Castle walls

This is a humble post on some castle and fortification architectural terms - specifically, walls.  When writing, sometimes I cannot find the right word for a… *flails hands* thing, and I like to be accurate, when possible.  This is not The Definitive Post on Castle Architecture.  I’m sure someone else has made such a thing and they deserve applause.   

A balustrade is a railing piece along a bridge, stair or balcony.  It is supported by balusters, which are short, typically decorative columns.  Balustrade may also refer to the entire column/railing construction.  Balusters along a stairway are often called bannisters.

A parapet is a short, protective barrier, usually no more than head-height, along a terrace, balcony or roof.  When a parapet is crenellated, meaning it has indentations at regular intervals, it is called a battlement.  The gaps in a battlement are called crenels or embrasures; the solid upright sections (the not-gaps) of a battlement are called merlons.  

A bulwark is any kind of defensive wall or embankment.  A bastion is a structure projected outward from a castle or fortification.  The connecting wall between bastions or towers is a curtain wall.  

A rampart is a thick defensive wall with a broad top, which is often crowned with a parapet or battlement.  A chemin de ronde is a protected walkway atop a rampart and behind a battlement, sometimes called a wall-walk if you don’t want to sound too fancy.    

There are many more parts to castles and other fortifications.  Explore them and enjoy.  But if this helps anyone just a little, I will be pleased.  


Bronze Bust of Sassanid King (Shapur II), Persia, 4th Century AD

The Sassanid King Shapur II is represented by a cast bronze torso which originally belonged to a composite statue that showed him majestically enthroned, his finely articulated hands resting on a sword (cast separately and now lost). He wears a high, crenellated, tripartite crown with ribbons attached at the back and his forehead is encircled by a diadem adorned with two rows of pearl beads. He wears a tight-fitting, long-sleeved tunic marked by sinuous rills; over this, he wears a belt and halter, both double-beaded with pearls and clasped at the waist with a large circular medallion bordered with the same gems. He is richly outfitted in large bead-and-pearl earrings, pearl bracelets, and a heavy pearl necklace with two round jeweled pendants, one intact, the other preserving traces of a sun disc.  

The Sassanids were a Persian dynasty originating in Fars, who established a powerful empire that extended throughout the Iranian plateau between AD 224-226 and AD 651, making their capital at Ctesiphon. In western chronicles, the most celebrated event in Sassanid history was King Shapur I’s victory in AD 260 over the Roman emperor Valerian, who was taken prisoner along with several thousand of his soldiers. Comparison with similar stepped, crenellated crowns on coin portraits supports the identification of this bust as that of Shapur II (reigned AD 309-379) whose glorious seventy year tenure fortunately had a Roman eyewitness, the historian Ammianus Marcellinus, an officer in the army of Emperor Julian the Apostate.


Arch of the Sergii

Pula, Croatia

29-27 BCE

The arch commemorates three brothers of the Sergii family, specifically Lucius Sergius Lepidus, a tribune serving in the twenty-ninth legion that participated in the Battle of Actium and disbanded in 27 BCE . This suggests an approximate date of construction: 29-27 BCE. The arch stood behind the original naval gate of the early Roman colony. The Sergii were a powerful family of officials in the colony and retained their power for centuries.

The honorary triumphal arch, originally a city gate, was erected as a symbol of the victory at Actium. It was paid for by the wife of Lepidus, Salvia Postuma Sergia, sister of the three brothers. Both of their names are carved in the stone along with Lucius Sergius and Gaius Sergius, the honoree’s father and uncle respectively. In its original form, statues of the two elders flanked Lepidus on both sides on the top of the arch. On either side of the inscription, a frieze depicts cupids, garlands and bucrania.

This small arch with pairs of crenelated Corinthian columns and winged victories in the spandrels, was built on the facade of a gate (Porta Aurea) in the walls, so the part, visible from the town-side, was decorated. The decoration is late hellenistic, with major Asia Minor influences. The low relief on the frieze represents a scene with a war chariot drawn by horses.

So long as those remained, Winterfell remained.

“Stone and Snow that was all that was left of Winterfell. Just like she and Jon.”

