It pleases her a terrible amount to see her stitches worn down smooth on the Doctor Darling's cardigan. Sansa has learned early on that a sign of fondness for a garment is in the threads, in the seams — what else says that a shirt or surcoat is beloved than the softening of its embroidery, or the fraying of its hem?

She sees the start of it over the mended patch on Darling's cardigan. Mended by her hand, no less. With hands primly set upon her lap Sansa leans forward to hear Darling better. "There is a book of... fairy tales? Children's stories, by a Ser Andersen. I found a copy in one of the empty houses, though some of the pages have stuck together and the ink smudged unreadable.

Do you know of him? Have you read his works? There are stories about wolves among the text, but the wolves often die." Sansa mislikes that part otherwise, to her dismay. "What is your mystery about? Have you solved it?"