Oswell

The fact that he wasn't quite so well-known as either of the men he'd returned as was, for once, a blessing. After all, it meant that he got to watch the oncoming shit-show unfold before his very eyes.

All the Starks other than Jon, Sansa, and Rickon were hiding in the chambers beyond the main hall, accompanied by the Baratheons, Targaryens, Oberyn, and Arthur—their distinctive looks and reputations meant that they'd be noticed immediately, meaning that any kind of ruse would immediately be fucked. Oswell, however, with his relatively bland Riverland complexion, was able to blend right in with the Mallister men and was therefore able to have a front row seat for what would hopefully be the downfall of Petyr Baelish.

All the men at the battle had, of course, been told the truth of what had happened—after all, they'd fought and bled and likely would again, and the presence of such prolific figures could not be so easily ignored or explained away. As such, when Baelish and his men entered the main hall and walked up to the three Starks on the dais, surrounded by men who'd all lost loved ones to the Boltons, he'd very much entered the wolves' den.

'Sansa,' he began, lowering his head as a sign of deference. 'It fills me with joy to—'

'That's Lady Stark to you, Lord Baelish,' Rickon interrupted. 'And you were not given leave to speak. Step to the back of your hall so that we might continue with the matters we were conducting.' Gods, you'd never have known that he'd spent years in Skagos, amongst the tribesmen and the unicorns and whatever else lived there. He had the lord's voice nailed, and the glare he gave Baelish would've been envied by lords seeing their tenth winter. 'Lady Karstark, you may begin.'

Oswell tuned out slightly as the various lords and ladies of the North were given their chance to profess their loyalty to the Starks, slightly disappointed by the anti-climactic manner in which Baelish had been silenced.

All the Hornwood cousins who'd declared for the Boltons had perished in the battle, leaving the lordship to Larence Snow, the bastard of Halys Hornwood, who'd been with Lord Glover in Deepwood Motte. He, it was decided, would be legitimised that night and marry Jorelle Mormont when he came of age (which Dacey agreed to with a curt nod, her hand resting on her now-healing stomach). Alys Karstark swore fealty to the Starks in place of her brother Harrion, which Lady Sansa graciously accepted, promising she'd do all she could to see him liberated from Maidenpool. Mors Umber was also thanked, with a similar promise to have the Greatjon freed as soon as possible. On and on it went, the Starks slowly but surely solidifying their position at the head of the North once again.

And then, Baelish came up to speak.

'Lady Sansa, It fills me with joy to see you safe—'

'Rickon is Lord here, Lord Baelish,' she cut in. 'Are you really so unfamiliar with the courtly etiquette that you'd forego addressing my brother, the Lord of Winterfell?' Silence rang for a moment, as he schooled his dumbfounded expression, with it being wiped off his face less than a second of appearance. Oswell saw it, though, and he was sure that much of the hall did as well. 'To be quite honest, I'm not sure what I expected from a minor lord from the Fingers.' Sniggers arose through the room, and not even Baelish was able to stop the slight red flush to his cheeks.

'My apologies. Lord Rickon, you cannot imagine how glad I am to see you back in your home, safe and sound once again. I'd intended to help, but I see you were able to source some…outside help,' he said, his eyes flitting over to the Dornish and the Free Folk. 'I knew your mother, you see, and to see her children back in their rightful place would've made her so happy.' He gave a simpering smile, no doubt intending to gain goodwill from the young lord by memories of his mother.

No such luck. 'Aye, you wanted to fuck her, didn't you,' Rickon said stonily. As gasps and chuckles could be heard through the hall in equal measure, and as Baelish tried to half-heartedly assure him that he had only loved her as a sister, he raised a hand to silence them. 'We all know the stories, Lord Baelish—she was betrothed to my uncle Brandon, who you challenged for her hand despite being little more than a fisherman masquerading as a lord, before promptly having your arse handed to you. You loved her like a sister, you say? What are you, a Lannister?' Laughter rang through the hall, and Oswell was sure that Baelish was beginning to physically shrink into himself.

