It's no secret, [ he murmurs, watching the path that her mouth takes along his skin. (Outside, a storm rumbles, rain pattering against the windows, rendered invisible by the curtains that he's pulled shut as he does every night when she comes back downstairs. One of the larger lamps casts an orange glow, though the one by his armchair sheds a whiter, more sterile sort of light. He doesn't have much, but he has enough. He has her.) ]

I wish for you to be happy. I wish for you to have everything you could not have before. I mean it, Sansa. Everything. I would give you the world on a string, if I could.

[ His words are, for the most part, needlessly sentimental, and he recognizes as much. (They echo, after all, of promises he had made as a young man, though then they had fallen upon deaf ears. The ghosts ring throughout the bowels of the house regardless, in photos kept in shoeboxes, in frames hung upon the walls.) ]

That is what I wish.