Sansa walked into the nursery where Aden and Kyria played. The same nursery she had as a child, her father before her, and so on and so on for hundreds of years. She knelt beside them, pulling Kyria into her lap.
"Would you leave us, please?" she asked the nanny near the door gently. She nodded, and left them alone. Sansa felt tears spring in her eyes, but she pulled a book off a nearby shelf, determined to distract herself.
She was hurt, and confused. Maybe she'd had the wrong idea about Jon this whole time. This entire time, these years she'd been by his side. She felt like she'd been lied to. He was not the power hungry man she'd admired from her youth, nor was he any longer the brave soldier, willing to fight for his home. He'd rolled over, belly up, like a dog, not a wolf.
It wasn't so much her upset at the loss of her own position. It had been made very clear she could stand beside Bran as much as she could Jon. But she felt this would cause a severe vulnerability with her children. Aden was the heir to the throne, yes, the Iron Throne, but what of Kyria? Would they simply have to give up their home, become Kings Landing residents? The home she had fought so fiercely for, suffered so dearly for.
They could deny the claim, of course, but that might very well spark a civil war. Something they couldn't risk, that was for sure. Combined, House Arryn and House Whitehill had together what the rest of the North had. She couldn't call her bannermen to war, to defend a claim they might find reasonable.
The door to the nursery opened, to Sansa's back, and she sighed in relief, knowing it must be Jon. To say something reasonable and calm and reassuring, like he always did. To make the worries dissipate, to kiss her forehead and remind her there were things...people...more important than politics.
"I'm sorry I left." she said softly.
"I am, too." a voice replied, not Jon's. She spun, and Littlefinger sat coyly against the wall, watching her carefully.
"Oh, you." she said. "I thought you were Jon."
"I wish I was, sometimes." he admitted. "To have a family with you, a castle. Power, like he has, not riding off the back of some imbecile child in the Vale."
She shut her eyes, and pulled Kyria off her lap. Aden was in the corner, watching Littlefinger carefully.
"Your jealousy puts my family in danger." she said in a low tone. She stood, turning to him. She crossed her arms.
"Do you know how much you resemble your mother, these days?" he asked. "Aging so gracefully, like she did. Married to another northern brute, like she was."
"Why do you think insulting my family is going to get you what you want?" she asked. "Especially my father."
"I'm not here to insult you, Sansa." he said flatly. "I'm here to threaten you."
"Aden." Sansa said, looking to her son. "Take your sister, and leave. Go to papa."
Aden stood, and extended his hand to Kyria, who was lingering near him. The only door out of the Nursery, Petyr was planted firmly in front of. Aden looked to his mother, unsure what to do.
For a moment, a moment of pure naivety, Sansa was sure he wouldn't hurt a child.
"Go, it's alright." she urged Aden. Aden stepped around her carefully, and pulled Kyria to the door.
Baelish moved quickly, and grabbed both of her children roughly by the arms. He shoved Kyria back towards Sansa, but held Aden against his chest. Then, from his side, produced a dagger.
"It would be very unfortunate to kill the only heir to the throne, wouldn't you think?" he asked. He pressed the cold steel against Aden's small throat. Aden stayed stony faced, but Sansa saw his chest moving up and down rapidly. He was terrified. Sansa was too, and for a moment, thought she would promptly faint. But she forced herself to stay upright.
"You've gone mad, Petyr." she said, her voice as steady as she could manage. Kyria was crying now, clutching her mother's leg.
"I have been. And there's no way...now...that I escape this trivial life unscathed. So I may as well leave a final crushing blow to him. You chose him, Sansa. When I offered you the world, a world you so heartily deserved, you chose him. And while I can't challenge him, there's no way I could best him...his children are just weak enough..."
His eyes glinted in a twisted sort of joy. Sansa scrambled, to think of what to do.
There was a sudden attempt to open the door, the knob jingled. Petyr jumped, and the knife slipped, leaving a small trail of blood on Aden's neck. Aden whimpered.
"It's okay darling." Sansa whispered, trying to assure him. "Let him go, Petyr." Sansa begged. There was another shake of the door, and then a knock.
"M'lady, are you alright?" a voice called from the other side. It was the nanny. Petyr gave her a pointed look.
