[a tribute to dornish women; sainted, besmirched, or misunderstood] Doran went still in a temper; cold, steady as the mountain passes in the moments before lightning struck. Oberyn raged, louder than any storm. Elia smiled, thin and small, and struck.

“-my mother was not Lyanna fucking Stark!” Jon exclaimed, before turning and kicking, vehemently at the sofa, enough to leave brown dustmarks on the purple cloth. He turned back to her, lifting a finger threateningly. “I don’t care what you say. But our father would never- never- sleep with his sister, in fact I don’t even know why I’m telling you this because guess what, Sansa? You should already know that!” [Sansa tries to tell Jon who his mother is. Jon thinks he’s an incest-baby. Which........ isn’t wrong.]

Jonelle’s a bastard, right? So she’ll be at the back of the tent when Robert asks Sansa what happened with Joffrey and Arya and Nymeria. She’ll hear Sansa’s soft, quiet whisper- I didn’t see- and Arya’s scream, she’ll hear Cersei’s sentence, her father’s answer. And Jonelle’s as righteous and angry as Jon ever is, and so she doesn’t hesitate to turn around and leave, to use Robb’s parting gift to her- a sharp-edged Valyrian steel imitation dagger- to smash open Ghost’s and Lady’s chains and chase them away. [In which Jon Snow is Jonelle Snow, and goes south with her sisters.]

It had been a slash across her chest from a White Walker’s sword that finally ended her life. Sansa’d landed in a puddle of her own blood, and she’d died quickly, quietly. And then she’d awoken with a gasp, trembling, in a bed that had burned under Theon’s betrayal.