lit ladies ❀ inej ghafa; what about the nobodies and the nothings, the invisible girls? we learn to hold our heads as if we wear crowns. we learn to wring magic from the ordinary. that was how you survived when you weren’t chosen, when there was no royal blood in your veins. when the world owed you nothing, you demanded something of it anyway.
She looked at their filthy hair and scraggly beards and reddened eyes, at their dry, cracked, bleeding lips. Wolves, she thought again. Like me. Was this her pack? How could they be Robb’s men? She wanted to hit them. She wanted to hurt them. She wanted to cry. They all seemed to be looking at her, the living and the dead alike.
The bars were too narrow to pass a cup through, but Harwin and Gendry offered her a leg up. She planted a foot in Harwin’s cupped hands, vaulted onto Gendry’s shoulders, and grabbed the bars on top of the cage. The fat man turned his face up and pressed his cheek to the iron, and Arya poured the water over him. He sucked at it eagerly and let it run down over his head and cheeks and hands, and then he licked the dampness off the bars. He would have licked Arya’s fingers if she hadn’t snatched them back. By the time she served the other two the same, a crowd had gathered to watch her.
- A Storm of Swords
Arya is confronted with a group of northmen who have killed and raped innocent people. She is disgusted by their behaviour, they are supposed to be Robb’s men, Stark men. And what does she do? She gives them mercy. She gives these dying men water because they are still wolves like her. She doesn’t try to kill them or harm them in any way, like D&D want you to believe.
sherlock pointing out a spot of leftover shaving cream on john’s face, but john keeps missing it–well you just get it then, you’re the one who can see it–sherlock’s mouth going dry when he steps close and rubs his thumb across the hinge of john’s jaw to wipe it away