendary Florian, to help Sansa escape King’s Landing:  
“I prayed to the gods for a knight to come save me,” she said. “I prayed and prayed. Why would they send me a drunken old fool?” […] “The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all…” “Florian,” Sansa whispered. A shiver went through her. “Sweet lady, I would be your Florian,” Dontos said humbly, falling to his knees before her. […] “I vow, with your father’s gods as witness, that I shall send you home.” He swore. A solemn oath, before the gods. “Then…I will put myself in your hands, ser. But how will I know, when it is time to go? Will you send me another note?” Ser Dontos glanced about anxiously. “The risk is too great. You must come here, to the godswood. As often as you can. This is the safest place. The only safe place. Nowhere else.”
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II
During their encounters in the godswood, Dontos and Sansa planned her escape from King’s Landing.
It was there where Sansa told Dontos about her betrothal with Willas Tyrell. That’s how     the Lannisters discovered this secret betrothal (thanks to Dontos and Littlefinger) and Sansa ended up married to Tyrion and Cersei betrothed to Willas.
They have made me a Lannister, Sansa thought bitterly.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV
And It was also there where Dontos gave her the hairnet with the poison that later killed Joffrey:
"You've waited so long, be patient awhile longer. Here, I have something for you." Ser Dontos fumbled in his pouch and drew out a silvery spiderweb, dangling it between his thick fingers. It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. "What stones are these?" "Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight." "It's very lovely," Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair. "Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It's magic, you see. It's justice you hold. It's vengeance for your father." Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. "It's home."
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VIII
Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow.
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(Art credit: Sansa Stark in the godswood of the Red Keep by Lauren K. Cannon)
Later Sansa realized that it was all Littlefinger’s plan. That Dontos sold her for a bag of golden dragons, that she carried the poison that killed Joffrey in her hair, that she was not going back home, to Winterfell, that life is not a song…
"He sold you for a promise of ten thousand dragons. Your disappearance will make them suspect you in Joffrey's death. The gold cloaks will hunt, and the eunuch will jingle his purse. Dontos . . . well, you heard him. He sold you for gold, and when he'd drunk it up he would have sold you again. A bag of dragons buys a man's silence for a while, but a well-placed quarrel buys it forever." He smiled sadly. "All he did he did at my behest. I dared not befriend you openly. When I heard how you saved his life at Joff's tourney, I knew he would be the perfect catspaw." Sansa felt sick. "He said he was my Florian." "Do you perchance recall what I said to you that day your father sat the Iron Throne?" The moment came back to her vividly. "You told me that life was not a song. That I would learn that one day, to my sorrow." She felt tears in her eyes, but whether she wept for Ser Dontos Hollard, for Joff, for Tyrion, or for herself, Sansa could not say. "Is it all lies, forever and ever, everyone and everything?" "Almost everyone. Save you and I, of course." He smiled. "Come to the godswood tonight if you want to go home." "The note . . . it was you?" "It had to be the godswood. No other place in the Red Keep is safe from the eunuch's little birds . . . or little rats, as I call them. There are trees in the godswood instead of walls. Sky above instead of ceiling. Roots and dirt and rock in place of floor. The rats have no place to scurry. Rats need to hide, lest men skewer them with swords."
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa V
As I said before, this absence of weirwoods in the south (In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago), illustrates how the further Sansa goes south, the more she loses and the more lies she is forced to say.      
At Darry, she lost Lady. At the Red Keep, the Lannisters capture her father, friends and loyals to later kill them or put them into sex trafficking. She also “lost” her last name Stark to become “Lady Lannister,” and was forced to call her whole family traitors and profess how much she loved her captors and how very loyal she was to them.    
After her escape from King’s Landing though, a different tale started to be forged, the legend of Sansa Stark, ever a traitor to the crown, a devoted daughter of the old gods of the north:  
In King's Landing, Brienne had found one of Sansa's former maids doing washing in a brothel. "I served with Lord Renly before m'lady Sansa, and both turned traitor," the woman Brella complained bitterly. "No lord will touch me now, so I have to wash for whores." But when Brienne asked about Sansa, she said, "I'll tell you what I told Lord Tywin. That girl was always praying. She'd go to sept and light her candles like a proper lady, but near every night she went off to the godswood. She's gone back north, she has. That's where her gods are."
—A Feast for Crows - Brienne II
Oh the popular folklore! Always the best: During the day Sansa prayed to the Seven like a proper lady, but at night she was a wolf that was always howling in the godswood, talking to her nortern gods…  
A godswood without gods, as empty as me.
The Eyrie had a godswood, but not a weirwood. Sansa couldn’t even sense the presence of the old gods now:
Even the gods were silent. The Eyrie boasted a sept, but no septon; a godswood, but no heart tree. No prayers are answered here, she often thought, though some days she felt so lonely she had to try. Only the wind answered her, sighing endlessly around the seven slim white towers and rattling the Moon Door every time it gusted. It will be even worse in winter, she knew. In winter this will be a cold white prison.
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II
The Vale of Arryn and the Eyrie were as beautiful as the songs said, but Sansa couldn’t love them, they were no home:
"You look distraught. Did you think we were making for Winterfell, sweetling? Winterfell has been taken, burned, and sacked. All those you knew and loved are dead. What northmen who have not fallen to the ironmen are warring amongst themselves. Even the Wall is under attack. Winterfell was the home of your childhood, Sansa, but you are no longer a child. You're a woman grown, and you need to make your own home." […] It had been years since Sansa last saw her mother's sister. She will be kind to me for my mother's sake, surely. She's my own blood. And the Vale of Arryn was beautiful, all the songs said so. Perhaps it would not be so terrible to stay here for a time.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI
Old snow cloaked the courtyard, and icicles hung down like crystal spears from the terraces and towers. The Eyrie was built of fine white stone, and winter's mantle made it whiter still. So beautiful, Alayne thought, so impregnable. She could not love this place, no matter how she tried. Even before the guards and serving men had made their descent, the castle had seemed as empty as a tomb, and more so when Petyr Baelish was away. No one sang up there, not since Marillion. No one ever laughed too loud.
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II
She awoke all at once, every nerve atingle. For a moment she did not remember where she was. She had dreamt that she was little, still sharing a bedchamber with her sister Arya. But it was her maid she heard tossing in sleep, not her sister, and this was not Winterfell, but the Eyrie. And I am Alayne Stone, a bastard girl. The room was cold and black, though she was warm beneath the blankets. Dawn had not yet come. Sometimes she dreamed of Ser Ilyn Payne and woke with her heart thumping, but this dream had not been like that. Home. It was a dream of home. The Eyrie was no home. […] When Sansa opened her eyes again, she was on her knees. She did not remember falling. It seemed to her that the sky was a lighter shade of grey. Dawn, she thought. Another day. Another new day. It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
A godswood without gods (a godswood without a weirwood), as empty as me (like Sansa without Lady).
A godswood without gods (a lone wolf), as empty as me (lost without its pack).
A godswood without gods (a body without its heart), as empty as me (disillusioned with love).
The snow fell and the castle rose.
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(Art credit: Sansa Stark making a snow-castle of Winterfell at the Eyrie - by Michael Komarck.© )
Snow imagery is very important in Sansa’s arc. Snow means home, family and love:
Sansa is prophesied slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow (Winterfell reference).  
The snow falling before dawn is what wakes her up from her dreams of Winterfell, the day she builds her snow castle.
She remembers Robb with snowflakes in his hair during their farewell.
She remembers the summer snows from the day she left Winterfell.
She remembers a snowball fight with Arya and Bran back at Winnterfell.
She associates snowflakes with lover’s kisses.
She associates the taste of snow with Winterfell, innocence and dreams.
She builds a snow castle that means to be Winterfell.
Sansa building her snow castle is a reminder of the First Men and the Children of the Forest victory over the Long Night at the Battle for the Dawn.
Sansa building her snow castle at dawn is foreshadowing of Sansa re-building Winterfell after the second Battle for the Dawn.
She calls the Eyrie “a castle made of snow” (Winterfell reference), the day she descends to the Gates of the Moon.
She (Alayne Stone) is called the daughter of a snowy mountain (Winterfell reference).
The snow is falling all around when she hears of Jon Snow and the wind howls fiercely like a ghost wolf, big as mountains.
That’s why Sansa building her snow castle is one of GRRM’s favorite scenes from the Books. 
It was only a castle when she began, but before very long Sansa knew it was Winterfell. [...] Soon her gloves and her boots were crusty white, her hands were tingling, and her feet were soaked and cold, but she did not care. The castle was all that mattered. [...] She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell. [...] Sansa said, “It’s meant to be Winterfell.” [...] “Winterfell is the seat of House Stark,” Sansa told her husband-to-be. “The great castle of the north.”
— A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
Read more about George’s love for Sansa and her snow castle here, here, and also here.
Sansa is hiding in a strange and alien place, pretending to be another person, with another family and other roots. But her dreams, her deepest desires and even the weather are there to remind her who she really is. So, as an act of defiance, she builds a snow version of her true home out of memory. On the outside, this could simply be seen as a child playing in the snow, but deep down Sansa was yelling at the world that she was a Stark, that she was a wolf, a ghost wolf, big as mountains.      
Sansa Stark went up the mountain, but Alayne Stone is coming down.
Alayne Stone, the natural daughter of Petyr Baelish, was born at Gulltown. She is fourteen years old and has dark brown hair. Her mother was a gentlewoman of Braavos, daughter of a merchant prince. Alayne was raised by Septas and devotedly instructed in the Faith.
Again, the absence of a weirwood, or any other species as a heart tree, meant that Sansa was surrounded by lies and something else was taken away from her. This time her hair color and true born status.
Sansa’s coloring: fair porcelain skin and rich auburn hair, works as a reference to the weirwood tree. We can also observe this reference in this passage:
She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap. "You have juice on your face, Your Grace," Arya said. It was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. Sansa wiped it away with a napkin. When she saw what the fruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress, she shrieked again. "You're horrible," she screamed at her sister. "They should have killed you instead of Lady!"
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III  
Ivory (whitish) and red are the colors of the weirwood tree. The old gods reference and the mention of Lady make this passage very symbolic. The dress was a betrothal gift from Cersei, now stained with blood. Similar to Lady’s death that stained Sansa’s betrothal with Joffrey, who never forgot what happened at the Trident:
"Silence, fool." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. "You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me." "That was Arya's wolf," she said. "Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway."
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III  
So, taking away her rich auburn hair color, was once again an attempt to cut her northern roots. Yes, Sansa’s hair color was a Tully feature, but a reference to the red weirwood leaves as well.
This is more evident when Jon reunites with Ghost and finds his answer to Stannis’s offer and refuses Winterfell in order to save the weirwood tree from the Lord of Light fires and protect Sansa’s claim to the castle. During this processes Jon says: i) Winterfell belongs to the old gods, ii) Ghost belongs to the old gods; and, iii) Winterfell belongs to Sansa. At this point the connection between Sansa and the weirwood tree is obvious and undeniable.  
But what Sansa resented the most, was having lost her last name and true born status:
"Do you require guarding?" Marillion said lightly. "I am composing a new song, you should know. A song so sweet and sad it will melt even your frozen heart. 'The Roadside Rose,' I mean to call it. About a baseborn girl so beautiful she bewitched every man who laid eyes upon her." I am a Stark of Winterfell, she longed to tell him. Instead she nodded, and let him escort her down the tower steps and along a bridge.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
"I know Lord Nestor, sweetling. Do you imagine I'd ever let him harm my daughter?" I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.
—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I
"Bronze Yohn knows me," she reminded him. "He was a guest at Winterfell when his son rode north to take the black." […] Lord Royce saw . . . he saw Sansa Stark again at King's Landing, during the Hand's tourney."
[…] A man fighting in a tourney has more to concern him than some child in the crowd. And at Winterfell, Sansa was a little girl with auburn hair. My daughter is a maiden tall and fair, and her hair is chestnut.
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I
So, when Sansa says: “Sansa Stark went up the mountain, but Alayne Stone is coming down”, it almost  sounds like a death. The author himself said that “Sansa may be dead as well. There’s only Alayne Stone”.  
But “winter is coming,” and the cold is ruthless, the old gods are sending snow (and Snow) for Alayne Stone, to nourish her subtle acts of rebellion like, building snow castles, blurting out her bastard half brother’s name, and indulging herself with lemony, lemony, lemon cakes.  
IV.3. THE HEART OF WINTERFELL
The castle might well be theirs, but never that godswood.
