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 do not think I’m easy to define. I have a wandering mind. And I’m not anything that you think I am. —Syd Barrett (via larmoyante)

(Source: larmoyante, via dragon-wing)