10 Nov 2019
“I’m trying to protect you, Sansa,” Jon grunts, tearing himself away from both Sansa and the rampart.
But Sansa does not let him flee. She cannot. Sansa is there, against his arm in three steps, pulling at him, grabbing the furs on his sleeve and yanking him around. “From what?”
He’s breathing so fast he nearly can’t stop is body from humming, vibrating, she can feel it underneath her fingers and the detail sticks, he can’t keep his hands still or his eyes at any one place or even Sansa herself 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, “From me.”
Bookmarked by km2139
06 Oct 2018