I tried to explain how Sansa started to become a symbol of Winterfell, no matter how many times other characters attempt to strip her of her true identity, and how many times readers question her Starkness. But the loss of Lady’s physical existence and the absence of weirwood trees in the south, made her feel empty, like a godswood without gods. But the heart of Winterfell, the heart of home, the weirwood tree, still stands back home and is fighting hard against invaders. 
Some of Sansa’s suitors got to know Winterfell’s godswood, but the old gods rejected their presence and made them feel unwanted, just like Sansa does with some of them:  
1. Theon Greyjoy
A pity Ned Stark had taken his daughters south; elsewise Theon could have tightened his grip on Winterfell by marrying one of them. Sansa was a pretty little thing too, and by now likely even ripe for bedding. But she was a thousand leagues away, in the clutches of the Lannisters. A shame.
—A Clash of Kings - Theon IV
He watched the forest go from grey to green below him as light filtered through the silent trees. On his left he could see tower tops above the inner wall, their roofs gilded by the rising sun. The red leaves of the weirwood were a blaze of flame among the green. Ned Stark's tree, he thought, and Stark's wood, Stark's castle, Stark's sword, Stark's gods. This is their place, not mine.
—A Clash of Kings - Theon V
Meanwhile Sansa completely ignores Theon’s past pretensions to marry her, and the only time she thought about her father’s ward, she called him Bran’s killer.
2. Tyrion Lannister
Tyrion had only the vaguest memory of Theon Greyjoy from his time with the Starks. A callow youth, always smiling, skilled with a bow; it was hard to imagine him as Lord of Winterfell. The Lord of Winterfell would always be a Stark.
He remembered their godswood; the tall sentinels armored in their grey-green needles, the great oaks, the hawthorn and ash and soldier pines, and at the center the heart tree standing like some pale giant frozen in time. He could almost smell the place, earthy and brooding, the smell of centuries, and he remembered how dark the wood had been even by day. That wood was Winterfell. It was the north. I never felt so out of place as I did when I walked there, so much an unwelcome intruder. He wondered if the Greyjoys would feel it too. The castle might well be theirs, but never that godswood. Not in a year, or ten, or fifty.
—A Clash of Kings - Tyrion XI
Meanwhile, Sansa refuses to kneel for Tyrion to be able to cloak her (Dontos serves as stool), refuses his sexual advances with icy courtesy, never opens her heart to her husband’s offers to comfort, lies and outsmarts him about her visits to the godswood where she plans her escape from the capital, she makes him feel unwanted and hated, she puts a wall of icy courtesy between them that Tyrion never could climb or break:
No one had thought to bring a stool, however, and Tyrion stood a foot and a half shorter than his bride. As he moved behind her, Sansa felt a sharp tug on her skirt. He wants me to kneel, she realized, blushing. She was mortified. It was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp. She felt another tug at her skirt, more insistent. I won't. Why should I spare his feelings, when no one cares about mine? The dwarf tugged at her a third time. Stubbornly she pressed her lips together and pretended not to notice. […] He hopped down from the dais and grabbed Sansa roughly. "Come, wife, time to smash your portcullis. I want to play come-into-the-castle." Red-faced, Sansa went with him from the Small Hall. What choice do I have? […] "Well, talk won't make you older. Shall we get on with this, my lady? If it please you?" "It will please me to please my lord husband." That seemed to anger him. "You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall." "Courtesy is a lady's armor," Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that. "I am your husband. You can take off your armor now." [...] "On my honor as a Lannister," the Imp said, "I will not touch you until you want me to." It took all the courage that was in her to look in those mismatched eyes and say, "And if I never want you to, my lord?" His mouth jerked as if she had slapped him. "Never?" Her neck was so tight she could scarcely nod. "Why," he said, "that is why the gods made whores for imps like me." He closed his short blunt fingers into a fist, and climbed down off the bed.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III
Sansa's misery was deepening every day. Tyrion would gladly have broken through her courtesy to give her what solace he might, but it was no good. No words would ever make him fair in her eyes. Or any less a Lannister. This was the wife they had given him, for all the rest of his life, and she hated him.
And their nights together in the great bed were another source of torment. He could no longer bear to sleep naked, as had been his custom. His wife was too well trained ever to say an unkind word, but the revulsion in her eyes whenever she looked on his body was more than he could bear. Tyrion had commanded Sansa to wear a sleeping shift as well. I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Yes, and I want to be tall as Jaime and as strong as Ser Gregor the Mountain too, for all the bloody good it does.
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV
The way she looked at him, her stiffness when she climbed into their bed . . . when he was with her, never for an instant could he forget who he was, or what he was. No more than she did. She still went nightly to the godswood to pray, and Tyrion wondered if she were praying for his death. She had lost her home, her place in the world, and everyone she had ever loved or trusted. Winter is coming, warned the Stark words, and truly it had come for them with a vengeance. But it is high summer for House Lannister. So why am I so bloody cold?
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VII
He wanted to reach her, to break through the armor of her courtesy. […] He had always had a yen to see the Titan of Braavos. Perhaps that would please Sansa. Gently, he spoke of Braavos, and met a wall of sullen courtesy as icy and unyielding as the Wall he had walked once in the north. It made him weary. Then and now.
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII
Once again, as it happened with the Hound, Sansa’s courtesy armors her against men that attempt to invade her body. In a similar way that the heart of Winterfell, the weirwood, makes the invaders feel unwanted and rejected.
3. Petyr Baelish
Littlefinger was never at Winterfell or the godswood, but he feels a deep hatred for the castle, he always dreamed of Winterfell as Catelyn’s dark and cold prison:
He walked along outside the walls. “I used to dream of it, in those years after Cat went north with Eddard Stark. In my dreams it was ever a dark place, and cold.”
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
Littlefinger is the cause of the War of the Five Kings that killed Sansa’s parents and older brother and separated her remaining siblings. The war also caused the fall of Winterfell that was, invaded, sacked and burned by the Greyjoys and Boltons.
But there is a connection between Littlefinger, Winterfell and the godswood. Littlefinger has involved Sansa in several murders, Joffrey’s and Lysa’s being the more important (Dontos and Marillion also suffered murder and mutilation). The King’s murder was planned in the Red Keep’s goodswood, and Lysa’s murder was a direct consequence of Petyr kissing Sansa in the Eyrie’s goodswood.
Now Littlefinger is grooming Sansa, forcing sexual advances on her, and those started during the snow castle scene. The symbolic image of a giant invading Winterfell also plays as an innuendo:  
"May I come into your castle, my lady?" Sansa was wary. "Don't break it. Be . . ." ". . . gentle?" He smiled. "Winterfell has withstood fiercer enemies than me. It is Winterfell, is it not?" "Yes," Sansa admitted.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
The ambitious men that pursed Winterfell through marrying Sansa, also had to take her maidenhead and conceive an heir, in order to consolidate their claim to the castle and the north. So “coming into the castle” also means having sex and making children.      
Littlefinger is too machiavellian, it seems he has used the godswoods not only to trap Sansa but also to reenact his children fantasy of being Catelyn’s love:
I saw you kissing in the snow. She's just like her mother. Catelyn kissed you in the godswood, but she never meant it, she never wanted you. Why did you love her best? It was me, it was always meeee!"
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
But Sansa, like Catelyn, never wanted and will never wants Petyr Baelish as lover.  
Meanwhile at the Wall…
Jon Snow
Unlike Theon, Jon doesn’t feel rejected by the heart of Winterfell. Jon got a direwolf sent by the old gods that shares the weirwood’s coloring:
Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Unlike Theon that invaded Winterfell and allowed the Ironmen to sack, pillage, kill and rape. And later let the Boltons into the castle to burn it. Jon wants to rebuild Winterfell:
They can’t be dead. Theon would never do that. And Winterfell … grey granite, oak and iron, crows wheeling around the towers, steam rising off the hot pools in the godswood, the stone kings sitting on their thrones … how could Winterfell be gone?
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI
Winterfell, he thought. Theon left it burned and broken, but I could restore it. Surely his father would have wanted that, and Robb as well. They would never have wanted the castle left in ruins.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Jon wanted Winterfell, as much as he had ever wanted anything, but unlike Tyrion, Jon rejects the castle in favor of Sansa. And Jon would never forced himself on Sansa if she doesn’t want him as well.
He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. 
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust.
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV
The wording of these two passages (“He wanted it” / “I want her”), the Winterfell references, and the guilt and angst for desiring something forbidden (“May the gods forgive me” / “I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is”), is way too similar to be a mere coincidence. Winterfell and Sansa are merged in the text.
Tyrion and Littlefinger sexually desire Sansa and used the same Winterfell reference as an innuendo:
"Come, wife, time to smash your portcullis. I want to play come-into-the-castle."
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III
"May I come into your castle, my lady?" Sansa was wary. "Don't break it. Be . . ." ". . . gentle?" He smiled. "Winterfell has withstood fiercer enemies than me. It is Winterfell, is it not?" "Yes," Sansa admitted.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
Both Tyrion and Littlefinger have giant imagery around them, both even talk to her about the Giant of Braavos, both wanted Sansa politically (Winterfell) and sexually (her body), and Sansa has been prophesied slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow (Winterfell reference). I think that Jon might help her to fulfil that prophecy.
Indeed, Tyrion associates Sansa’s rejection of his advances as icy courtesy and compared that rejection with a castle wall and the Wall in the north:
"You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall." "Courtesy is a lady's armor," Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III
Sansa's misery was deepening every day. Tyrion would gladly have broken through her courtesy to give her what solace he might, but it was no good.
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV
He wanted to reach her, to break through the armor of her courtesy. […] He had always had a yen to see the Titan of Braavos. Perhaps that would please Sansa. Gently, he spoke of Braavos, and met a wall of sullen courtesy as icy and unyielding as the Wall he had walked once in the north. It made him weary. Then and now.
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII
But Sansa is “stronger within the walls of Winterfell” and Jon at the Wall is “the shield that guards the realms of men.”
Sansa also throws a handful of snow at Littlefinger’s face during the snow castle scene:
The Broken Tower was easier still. They made a tall tower together, kneeling side by side to roll it smooth, and when they'd raised it Sansa stuck her fingers through the top, grabbed a handful of snow, and flung it full in his face. Petyr yelped, as the snow slid down under his collar. "That was unchivalrously done, my lady." "As was bringing me here, when you swore to take me home." She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
A handful of snow… Wouldn’t be awesome if Jon Snow continue the Stark men tradition to beat Littlefinger out?
I was always suspicious of Littlefinger helping Sansa build her snow castle, but since Petyr Baelish has giant imagery around him, it all makes sense after reading this passage:
She looked as if she thought he was making that up. "How could men build so high, with no giants to lift the stones?" In legend, Brandon the Builder had used giants to help raise Winterfell, but Jon did not want to confuse the issue. "Men can build a lot higher than this. In Oldtown there's a tower taller than the Wall." He could tell she did not believe him.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon V
Sansa will be certainly grateful if she can take advantage of any help Baelish could offer to rebuild Winterfell, but she will slay him anyway, as in the songs:
“If the tales be true, that’s not the first giant to end up with his head on Winterfell’s walls.” “Those are only stories,” she said, and left him there.
— A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
Unlike Petyr’s forced kisses, Sansa associates “snow” with lover’s kisses:
Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses, and melted on her cheeks.
— A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
Unlike Petyr, that has used the godswoods of the Red Keep and the Eyrie, to lie and trap Sansa, and is an awful replacement as a father figure for Sansa, Jon would never lie to Sansa in front of the old gods, like Ned taught him:  
Jon said, "My lord father believed no man could tell a lie in front of a heart tree. The old gods know when men are lying."
—A Clash of Kings - Jon II
As I said before, if Jon had accepted Stannis’s offer, he would have had Winterfell, but at an extremely high price: burning the weirwood tree, which, to him, would be sacrilege:
When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Sansa feels empty like a godswood without gods, like a godswood without a weirwood tree, mostly because she lost Lady, but also because she feels like a lone wolf without its pack, and a body without its heart due to the extreme disillusionment she has suffered so far.
But Jon Snow has a direwolf that is a symbol of the weirwood tree, Jon himself is a symbol of the weirwood tree. And Sansa has become a symbol of Winterfell and the godswood, but she feels empty without her wolf. Then Ghost might complete Sansa’s empty godswood, and Jon might fill Sansa’s heart again. And together they could be a pack. And together they could rebuild their home. Please play North by Sleeping at Last here.  
So…
…One would have to wonder why GRRM is always comparing and contrasting Sansa’s suitors with her bastard half brother Jon Snow? What is the reason for that? Does that mean that something romantic will happen between Sansa and Jon in the future? Is that just a mere coincidence? If the same thing (Sansa’s suitor being compared and contrasted with Jon Snow) happened three times, can we really call it a mere coincidence? One would have to wonder… Why?     
