[ It is said that living is more than a series of biological processes. All organisms exist but not every organism lives — at least not in a meaningful way, in the way that originals do. Sansa had grown up reading stories of real life, of the experiences that (when taken together) formed the weave and the weft of living. And though her teachers and counselors all endeavored to quell any desire or hope for a deeper sort of existence, she had secretly longed to reach out and to touch it — to taste something grander and more profound. (She had wanted so desperately to live and to love and now here was Mr. Baelish — here was Petyr — offering her both with the sweet ply and soft whisper of his mouth.)

I love you, he tells her, over and over again, the words running into one another to form a single, tuneful song. For all that he says it, Sansa says it again only once — pulling back far enough to meet him eye to eye and then announce with the same enthusiastic wonder: ] I love you, Mr. Petyr Baelish. I love you and I'm loved by you.

[ Her eyes crinkle. ]

Thank you for making me the happiest girl on the Estate— no. In the whole wide world.