[ A gentle pressure, wet and round, pushes against the point of Mr. Baelish's pulse and it's not until it sniffles softly a moment later that it reveals itself to be the very tip of Sansa's nose, nuzzling him. Curled against him now, she tries to make herself small even though adolescence has been kind to her and given her the same long-legged leanness that had made her Original so very beautiful in Petyr's eyes. Her shoulders bow and her neck cranes as she tucks herself in that warm nest of his embrace, that initial sob of happiness still thrumming (electricity through a wire, blood through a vein). ]

Petyr, [ she murmurs, as if it the sweetest word known to man. ] Petyr, Petyr, Petyr. [ Each is a prayer and an exultation; each is love's golden sigh. ] I can't think of a more wonderful name. I will call you it morning, noon and night.

[ At length Sansa draws back, just far enough to meet his eyes, the damp end of her nose brushing his before she ducks in to peck him once on the mouth. ] All the stories were wrong, [ she then says, sounding but amazed and enlightened. ] All their words, they couldn't touch this, they'd never be able to explain—

I feel— I feel alive. It's wonderful.