IV.4. SANSA THE WOLF
My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.
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(Picture credit: Sophie Turner)
Acording to GRRM, all the Stark children are wargs or skinchangers:
“I don’t think this is necessarily a ‘Stark’ ability, though all the children have it to one extent or another. They also realize it to one extent or another”. [Source]
Q: Are all the Stark children wargs/skin changers with their wolves? A: To a greater or lesser degree, yes, but the amount of control varies widely. [Source]
Oh, George said all the Stark children of this generation were full Wargs. I thought they were like one shot Wargs and were only bonded to their wolves but no they can warg into just about anything. Bran is just the only one working on it. [Source]
Since Lady died, Sansa lost the opportunity to form a deeper bond with her wolf and to further develop and recognise her skinchanger abilities.
But I believe that Lady’s soul still remains in the world, and that’s why Bran calls and counts Sansa’s wolf as “Lady’s Shade.”  
Of late, he often dreamed of wolves. They are talking to me, brother to brother, he told himself when the direwolves howled. He could almost understand them . . . not quite, not truly, but almost . . . as if they were singing in a language he had once known and somehow forgotten. The Walders might be scared of them, but the Starks had wolf blood. Old Nan told him so. "Though it is stronger in some than in others," she warned. Summer's howls were long and sad, full of grief and longing. Shaggydog's were more savage. Their voices echoed through the yards and halls until the castle rang and it seemed as though some great pack of direwolves haunted Winterfell, instead of only two . . . two where there had once been six. Do they miss their brothers and sisters too? Bran wondered. Are they calling to Grey Wind and Ghost, to Nymeria and Lady's Shade? Do they want them to come home and be a pack together?
—A Clash of Kings - Bran I
Read more about Lady’s Shade here.
We also have this passage about a Child of the Forest long dead but part of her still remaining in a raven:
“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.” “A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Bran III
So it is possible that part of Lady still remains inside of Sansa, and that’s why Sansa always dreams with Lady (wolf dreams). Only Jon stopped dreaming with Ghost for a time, coincidentally, when they were separated by the Wall: 
The warg, I've heard them call me. How can I be a warg without a wolf, I ask you?" His mouth twisted. "I don't even dream of Ghost anymore. All my dreams are of the crypts, of the stone kings on their thrones. Sometimes I hear Robb's voice, and my father's, as if they were at a feast. But there's a wall between us, and I know that no place has been set for me."
—A Storm of Swords - Samwell IV
Most of Sansa’s dreams with Lady is about both of them running in a godswood (Lady’s bones are buried near Winterfell’s godswood), and although Sansa doesn’t remember much of her dreams, she always whispers and/or wakes up with Lady’s name on her lips:
Sansa sat up. "Lady," she whispered. For a moment it was as if the direwolf was there in the room, looking at her with those golden eyes, sad and knowing. She had been dreaming, she realized. Lady was with her, and they were running together, and … and … trying to remember was like trying to catch the rain with her fingers. The dream faded, and Lady was dead again.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III
By the time she reached the godswood, the noises had faded to a faint rattle of steel and a distant shouting. Sansa pulled her cloak tighter. The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood; even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II
That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so…
She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV
Tyrion dressed himself in darkness, listening to his wife's soft breathing from the bed they shared. She dreams, he thought, when Sansa murmured something softly—a name, perhaps, though it was too faint to say—and turned onto her side.
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VII
Even after her nightmares, she thinks of her Lady:
"I'll have a song from you," he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. "I wish that you were Lady," she said.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI
Some readers have speculated about Sansa and her link with other animals, and the possibility of Sansa changing skins with them, like the black tomcat of the Red Keep, the old blind dog of the Fingers, and even the blue falcon that she observed flying above the Eyrie.
From the Prologue of A Dance with Dragons we know that cats aren’t good to warg into:
Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you.
—A Dance with Dragons - Prologue
During her encounter with the black tomcat of the Red Keep, Sansa “almost jumped out her skin.” This is a very interesting wording that almost sounds like skinchanging:
The serpentine steps twisted ahead, striped by bars of flickering light from the narrow windows above. Sansa was panting by the time she reached the top. She ran down a shadowy colonnade and pressed herself against a wall to catch her breath. When something brushed against her leg, she almost jumped out of her skin, but it was only a cat, a ragged black tom with a chewed-off ear. The creature spit at her and leapt away.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II
“Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you”, maybe, that’s why after approaching Sansa willingly, the black tomcat “spit at her and leapt away”. This scene happens when Sansa was coming to the godswood to meet with Dontos for the first time. After Sansa arrives, she immediately thinks of Lady.
From the Prologue of A Dance with Dragons we also know that dogs are the easiest animals to bond with:
Dogs were the easiest beasts to bond with; they lived so close to men that they were almost human. Slipping into a dog's skin was like putting on an old boot, its leather softened by wear. As a boot was shaped to accept a foot, a dog was shaped to accept a collar, even a collar no human eye could see.
—A Dance with Dragons - Prologue
Sansa bonds with the old blind dog of the Fingers fast and easily. The dog is affectionate, tries to defend Sansa from Marillion’s attack, and is next to her after the nightmares of past sexual abuse by the Hound and Tyrion, provoked by the singer’s attack:
It was eight long days until Lysa Arryn arrived. On five of them it rained, while Sansa sat bored and restless by the fire, beside the old blind dog. He was too sick and toothless to walk guard with Bryen anymore, and mostly all he did was sleep, but when she patted him he whined and licked her hand, and after that they were fast friends. […] "Alayne." Her aunt's singer stood over her. "Sweet Alayne. I am Marillion. I saw you come in from the rain. The night is chill and wet. Let me warm you." The old dog raised his head and growled, but the singer gave him a cuff and sent him slinking off, whimpering. […] "I'll have a song from you," he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. "I wish that you were Lady," she said.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI
And about birds, this is what the Prologue of A Dance with Dragons tells us:
"Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won't like what you'd become." Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. "Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again. I know skinchangers who've tried hawks, owls, ravens. Even in their own skins, they sit moony, staring up at the bloody blue." Not all skinchangers felt the same, however.
—A Dance with Dragons - Prologue
We know that Sansa likes to go hawking, and she is better than Stannis at it:
“Do you hawk, Sansa?” “A little,” she admitted.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I
The day before last she’d taken Sansa hawking. […] Sansa’s merlin brought down three ducks while Margaery’s peregrine took a heron in full flight.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II
But once again trapped in a tower, Sansa wishes she has wings:
A falcon soared above the frozen waterfall, blue wings spread wide against the morning sky. Would that I had wings as well.
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I
Sansa warging abilities are hidden so deep in the text, they only shyly appear in the middle of George’s prose as little pieces of poetry:  
My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.
Now tell me, what is that if not skinchanging?
And talking about birds, Sansa has already changed her skin with some birds, she was a talking little bird of the Summer Islands (repeating the right things to survive), then a mockingbird (as Petyr Baelish daughter), and she’s about to become a falcon (if she marries Harry).
And since cloaks could also be considered another skin, Sansa has already changed various cloaks. She was cloaked by a Lannister, then by her new father Petyr Baelish, and is about to be cloaked again by an Arryn.
But Sansa is a wolf, no matter how many skins she wears, she will always be a wolf:
A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man could truly tame a wolf.
—A Dance with Dragons – Prologue
“She’s not a dog, she’s a direwolf.”
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I
“The Lannister woman shall never have this skin.”
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III
As you can see, Sansa’s true skin is waiting for her at Winterfell…
A direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, her golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .
At Darry, the Lannisters killed Lady.
At King’s Landing, Joffrey used to punish Sansa in public, humiliating her for having the blood of a wolf, for being an unnatural creature like her brother Robb that defeated Lannister soldiers fighting with an army of wargs:
"Silence, fool." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. "You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me." "That was Arya's wolf," she said. "Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway." […] “This girl’s to be your queen,” the Imp told Joffrey. “Have you no regard for her honor?” “I’m punishing her.” “For what crime? She did not fight her brother’s battle.” “She has the blood of a wolf.”
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III
So, the Lannisters thought that Sansa was a tamed wolf. Tyrion used to call her his “child bride” or “child wife”, for everyone in the court she was the imp’s “little wife,” or the “little bird” in her gilded cage. But after Joffrey's death, Sansa began to be seen by her captors as a cunning wolf who hid under a sheepskin, an ungrateful wolf who bit the hands that fed her:
“That night, alone in his tower cell with a blank parchment and a cup of wine, Tyrion found himself thinking of his wife. Not Sansa; his first wife, Tysha. The whore wife, not the wolf wife.”
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IX
"It was sweet," lied Tyrion, "but I am married. She was with me at the feast, you may remember her. Lady Sansa." "Was she your wife? She … she was very beautiful …" And false. Sansa, Shae, all my women …
—A Dance with Dragons - Tyrion IX
“Your Grace has forgotten the Lady Sansa,” said Pycelle. The queen bristled. “I most certainly have not forgotten that little she-wolf.” She refused to say the girl’s name. “I ought to have shown her to the black cells as the daughter of a traitor, but instead I made her part of mine own household. She shared my hearth and hall, played with my own children. I fed her, dressed her, tried to make her a little less ignorant about the world, and how did she repay me for my kindness? She helped murder my son.
—A Feast for Crows - Cersei IV
And while Sansa wishes she had feathery wings, unbeknownst to her, she became part of the popular folklore when the smallfolk began to imagine her as a witchy kingslayer that later vanished in a puff of brimstone or changed into a “wolf with big leather wings like a bat” and flew away:
“I forgot, you’ve been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head.”
—A Storm of Swords - Arya XIII
“The dwarf’s wife did the murder with him,” swore an archer in Lord Rowan’s livery. “Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws.”
—A Storm of Swords - Jaime VII
In the same book and with a very similar wording, Jon dreams of a ghastly direwolf wandering around the Crypts of Winterfell:
The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. “Ygritte?” he whispered. “Forgive me. Please.” But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his her golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII
My personal theory is that the ghastly direwolf is Lady, because, among other reasons, this wouldn’t be the first time that Jon confused Ygritte with another redhead. 
These legends of Sansa the witch, the unnatural warg, the beastling, the skinchanger, the winged wolf that flew away from a tower window or vanished in a puff of brimstone, are at the same level of the legends about Bloodraven warging into a one-eyed dog and turning into a mist from a century ago:
How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? the riddle ran. A thousand eyes, and one. Some claimed the King's Hand was a student of the dark arts who could change his face, put on the likeness of a one-eyed dog, even turn into a mist. Packs of gaunt gray wolves hunted down his foes, men said, and carrion crows spied for him and whispered secrets in his ear. Most of the tales were only tales, Dunk did not doubt, but no one could doubt that Bloodraven had informers everywhere.
—The Mystery Knight
If Sansa or Lady’s Shade have really changed skins with the old blind dog of the Fingers, that would be almost the same as Bloodraven warging or shapechanging into a one-eyed dog. By the way, the old blind dog’s master’s name was Bryen, a name way too similar to Brynden (Bloodraven’s name)…
But back again to the “wolf with big leather wings like a bat.” This interesting image reminds me of dragons instead of bats, and I think that was precisely George’s intention, he was subtly referring to dragon wings:
[…] “They say the child was …” […] “Monstrous,” Mirri Maz Duur finished for him. […] “Twisted. I drew him forth myself. He was scaled like a lizard, blind, with the stub of a tail and small leather wings like the wings of a bat.
—A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IX
In the center of the Plaza of Pride stood a red brick fountain whose waters smelled of brimstone, and in the center of the fountain a monstrous harpy made of hammered bronze. Twenty feet tall she reared. She had a woman’s face, with gilded hair, ivory eyes, and pointed ivory teeth. Water gushed yellow from her heavy breasts. But in place of arms she had the wings of a bat or a dragon, her legs were the legs of an eagle, and behind she wore a scorpion’s curled and venomous tail.
—A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II
So, this fascinating image of a “wolf with big leather wings like a bat” could be foreshadowing of Sansa wearing a Targaryen cloak in the future. Or at least having the support and protection of someone related to dragons.
V. SO LONG AS THOSE REMAINED, WINTERFELL REMAINED
Stone and Snow, that was all that was left of Winterfell. Just like she and Jon.
As far as I know, this line: “Stone and Snow, that was all that was left of Winterfell. Just like she and Jon.” comes from a piece of fan-fiction. Sadly I don’t know what fan-fiction it is from (if anyone knows please inform me, so I can cite it properly). But no matter its non-canon origins, this line summarizes a huge and beautiful theme in Sansa and Jon’s arcs: Rebuilding their lost and broken home, Winterfell.
