[ Perhaps it's those echoes that keep the lie from taking the lie from holding full sway, the echoes of the girl with red hair, the hair of her mother. But no, no, if he stopped to give it thought, he would know better. The reason that he still calls her Sansa, still can't distinguish the two souls that take root in her body as clearly as she can is because he cannot admit to being able to make the distinction in himself. Petyr Baelish and Littlefinger, two roots to one tree that have grown so far apart as to be completely separate and yet one and the same. She thinks them separate — she can see when one reigns and the other does not — but the truth is this: the line is blurry. Blurry enough, perhaps, to be irretrievable. To an extent, he has fallen upon his own blade.

It is Sansa that he sees now, when he raises his free hand to cup her cheek, his eyes searching her face. ]

No, [ he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the crest of her cheekbone. (As it stands, he knows less of their circumstances than she does, but it is his place, now, to know, or at least to pretend to.) ] This is no punishment. A test, perhaps. Regardless, we will make the best of the circumstances, will we not? [ He tips her chin up, then, holding her gaze. (I will keep us safe, I will get us home.) ]