This line could be from a fanfic, as long as I know, but summarizes a huge and beautiful theme in Sansa’s and Jon’s arcs: Rebuilding their lost and broken home: Winterfell.    

This line also remind me of this quote from the Books:

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

Winterfell: sacked, burned, broken and without a Stark inside it’s walls. But the stone is strong and the roots of the trees go deep under the ground, and as long those remain, Winterfell remains.

Have you noticed already? Have you noticed the references of Sansa and Jon in that quote?

Stone = Alayne Stone = Sansa Stark, and indeed, Sansa is strong.

The roots of the trees go deep = The Weirwood tree (Winterfell’s heart) = Ghost = Jon Snow = King of Winter/King in The North and the King of the whole realm.

I think the connection between Stone and Sansa is pretty clear; so I just going to explain the connection between the roots of the trees and Jon a bit:

The roots of the trees going deep is a clear reference to the most famous tree in Winterfell, the Weirwood tree. Ned used to say that the Weirwood tree was “Winterfell’s heart”. Ghost is mostly described as a symbol of the Weirwood tree, due their equal colors: red and white. Ghost is part of Jon Snow and Jon Snow is likely to be the next King in The North and the King of the whole realm.  I’m going to write a separate post about Jon, Ghost and the Weirwood tree soon, explaining some more. I promise. But for now, that’s it.

So, Sansa and Jon are the two pillars that make Winterfell remain. They are destined to retake and rebuild their home together. The Show in it’s unique way kind of confirmed this. Let’s see:

Sansa Stark, under the guise of Alayne Stone, builds a Snow Castle that is to be a very detailed version of Winterfell in her seventh chapter in ASOS:

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

For me, this quote implies that Sansa is going to actively participate in Winterfell’s restoration.  And who else want to restore 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 Snow will help Sansa Stark to rebuild Winterfell, their lost and broken home.

And Jon and Sansa could also “rebuild” the Stark dynasty, the blood of Winterfell, as they both share the dream to have 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

There you have it!

As long as Sansa Stark and Jon Snow remain, Winterfell remains.

Large and Finely Modeled Roman Bronze Stag, 1st Century AD

A large bronze walking stag with head held up and antlers curving up; cast mark to the top of the tail with hole in center; head detaches and with crenelated edges for securing. 22.2 kg, 85cm (33 ½").

The piece could have been a decorative piece for a villa garden, as seen in examples from Pompeii, Herculaneum and the area surrounding Vesuvius. The stag, along with the doe, was also sacred to the goddess Diana, and is seen in statues of her, most notably the cult image of the goddess at Ephesus. The stag was also sacred to the Gaulish deity Cernunos who was shown as a human/stag hybrid and was adopted by the Romans who set up a number of altars to the god in the province, most notably that found beneath Notre Dame cathedral in Paris that was set up by a guild of boat men, and now in the Musée National du Moyen Age, and which provides the only epigraphic evidence for the god’s name, which means ‘the horned one.’

Watch the video about this artifact here

Inktober Day 17: Graceful (17/31)


A thick stone parapet protected the outer edge of the rampart, reaching as high as Sansa’s chin, with crenellations cut every five feet for archers. The heads were mounted between the crenels, along the top of the wall, impaled on iron spikes so they faced out over the city. Sansa had noted them the moment she’d stepped out onto the wallwalk, but the river and the bustling streets and the setting sun were ever so much prettier. He can make me look at the heads, she told herself, but he can’t make me see them (A Game of Thrones, page 748.)

What I find so powerful about Sansa’s storyline is that she is completely stripped of any type of external agency. She has no control over where she goes, what she does, how she looks, or even what she looks at. Her strategy is generally to submit to this, but to find any point of internal agency that she can, i.e., holding onto control over her self. The distinction between looking and seeing is all about external/internal. Sansa must comply to the external demands, but she does not concede her control over her internal self. She chooses to look north at the prettier landscape, she chooses not to see her father’s face in the head she is shown. In my opinion, this is one of the few Sansa scenes the show gets absolutely right, with the “how long do I have to look?” line because it capture how she is able to perform the external function demanded of her, but internally detach from it as a protective measure.