Stone and snow is basically what the north is to someone from the south:
Well, you know, there’s something to be said for being an honorable Stark, but you’re kinda cold all the time and poor and so forth. And you have a lot of land, but there’s not a lot of stuff on it, you know?
—GRRM
"I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?" Robert snorted. "Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?" "Likely they were too shy to come out," Ned jested. He could feel the chill coming up the stairs, a cold breath from deep within the earth. "Kings are a rare sight in the north." Robert snorted. "More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!"
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I
Moreso, after Robb Stark lost the north at the hands of the Greyjoys, people in King’s Landing considered the northern lands just a pile of stone and snow:
"And if we accept this alliance?" inquired Lord Mathis Rowan. "What terms does he propose?" "That we recognize his kingship and grant him everything north of the Neck." Lord Redwyne laughed. "What is there north of the Neck that any sane man would want? If Greyjoy will trade swords and sails for stone and snow, I say do it, and count ourselves lucky."
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion III
But the stone is strong, the snow means home, love and family for the Starks, and the north also has its ancient trees and bones:
At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell’s chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I’m not dead either.
—A Clash of Kings - Bran VII
Like Bran, Jon Snow also considers stone (grey granite), root (oak, weirwood), and bone (stone kings) as the fundamental pieces of Winterfell:
They can't be dead. Theon would never do that. And Winterfell . . . grey granite, oak and iron, crows wheeling around the towers, steam rising off the hot pools in the godswood, the stone kings sitting on their thrones . . . how could Winterfell be gone
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI
When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Maester Luwin also distinguishes stone and root as the main pieces of Winterfell:
The place [Winterfell] had grown over the centuries like some monstrous stone tree, Maester Luwin told him once, and its branches were gnarled and thick and twisted, its roots sunk deep into the earth.
—A Game of Thrones - Bran II
The toughness of stone and root has been highlighted by the author through the description of Yoren:  
Yoren was stooped and sinister, his features hidden behind a beard as black as his clothing, but he seemed as tough as an old root and as hard as stone.
—A Game of Thrones - Tyrion II
Even the intruders recognize the strength of Winterfell’s stone walls:
He remembered Winterfell as he had last seen it. Not as grotesquely huge as Harrenhal, nor as solid and impregnable to look at as Storm's End, yet there had been a great strength in those stones, a sense that within those walls a man might feel safe.
—A Clash of Kings - Tyrion XI
Winterfell…
…Sacked, burned, broken and without a Stark within its walls (save by Lady’s bones). But the stone is strong and the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained.
Have you noticed already? Have you noticed the references to Sansa and Jon (and Bran) in that quote?
The stone is strong = The walls of Winterfell = Alayne Stone = Sansa Stark.
The roots of the trees go deep = The weirwood tree (the heart of Winterfell) = Ghost = Jon Snow (and Bran the three-eyed raven in his weirwood net).
Under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones = I believe this is a reference to Jon, Sansa and Bran eventual crowning as monarchs of the north and/or the whole kingdom.  
The pillars of Winterfell are stone, root and bone.
V.1. STONE
The stone is strong = The walls of Winterfell = Alayne Stone = Sansa Stark.
Sansa Stark has a lot of stone imagery around her.
Winterfell’s walls are made of grey granite. Grey is also a color of House Stark and I believe that Sansa will be the girl in grey on a dying horse from Melisandre’s vision.
As the Heir to Winterfell, Sansa was practically transformed into a stone castle, Winterfell, and the north itself, since the one that controlled her would obtain all her lands and power. Or, to use the euphemism from the Books, Sansa Stark was the “key to the north.”
Sansa reflects about this objectification in the Books and gives us one of the saddest lines in ASOIAF, especially coming from a girl who yearns to be loved and always dreamed of getting married: “No one will ever marry me for love,” (because everyone only wants her for her claim to Winterfell and the north).
Tyrion associates Sansa’s rejection of his advances as icy courtesy and compared that rejection with a castle wall that he never got to break:
"You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall." "Courtesy is a lady's armor," Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III
Sansa's misery was deepening every day. Tyrion would gladly have broken through her courtesy to give her what solace he might, but it was no good.
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IV
He wanted to reach her, to break through the armor of her courtesy.
—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII
The castle wall that armored Sansa and Tyrion never got to break is a clear reference to Winterfell:  
He remembered Winterfell as he had last seen it. Not as grotesquely huge as Harrenhal, nor as solid and impregnable to look at as Storm's End, yet there had been a great strength in those stones, a sense that within those walls a man might feel safe.
—A Clash of Kings - Tyrion XI
And certainly, Sansa feels stronger and protected withing the walls of Winterfell:
Sansa stuck her fingers through the top, grabbed a handful of snow, and flung it full in his face. Petyr yelped, as the snow slid down under his collar. "That was unchivalrously done, my lady." "As was bringing me here, when you swore to take me home." She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
Sansa feeling stronger within the walls of Winterfell, sounds pretty similar to “the stone is strong” line from Bran quote cited above.
Later, while descending from the Eyrie to the Gates of the Moon, Mya Stone tells Sansa that “a stone is a mountain’s daughter.”
Men come and go. They lie, or die, or leave you. A mountain is not a man, though, and a stone is a mountain’s daughter. I trust my father, and I trust my mules. I won’t fall.” She put her hand on a jagged spur of rock, and got to her feet. “Best finish. We have a long way yet to go, and I can smell a storm.”
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II
One of Winterfell’s possible meanings is “wintry mountain(s).” And Sansa Stark is “The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter”.
As the daughter of Petyr Baelish, Alayne Stone also becomes the Heir to Harrenhal, another great castle made of strong stone. Only dragon fire was able to melt Harrenhal’s stone walls:  
Stone does not burn, Harren had boasted, but his castle was not made of stone alone. […] And even stone will crack and melt if a fire is hot enough. The riverlords outside the castle walls said later that the towers of Harrenhal glowed red against the night, like five great candles... and like candles, they began to twist and melt, as runnels of molten stone ran down their sides.
—The World of Ice and Fire - The Reign of the Dragons: The Conquest
Moreover we have the parallels that Sansa shares with Jenny of Oldstones. And Oldstones serves us as an example of the strength of the stone.
Just like Winterfell was the stronghold of the ancient Kings of Winter, Oldstones was the stronghold of the ancient River Kings (House Mudd of Oldstones), both dynasties descendants of the First Men. And if we read about Oldstones, thinking about Winterfell is an inevitability:    
They reached Oldstones after eight more days of steady rain, and made their camp upon the hill overlooking the Blue Fork, within a ruined stronghold of the ancient river kings. Its foundations remained amongst the weeds to show where the walls and keeps had stood, but the local smallfolk had long ago made off with most of the stones to raise their barns and septs and holdfasts. Yet in the center of what once would have been the castle's yard, a great carved sepulcher still rested, half hidden in waist-high brown grass amongst a stand of ash. The lid of the sepulcher had been carved into a likeness of the man whose bones lay beneath, but the rain and the wind had done their work. The king had worn a beard, they could see, but otherwise his face was smooth and featureless, with only vague suggestions of a mouth, a nose, eyes, and the crown about the temples. His hands folded over the shaft of a stone warhammer that lay upon his chest. Once the warhammer would have been carved with runes that told its name and history, but all that the centuries had worn away. The stone itself was cracked and crumbling at the corners, discolored here and there by spreading white splotches of lichen, while wild roses crept up over the king's feet almost to his chest.
—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V
Despite the pass of time the foundations of Oldstones remained and the stones were even used by the smallfolk to rise new buildings. The stone is really strong.
What also remained despite the centuries was the tomb of King Tristifer IV Mudd, also known as the Hammer of Justice, which immediately reminds me of the crypts of Winterfell and its stone kings sitting on their thrones with their swords across their laps.
And just like songs are still sung about a girl named Jenny from Oldstones who found true love with a Targaryen prince, I’m pretty sure that many songs will be sung about Sansa Stark from Winterfell and her own Targaryen prince.    
Finally, is worth mentioning that Stark means “strong” in German. And there’s a theory about House Strong (extinguished) being linked to House Stark. 
Stone = Strong = Stark
So by saying the stone is strong, we are also saying the stone is Stark. 
Alayne Stone is Sansa Stark. 
V.2. ROOT
The roots of the trees go deep = The weirwood tree (the heart of Winterfell) = Ghost = Jon Snow
The roots of the trees going deep is a clear reference to the trees from the godswood and especially to the weirwood tree, the heart of Winterfell, as Ned always said.
As it was explained above, in Jon Snow and Ghost we really have symbols of the weirwood tree. Jon Snow and Ghost represent the heart of Winterfell:
The weirwood tree  = red leaves, white bark, watchful eyes, silent, belongs to the old gods.
Ghost = red eyes, white fur, watchful eyes, silent, belongs to the old gods.
The face carved in Winterfell’s heart tree = “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding”.
Jon Snow’s face and features = “long”, “melancholy”, “solemn”, “watchful” and “brooding”.
This sentiment of correspondence and belonging becomes more evident when Jon reunites with Ghost and finds his answer to Stannis’s offer and refuses Winterfell in order to save the weirwood tree from the Lord of Light fires: 
Winterfell belongs to the old gods
When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Ghost belongs to the old gods
Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
By saving the weirwood tree Jon also stood up for Sansa’s claim to Winterfell: 
Winterfell belongs to Sansa
Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV
These quotes form an important sequence that joins Jon and Sansa and Winterfell thematically and symbolically. However, I must say that the sequence is incomplete. The first quote is still to be revealed at the end of this work.    
V.3. BONE
And under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones = Jon and Sansa (and Bran) eventual crowning as monarchs.
The Crypts of Winterfell contain the tombs of past members of House Stark, but only the past Kings and Lords have statues (the stone kings). Despite the tradition, Ned has statues made for Brandon and Lyanna. But inside the tombs and statues there are bones. The Crypts of Winterfell is basically an ossuary below the castle.  
All those ancient bones are powerful, as Melisandre explained:
"The bones help," said Melisandre. "The bones remember. The strongest glamors are built of such things. A dead man's boots, a hank of hair, a bag of fingerbones. With whispered words and prayer, a man's shadow can be drawn forth from such and draped about another like a cloak. The wearer's essence does not change, only his seeming."
—A Dance with Dragons - Melisandre I
Brandon The Builder must had known about the power of bones and that’s why he designed the Crypts of Winterfell to be the foundation of the castle.
In fact, all the north is full of barrows (the ancient graves of the First Men):
"The barrows of the First Men." Robert frowned. "Have we ridden onto a graveyard?" "There are barrows everywhere in the north, Your Grace," Ned told him. "This land is old."
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard II
This is how the Crypts of Winterfell are described:  
"Your Grace," Ned said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. Shadows moved and lurched. Flickering light touched the stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of granite pillars that marched ahead, two by two, into the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the sepulchres that contained their mortal remains. "She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon."
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I
As the granite walls on the surface work as a frame for the living, the granite pillars under the ground work as a frame for the dead. And the stone kings also work as the foundation of the castle, not only in a systemic way, but also as the ancient legacy of House Stark, their history through the centuries, a past that they should not forget. The bones remember.
Also, the long procession of granite pillars placed two by two makes me think about all the pairs of Kings and Queens of Winter, and Lords and Ladies of Winterfell, that existed from the beginning, since all those couples are also the foundation of House Stark.
All the Stark children use to play in the Crypts:
Bran could not recall the last time he had been in the crypts. It had been before, for certain. When he was little, he used to play down here with Robb and Jon and his sisters. He wished they were here now; the vault might not have seemed so dark and scary.
—A Game of Thrones - Bran VII
Later the Crypts protected Bran and Rickon when the Greyjoys and later the Boltons invaded the castle.
Jon has a particular relationship with the Crypts of Winterfell. It was there where Jon disguised as a ghost covered in flour to scare his younger siblings. Later he named his direwolf Ghost and much later Jon was killed and will probably reside inside Ghost for a while.
As I said before, Winterfell is what Jon wanted, as much as he had ever wanted anything, but his strong desire for Winterfell fills him with an enormous guilt. And all that guilt is represented in “the Winterfell dream” which is more like a repetitive nightmare for Jon, that always ends at the Crypts of Winterfell:
And then I find myself in front of the door to the crypts. It's black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream."
—A Game of Thrones - Jon IV
Last night he had dreamt the Winterfell dream again. He was wandering the empty castle, searching for his father, descending into the crypts. Only this time the dream had gone further than before. In the dark he'd heard the scrape of stone on stone. When he turned he saw that the vaults were opening, one after the other. As the dead kings came stumbling from their cold black graves, Jon had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering.
