[ Once Miss Margaery had told her: you shouldn't read such sad books all the time, Sansa. Sansa hadn't understood what the young teacher had meant, a volume of fairy tales clasped in her hands at the time. The stories contained within had dragons and evil queens and corrupt knights, but nowhere amidst the pages was the bitter pang of sadness. None of the endings eluded to a melancholy refrain and nowhere in the chorus of talking animals and fairy godmothers was a note of unhappiness half as profound as the look that finds its way onto Mr. Baelish's face.

Then: understanding, or an attempt at it. Perhaps what made the stories sad was that they were untrue, so unlike real life. None of them had told the tale of a kind, sad man with silver-threaded hair; and never did the sad man rescue a princess without crown and whisk her to a dark but sacred place. He never gave her books and baubles and birds; he never offered her the throne of his heart, and never did the lost princess admit that she was both gladdened but sad, for she'd never been taught how to rule. ]

I want to learn, [ she confesses and then rises, padding over to him with bare feet. Silently, obediently, she sits at his feet and looks up at him with guileless eyes. Her hand touches his shin and then falls away agan. ] So that I may never burn the things that you've given me. Never — not on accident nor on purpose.