Littlefinger has spent a lifetime building an empire of shadows. He's grown a hard shell, become a master of fear, pain and loss- they are only tools for his use. But Petyr last saw the light of day 20 years ago, bleeding on a field at Riverrun. On that day of defeat he was silenced and packed away behind a mask. Petyr never grew, never hardened, never mastered these tools.

Margaery never came to the Red Keep, and so Sansa married Joffrey after all. Now, a few weeks after the wedding, Sansa has shared a bed with the young lion, but knows that neither she nor he are... performing properly. Fearing the worst if she can't produce an heir, Sansa turns to her friend and confidante, Lord Baelish, for advice and instruction.

A brief analysis (and imagining) of Sansa's feelings toward the good Lord Baelish, pre-snow castle. The piece stands on its own, but is also the backdrop for the way I write Sansa in any fic. Sort of a vague, somewhat confused mixture of apprehension, intimidation, affection and the faint, unnamed tendrils of lust in a girl who's never felt it before.