'Why are you here, Lord Baelish?' Jon now spoke for the first time, his deep baritone making him seem more intimidating next to the brash and reckless youth of Rickon.

'I came to offer aid in fighting the Boltons, Lord Snow,' Littlefinger replied, snidely emphasising Jon's illegitimate status—a dishonourable move, but not wholly unexpected from a rat like Baelish. 'And yet, when I arrived, Winterfell had been liberated and your family was safe again.'

'Did you not expect me to act in such a manner, Lord Baelish, when you left me in the clutches of the Boltons?' Sansa asked, her ire evident for the first time. 'Did you expect me to sit and wait, day after day while Ramsay raped me and Rickon was being hunted, just so that you could swoop and save me, earning the respect and gratitude of the North in the process? That's a very pretty picture, Lord Baelish, but I'm afraid that's all it is.'

Slowly enough that Littlefinger wouldn't notice, men positioned around the room slowly made their way to the doors in preparation for what was about to happen. 'Now, Lord Baelish,' Rickon proclaimed, 'we will address your crimes.'

'My…crimes, Lord Stark?'

'Aye, your crimes. You abducted my sister and put her in mortal danger, you betrayed my father in King's Landing which resulted in his death, and you killed Lysa Arryn, my own aunt, so that you might gain control of the Vale.'

'You cur!' A man wearing bronze armour shouted, drawing his sword and marching up to Baelish, before being held back by the men around him. 'I swear by all the gods I will kill you before this day is done.'

'Peace, Lord Royce,' Sansa said calmly. 'Lord Baelish, how do you plead?'

Baelish was nervous now, all the bluster and confidence he'd been so full of minutes ago now vanished. 'Lady Sansa, I…I beg you, do not do this to me. It was all for you, all of it.' He swallowed, his hands shaking and his eyes darting. 'I killed Lysa—there, I confess it. She meant to kill you and it was the only way to save you. I left you with the Boltons, but I only meant to keep you safe—I never imagined they'd treat you like they did! And as for your father, that is no more than a disgusting lie—I may not have liked the man, but I'd never have betrayed him!' The reverberations from his voice echoed through the room, which was now silent apart from the low creak of an opening door, and the staccato footsteps that followed it. Baelish jumped out of his skin at the sight of the figure before him, a quiet whimper coming from his mouth in short breaths. 'No, no…it can't be! Y-you're dead!'

'You say you never betrayed me, Petyr?' Eddard Stark said. 'I beg to differ.'

Rickon

Frankly, the idea that his father was alive and well still made him feel strange, as though he knew he was dreaming and could wake up any moment. Stranger still, however, was seeing him next to Jon, like some eerie mirror image, matching in their frowns, their posture, their glares directed at the man that stood before them.

The one difference was that Jon didn't have the ghost of a smile spreading over his face at the thought of Littlefinger finally getting what he deserved.

'By all means, Petyr,' Father said, gesturing to all those who were in attendance. 'Please carry on with your story about how you loved my wife and never betrayed me.'

'H-how can you be here!? You died!' Petyr shouted, any prior composure now gone. 'Lord Royce, get me out of here!'

The man next to him—Lord Royce, apparently—said nothing, only fixing him with a murderous glare.

'Ser Lyn! Get me out of here and I'll double your pay! Triple it!' The heir to Heart's Home shook his head, avoiding his gaze and awkwardly fiddling with the hilt of his sword.

Father frowned. 'Be quiet, Lord Baelish. Admit your guilt and I guarantee you an honourable death and burial, which is far more than you deserve. If you wish to keep fighting, I cannot stop you—just know that the more you say, the worse it will be for you.'

