[ (He remembers what it was like to die. He hadn't gone over the edge, as she had, but he, too, had spent the ensuing days wondering why it was that he had not simply died. You ought to be grateful, he had been told. But grateful for what? For whatever mercy — Catelyn's, and hadn't that stung — had kept him from being buried? He had nothing. For a while, he had thought that he would rather have died.)
At the sound of his name, Petyr straightens up, raising one hand in an attempt to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. (The time since her death has taken its toll on her, that much is evident. The circles under his eyes have darkened and there is a pallor to his skin, though the most telling evidence lies in the way that he looks at her. It isn't fear, but it isn't total happiness, either.) ]
Sansa, sweetling—
[ He pulls himself closer to the bed, one hand clamped down upon its edge. He doesn't ask how she is. (It's a useless exercise.) Instead, he falls silent, the line of his mouth twitching once before settling back into neutrality. ]
( ACTION )
At the sound of his name, Petyr straightens up, raising one hand in an attempt to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. (The time since her death has taken its toll on her, that much is evident. The circles under his eyes have darkened and there is a pallor to his skin, though the most telling evidence lies in the way that he looks at her. It isn't fear, but it isn't total happiness, either.) ]
Sansa, sweetling—
[ He pulls himself closer to the bed, one hand clamped down upon its edge. He doesn't ask how she is. (It's a useless exercise.) Instead, he falls silent, the line of his mouth twitching once before settling back into neutrality. ]