—A Game of Thrones - Jon VII
Until this point during those dreams, it was Jon himself who said “I’m not a Stark” and “this isn’t my place”, since he would never be the Lord of Winterfell or have the right to be buried there, but with every “Winterfell dream”, the stone kings gain more prominence:
He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness. "Father?" he called. "Bran? Rickon?" No one answered. A chill wind was blowing on his neck. "Uncle?" he called. "Uncle Benjen? Father? Please, Father, help me." Up above he heard drums. They are feasting in the Great Hall, but I am not welcome there. I am no Stark, and this is not my place.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII
"What everyone knows is that Ser Alliser is a knight from a noble line, and trueborn, while I'm the bastard who killed Qhorin Halfhand and bedded with a spearwife. The warg, I've heard them call me. How can I be a warg without a wolf, I ask you?" His mouth twisted. "I don't even dream of Ghost anymore. All my dreams are of the crypts, of the stone kings on their thrones. Sometimes I hear Robb's voice, and my father's, as if they were at a feast. But there's a wall between us, and I know that no place has been set for me."
—A Storm of Swords - Samwell IV
In these later dreams, the stone kings are the ones telling Jon “You are no Stark,” “There is no place for you here. Go away”. These words are pretty similar to the words Catelyn Stark told to Jon when he said goodbye to Bran:
Lady Stark looked over. For a moment she did not seem to recognize him. Finally she blinked. "What are you doing here?" she asked in a voice strangely flat and emotionless. "I came to see Bran," Jon said. "To say good-bye." Her face did not change. Her long auburn hair was dull and tangled. She looked as though she had aged twenty years. "You've said it. Now go away." Part of him wanted only to flee, but he knew that if he did he might never see Bran again. He took a nervous step into the room. "Please," he said. Something cold moved in her eyes. "I told you to leave," she said. "We don't want you here."
—A Game of Thrones - Jon II
And what was the reason for this change? I think the answer is that Robb Stark became King in The North:
Jon was still not certain how he felt about it. Robb a king? The brother he'd played with, fought with, shared his first cup of wine with? But not mother's milk, no. So now Robb will sip summerwine from jeweled goblets, while I'm kneeling beside some stream sucking snowmelt from cupped hands. "Robb will make a good king," he said loyally. […] "I've always known that Robb would be Lord of Winterfell." Mormont gave a whistle, and the bird flew to him again and settled on his arm. "A lord's one thing, a king's another." He offered the raven a handful of corn from his pocket. "They will garb your brother Robb in silks, satins, and velvets of a hundred different colors, while you live and die in black ringmail. He will wed some beautiful princess and father sons on her. You'll have no wife, nor will you ever hold a child of your own blood in your arms. Robb will rule, you will serve. Men will call you a crow. Him they'll call Your Grace. Singers will praise every little thing he does, while your greatest deeds all go unsung. Tell me that none of this troubles you, Jon . . . and I'll name you a liar, and know I have the truth of it." Jon drew himself up, taut as a bowstring. "And if it did trouble me, what might I do, bastard as I am?"
—A Clash of Kings - Jon I
Robb, who always had the right to have all that Jon wanted, now had also become a young king, like Daeron Targaryen, one of Jon heroes. Jon has an even higher standard to reach in order to prove the world that he is a man that worth despite of being a bastard:
Bastard children were born from lust and lies, men said; their nature was wanton and treacherous. Once Jon had meant to prove them wrong, to show his lord father that he could be as good and true a son as Robb. I made a botch of that. Robb had become a hero king; if Jon was remembered at all, it would be as a turncloak, an oathbreaker, and a murderer. He was glad that Lord Eddard was not alive to see his shame.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon X
You can't be the Lord of Winterfell, you're bastard-born, he heard Robb say again. And the stone kings were growling at him with granite tongues. You do not belong here. This is not your place.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
And here is a good moment to say: Oh the irony! Because we all know what happened with Robb, he died just like Daeron Targaryen, young and with no children to succeed him. And is most probable that Robb had named Jon his heir in his will. So Jon Snow is likely to be the next King in the North, with the right to be buried in the Crypts of Winterfell, just like the ancient Kings of Winter that are sitting under the ground on their stone thrones.
But not only that, unbeknownst to Jon, he actually belongs in the Crypts of Winterfell, not only because he will probably become the next King in the North, but because his mother, Lyanna Stark, is buried there. Jon’s mother’s bones are buried in the Crypts of Winterfell. And the bones remember.
Lady’s bones are also buried near the Crypts of Winterfell, in the lichyard, and Jon had a dream of a ghastly direwolf wandering around the tombs:
The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. “Ygritte?” he whispered. “Forgive me. Please.” But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his her golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII
As I mentioned before, my personal theory is that the ghastly direwolf is Lady.
Ned carried Lyanna’s bones from Dorne to the north, to be buried in the crypts of Winterfell, the same way he ordered his men to carry Lady’s bones from Darry to the north, to be buried in the lichyard of Winterfell (near to the crypts). So Lyanna’s and Lady’s bones being buried at Winterfell, makes them literally Ladies of Winterfell.  
Traditionally, only the Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell have their statues carved in stone in the Crypts of Winterfell, with the sole exception of Ned’s siblings Brandon and Lyanna (And Artos Stark from the past). I believe this particular could be a hint that Bran (represented by Brandon) and Sansa (represented by Lyanna), will be crowned monarchs as well, with the right to be buried in the Crypts of Winterfell, just like the ancient Kings of Winter that are sitting under the ground on their stone thrones.
Winterfell is stone, root and bone. And through the years the castle has even taken the form of a tree, a labyrinthine stone tree:
To a boy, Winterfell was a grey stone labyrinth of walls and towers and courtyards and tunnels spreading out in all directions. In the older parts of the castle, the halls slanted up and down so that you couldn't even be sure what floor you were on. The place had grown over the centuries like some monstrous stone tree, Maester Luwin told him once, and its branches were gnarled and thick and twisted, its roots sunk deep into the earth.
—A Game of Thrones - Bran II
This image of Winterfell taking the form of a tree makes me think about the weirwood tree, the heart of the castle, and how the castle itself is emulating its heart growing in the same way as the heart tree. And at the same time, this image of Winterfell as a “stone tree” makes me think so much about Sansa as the stone, and Jon as the deep rooted tree.
To sum it up: If the heart tree is the heart of Winterfell, its ancient roots going deep represent the circulatory system and the stone kings in the ground play the role of the skeletal system, leaving the stone walls to be the exterior frame that contains all these parts.
As a simile of a living organism, Winterfell has its own blood as well:
Of all the rooms in Winterfell's Great Keep, Catelyn's bedchambers were the hottest. She seldom had to light a fire. The castle had been built over natural hot springs, and the scalding waters rushed through its walls and chambers like blood through a man's body, driving the chill from the stone halls, filling the glass gardens with a moist warmth, keeping the earth from freezing. Open pools smoked day and night in a dozen small courtyards. That was a little thing, in summer; in winter, it was the difference between life and death.
—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn II
“In my dreams it was ever a dark place, and cold.”
“No. It was always warm, even when it snowed. Water from the hot springs is piped through the walls to warm them, and inside the glass gardens it was always like the hottest day of summer.”
— A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
There you have it!
As long as Sansa Stark and Jon Snow remain, Winterfell remains.
Sansa and Jon are the two pillars on which Winterfell will stands. They are destined to retake and rebuild their home together.
If Sansa and Jon join their lives in marriage and fill Winterfell’s walls with Stark children again, Winterfell will also remain through their heirs. The blood of Winterfell will continue. The Stark legacy will last.
V.4. STONE (STARK) AND SNOW
Winterfell is stone, root and bone, and snow is the castle’s cloak.
Winterfell walls are grey granite but the snow covering them like a cloak, especially during winters, makes the castle snow white. A perfect marriage.  
Grey and white are the colors of House Stark. The Stark sigil is a grey direwolf racing across a field of white. The bastard sigil is the same but with the colors reversed. In the same way, Jon and Sansa seems to be complementary of each other.  
The snow castle.
Littlefinger falsely promised Sansa to take her home. But then he told her that Winterfell is gone, so she must make herself a new home:
"But . . . my lord, you said . . . you said we were sailing home." […] His grey-green eyes regarded her innocently. "You look distraught. Did you think we were making for Winterfell, sweetling? Winterfell has been taken, burned, and sacked. All those you knew and loved are dead. What northmen who have not fallen to the ironmen are warring amongst themselves. Even the Wall is under attack. Winterfell was the home of your childhood, Sansa, but you are no longer a child. You're a woman grown, and you need to make your own home."
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI
So, as an act of defiance, despite being under the guise of Alayne Stone, Sansa built a snow version of her true home out of memory, yelling at the world that she was a Stark of Winterfell:
What do I want with snowballs? She looked at her sad little arsenal. There’s no one to throw them at. She let the one she was making drop from her hand. I could build a snow knight instead, she thought. Or even…
[…] The snow fell and the castle rose. Two walls ankle-high, the inner taller than the outer. Towers and turrets, keeps and stairs, a round kitchen, a square armory, the stables along the inside of the west wall. It was only a castle when she began, but before very long Sansa knew it was Winterfell. She found twigs and fallen branches beneath the snow and broke off the ends to make the trees for the godswood. For the gravestones in the lichyard she used bits of bark. Soon her gloves and her boots were crusty white, her hands were tingling, and her feet were soaked and cold, but she did not care. The castle was all that mattered. Some things were hard to remember, but most came back to her easily, as if she had been there only yesterday. The Library Tower, with the steep stonework stair twisting about its exterior. The gatehouse, two huge bulwarks, the arched gate between them, crenellations all along the top…
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
Sansa and her snow castle passage foreshadows Sansa’s actively participation in Winterfell’s restoration.
And who else wants to restore Winterfell? Jon, the Snow of Winterfell:
“Drink this.” Grenn held a cup to his lips. Jon drank. His head was full of wolves and eagles, the sound of his brothers’ laughter. The faces above him began to blur and fade. They can’t be dead. Theon would never do that. And Winterfell … grey granite, oak and iron, crows wheeling around the towers, steam rising off the hot pools in the godswood, the stone kings sitting on their thrones … how could Winterfell be gone?
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI
Winterfell, he thought. Theon left it burned and broken, but I could restore it. Surely his father would have wanted that, and Robb as well. They would never have wanted the castle left in ruins.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
That’s why this line: “The snow fell and the castle rose” makes me think that Jon will help Sansa to rebuild Winterfell, their lost and broken home.
The blood of Winterfell.
And Jon and Sansa could also “rebuild” the Stark dynasty, as they both share the dream of having children to fill the void of their lost family, their lost parents and siblings:
Willas would be Lord of Highgarden and she would be his lady. She pictured the two of them sitting together in a garden with puppies in their laps, or listening to a singer strum upon a lute while they floated down the Mander on a pleasure barge. If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa’s dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II
I would need to steal her if I wanted her love, but she might give me children. I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. A son was something Jon Snow had never dared dream of, since he decided to live his life on the Wall. I could name him Robb. Val would want to keep her sister’s son, but we could foster him at Winterfell, and Gilly’s boy as well. Sam would never need to tell his lie. We’d find a place for Gilly too, and Sam could come visit her once a year or so. Mance’s son and Craster’s would grow up brothers, as I once did with Robb.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Indeed, among all the Stark children, Sansa and Jon are the only ones that are called –or call themselves, the blood of Winterfell:
Jon’s throat was raw. He looked at them all helplessly. “She yielded herself to me.” “Then you must do what needs be done,” Qhorin Halfhand said. “You are the blood of Winterfell and a man of the Night’s Watch.”
—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI
When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father’s face. Ygritte was with him, laughing at him, shedding her skins till she was naked as her name day, trying to kiss him, but he couldn’t, not with his father watching. He was the blood of Winterfell, a man of the Night’s Watch. I will not father a bastard, he told her. I will not. I will not.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI
“What if Lord Nestor values honor more than profit?” Petyr put his arm around her. “What if it is truth he wants, and justice for his murdered lady?” He smiled. “I know Lord Nestor, sweetling. Do you imagine I’d ever let him harm my daughter?” I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard’s daughter and Lady Catelyn’s, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.
—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I
Children of the mountain.
And remember that Winterfell could mean wintry mountain(s)? Well, this possibility makes me think about one of my favorite Sansa and Jon parallels. They are the only Stark children that are called children of the mountain:
Soon they were high enough so that looking down was best not considered. There was nothing below but yawning blackness, nothing above but moon and stars. “The mountain is your mother,” Stonesnake had told him during an easier climb a few days past. “Cling to her, press your face up against her teats, and she won’t drop you.” Jon had made a joke of it, saying how he’d always wondered who his mother was, but never thought to find her in the Frostfangs. It did not seem nearly so amusing now. One step and then another, he thought, clinging tight.
