[ The walls of Mr. Baelish house murmur with the echoes of ghosts but Sansa does not recognize them from their beck and call, even though her ghosts and his ghosts are one in the same. When Sansa's Original had written her from the mainland, it'd been with letters taken down by an aging hand. The script hard instead of soft, all of the sort parts to its consonants and vowels made terse by a jittering hand. Her stories were an old woman's stories, not the one's belonging to a young pink-faced girl. The voice with which those letters had spoken was much different than the one that still whispers beneath Mr. Baelish's floorboards, which sings in every curtain flap and dancing mote of dust. A token here, a photograph there; the thought occurs to Sansa she looks just like me and then vanishes again before moving on.

She whispers something now, mouthed mutedly against the bend of Mr. Baelish's wrist, before lifting her face and drawing herself up, flush against the very front of his legs. ] And what if I asked for your happiness? For a means to it. A way to cut down your sadness.

[ Her gaze searches his face as she curls his hand to her chest. ] Would you give me that too?