"I'm fine." Sansa said, but her voice was trembling. The footsteps outside the door disappeared.
"Whatever you want me to do, Petyr, I'll do it." she said. More tears were streaming down her cheeks, she realized, she'd never been more scared. Not since Joffery, Ramsay. Nothing could prepare her for that moment just then. "Is it me you want? Let them go...please, let them go and you can have me. Here and now. One last chance, before you're sent to die."
Petyr's face changed, and for a moment, he looked hopeful. And then, he released Aden.
"They can't leave." he said. "We won't have time."
Sansa could see clearly he was already excited. Her chest filled with dread.
"The closet, then." she said. The tears wouldn't stop.
She knelt.
"Get in the closet my darlings. Cover your ears, tight. It'll all be over soon, mama will be fine."
"Mummy..." Aden began, his tears starting. He reached for her, but she pushed him away.
"Don't disobey me now, Aden." she said firmly. "Go."
He pulled Kyria away, who was crying softly against him. He opened the closet where the toys were kept, and shut the door behind him.
Petyr stepped forward, his knife still brandished.
"I don't want you to risk any funny business." he said, as he slowly began unbuckling his pants. Sansa stepped back, leaning against the set of drawers behind her. "Turn around." he ordered.
She turned, gripping the wood, trying to keep her hands from shaking uncontrollably. She prayed, desperately hard. She mentally cried out for anyone, anything, to come to her aide.
She felt the cool of the blade against the back of her neck, and it sliced easily through her top layer of clothes. The sweater fell off, but she kept it clutched against her breasts. She bit at her lip, to keep from screaming. It would be over, soon, she assured herself, and her children would be safe. Then, she heard the fabric of her pants, splitting, and her smallclothes. She felt like vomiting. His hands touched her skin, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
"Mama!" Kyria's voice called from inside the closet.
"Cover your ears, now!" Sansa screamed, her voice tight and filled with anger. Kyria was quiet.
Petyr tightened his hand around the back of Sansa's neck, and pushed her face down.
"No." he said, letting go. For a moment, she thought she may be free. "No, I want to see your face."
He spun her around, forcefully. She looked up at him, her face covered in tears. He reached back, and smacked her firmly across the cheek.
"If you call for help, your children will watch me ravish your cold...dead...figure-"
There was a burst, and they both jumped. The door had exploded open, Brienne standing their, sword brandished, two other guards behind her. She saw the scene before her, and Sansa recognized the fire in her eyes.
But Petyr moved quickly. He moved Sansa around, to his chest, and held the knife to her throat. She could feel him, still, pressed against her.
She slowly reached between her breasts, where she kept a dagger concealed. Her chest hadn't been revealed to him yet, and she'd held the sweater tight against herself.
Then, she saw Jon, appear behind the guards. His face, so wrought with pure fury, like nothing she'd seen before.
"Unhand her." Brienne said, low and dangerous.
"Why?" Petyr laughed. She could hear the madness, then, the sickness of his mind. He was delighted, even though he was about to die.
She wielded the knife, pushing it between her legs, straight through the space between her splayed thighs, and into Petyr. She shoved him away as she screamed, backing towards Brienne. She was breathing heavily, and felt a sick pleasure of watching him scream on the floor.
Jon was beside her then, and she heard the familiar sound Longclaw being unsheathed. With a single push, he pressed the sword through Littlefinger's chest, slowly, relishing his yells of pain.
The pair stood there, both with blood on their hands and faces, breathing heavily. The same rage pounded through their chest, and the same delight in the death of their enemy.
"The children?" Jon asked, as Littlefinger sputtered his final breath.
"They are in the closet." she replied slowly. He looked at her, and realizing she was mostly naked, he tore off his coat, covering his wife's indecency.
"Are you alright?" he asked, but his jaw had not unclenched. He looked back down at Littlefinger.
"The children can't see you like this." she said. "You need to go, you're too upset."
She was right. He'd not felt a fury like this since he'd gotten his fists on Ramsay. Calmed only by the sight and underlying gentleness of Sansa's clear blue eyes.
"Go." she said. "I'm alright."
He stepped outside, and fell against the stone of the castle, breathing heavily, forcing himself to calm down. Reassuring himself that now, now, everything was over.