For anyone solely looking at him, it would've appeared that Petyr Baelish was indifferent—his stance, his facial expression, and his body all stayed perfectly still, maintaining their position with absolute precision. It was his breathing, however, that gave him away. The shallow breaths he'd previously had hitched in his mouth—only for a moment, but that was enough for all to see that he knew he'd lost. He swallowed, and glared at Father, any façade at being at peace disregarded.

'In that case, I demand a trial by combat!' Baelish turned round and addressed the audience. 'Any man that represents me will have riches beyond their wildest imaginations! I swear it, I'll give you whatever you want!'

The assembly remained quiet, none willing to risk their lives in such a manner for such a dubious reward, especially from a man who'd proved he'd stab you in the back as soon as you trusted him. Lord Baelish looked around, seeming to deflate as he saw truly just how fucked he was.

Father smiled—not with the smile he'd given Rickon and his siblings all those years ago, when he was proud or happy, but one that seemed to show that he was looking forward to what was about to come. 'Very well, Lord Baelish. It appears that you will be acting as your own champion. The trial will be at twilight. Until then, a guard will be assigned to you, but you will have full access to the armoury.' There was that funny smile again. 'I wish you good fortune, Lord Baelish. You'll need it.'

With that father, turned away, and a number of guards circled Baelish, like carrion on before a corpse. It was oddly fitting, Rickon thought—after all, he would soon be such a corpse.

Petyr Baelish

In the name of the gods, where the fuck had it gone quite so wrong? Sansa growing a spine, yes, he could've foreseen, but the rest of it? The appearance of a legitimate Stark heir, the liberation of Winterfell, the re-appearance of Ned fucking Stark? It made no sense, none of it.

And that was the worst of it. All the rest of it, he was sure he could've explained away with no-one being the wiser—who'd question him out of this sorry lot of barbarians? But then Stark, that constant thorn in his side, had made his entrance and Petyr was suddenly well and truly buggered. Quite honestly, he'd have preferred it to be anyone else. Gods, why did it have to be the man who'd stolen his beloved Catelyn, and how the fuck was he here? Petyr had seen Ser Ilyn take his head, and he knew that Ned Stark didn't have the cunning to escape from such a situation. It made no sense, and Petyr was fairly sure it never would.

Still, he was in this position now, and there was no point in floundering—not when he could use this time to prepare for what would be inevitably be the fight of his life.

His first destination was the armoury, lined from wall to wall with steel glinting in the torchlight. He selected a sword, long and thin and light. After all, he wasn't some muscle-bound lackwit; rather, he'd spent his life training his mind over his body, and so far that had served him just fine. Petyr also found some light leather-and-mail armour, which, while it may not protect him from a direct blow, would at least allow him to stay mobile. That, he was sure, was a tactic that would not be employed by whichever oaf they picked as their champion. It wouldn't be Jon Snow or Ned Stark, he knew, as despite both of them likely wanting to disembowel him, it was simply too great a risk to the North for them to risk their lives for someone like Baelish.

Bastards like them had looked down at him all their lives, and it was finally paying off.

No, they wouldn't have him fight any kind of nobleman—more likely a knight who'd proven himself in the battle for Winterfell and was riding his newfound fame as far as it would take him. This, he could work with.

After all, Petyr Baelish always had a plan.

The presence of the Dornish soldiers was an interesting turn of events, since it was their own prince that had provided Petyr with his idea, although he'd be damned if he ended up in such a way. He took his sword and coated it with the contents of the vial he'd been hiding up his sleeve since he'd heard about the trial of Tyrion Lannister, careful not to run his fingers along the edge of the blade. There were few substances in the world quite as dangerous as Manticore venom, and while he may not have had the alchemical knowledge of the Red Viper, he didn't actually need it—he'd been preoccupied with revenge and drawing out the suffering of Clegane, while Petyr simply intended to survive. As such, a single cut with his blade would have whichever poor fucker he was to face dead within the minute.

'Move.' The harsh northern tones of the guard behind him pulled him out of his thoughts, with the subsequent jab with the butt of the spear spurring to his feet.