—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI
“You’re mistaken. I never fall.” Mya’s hair had tumbled across her cheek, hiding one eye. “Almost, I said. I saw you. Weren’t you afraid? “Mya shook her head. "I remember a man throwing me in the air when I was very little. He stands as tall as the sky, and he throws me up so high it feels as though I’m flying. We’re both laughing, laughing so much that I can hardly catch a breath, and finally I laugh so hard I wet myself, but that only makes him laugh the louder. I was never afraid when he was throwing me. I knew that he would always be there to catch me.” She pushed her hair back. “Then one day he wasn’t. Men come and go. They lie, or die, or leave you. A mountain is not a man, though, and a stone is a mountain’s daughter. I trust my father, and I trust my mules. I won’t fall.” She put her hand on a jagged spur of rock, and got to her feet. “Best finish. We have a long way yet to go, and I can smell a storm.”
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II
In both cases, Sansa and Jon are under the guise of bastards (Jon was under the guise of a bastard since he was born). In both cases we are talking about snowy mountains, the Frostfangs and the Eyrie with the winter upon them, that is to say: “wintry mountains”. So I think in both quotes those mountains are a symbol of Sansa and Jon’s true parentage: in Jon’s case, Stonesnake said that the mountain is Jon’s mother (Lyanna Stark) and in Sansa’s case, Mya Stone said that the mountain is Alayne’s father (Ned Stark). And those mountains will never drop or let their children fall. Those mountains are a symbol of Winterfell. Sansa and Jon are the children of the wintry mountains of the north (Winterfell), the blood of Winterfell, the two pillars on which Winterfell stands.
Hot springs.
Both Jon and Sansa think of the hot springs of Winterfell while while bathing in hot water:
The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that. She had not washed since the day her father died, and she was startled at how filthy the water became. Her maids sluiced the blood off her face, scrubbed the dirt from her back, washed her hair and brushed it out until it sprang back in thick auburn curls. Sansa did not speak to them, except to give them commands; they were Lannister servants, not her own, and she did not trust them.
— A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI
It was short walk to the bathhouse, where he took a cold plunge to wash the sweat off and soaked in a hot stone tub. The warmth took some of the ache from his muscles and made him think of Winterfell’s muddy pools, steaming and bubbling in the godswood. Winterfell, he thought.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Very interesting similarity between the filthy water of Sansa’s bath and the muddy pools of Winterfell that Jon was reminiscing.
Ghost and Lady’s Shade.
Not only do Jon and Sansa seem to be made complementary to each other, it happens the same with their direwolves.  
Ghost stands out among the other direwolves, not only for his white fur, but for his red eyes, similar to the most especial Children of the Forest:
“In a sense. Those you call the children of the forest have eyes as golden as the sun (Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria and Summer), but once in a great while one is born amongst them with eyes as red as blood (Ghost), or green as the moss on a tree in the heart of the forest (Shaggydog). By these signs do the gods mark those they have chosen to receive the gift. The chosen ones are not robust, and their quick years upon the earth are few, for every song must have its balance. But once inside the wood they linger long indeed. A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. Greenseers.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Bran III
This description: red eyes, not robust frame and quick few years upon the earth, is similar to the first description we had of Ghost:
"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said. "Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind. "An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others." Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."
—A Game of Thrones - Bran I
But despite this preliminary description as the “runt of the litter,” Ghost grew up to be larger than his litter mates:
Nymeria stalked closer on wary feet. Ghost, already larger than his litter mates, smelled her, gave her ear a careful nip, and settled back down.
—A Game of Thrones - Arya I
Lady was the smallest of the litter and sadly the first to die:
“Lady,” he said, tasting the name. […] She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur.
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III
This is a very interesting contrast between Ghost and Lady, as if their places were switched.
Sansa lost her wolf and Ghost lost his master, leaving these two Stark children somehow incomplete. But there is hope that both can fill in the missing part of the other.  
Then Lady becomes a “shade” that is a synonym of “ghost.” The same way that Sansa becomes a “Stone” that is a bastard surname like “Snow.”
And Jon will probably come back to life more beast than man, more savage, in contrast to ladylike/queenly Sansa.
Jon dreamed of a ghastly direwolf wandering around the Crypts of Winterfell, that seems to be Lady’s Shade:
The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. “Ygritte?” he whispered. “Forgive me. Please.” But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his her golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII
In a similar way, the wind howling fiercely around Sansa while she descended from the Eyrie to the Gates of the Moon, reminds her of a ghost wolf, big as mountains. This passage could be interpreted as Sansa sensing Jon’s death at the Wall:
"Ser Sweetrobin,” Lord Robert said, and Alayne knew that she dare not wait for Mya to return. She helped the boy dismount, and hand in hand they walked out onto the bare stone saddle, their cloaks snapping and flapping behind them. All around was empty air and sky, the ground falling away sharply to either side. There was ice underfoot, and broken stones just waiting to turn an ankle, and the wind was howling fiercely. It sounds like a wolf, thought Sansa. A ghost wolf, big as mountains.
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II
Take note of the similar wording between the “ghastly direwolf” and the “ghost wolf”. GRRM uses this resource (same or similar wording) a lot when he wants to establish a correlation or parallel. 
Stark and Snow
Lady’s bones being buried at Winterfell makes Sansa the Stark in Winterfell. In the same way that Jon is the Snow of Winterfell:
The singer rose to his feet. "I'm Mance Rayder," he said as he put aside the lute. "And you are Ned Stark's bastard, the Snow of Winterfell."
—A Storm of Swords - Jon I
And both have the possibility to become the head of their house and the monarchs of the north.
Despite not being Ned Stark’s bastard and having a secret parentage, “Snow” is part of Jon’s identity, the same way the snow cloaks Winterfell’s walls. And as to reaffirm Jon’s identity, the old gods sent him a direwolf as white as snow.
Jon and Ghost were separated for a time, when the Wall stood between them. During that time Jon even questioned being a warg, because he felt he lost his wolf. It was also during that time that Jon was tempted with legitimation as a Stark and the Lordship of Winterfell. But when Jon reunites with Ghost he found his answer to Stannis’s offer precisely in the wolf. 
Jon refused Winterfell in order to save the weirwood tree from the Lord of Light fires (Ghost is the weirwood tree) and protect Sansa’s claim to the castle (Sansa is Winterfell). This was the time when Jon said: i) Winterfell belongs to the old gods, ii) Ghost belongs to the old gods; and, iii) Winterfell belongs to Sansa. 
But at the beginning of the story, in the first chapter of the first Book (A Game of Thrones - Bran I), after saving the life of the direwolves (In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm), Jon said a similar line:
"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said. "Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup.  His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind. "An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others." Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."
—A Game of Thrones - Bran
And we have our sequence completed! 
Ghost belongs to Jon
"An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others." Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."
—A Game of Thrones - Bran
Winterfell belongs to the old gods
When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Ghost belongs to the old gods
Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
Winterfell belongs to Sansa
Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV
Just as the weirwood tree is the heart of Winterfell, it seems that all these quotes are there to tell us that Jon is Sansa’s heart. Because, it almost seems as if the final line will be (has to be) “Jon belongs to Sansa.” But with the same logic, we can also said “Sansa belongs to Jon”. Hence the title of this long essay is i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart), one of my favorite poems by the genius e.e. cummings:
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The end.
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morihaus · 3 years ago
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Betrayal
Waves splash against the rocky shores of Betony as a small ship rows into port. The docks of Whitefort town are quiet in the dying light of the evening, busied only by sailors and dockworkers as they fix ships to the moorings and ferry cargo about, hurrying to get their work over with so they might retire for the night. There are few people, and of them, the lone passenger of the sailboat blends into the crowd, steel boots stepping onto the dock, cowl held close around her head.
She keeps her head down, not attracting any attention as she takes a circuitous path around the shipyard, pausing only to spare a glance over her shoulder every now and then. It's not her first time here, and she knows where she is going- the grand Imperial ship affixed to the far dock lies foreboding in the corner of her vision- but even miles from the mainland of High Rock or Hammerfell, she feels eyes all over her, grasping hands reaching out for her. She's walking into a pair of them right now.
It's with this note of fatalism that she climbs aboard the Imperial galley, its captain waits for her at a table on the deck, seated warmly in her fine Skyrim furs. Lady Brisienna Magnessen smiles cordially, cheeks rosy, but not bothered by the winter chill as her visitor is, letting her fair hair curl down her shoulders without hat or hood.
"Agent Delarda," She greets her with a refined tone, coarse Nordic tongue dipped in honey, smoothed and shaped to suit the needs of an inter-provincial operative. "Please, take a seat. Let's conclude this as quickly as possible."
Against her better judgement, the agent sits down. Her amber eyes, sitting in dark circles, peer out at the Nord from under her hood. "They know." She says flatly, her voice quiet and weak for the first words she's spoken in days. "Gothryd, Eadwyre, Athoriki, Gortwog-" She slings her pack down one shoulder and reaches inside, producing several written correspondences. She sets them on the table in front of her, unsealed, slightly crumpled. She looks down at them now, rather than Brisienna. "Even Mannimarco, and the Underking. They know, and they want it. They're making offers now. I'm not sure how long they'll wait for me to make up my mind."
Brisienna takes a letter into her deft hands, unfurling it and scanning it over.
Arduirel- code name Delarda- lets her hands lie limp on the table, numb with cold and nerves.
After a minute or so, the Lady speaks up. "They're making quite the hefty offers for it."
"You believe them?" Arduirel says.
Brisienna looks half-insulted. "No," She shakes her head. "I wouldn't be surprised if any or all of them were lying. All that gold, those artifacts, nothing but bait."
"Should I assume the Emperor was lying as well?" She says curtly, still not meeting her eye.
Brisienna purses her lips some, but reaches over into her own pack, producing a small jewelry box. She places it on the table, turning it to her fellow agent. "The Warlock's Ring, as promised. Feel free to check. I wouldn't lie to you."
Arduirel's ears burn under her hood at that. Still, she reaches forward, unlatching the tiny chest and taking a peek at the ring inside. Gold-banded, covered in ancient runes, inlaid with a dazzling red gemstone. She closes it, satisfied with its authenticity, more or less. She looks back up at Lady Magnessen, who peers expectantly at the elf.
"The Emperor has been planning this reward for some time, Delarda. Your efforts, both here and in years previous, are greatly appreciated." For a moment Arduirel looks and only sees a mouthpiece, a puppet; she wonders whether Uriel said any such thing, whether these words were really his, or mere lip service from the Nord woman. She's sick to her stomach either way, not helped by the gentle rocking of the boat in the harbor.
"...I'm curious. What would the other rulers have done with... the Totem." She asks, quite aware of the fact she's expected to be taking it out by now. She doesn't want to touch it, to let it be seen by anyone. Her whole body feels wired, jittery, as though the other agent were about to make a desperate lunge for her pack.
It doesn't come to pass, though, Lady Magnessen remains seated, glancing down once again at the letters on the table. "Nothing good." She shuffles them around, laying one on top of the other, leafing through the names on the pages and thinking on what she knows of the Illiac's politics. "No doubt Daggerfall, Wayrest, and Sentinel would use the Numidium in their petty war games. Perhaps they would even realize the extent of its capabilities- they could undermine the whole of the Empire with this power." Arduirel feels a chill as she speaks. She wonders what Brisienna knows about Numidium. How much does the Emperor know about Numidium? The Nord frowns as she continues to speculate. "Orsinium would no doubt crush its age-old enemies, claim all of Wrothgar for the Orcs, maybe beyond. I cannot begin to wonder at what nefarious end the King of Worms has in mind... he claims he wants godhood?"
Arduirel gives a shallow nod.
Brisienna shakes her head. "By the Nine, what a travesty that would be..."
"Could that even work?"
"If what we are led to believe about big Numidium is true, it very well could. It could be as easy as it plucking him from this world and placing him high up in the heavens." There's an attempted humor to what she says, but Arduirel can only fight to keep up a veneer of composure.
"Is that what Tiber Septim did?" She blurts out.
Brisienna gives her a judgemental stare. "Is that... what? What are you talking about, Delarda?"
Arduirel clenches her fist, grinding her teeth together for a moment. "I just mean-" She looks out into the horizon, the now black sky meeting the edge of the water. "He became a Divine. He also used the Numidium. Is that related? Is Mannimarco trying to do what he did?"
