[ At that touch, Petyr turns, eyes darting from the brown of her hair (once red, and threatening to be red once again) to the red of the flowers she inspects. He pauses, too, there by her side, shoulders angled toward her. He cannot deny taking some pleasure in this time, as the little lordling's presence on board the ship and his condition means that they are rarely out of his company. (He knows, he suspects, what lies in the boy's heart. Whether that takes certain root in the heart of his daughter — whether that rift will grow or sew itself shut — has yet to be seen. He knows better than most the kind of damage even a hair's breadth can do.)

Absently, one of his hands comes to rest upon the round of her shoulder as he leans in to inspect the flowers as well. (They are beautiful, yes, but lose something — in his eyes, at least — in the absence of sunlight. Perhaps it's hypocritical of him to think that way, but it makes no difference, in the end, what he thinks of the flora kept here.) ]

I cannot say that I have, sweetling, [ he answers, straightening up and allowing his gaze to wander to her as opposed to the knots of the tree. ] I, too, would think it a dream were the evidence to the contrary not so indisputable. But, at least, I have your company to bring me some comfort.