[ Sansa's heart skips giddily whenever Mr. Baelish touches her, her body well aware of the kinds of desires that her mind and her heart have yet to discover. Some surrogates live well past adolescence (though their existence is considered a failure and often sad) but many barely manage the middle reaches of their twenties. The entirety of their lives are spent upon the Estate, the vast potential of their biology wasted on celibacy and ignorance, the whole of their sexuality often left sorely unexplored.

Sansa, being sixteen, is on the natural cusp of her own womanhood and her thoughts on the matter are on the whole mixed. What did it mean to be a woman other than to be older and perhaps a bit taller? Women could have babies, could get married, could fall in love; but it had never been in Sansa's cards to be a woman. It was her task to live and then die and to make forfeit her body in the process. Would Mr. Baelish then teacher her the remainder?

The hand upon her cheek makes her heart race and makes her head light and something beneath her breastplate aches like a happy bruise. Turning her face into the seat of his palm she kisses it once and then again; Sansa's words are muffled by his fingers. ] I'm the one that should be grateful. You gave me a new life. [ Her one good eye flickers up to linger upon his mouth and then drift upwards to finally find his gaze. ] I want to live it for you. [ A pause. ]

With you. Is it possible? Please say it is.