[ They say that surrogates are not people and though Mr. Baelish has never believed the principle, it has never been clearer to him how much of a lie it was until now. She loves him with a fervency that only she could muster, loves him in a way that is untarnished and clean, as lovely as birdsong. And he is too caught, too enraptured, to be unhappy.

She sobs, and for an instant, he's worried that he's done something wrong. But it's joy that colors her voice, not sorrow, and though he does not cry with her, he laughs in relief, the sound bright in comparison to the fog and dark in which he always seems to live. ]

We're in love, [ he tells her, amazement in his words. ] Yes, Sansa, this- this is love. And I swear to you, until my very last breath, I will love you.

[ Pressing a kiss to her temple, he draws her ever closer in his arms, allowing the silence to envelop them for a moment before offering, with a sweet sort of hesitancy: ] You may call me Petyr, if you would like.