Happy Valentine’s Day @fairytalesandtimetravel!!! I had so much fun talking to you this month, though I apologize for how infrequent it got as the school year decided to slam everything down on me. Now this is a bit more St. Patrick’s Day than Valentine’s, but I loved your prompt and pulled in some of my own experiences as well ;)

“Doesn’t this country know it’s summer?” Emma grumbled as she pulled her beanie more snugly around her ears.

Her new beanie, made with genuine Irish wool (dyed green, since Mary Margaret said it matched Emma’s eyes), because it was the end of June and Emma had foolishly believed that she could wear summer clothes on this trip around the British Isles.

But apparently Ireland hadn’t received the message that the summer solstice had passed two days before; the rolling green hills were capped with low-hanging gray clouds, blocking any sunshine from warming the air. Everyone had bought out the gift shop’s supply of wool sweaters and scarves the night before, after the news report that the next few days were sure to be more of the same. As she dubiously eyed the path up to the castle, Emma had yet to decide if there was a constant drizzle or if it was just that foggy, but either way the weather was chilly and damp.

And the most infuriating thing of all? The island still managed to be one of the most beautiful places she’d ever been to.

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Carew Castle, Wales

The present castle, which replaced an earlier stone keep, is constructed almost entirely from the local Carboniferous limestone, except for some of the Tudor architectural features such as window frames, which are made from imported Cotswold stone. Although originally a Norman stronghold the castle maintains a mixture of architectural styles as modifications were made to the structure over successive centuries.

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Tone on tone cream satin brocade in a large-scale floral, 1-piece having sleeveless boned back-lacing bodice decorated around arm openings with scalloped white chiffon, crystal beads, silver sequins and metallic threads, beaded triangle below scoop neck, center front skirt panel with beaded slits to knee and crenelated hem backed in lace ruffles and pleated silk, skirt back having outward facing pleats flanking center inverted pleats and train.

theeighthtitan  asked:

What about 14 a kiss bc I don't have words right now or 6 a tipsy kiss for Alistair x Warden? 😘😘😘

I’m sorry it took me this long! It took me forever to figure out how I wanted to approach this, so here, have a whole bunch of booze-themed kisses. I hope you like it!

Alistair drains his cup of wine, then pours himself another one—his second, as it is, or maybe his third?—frowning when a mere trickle drips to the bottom of the goblet.

“That’s a crime of lèse-majesté, you know,” he tells the offending bottle as he pulls himself to his feet before tottering to the door of his bedchamber and heading to the cellar. “Or is it treason? Either way, be content you’re not—you know—alive, because I could have you hanged.”

It’s lonely, being king, as it turns out. No one just has a pint of ale with the King of Ferelden: everything turns into some stately meeting the instant he steps into the room, crown or not, and when everything down to which spoon he picks up first is cause for scandal, he usually finds himself worrying whether Teagan’s eyes might actually bore holes into his head this time. Were she here, he would have pulled his queen into bed with him, and doubtless there would be as much wine spilled on the sheets as they’d manage to drink. But she isn’t, so no one’s kept him from issuing the royal decree permitting him to indulge his loneliness for once with a bottle or two of Orlesian red.

The sad truth is that he needs her more than she, him. Thanks to Her Majesty’s courage and fortitude, Amaranthine held against the brunt of the Darkspawn army, while he’s stuck behind his castle walls, whining about the wine.

Whining to the wine, he amends, which isn’t exactly better.

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Chicago gothic
  • They built a secret machine under City Hall to make the city run, built it in the 1950s out of brick and iron and steam.  They feed it promises and money, and that’s not such a price to pay, to keep the machine running, to make the city run.  It only devours its own keepers.  It only gets that hungry once in a while.  Everybody knows it’s the machine that makes the city run.  Nobody knows how to turn it off.

  • You know somebody who knows somebody who knows where Al Capone is buried.  There are mobster mansions and legends of old shoot-outs everywhere, if you know where to look, but you don’t go looking.  Ghosts are for tourists.  You know where to look and you don’t go looking.  You don’t ever look.

