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Deep in his bones, he knew that she could live without him, that her life would, in fact, be better if he were not a part of it.
If anything, that knowledge made him cling harder, using every ounce of his considerable persuasion to bind her to him, to twine himself with her until they were inseparable.
His loving obsession had already moved beyond the realm of necessity and into something far more dangerous. Having Sansa by his side had been a necessity, keeping her there was now akin to a biological imperative.
As much as he’d tried to mold her in his image, Sansa had grafted herself on to him in return and the fallout that had ensued had been, to put it mildly, epic.
More than once Petyr’s office had been stormed by one Stark or another bearing threats of bodily harm and mutilation, and though he’d been able to maintain his composure, take the puffing and pounding of their chests with equanimity, there’d been one visit that had taken him to the brink, had almost snatched the civil façade off his face and catapulted him into open warfare.
“I say this as a friend, Baelish,” Varys opined, “she’ll leave you one day. She’ll leave and you won’t be able to stop her, even if you burn the whole world down.”
Littlefinger vowed to himself then and there that if she ever left him, it would be in pieces, and he’d lay odds that if she escaped with her life, he would be scattered to the four winds so that his ashes might find her again.