“Why not reconsider one of your many handsome suitors? I'm old, ugly, and lame.”
She pushed up from her perch on his bare chest and grinned, shaking her head with exasperated amusement. “Only you. And you’re not that old, I think you’re wildly attractive, and you’re not lame.”
“Crazy bird. I am too. My scarred face is a nightmare and I’ve got a limp.”
“I meant it. Only you,” she giggled, smacking a kiss on his nose and then returned her head to his midsection.
“These fucking bastards, with their milady this and milady that, bowing before you, and placing their cloaks over puddles for your dainty feet. And here I am. A brute with the manners of a wild boar.”
She snorted, thought about it briefly but didn’t contradict him. She reiterated: “Only you.”
“I have no sweet words. My tongue is not silvered like some buggering minstrel.”
She shook her head, but lazily, this time keeping her chin firmly planted. “Oh, I beg to differ about your tongue…it can be quite…sweet, when you’re so inclined. Only you.”
The eyebrow on his unburned side arched in mock surprise at her innuendo, but he continued, “I have no money, no real title, no land, not a pot to piss in.”
“It matters not. My money, all of Winterfell, everything I have I share with you, my love. Only you.”
He backed up, pulling her along with him, as he situated himself against her pillows. He stared at her, eyes dark and fathomless.
“Why Sansa?” he demanded.
Her lips curved in secretive smile as she shook her head yet again and whispered, “Only you.”
He gazed at her, disbelief and hope warring as equals inside of him. He relished these moments with the Lady of Winterfell, naked and real and oh so heartbreaking in her total acceptance of him.
Finally, overwhelmed with emotion, he surrendered himself to her, to the truth of her words.
He rolled her onto her back and showed her with his lips, hands, and body what he wanted to say out loud but could not. Not yet.
It was her, only her. Always had been since he met her, and always would be.