  • You can’t trust the weather.  You check every morning to find out what season it is.  Yesterday, an enormous snowman melted in the eighty degree heat.  Today the flowers are all caked in three inches of frost.  In January, dead leaves skitter before autumn winds and spring crocuses bloom.  In April, you walk around in shorts in the middle of a blizzard.  You hold out hope for August.  Everybody says that snow in August is a myth, like the ghosts.  You’ll wear shorts in August in the snow anyway.

  • The river flows backwards now, most of the time, because we made it.  In August when it doesn’t snow, it rains, enormous clattering thunderstorms with lightning that strikes the tops of buildings again and again and again, fit to flood, and the river remembers what it used to be.  It flows backwards into the lake, just for a little while.  The lake always remembers.

  • The top six floors of that building are seventy years old, gray crenelated stone and brick.  The ground floor was only just built last week.  The elevators are new, but the stairwells are old, with pipes that creak like the old factory machines that used to make bread and fabric and paper.  Nobody takes the stairs.

  • You’ve never gone down to where the stockyards used to be.  They say the screams still linger in the air.  You wouldn’t know.  You don’t want to know.

  • This city burned to the ground once.  It was a sacrifice, a cleansing of all the history before.  They slaughtered thousands of animals a week and the streets ran with blood.  The mob spread blood and alcohol all around, but in the 1950′s, they built a machine under city hall to run the city and everybody pretends that at least, at least the machine keeps the city from needing blood.  When you hear a gunshot, you turn your head and don’t read the paper tomorrow morning.

  • You’ve never seen the monsters, so they must not exist.  They mustn’t.  If they do, then they’re down on Lower Wacker Drive or in the dark shadow-areas beneath the L tracks, bound by iron on all sides, or in the old post office, staring out and watching as hundreds, as thousands of cars go by.

  • You can’t trust the weather.  On foggy days, the clouds close in on all sides and disappear the tops of all the new chrome-and-steel skyscrapers.  On good days, they all come back when the fog lifts away.

  • This is the only real city.  New York is a story and all the people are made of metal and grime.  Los Angeles is a snowglobe fairyland and the people are plastic and suntan lotion covered in shine.  Chicago is real.  Everything that happens here is real.  Chicago is made of blood and cattle meat and stone.  Especially blood.

“Walk with me,” Joffrey commanded, offering her his arm. She had no choice but to take it. The touch of his hand would have thrilled her once; now it made her flesh crawl. “My name day will be here soon,” Joffrey said as they slipped out the rear of the throne room. “There will be a great feast, and gifts. What are you going to give me?”

“I … I had not thought, my lord.”

Your Grace,” he said sharply. “You truly are a stupid girl, aren’t you? My mother says so.”

“She does?” After all that had happened, his words should have lost their power to hurt her, yet somehow they had not. The queen had always been so kind to her.

“Oh, yes. She worries about our children, whether they’ll be stupid like you, but I told her not to trouble herself.” The king gestured, and Ser Meryn opened a door for them.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured. The Hound was right, she thought, I am only a little bird, repeating the words they taught me. The sun had fallen below the western wall, and the stones of the Red Keep glowed dark as blood.

“I’ll get you with child as soon as you’re able,” Joffrey said as he escorted her across the practice yard. “If the first one is stupid, I’ll chop off your head and find a smarter wife. When do you think you’ll be able to have children?”

Sansa could not look at him, he shamed her so. “Septa Mordane says most … most highborn girls have their flowering at twelve or thirteen.”

Joffrey nodded. “This way.” He led her into the gatehouse, to the base of the steps that led up to the battlements.

Sansa jerked back away from him, trembling. Suddenly she knew where they were going. “No,” she said, her voice a frightened gasp. “Please, no, don’t make me, I beg you …”

Joffrey pressed his lips together. “I want to show you what happens to traitors.”

Sansa shook her head wildly. “I won’t. I won’t.”

“I can have Ser Meryn drag you up,” he said. “You won’t like that. You had better do what I say.” Joffrey reached for her, and Sansa cringed away from him, backing into the Hound.