I'll find out your name, you prick, and when I'm a free man you'll regret you were ever born.

It was getting dark now, with the sun hanging low over the yard at Winterfell and near-on a hundred gathered round, ready to see the Mockingbird what was coming to him.

Idiots. Don't you know that I'm Petyr fucking Baelish? I'll be dancing on your graves long after this is over.

'Hello, Stark,' he said confidently, seeing Ned with his children stood in one corner of the squared off area. 'Too craven to fight me yourself? Is that famous Stark honour really worth so little these days?'

'Hello Baelish.' Stark didn't seem fazed, which quite honestly worried Petyr—not that he'd ever let these lackwits realise that. 'Believe me, I'd like nothing more than to put you in your place. But that privilege belongs to another.' With that, he turned away, as though Petyr was no more than a casual annoyance, and began to shout for all to hear. 'Petyr Baelish! You stand accused of murder, conspiracy, treachery, and putting the life of Sansa Stark at risk! Despite overwhelming evidence, you have chosen to be judged by the gods in a trial by combat, as is your prerogative! May the gods have mercy on your soul.' The last sentence had been a mere whisper in comparison to the previous bellow, sending a shiver up Petyr's spine.

Pull yourself together, Petyr. This is no different from all those other you've been looked down on by those highborn fuckers. You were the underdog then and you always came out on top, so why will this time be any different?

Still, he'd noticed that their champion hadn't presented himself yet, and the idea that this wasn't the same bumbling, ever-honourable Ned Stark he'd left wouldn't leave his mind—this was an entirely different beast, one that wouldn't blindly attack you but rather stalk in the night, pouncing only as the opportunity struck.

The doors of the nearby building opened.

No.

It couldn't be.

This must be some nightmare, designed by the cruellest power out there.

'Hello, Petyr,' Brandon Stark said, a grim smile spreading across his face. 'I've been looking forward to this.'

Brandon

'Be careful, Brandon.'

He'd been going through the motions with his sword, loosening up his arms and imagining how it'd feel when the cold steel entered that Baelish rat, when Oberyn's words had pulled him from his daydream.

'There's no need for that, Prince Oberyn,' he replied, still loosely swinging his sword. 'I've fought this weasel before, and it lasted less than a minute. Trust me, I'll have no problem dispatching him.'

The Red Viper arched an eyebrow. 'Did he have poison last time?' That stopped Brandon in his tracks. 'Can you smell that on the air? That scent, like burning hair and melting steel? That's manticore venom, I'd stake my life on it.'

'Are you certain?'

'Completely. If he cuts you, you'll be dead within the minute.'

Brandon smirked. 'I wouldn't worry, Oberyn. That rat won't get within a foot of me.'

So there he was, stood a few metres away from Petyr Baelish. The smell was stronger now, and there was a strange shine to his sword that wasn't evident in most steel. Gods, that crafty fucker really thought he stood a chance.

Baelish took less than a second to school his face—his initial reaction had been one of shock and horror, but he now looked as though he was being subjected to some boring lecture from a maester. 'Oh. It's you. I suppose I should be surprised, but your brother took the shock away, if I'm quite honest.'

Neither made a move toward the other.

'I'm sure you remember how this ended up last time, Baelish,' Brandon said. 'This time I'll be sure to cut deeper—finish the job properly, you know.'

The little rat had the cheek to laugh. 'Ah yes, I remember. You cut me open, I was sent to the maester, and the I received a visit from Cat that night. How does it feel to know that your betrothed—your wife, Ned—gave herself to me, all while I was lying in that bed?'

'What?'

'Didn't you know? I'm sorry, I—'

'No, you lackwit. She was with me that night. We drank the night away, and she was still there when dawn came. They were all there—her, Edmure, Hoster, Brynden. Well…all but Lysa.'