Without looking, she feels the icy stare of her superior. She lets out a sigh. "Tiber Septim didn't become Talos through some... automaton. He was always Talos-" She trails off, shaking her head. "We can discuss theology when you're back in Cyrodiil, Delarda. You have the Totem, don't you?"
"Yes." She quickly replies.
"Where is it?"
Arduirel looks back at her. Brisienna's face is creased with irritation- she knows a diversion tactic when she sees it, she's starting to wise up to what's going on here.
"What is the Emperor going to do with it?" Arduirel asks.
Brisienna pauses. Arduirel stares and picks her apart with her eyes, trying to figure out what she knows. "That's none of your concern, agent." She replies with a blunt, forceful tone. "Just know that he's the only one who can be trusted with it. These petty kings will rip each other- and the Empire- apart in their bickering, and those undead sorcerers will only do the same. This thing belongs in the hands of an Emperor, a Septim, not some pack of quarreling insubordinates."
Her words hang in the air, burning against Arduirel's ears like the cold night air. Her hands begin to shiver. "The last Septim who got his hands on it..." She furrows her brow, glaring from under her hood at the Nord. "The Underking, he's Zurin Arctus, Tiber Septim's battlemage. He claims to have made the thing- that the Mantella is his heart, and that Septim used the thing to conquer all of Tamriel, to destroy all his opponents, to replace all royals with those who would swear loyalty to him." Brisienna tries to get a word in, but Arduirel plows on ahead. "And when he disagreed with this use of the Numidium, Septim fought with him, and both he and his creation were destroyed." She produces another letter from her person, one she hadn't intended on sharing. "This says that the Blades have been gathering parts of the Numidium for centuries- what is the meaning of this??? To what end does it serve???"
Brisienna leans in with a dour expression. "You take the word of a rotting, undead wizard over mine? Over the word of the Emperor?"
Arduirel stands up with a start, frost crackles in her palm as she glares down at the Nord, who reaches for her blade. "What is he planning!? Why reassemble it?! Why use it now??"
"Delarda, stand down!" Brisienna barks out the order with her sword leveled in the elf's direction. "Think for a second! If you don't relinquish the Totem, you'll be branded as a traitor to the Empire of Tamriel- you'll have one more agency hunting you down, is that what you want!?"
"I am NOT giving you the Totem! I won't let this happen again!" Before Brisienna can even question her, Arduirel shoots an ice spike into her chest. She staggers back as it pierces a rib, she wheels back her sword-arm before another spike finds its way into the hinge of her elbow, icing the joint over and sinking deep into her tissue. She cries out in pain before Arduirel charges into her, bashing her off the side of the ship with a forceful elbow to her collar.
The Nord falls into the icy water, right arm stiff and inflexible, lungs pierced by a spike through her ribs. She cries out at Arduirel- "YOU CANNOT DO THIS!" But a torrent of frost is already firing down at her, freezing the water she's fighting against, encasing her in a thick sheet of ice. Her body temperature drops rapidly, she trembles and struggles as her muscles grow stiff and weak.
The small block of ice containing her body floats out into sea. The Agent absconds with the Warlock's Ring and the Totem, forcing her way through the confused crowd and boarding someone else's ship, pushing it out to sea with the force of her magic, arrows from the guards loosing in her wake as they piece together that she had something to do with this.
It doesn't matter. The Emperor will not get the Totem. As soon as she's out of sight from the isle, she makes course for the east, for Hammerfell, as a traitor to the Empire. Her true colors are finally revealed. It's exhilarating. It's sickening. It's the only way to avoid another Summurset.
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ravageknight-eternal · 2 years ago
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An overpowering night. Even with the backbone of stars above its ancient darkness sprawls, swallows up the earth beneath like an oncoming ocean from above. It is the greatest enemy of the People. The night shelters their foes and predators, cloaks the stalking tigers even as helpless familiars are dragged off into tall grass or hides marauding Others, their fierce gazes and fiercer obsidian knives unseen. The night is the first and final God, a beautiful destroyer, merciless and immutable to the fates that play out beneath. The People fear it, respect it in a matter-of-fact absolutism. It *is*.
They pay little mind to an unfamiliar star above.
They are few. Numbers and abstractions are as far away as those twinkling, cold constellations. These people have short memories, awareness like a mirage over far away sands. But they know that they are less. The People are dwindling just as cool water dwindles under scornful sun. Voices forever vanished and dexterous, shaping hands stilled. In a world so big with the People so few, each loss is a Holocaust. Soon there will be none.
Bodies huddle in the dark as attentive, fearful eyes peer out into the blackness. Waiting. Each breath is an anxious rattle bound by animal-fear heartbeats pounding, sometimes screams erupt and throw themselves echoing into the darkness. Long grass bends, under sun rustling as antagonizing shapes manifest for the briefest of seconds before vanishing. Unseen Others circle. Hooting to themselves. Preparing. Starlight glints over sharp, brutal looking stone knives like so many lifeless eyes.
A frenzy passes between the People. No prayers exist yet, no gods have been born to give name and respect and loyalty to what lives deep within mankind. Even their emotions are thin things. More instinct than empathy. A frost of humanity over primordial depth. The hoots rise, hands thump at muscular chests, teeth barred and feet kicking, stamping into dry season dust. No rallying cries. No sympathies pass between adults and their clutching, cooing infants. When the Others emerge, all that awaits them is untamed fear and territorial aggression. War is an ancient impulse.
The foreign star observes, sentinel over a dim world. Words-without-words are exchanged. Unfathomable processes respond. *Thy will be done* relayed with majestic computational composure. The prairie below experiences sudden, catastrophic daylight as golden-red illumination splashes in all directions, like a rippling sea of wildfire. Everything in a hundred miles skitters, runs, jumps, howls. Undisturbed, natural darkness has been violated, and the terror it invokes is absolute. Even the elephants, giants of memory thousands of years long and deep, scatter, turning the savanna into pandemonium as all that lives beneath their command responds. *Flee*.
The Others are there. The Others are not there. Binary thinking shatters like predawn darkness meeting glorious, gilded morning. The world is burning. The Night is banished. The grass is alive with motion and sound, People falling to their knees, hands upraised by this intrusive sunrise. Silent. No sounds to conjure in the face of this. Unanimous clatter as brandished weapons meet solid earth below.
The foreign star looms. It is the first *made* thing to ever kiss the soil of this place. It will not be the last. A passageway opens, unfurling with the same practiced and liquid ease of a blossom in springtime. And like a blossom, it bears something within. Many somethings. New, and strange to this world. They stand. Taller than the mightiest matriarch amongst those tusked behemoths. Too many feet for one individual touches down amongst the undulating grasses. The People are laid bare before their visitors. Small as children, quivering in fireball illumination.
The night has been usurped and it’s place comes new, unfamiliar daylight for unspoken centuries to come.
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pretchatta · 3 years ago
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swoon june day 9: fairy tales
loosely based on the greek myth of orpheus and eurydice
rating: general (warning for character death); kanan jarrus/hera syndulla; 3.5k words
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There once lived a man who was blessed by the gods, and his name was Kanan.
Kanan was one of the Kasminauts, the fabled heroes who travelled with Janus to retrieve the Golden Flight. His skill with a blade was considerable and helped the group out of many a tight corner over the course of their quest, but it was his silver tongue that proved to be his most valuable asset.
Kanan’s divine gift had been bestowed upon him by Depa, goddess of the spoken word, and his was the gift of storytelling. When Kanan began a tale, all would stop in their tracks to listen. Men would pause in their work; beasts of the forest both great and timid would emerge from their dens; even the trees would inch closer to hear him. It was his way with words that allowed the Kasminauts to pass the Golden Flight’s devaronian guard, Jondo, as well as surmount countless other obstacles on their journey.
When their quest came to an end and the heroes returned home, Kanan decided to settle down. He found a cottage at the edge of a forest and he made it his home. Now this forest was not an ordinary forest, for it was inhabited by a clan of twi’lek nymphs, and it was during a walk along the forest’s border that Kanan’s ears caught the sound of the loveliest voice he’d ever heard. Enraptured, he sought out its source, and that was how he met Hera.
Hera was the daughter of Cham, the leader of the forest twi’lek. Her beauty and grace were indescribable, and Kanan fell in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her. From that day he would come to the forest every morning to tell Hera one of his many magical tales, hoping to win her affections. What he didn’t know was that Hera already returned his feelings; she had heard of Kanan and his silver tongue, but wanted to see how far he would go for her.
The first tale he told was of an ancient order of noble warriors. His words painted pictures of elegant figures in flowing robes protecting the weak and caring for the needy. In his attempt to impress Hera he made it his best performance to date. So inspiring were his words that the forest itself felt inclined to grow. The trees pushed their roots further than they’d expanded in years and new saplings shot up in every direction, increasing the area the forest protected.
Kanan’s second tale was a tragedy, one of betrayal and loss and hardship. He made this one even better than his last, delving into his deepest reserves of emotion as he told it. So moving were his words that the ground itself wept. A new stream sprang from the forest floor, feeding the forest’s new growth, and the trees grew lusher than ever.
His third tale was of new beginnings, describing friendships forged and purpose found. His voice soared with his most powerful story yet and carried through the whole forest, uplifting every beast and being who heard it. That night there was much celebrating, with everyone who lived in those woods rejoicing in the life they had and the ones they shared it with, and by the following morning the forest’s population was inexplicably larger.
Hera, seeing her home revitalised and strengthened by Kanan’s tales, held no doubts in her mind of his devotion. She revealed her heart to him and they were married in a beautiful ceremony by the stream. The wedding was well-attended, with music and dancing from her people, drinking and laughter from the Kasminauts, and a special performance from Chopper, a bird that Hera had once nursed to health and who had stayed with her ever since. Kanan and Hera moved into the cottage at the edge of the forest, and they were blissfully happy together.
But it was not to last.
They were not the only ones who lived by the forest, and a man by the name of Azmorigan also desired Hera. His covetous feelings drove him to pursue her relentlessly, but never within sight of Kanan. One day, he waited for Hera to take her daily walk outside of the cottage and snuck up behind her. Hera, having been raised in the forest and knowing its sounds like her own heartbeat, heard Azmorigan approaching. She fled before he could touch her, but in her haste to escape, she did not watch her step. Her foot fell on the back of a ysalamiri lizard and it bit her ankle. The lizard’s lifeforce-suppressing venom seeped into her blood, and Hera fell to the ground.
Azmorigan fled, and it was evening before Kanan came to look for his wife. The man of such beautiful words was silent when he found her lifeless body. He was silent as he carried her back to the home they had shared, and the silence stretched for three days and three nights. Trees wilted, birdsong was half-hearted, and instruments would not hold their tune without Kanan’s words to lift spirits.
Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, Kanan re-emerged. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn on his voyage with the Kasminauts, with his sword strapped to his hip and a small travelling bag slung over his back. He said not a word as he departed for the hills.
Kanan’s journey was a long one. He travelled out of the forest and over the hills, through fields and between mountains until he reached the sea. He took a boat and sailed over the horizon and beyond, until he found land again. He crossed arid deserts, frozen tundra and lush jungle. He saw fishing villages, market towns and cities in the clouds, but he never stopped, and he never spoke.
Eventually, he reached the cliffs at the edge of the world. There he found a cave, an opening that descended into darkness, which he entered without hesitation. The tunnel took him deep underground and far away from the land of the living. He walked, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls, until he reached a gate. Standing before the gate was a fearsome sentinel, the honourable guardian Garazeb, his eyes wide and alert.
It was now that Kanan finally broke his silence.
“I wish to pass into the Land of the Dead,” he said softly.
“That is forbidden,” Garazeb growled, his deep voice like grinding rocks. “Only the dead may pass this gate. As long as I stand guard here, no living thing shall pass me, in or out.”
Kanan thought for a moment. “Very well. Then perhaps I could make your endless watch a little less dull. For I am Kanan, a storyteller of great renown.”
Garazeb did not respond, merely fixing Kanan with a stony stare, but he was not deterred.
Kanan began his tale. For the gate guardian who saw people from all walks of life pass him on their way to the Underworld, he recounted long marches to battle, legions of feet falling in step, their thunder echoing around them. He drew his sword to emphasize his words as he described endless repetitive days of marching, camping, marching, camping, always surrounded by the same faces. Garazeb’s eyes followed the blade as he swept it from side to side in an almost hypnotic fashion, drawing the same shapes over and over. Soon, the mighty guard’s eyelids began to droop. Kanan did not end his story until Garazeb finally slumped back against the wall, slid down to the ground and let out a deep, rumbling snore.
Silent once more, Kanan stepped over the sleeping sentinel and passed through the gate. He shivered as he felt the change in the air that signified he had done what no other living mortal had done: he had walked into the Land of the Dead, the World Between Worlds, the Underworld. Only his blessing from Depa protected him from Death’s icy embrace here.
