cold steel hand and a half

just imagine: Sansa, free of Littlefinger and out of the Vale. The night is cold, the woods dark and Sandor on edge. The howling of wolves draws closer, the steel he holds feels pityful as the packleader breaks through the trees. The beast freezes, snarls, her small cousins waiting for her to attack. Sansa steps around her protector, hand outstretched.
“Nymeria,“she whispers, and the direwolf nuzzles her hand, whining. Sansa falls to her knees and buries her face in the wolf’s fur.
Half a world away, a nameless girl dreams of finding her sister.


Better pics of the black dragon armor with elder Futhark runic borders. The runes spell out the following:

This thing all things devours:
Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;
Gnaws iron, bites steel;
Grinds hard stones to meal;
Slays king, ruins town,
And beats high mountain down.

(Gollum’s final riddle from the Hobbit)

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: ‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’

(Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley)

We wonder—and some hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when through the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the wolf in chase,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

(last part of Ozymandias by Horace Smith)

She looks so small.

Was she ever this small? In life?

In life she’d seemed to fill whatever room she entered.

With warmth and laughter and quite self-assurance.

She looks like she would weigh less than a feather.

A fragile thing, with hollow bird bones.

Easily broken.

But he knows that she’d feel like lead in his arms.

There’s bile rising in the back of his throat.

Bitter and acrid.


She’ll have to burn soon.

All wrapped in white linen.

Laid out, cold as the clay.

They’ll have to pack the wound.

To stop the red bleeding through.

White for purity.

He stumbles forward.

Half blind.

The world has narrowed down only to her broken body, flung carelessly into the tub.

Sinking to his knees.

The weight of his body now seems too great to bare.

Hand outstretched finds cold steel.

Lifting palm to see it stained with scarlet.

What difference did it make.

Her blood was already on his hands.

Butchered with her own blade.

Hands reach out.

Clambering to feet once more.

He doesn’t have the strength.

He’ll find it.

For her.

Distantly he makes out some kind of low growl.

Like a caged animal on the brink of being free.

A hand on his shoulder.

For a fleeting instant he believes.


That maybe there is comfort in that touch.

Roughly shoved aside.

Face pushed into the floor.

Into the pool of copper.

He doesn’t dare look up again.

Feels her lifted above him.

Held up in arms strong enough for the task.

He knows now.

He could never touch her.

Hands such as his were made only for wrack and ruin.

The room is silent now.

A cold and empty tomb.

He lifts his face.

Swiping at worthless tears.

What use are they to her now?

Blood and tears.

That’s all he has to offer.

(Obviously this is from Sam’s POV, I in no way think Sam is actually to blame for Charlie’s death….)