[ From the other room comes the loud crash bang of Bran's grand touring car hitting a cement median at 150 miles per hour. The younger boy shouts, but doesn't necessarily curse, as the game over music begins to play its techobeat fanfare. The slow knead of Sansa's foot stops abruptly, the pressure still firm against him; her attention slides out from behind her magaazine to peer towards the open doorway to the living room but no one comes through. The game resets and the music starts again and it's only after the sound of that big block engine starts climbing the higher registers that Sansa relaxes again.
A painted toe nail scratches along the length of Uncle Petyr's fly. ]
Don't see you doing anything about it, officer. You off the clock?
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A painted toe nail scratches along the length of Uncle Petyr's fly. ]
Don't see you doing anything about it, officer. You off the clock?