The tunnel continued onwards, filled with chill, damp air, and Kanan with it. As he walked he became aware of a distant noise, a rushing, roaring sound that grew steadily louder as he proceeded. The tunnel turned a corner and Kanan emerged into an enormous cavern through the center of which thundered a wide river.
On the near shore, where the rocks were wet with spray, a man waited with a boat. Kanan approached him and spoke once more.
“I wish to cross the River of Souls.”
The man looked at Kanan. His face was young, but his eyes were old, and his expression was as cold as the waters of the river.
“I only ferry the dead over this river, and only in one direction.”
“Has anyone living ever asked you for passage?” Kanan challenged.
The man narrowed his eyes. “No. Garazeb does not allow them to pass the gate.”
“So why would you not take me across? I have made it this far, after all.”
“This river washes away all souls who are not worthy of eternal life in the fields beyond,” said the boatman. “If you attempt to cross and are not worthy, you too will be washed away into nothingness.”
“That is a risk I am willing to take.”
“Hm.” The boatman considered Kanan. “Then you will pay me for your passage. I ferry the dead for free because they have nothing, not even their lives, but this is not the case with you. What can you offer?”
After his long journey Kanan had only the barest of essentials, but he knew that what he needed he always carried with him.
“I have no money with me, but I am known for my skill with words,” he told the boatman. “I doubt you have much cause for joy down here; if I can make you smile, will that cover my trip?”
“I suppose it will. But I cannot remember the last time I smiled, and you will not be able to change that.”
“We shall see. Before I begin my story, might I have your name?” Kanan asked.
“I am Ezra, bridger of the River of Souls,” the boatman replied.
Kanan began yet another tale. For the man who had companions every day but not a single one who would stay with him, Kanan told a tale of families, of belonging, of love. His words brought warmth into the air that was chilled by the river’s spray, and light into the cavern that was out of reach of the sun. When he reached the part of the story where the father went back for his son, the corners of the boatman’s mouth twitched upwards.
When Kanan pointed it out, the boatman grumbled. “It was barely a smile. More of a spasm. Doesn’t count. But I’ll suppose I’ll allow you over. Keep telling the story though, it’s a long crossing.”
So Kanan did; he told of the father rescuing the son, and taking him home, and wrapping the boy in blankets and reassuring him that he was safe now, that nothing bad would ever happen to him, and that he was loved. By the time they reached the other shore, the boatman was smiling widely, and a few tears had run down his smooth cheeks.
“That is your second smile,” Kanan told him, “and I will want to make the return trip.”
“Fine,” Ezra agreed, still smiling. “You have earned it.”
There was no tunnel on the other side of the river, but great, rolling fields under a black sky. A road wound between them which Kanan started down. Dimly, he could see pale figures wandering aimlessly over the land. None of them drifted close enough for him to see their forms clearly and he did not deviate from his path forward to investigate. He was close to his goal now; he could feel it.
The road crested a small hill and there before him was his destination: a towering construction of smooth black stone that glinted with a mysterious light. The Palace of Malachor.
The road to the palace entrance was not empty, however. His way forward was blocked by a young woman in full armour. In the dim half-light of the Underworld the armour’s markings were greyscale swirls of shapes and patterns. A matching helmet was tucked under one of her arms.
She caught sight of him immediately.
“You are not dead,” she accused. “You do not belong here.”
“I seek an audience in the palace,” he told her.
“And I seek justice, as I did in life. I will not let you proceed until you are dead.”
Having come so far, Kanan would not let this stop him. Not when he was so close.
“So we will duel,” he said, “and if you win, I will die. But if I beat you, you will let me pass.”
She considered him for a moment before nodding. “Very well. I accept your terms.”
She fitted the helmet over her head and unsheathed the blade at her hip. It was even blacker than the land around them, so dark it seemed to absorb light. Kanan drew his own blade, and their duel began.
The warrior was strong, and quick with her blade, and Kanan soon realised he was outmatched in skill alone. So he began to talk as their blades clashed, and for someone so young who needed so much armour, he told a story of acceptance. He described a young girl forsaken by her family, forced to strike her own path before she was ready. He saw his words have an effect as the warrior’s blows faltered.
He continued, describing the comfort and safety the girl found in the arms of people who accepted her for who she was, and who loved her unconditionally. Her parry went wide and Kanan’s blade slipped past the warrior’s guard to press against her neck. The tear that had blurred her vision fell from under her helmet to splash on his blade. She yielded, and true to her word, allowed him to pass her.
It was not far, then, to his final destination. The doors of Malachor opened to his touch and he stepped into the throne room. Before him sat Maul, Lord of the Underworld, and it was he Kanan addressed.
“O Great Lord of the Dead, I have travelled vast distances to come here before you. My wife, Hera, the light of my life, was taken from me too soon and now she walks in the fields outside this very palace. I have come before you to humbly beg for her return.”
Maul regarded Kanan with utter indifference.
“And why should I do that?”
Kanan took a deep breath and opened his mouth. He told Maul a story, the tale of his long journey to the Underworld, the lands he had crossed and the sights he had seen. He told of how he had surmounted the obstacles from the gate guard to the boatman to the warrior of the fields. He told all of this with his most magical of gifts, but Maul was a god, and unmoved.
He did, however, recognise Kanan’s voice.
“I care not for the trials of mortals before their demise, but you have done me a service in the short life you have led so far. In your love for your wife, you told stories which grew a forest and the numbers of those who live in it. Many of them have, in turn, died, and their souls have come to me. In return for this act I will grant you the chance to see your wife again.”
For the first time since finding Hera in the woods, Kanan allowed himself to feel a spark of hope.
“She is indeed in the fields outside,” Maul continued. “Go to the doors and tell one of your famous stories; she will hear your voice and will come to you. If you then walk back to the land of the living she will follow, and I will make sure none will stop you. But be warned: if you are to see her complete her journey, you cannot look at her while she is still in the Underworld. Do not turn around until you are both standing under the sun once again, or you will never see her again.”
Kanan bowed deeply in gratitude and thanked the Lord of the Underworld before departing his presence to do as he suggested.
Kanan went to stand just outside of the palace doors, and he knew exactly which story to tell: the story of his life. It was one Hera would know well, because she knew him better than he knew himself. He began his telling, and the slightest brush of wind encouraged him to start walking.
As he crossed the fields, he passed the warrior again. It was as he was telling of his childhood and of the importance of family and standing together. Her helmet was tucked back under her arm and she nodded at him respectfully, the faintest of wistful smiles at her lips. She gave no acknowledgement of anyone following him.
He reached the river and the boatman, whose face was back to its stony mask. The man did not hesitate as Kanan approached, remembering their agreement and giving Kanan passage back to the other shore. During the crossing Kanan told of the heartbreak of having everything he knew ripped away from him, and the boatman nodded along mournfully as he steered the boat. Neither when he boarded nor disembarked did Kanan feel the boat respond to anyone else’s movements.
He was telling the legends of the Kasminauts when he came up to the gate. The guardian was awake again and watched him impassively as Kanan approached, recounting his adventures with his brothers. The honour guard gave no indication that anyone was following Kanan but made no move to stop him from leaving the Underworld.
It was as Kanan started the uphill climb through the final tunnel that he reached the best part of his story. This was the part where his travels ended and he met Hera. The most beautiful, perfect woman, who healed him and loved him and gave him everything he needed. His words echoed off the tunnel walls along with the sound of a single set of footsteps.
Kanan had no idea if Hera was following him. He knew, he trusted, that if she had heard him and been able, she would have come to him in the field and would have stayed with him since. But what if she hadn’t? What if Maul had tricked him? What if the warrior had blocked her way, or the boatman had denied her passage, or the guard had closed the gate on her?
He could see the brightness of daylight just ahead of him. If he returned to the overworld now, he would never be able to return. If she wasn’t behind him, he would lose her forever.
He had to know. He could not leave without her.
And so Kanan turned, and was overjoyed to see Hera’s wraith-like spirit only a short distance behind him. But her expression turned to dismay as he looked, and even as he opened his mouth in reassurance, a shadow fell over her.
Maul.
“I warned you not to look,” he spat, face twisted in anger, “and what have you done? Now, you will look no more!”
There was a flash of red, a blinding pain, and Kanan felt himself flung backwards and out of the tunnel. He landed on soft grass and felt the warmth of the sun on his face, though no light came through his eyes. He knew he was back in the mortal realm. He knew he could not return to the Underworld. He knew he had shattered his chance to retrieve Hera.
He cried out in pain and frustration and grief.
But then warm arms gripped him and pulled him into a solid embrace, and a voice spoke in his ear.
“Kanan?”
The most beautiful voice.
“Hera?”
He reached up to where the voice had come from, and his fingers traced an achingly familiar face. Tears tracked down her cheeks, but she was here, with him, alive again.
“Oh, Kanan, your eyes!” she cried. “He has ruined your eyes! How will you see?”
But Kanan smiled.
“I do not need my eyes to see you,” he told her.
And so they returned to their cottage at the edge of the forest, and to their happy life together. Though he was blind, Kanan could still tell his stories, and Hera still loved him deeply. The tale of how Kanan’s love for his wife had driven him to retrieve her from the depths of the Underworld was one he told to many generations of twi’lek in the forest, and it was even more popular than the legends of the Kasminauts.
He was still telling it when, well into old age, he recognised that his time had come. This time, Kanan and Hera travelled together into Death. They greeted the gate guard, the boatman and the warrior like old friends, and hand in hand they stepped into the fields, ready to spend eternity together.
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felassan · 5 years ago
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Some idle thoughts on the new map from Tevinter Nights, under a cut for spoilers:
I appreciate the Celtic knot-style pattern in the borders around the sides.
So much new information in the form of expanded/new areas at the edge of the map. For example, in the expanded Donarks, this is our first look really at what the Tevinters call Viridis (The Green). The Tevinters have rumors of wingless dragons and flying chimeras inhabiting these jungles. I wonder if one of the new northern islands we can see is Par Ladi.
Finally some more definition on the mysterious Tirashan. Didn’t realize there was a small forest on the Urthemiel Plateau. And what is this massive mysterious new forest expanse to the west of the Tirashan beyond the Hunterhorns Mountains? The Hunterhorn Mountains seem to preclude travel, which makes sense, since it’s the highest mountain range and is home to Thedosian Everest. My mind is running wild (I’m obsessed with Tirashan hcs), what if the Tirashan is connected somehow to the forest on the other side of the mountain range? Once was? In the very depths of the Tirashan, I want to find an entrance to a passageway through/under the mountains, and you come out on the other side to this whole new world in that new forest. My brain is filling it with mysterious elves.
So many cool interesting sea monsters/sea creatures depicted. It reminds me of how when Ghilan’nain was asked to destroy her monster creations in exchange for ascension, she drowned most of the “giants of the sea” that she’d made, except “those in deep waters”, because they were too well-wrought and Pride stopped her hand. What’s the significance of this? That might be a Cetus off the coast of the Free Marches, since it kind of looks like one and they sometimes migrate to the Waking Sea from the Boeric Ocean.
The Arbor Wilds extend far. I wonder what’s further in/further south in it. Probably lots more ancient elven ruins, treasures and artifacts. Probably home to more groups of ancient elves who “linger” in “other places”. Makes sense, most of this alien-like forest is uncharted and more explorers never return, and the Sentinels guard it.
Small pockets of forests that look like broken-off/small pieces of the Arbor Wilds remaining in the Dales. Doesn’t mean anything, just reminds me of elven fragmentation in the present (City, Dalish, separate clans), and between then and now along the timeline.
So much ice in the south. Reminds me of Helcaraxë. How close is the south to the south-pole analogue, if such exists (Sunless Lands)? 
When the HoF went into the lands deep into the west to lands that had never known a Blight, on their quest/search for a cure for the Calling, how far west did they go? Are we seeing some of that here?
I wonder if the mask/person near the Volca sea represents Voshai, who come from across that sea. The ears are pointed though and there don’t seem to be elves among the Voshai.
The person in the top right reminds me of Morrigan.
If the Executors come from across the eastern oceans, is the face below her representative of an Executor? Their symbol is a downward pointed triangle with two wavy lines drawn through it and this mask has a downward pointed triangle with lines running through it on it. If so, it interests me that that dragon/dragon-like creature is depicted closeby curling round it, considering Executor-Solas beef, Solas-Mythal connection, and the obvious Mythal-dragon. Although a similar pattern repeats on the other side in the border so could easily be purely artistic dressing, and yknow, this is DA, dragons everywhere and a common motif for the setting.
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