Petyr was a stone, so still that he almost looked as though he was a statue or a portrait, his expression one of realisation and disgust and sadness. If he hadn't felt such a loathing for the man, Brandon may have been be sympathetic. The fact remained, however, that Petyr Baelish was an utter wanker, so he felt some sick joy at the pain on the man's face.

Littlefinger charged, his sword raised high, unbothered by any kind of defence—he was here to kill, and nothing would stop him. Well, nothing but Brandon. He parried his clumsy blows three times in a row before swinging his sword upward in a vertical slash, slicing open the long-healed scar tissue of their duel so long ago, this time an inch or so deeper.

Petyr Baelish fell to his knees and Brandon turned around, a broad grin gracing his face as he looked to his family, feeling a sharp pain just above his right ankle and seeing Baelish below him. Then he saw Oberyn charging at him, axe in hand, before swinging it down into his leg, an inch or so below the knee.

Brandon collapsed, feeling colder and colder by the moment as the warmth bled out of his leg, darkness closing in as someone in the distance shouted something about a Torch! Get a fucking torch! We need to cauterise!

The two bodies lay on the floor of the yard of Winterfell, one dead and one not.

Yet.

Oberyn

Of course he'd won—he was a famed warrior facing off with some bureaucrat who'd never done a moment of physical work in his sorry life. As Baelish fell to the floor, however, Oberyn was strangely reminded of his own trial. It had been too easy, and if he knew one thing it was that victory never came this easy—at least, not without some kind of cost.

And then he saw it. Littlefinger was still alive, crawling toward the sword that had been dropped when he'd been struck. With momentous effort, he bit down on the cold steel of the blade, running his tongue along it. The acrid stench of the poison had never been more evident as he turned his face to Brandon, who was standing over him with his sword raised, every inch the victorious warrior.

Petyr Baelish bit down. His jaw closed around Brandon's leg, drawing a speck of blood from where his canine had punctured the skin.

The mad fucker, Oberyn thought. He's poisoned him!

His body reacted before his mind did, snatching an axe from the belt of the wildling he was next to. Brandon could be saved if action was taken quickly enough, albeit not all of him. Oberyn reached him in three long strides, swinging the axe down with precision and drive that would've made his brother's lapdog Hotah proud. The leg came off in one stroke, pure red blood spurting from both the stump and that which had been removed. His suspicions were proved right less than a second later, the severed leg bled the last of its clean blood before sputtering out a thick brown liquid.

He'd saved him for now, but they weren't in the clear yet.

'Torch!' He shouted. 'Get a fucking torch! We need to cauterise!'

A torch was brought to him a moment later, which was promptly shoved into the gaping stump of the now-unconscious Brandon.

The hiss permeated the silent air in the courtyard of Winterfell.

No-one said a word.

A/N: Another chapter done, back in the North. As always, hope you enjoyed the chapter and aren't getting too sick of whatever shit I spout. Please feel free to favourite, follow, and review, and a massive thank you to those who already have :)

Just a little FYI-for a lot of this stroy, I've been planning it as I've written, and will often take what I hear from the reviews and try and integrate them into the story. That being said, I do have an overarching plan, so please don't be too disappointed if what you say isn't used.

Hope you and yours are staying safe in these troubling times,

-Kinginthenorth1 xox

Mhalelowman-All I'll say is that we still haven't seen all of those who've returned. I'll let you linger in suspense for now.

-NOt sure there's gonna be much of a bloody showdown between the returned, to be honest-beyond personal rivalries like Robert and Rhaegar, they're all on the same side, so why would they fight each other. That being said, it's not all gonna be peachy, and I'm glad you like the new characters.

ficreader2011-Thank you!

Kingmanaena-Cheers! Hope you enjoyed what Baelish got in this chapter.

Force Smuggler-I'm also really excited for Gerion, as in canon he's a character that had so much potential only to have been dead (?) from the beginning. As for the ancient heroes, it's fairly safe to day that they're gonna kick some serious arse. In terms of that master, I wholeheartedly agree.