“Do it, girl,” Sandor Clegane told her, pushing her back toward the king. His mouth twitched on the burned side of his face and Sansa could almost hear the rest of it. He’ll have you up there no matter what, so give him what he wants.

She forced herself to take King Joffrey’s hand. The climb was something out of a nightmare; every step was a struggle, as if she were pulling her feet out of ankle-deep mud, and there were more steps than she would have believed, a thousand thousand steps, and horror waiting on the ramparts.

From the high battlements of the gatehouse, the whole world spread out below them. Sansa could see the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s hill, where her father had died. At the other end of the Street of the Sisters stood the fire-blackened ruins of the Dragonpit. To the west, the swollen red sun was half-hidden behind the Gate of the Gods. The salt sea was at her back, and to the south was the fish market and the docks and the swirling torrent of the Blackwater Rush. 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 thick stone parapet protected the outer edge of the rampart, reaching as high as Sansa’s chin, with crenellations cut into it every five feet for archers. The heads were mounted between the crenels, along the top of the wall, impaled on iron spikes so they faced out over the city. Sansa had noted them the moment she’d stepped out onto the wallwalk, but the river and the bustling streets and the setting sun were ever so much prettier. He can make me look at the heads, she told herself, but he can’t make me see them.

“This one is your father,” he said. “This one here. Dog, turn it around so she can see him.”

Sandor Clegane took the head by the hair and turned it. The severed head had been dipped in tar to preserve it longer. Sansa looked at it calmly, not seeing it at all. It did not really look like Lord Eddard, she thought; it did not even look real. “How long do I have to look?”

Joffrey seemed disappointed. “Do you want to see the rest?” There was a long row of them.

“If it please Your Grace.”

Joffrey marched her down the wallwalk, past a dozen more heads and two empty spikes. “I’m saving those for my uncle Stannis and my uncle Renly,” he explained. The other heads had been dead and mounted much longer than her father. Despite the tar, most were long past being recognizable. The king pointed to one and said, “That’s your septa there,” but Sansa could not even have told that it was a woman. The jaw had rotted off her face, and birds had eaten one ear and most of a cheek.

Sansa had wondered what had happened to Septa Mordane, although she supposed she had known all along. “Why did you kill her?” she asked. “She was god-sworn …”

“She was a traitor.” Joffrey looked pouty; somehow she was upsetting him. “You haven’t said what you mean to give me for my name day. Maybe I should give you something instead, would you like that?”

“If it please you, my lord,” Sansa said.

When he smiled, she knew he was mocking her. “Your brother is a traitor too, you know.” He turned Septa Mordane’s head back around. “I remember your brother from Winterfell. My dog called him the lord of the wooden sword. Didn’t you, dog?”

“Did I?” the Hound replied. “I don’t recall.”

Joffrey gave a petulant shrug. “Your brother defeated my uncle Jaime. My mother says it was treachery and deceit. She wept when she heard. Women are all weak, even her, though she pretends she isn’t. She says we need to stay in King’s Landing in case my other uncles attack, but I don’t care. After my name day feast, I’m going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That’s what I’ll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother’s head.”

A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, “Maybe my brother will give me your head.”

Joffrey scowled. “You must never mock me like that. A true wife does not mock her lord. Ser Meryn, teach her.”

This time the knight grasped her beneath the jaw and held her head still as he struck her. He hit her twice, left to right, and harder, right to left. Her lip split and blood ran down her chin, to mingle with the salt of her tears.

“You shouldn’t be crying all the time,” Joffrey told her. “You’re more pretty when you smile and laugh.”

Sansa made herself smile, afraid that he would have Ser Meryn hit her again if she did not, but it was no good, the king still shook his head. “Wipe off the blood, you’re all messy.”

The outer parapet came up to her chin, but along the inner edge of the walk was nothing, nothing but a long plunge to the bailey seventy or eighty feet below. All it would take was a shove, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, smirking at her with those fat wormlips. You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it right now. It wouldn’t even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn’t matter at all.

“Here, girl.” Sandor Clegane knelt before her, between her and Joffrey. With a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip.

The moment was gone. Sansa lowered her eyes. “Thank you,” she said when he was done. She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.

Sansa VI, A Game of Thrones.