By the time she turns away from the throne, he’s kneeling before the steps and she almost misses the words that leave his lips in a whisper. They don’t echo against the empty walls that were once home to banners of stags and lions, but the words haunt her like a lingering ghost against her skin nevertheless. She shivers.
The throne doesn’t feel entirely hers.
petyr/sansa, stranger in the shell of a lover