I've always loved that Petyr isn't a POV character in the books, because it means you never know where his true loyalties lay, or what it is he's actually planning to do with any one particular person. For the books, I hope we get one POV chapter from him before its over. Just one. With the new direction his and Sansa's story is taking on the show, I thought I'd try my hand at that POV based on the show universe. Because this is basically how I see things ending, and I'd like to see what he thinks about it. I decided not to write this exactly the way I wanted to, because doing so would involve spoilers from the book, and I'd like anyone to be able to read this, so hopefully I don't accidentally include something without realizing it.

Petyr rode north, back to Winterfell and back to one of the many rewards he had finally been granted in this life. It might not be a better world, but it was his world now and he'd bettered it to at least begin to match his liking. He'd torn down and built back up. He'd built back up around her.

She had been everything he'd imagined and more. The silly girl he'd met at the tourney in King's Landing was now a woman grown and well beyond her mother's beauty by this point. He'd taught her so much, and he'd loved the way she'd molding into his vision. Now that the Wars were finally drawing near to a close, first The War of the Five Kings and then the far more dire war with the White Walkers, Westeros was in pieces. The North stood alone once more.

When The Wall fell and the Walkers marched on the North, it had finally awakened the people to pettiness of the kingdom's squabbles, and when Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons arrived to fight for and save the people, she had been welcomed to the Iron Throne.

That left Petyr with Sansa. And with the North. And the Eyrie. And Harrenhal. He'd been allowed to keep Harrenhal as a reward for all of the efforts he made to assist the Mother of Dragons in her dealings with a great many people and he had been well rewarded. Now he was returning to claim his other reward. To finally receive the hand of a woman he deserved.

It still wasn't enough. He still wanted more, but for now, he was content to return to Winterfell, to Sansa, to his coming wedding and to his son.

Oh, to finally be able to proclaim his son as his own, now that was the most beautiful of rewards. No one was happy believing the Heir to Winterfell was a child of that mad bastard anyways. They're indiscretion would hopefully be overlooked. When the North united under the Direwolf, the Bolton's were the first to feel it's fangs. Ramsey had been long dead, but to anyone's knowledge, he'd left Sansa with a child before he went.

But he's mine, Petyr thought. He's my boy, my heir, and he will be something. He will be someone. He will live in the Better World that I have built. Petyr smiled, and it was a true smile.

When he finally reached the old Keep's gates, he was warmly greeted by those who had grown quite used to his frequent comings and goings. To any observer, he was their savior. He had brought the Starks back, reclaimed Winterfell from the Boltons, he had been their protector and they loved him for it. And there she was, standing amongst them, the snow falling gently against her amber hair. In just a few strides he was there beside her, finally able to openly hold her close, able to show for her his affections, and she responded in kind. It was the most beautiful relief he had ever known. Her young boy with his Tully red hair and blue eyes greeted him just as warmly, but his mood was slightly spoiled when he addressed him as, "Uncle Petyr". He will learn...in time.

The evening was spent in preparation for the wedding and feast. It was to be a joyous affair, one this long winter had desperately needed. Their own small dream of spring. It all moved in a blur, but he was ever attentive, ever on the move, ever sure of who he spoke to, the plans to be made, the cost, the juggling that took over his brain for most of every day. He never missed a step. Not Petyr Baelish. No, he smiled inwardly, I can't rest for a moment. There is still so much more to be done.

In the late hours, he found his way to her chambers, the first moment he'd been allowed alone with her since he had returned. She was sitting in front of a mirror, gently combing her hair. She looked at him in its reflection and smiled. He returned the affection and walked to her once more. His hands rested gently on her shoulders and he leaned in to brush his lips against her neck. He could sense the small quakes of delight it elicited from her. He leaned in to her ear and spoke softly, "Did I miss anything important while I was away?"

Sansa turned to him and looked him full on, "They've finally begun the trials for those in King's Landing who are awaiting sentencing for their conspiracies against the throne."

"Yes, of that I am very aware." He had just returned from King's Landing to give his own testimony to his part in various plots and rebellions. Of course, they were told what he could divulge without incriminating himself, and putting those he watned to in a corner, or saved those he needed.

"We've had a few Ravens, knowledge of justices that have been repaid to my family, the deaths of those who tried to destroy those who I once loved." She rose and moved away from him, he tilted his head in confusion and walked to her, returning his hands to her shoulders.

"Does this upset you, my sweetling?" He brushed his hand against her stomach and pulled her into his embrace.

"No Petyr, it's just a lot to take in, I suppose." She turned in his arms and her chest met with his own. She looked at him, and bit her lip, smiling. "I'm glad you are here with me now."

She moved away from him, towards her bed. He followed close behind, wanting to throw her to it, but enjoying the lead that she had now taken. Yes, my little Sansa is a woman now, indeed.

Instead, she gently pressed him to the bed, and he sat down in front of her. She knelt between his legs and looked up at him. He felt his heart begin to race. She could control any man, after what she had learned through her experiences with the Boltons, and through Petyr's own guidance, but he knew her so well, anticipated her movements. The idea that she learned these things from him was, in itself, intoxicating. As she rose up to take his mouth in hers, he fell into her kiss' enchantments.

She kissed her way from his lips to his ear and she began to whisper, "They had Cersei's trial, you know. She'll be beheaded by now, I imagine." He could feel the excitement in her voice, and knew that the revenge would have only been sweeter for her if she could have witnessed the woman's death with her own eyes. Sansa's hand brushed down Petyr's leg and rested against it. He closed his eyes from the rush it left him and focused on her words. "They sent me a raven to tell me about all of the dirty things she confessed. All the wrong's she had done me. All of the plots that I had not known about, and even more about the ones I did." She removed her hand from his leg and brought it back up to rest on the bed beside him. She was kissing him along his neck now, and coming back to his ear. She whispered again, "She had something she wanted me to know, directly, they said, and they believed the urgency in her confession to ring true. They told me," her whisper dipped into silence as she took his mouth back into her own and kissed him deeply. "They told me," she resumed, "that she named my father's betrayer."

Petyr's eyes flashed open, but the knife in Sansa's hand had already plunged deeply into his stomach, right above his hip. She twisted it and the pain was immense. He was frozen in shock. She smiled at him once more. "I ask you, Petyr, given the opportunity what do we do to those who hurt the ones we love?"

His mouth refused to form the words he wanted to say. She had played him. Completely. Oh he had taught her. He had taught her very well.

Sansa pulled the blade up and to the right, reopening the wound that had come at the cost of his first love. This one, he knew, would never heal.

"He'll never know you." She said, and the smile grew wider, still. "You will never have your legacy. You'll never be remembered in songs, or stories. No young woman will read about you and dream a dream of passion. You will die, and you will be a footnote. Littlefinger Baelish, the man who thought he could be king. My son will remain a Bolton, and he will never know you."

She was becoming a blur in front of him, but he could hear her screams of rape in the vast distance. The only thing he could thing, as he slipped into the darkness was of the Trident. He was under the water again, a Stark had sliced him open over the love of a woman and he was drowning.