but damn does that bitch have style
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04 Jun 2018
"My lord," Sansa begins prettily, courtesies ready on her tongue like stones skipping across a lake. He knows her anger like a slap in the face.
And he looks wild, like a man, like the beastly body that had just barely dragged itself off Ramsay Bolton before it could steal him from her. Like the greatest injury she could do him was to call him her King. His throat works, "Don't."
She has no choice but to keep facing him, his gloved fingers a strong curl around her elbows, the snow spreads into her skin in icy bite where he holds her. She faces him, lips pressed, gaze cool.
"Your Grace, then -"
"Jon," he swears, making a hard infuriated noise. Desperate and angry. His face pale in the muted light of the god's wood twists with his hurt. Young, snow caught on his lashes and the eyes always so dark as to often be mistaken for black they flash like the underbelly of storm clouds caught on lightning. Grey.
His throat works the words so hoarse they can only rush the blood in her ears. "Only Jon."
Jon Snow is King in the North and Sansa Stark attempts once more to be what she must.
Note: title from Bryan Penberth's “The End of Free Love"