A/N: This story came about after rewatching 'Stormborn' for the third time. I was intrigued by the scene with Littlefinger and was an obvious fan of Jon's chokeslam and all it entailed and hinted at. Of course, my first foray into Jonsa would be through the eyes of someone else, but there was just something about that cut to Littlefinger as he looked between Jon and Sansa and that look of realization on his face that just was too tempting for me in the end.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
xxLCF
Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones or ASoIaF.
Echo
The cold air bit into his skin with as much force as the hold he'd been trapped in just minutes before.
A cool gloved hand rubbed the appendage in an attempt to soothe the stinging and burning. His throat still raw from his fruitless attempts to get air through his windpipe beneath the crushing force of Jon Snow's gloved hand.
When he had cornered Jon Snow in the crypts beneath Winterfell, it had been with every intention of gauging the man before he left for Dragonstone. He had meant what he said when he pointed out that they'd yet had an opportunity to talk, though it was not from lack of trying from his part. For it seemed that the newly crowned King in the North seemed warier of his company, something, Littlefinger was delighted to note, that seemed to not be the case when it came to his sweet half-sister despite her brusque words.
He knew Sansa well enough. Knew her from when she had been a lovelorn girl that had the songs of noble knights and fair maidens dashed so thoroughly during her time in King's Landing as she learned just how cruel a place the world could be. And yet, with that decided part of her childhood gone, with all the horrors she had faced, it had made her all the more like Catelyn. All the more like his beloved.
It was because of this that Petyr coveted the young Stark girl without relent.
Still, in spite of his desires, Littlefinger had a game to play. A goal to reach. And that meant knowing his pawns' strength and weaknesses; and the newly-declared King in the North was not a piece he was going to allow escape his grasp.
He was thoroughly displeased when mentions of all the things a man such as Jon would hold dear did nothing to provoke a reaction from him. Not Eddard's death, not Catelyn's lack of love for him, nor mention of his dead brothers. Not even the matter of his newfound status nor the supposed threat beyond the wall that loomed over the northerners like a dark cloud.
Of course, that wasn't to say that Jon Snow did nothing. It was evident that he'd grown displeased as Littlefinger progressed with his little speech; but aside from mentioning his lack of belonging, the former bastard of Winterfell hadn't so much as batted an eye at Petyr's expert picking and prodding into the depths of his mind, and instead had turned his back on the man to in order to take his leave.
Not one to let opportunity pass him by—especially a last one—Littlefinger then turned to goading the retreating man. A dark wash of satisfaction coming over him when the 'King' stopped short at his words.
He'd thrown the fact that had he not arrived with the Knights of the Vale, that the Battle of the Bastards would have had an entirely different outcome. All but plainly stating that they would not have been there, in the crypts of his family's ancestral home, had it not been for his interference. However, despite his sharp words, Petyr still needed Jon Snow to believe that he was at least on Sansa's side, and was quick to appease him with words of fealty. To assure the man that he was (in part) sincere, he opted to proclaim his devotion to Sansa as a means to secure himself as a reliable ally. Because if not for love, why would he as acting Lord of the Vale come to Winterfell's aid?
Petyr had not been prepared for what came next.
A guttural growl was the only warning he received before Jon Snow suddenly rounded on him. His gloved hand wrapped tightly over the flesh of his throat before he was harshly slammed back against the wall of the crypt. Stars had burst before his eyes as his head had bounced against the stone, sputtering as he'd tried to fruitlessly draw in breath.
Desperate fingers had clawed at the vice grip, and in his mind's eye, Petyr recalled a similar situation. Two similar situations. Both where other Stark men had previously laid their hands on him. One with a proud smirk that was quickly followed by the fiery bite of steel, the other with a look of rage akin to what the former bastard had borne.
"Touch my sister, and I'll kill you myself." He'd said. His face contorted in fury as he crushed Littlefinger's windpipe.
Now, as Littlefinger watched the retreating form of Jon Snow disappear past the opened gates, he couldn't help the similarities that he drew between the bastard and Ned's outrage in King's Landing.
A sudden sense of wariness filled him as he turned to find his lovely Sansa still standing behind the balustrades, Tully blue eyes looking in earnest past the gates from where the King in the North had departed, so similar to the earnest gaze and pleads her mother had given Brandon in order for him to spare his life. He could feel a white-hot anger begin to bubble up within him.
He'd underestimated them.
Much like he'd underestimated the gap of skill between himself and Brandon Stark when they'd dueled for Cat's hand. Much like he underestimated Eddard's sense of honor when it came to his lady wife. Now it appeared that he underestimated yet another Stark man's fervor when it came to a fair Tully maiden—underestimated the fierce sense of protectiveness he held for her.
One that verged on the edge of wholly inappropriate possessiveness.
Because while any good brother would be invested in their sister's well-being—especially given all that said sister had been through—the fact that Jon Snow had reacted to Petyr's confession of love for her with nothing but a fierce outburst of violent anger much like Ned had when he'd informed him that Catelyn was within his brothel, was far too disconcerting.
It also didn't help that he had his suspicions on who was Jon Snow's mother, and how exactly the bastard of Winterfell came to be. If his suspicions proved to be true, then he would find himself losing his beloved key to the North to the hands of a northern brute of mixed bloodline.
And that was something Littlefinger was not prepared to concede.
He is gone now, the man thought as he watched Sansa finally step away from the balustrade and disappear into the keep. And with his departure, my chance at taking the North remains strong as ever.
Petyr turned on his heel then and walked towards his chambers. There was much to be done and new plans to be made. He would not allow this new information undo all that he had planned. For in the end, all that mattered was his seat on the Iron Throne and his queen—his Sansa—ruling by his side.