Anoud, fifteen.

Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile.

I desire the things which will destroy me in the end. —Sylvia Plath (via toki-d0ki)

(Source: hardlysilver, via voice-s)