DID YOU REALLY THINK I WOULDN'T JOIN THIS TRASH CLUB
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22 Jul 2019
“I’m trying to protect you,” Jon grunts, tearing himself away from the window.
But Sansa is there. Sansa is there, against his arm, turning him around. “From what?”
He’s breathing so fast he nearly can’t stop is body from humming, vibrating, he can’t keep his hands still or his eyes at any one place and it’s like it’s under his skin but Sansa just waits, waits, still like stone and the Lady of Winterfell and he isn’t the King-in-the-North-no-longer.
And after a year, a decade, a lifetime, Jon says, brokenly, “From me.”
Sansa does not move. Jon’s beginning to think that the gods could rip apart the ground beneath their feet and separate Westeros into two, east and west, and still Sansa would not move. She looks at him like she can see through him, through the parts he needs to keep from her. “There was once a time when I knew that the last person in Westeros, and Essos, and all the unknown and the dead lands— the last person I needed to be protected from was you.”