⊰ neverparted ⊱

                   ❝ Thomas. Thomas Sharpe. ❞

His former title no longer sounded RIGHT; it had been decades since he even used it. Or did he ever become the proper baronet? Most of his life was spent in the pursuit of a dream that never amounted to anything except for a rusted hulk of a machine. The very MONSTROSITY that now stood outside the hall and was being dismantled. It should have hurt to see his life’s work being stripped away from the land, but it didn’t. He had accepted that his harvester was nothing more but a failure, and his very heart had been burned from him a long time ago.

                                     ❝ SHE won’t let you stay here for long. No one hardly stays for
                                        more than a week. ❞

There was a soft sigh as he retracted his more solid form, but now his eyes were staring at the wall behind her. He had seen countless owners come and go, passing the house from one family member to another. NONE of them stayed, and those who did left as babbling messes. Lucille’s sadistic streak had only increased since she had died, and her protectiveness of both him and their home was worse. He just hoped that the girl’s aunt wasn’t planning on leaving her here as a way to get rid of her. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen something like that happen. Children killing parents, jealous aunts killing nieces…except this time, Lysa Arryn might be banking on the reports of MALEVOLENT spirits to do the killing for her. 

Frankly, Thomas was tired of the endless cycle of life and death. He just wanted to rest and leave the world behind. Death now seemed more like hell than heaven, mainly because he was in neither. 

                        ❝ Forgive my hastiness. Who are you, my Lady? I should at
                           least know the current lady of the house. ❞

          Sharpe. In memory’s recesses she could recall such a name — the former occupants, not in recent days but long ago, when inheritance passed from generation to generation rather than finding itself constantly shuffled about on the auctioneer’s block. How many years since one of their blood walked these halls? Ten? Fifty? One hundred? Though logic dictated still that this must comprise some prank, it was not in Petyr’s nature to be so playful, nor would any from the village distant bother with such trifles.

             He was — so much as any ghost could be — real.

             “She? I’m afraid I do not understand.” The man introduced as her father held title to this house and its surrounding lands, as well as several smaller parsonages nearby; no one could dare challenge Baelish’s claim, not any of flesh and blood. A bitter skeptic only moments before, Sansa now wondered if there might not be more spirits lurking amongst the tatty draperies and rotted boards. Give it to the Freys, she had told him. Let them suffer a curse. Rumor could not dissuade him however, and, no other recourse left to her, Sansa trailed after in meek silence. Silence which continued, queries of a name tying knots in her tongue. They expected few visitors and fewer questions, but with lies carefully agreed upon nonetheless. 

             “Alayne. Alayne Stone.” Did spirits know when the living lied? Blue eyes averted themselves as superstitious precaution. “Are you the only one? The— the only…?” Ghost.