Thanks so much for your response, everyone!

As his men died around him, Littlefinger slid Ned's dagger from its sheath and shoved it up under his chin. His smile was apologetic. "I did warn you not to trust me, you know."

(A Game of Thrones, Chapter 49, Eddard XIV)

Chapter 11

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TRAITOR.

The word stopped him in his tracks. It had been written in blood, this time, not scratched into a piece of wood, but still, it took him back to a frigid night at Castle Black, and angry voices whispering, "for the Watch."

Though Ser Alliser had sounded almost gentle, Jon remembered, as he'd stabbed him in the belly, the first blow.

Jon managed, with an effort, to wrench himself back to the present, but it was already too late. From nowhere, a knife was put to his neck. He barely heard the words spoken in fury, and he did not know this girl, but there was something strangely familiar about her knife. It wasn't actually a knife. It was a long thin sword, in shape almost . . . almost like a . . . but the girl, her face wasn't familiar. He twisted his head around with an effort, catching a glimpse of a face twisted in fury, spitting vitriol at him, but almost as if another set of features was fighting to emerge from underneath.

Jon should be pleading for understanding, he knew (even if something, deep inside, was already exploding in a hot fury at the thought of surrender), but all he could do was mumble the first name that came to mind.

"Arya?" He felt the body behind him stiffen and was afraid that she would just cut his throat and be done with it.

Luckily, or not, he supposed, Sansa chose that moment to burst through the door. It took her a few seconds to realise what she'd interrupted. "Jon, did you see Littlefinger's face when Jaime Lannister came in? I have no love for the man, of course, not for any Lannister, really, but – Lady Alys, what are you doing?"

Her words rose to a shriek at the end, and the girl let him go, pushed him aside, and turned her sword towards the new threat, as she must have seen it. Jon's shock turned to horror, as he saw Needle (it had to be Needle, he'd given her that thrice damned sword!) point towards his . . . his wife.

As the girl stared at them, she gripped her chin and seemed to pull off her face, only to reveal another face underneath. Sansa's mouth fell open.

"Arya!"

"Is that all anyone is going to say to me today?" Arya asked, and Jon had to suppress a smile, which was a strange addition to his shock and confusion. His first thought was that she hadn't changed. Except, of course she had. He opened his mouth to answer, but Sansa was faster.

"Perchance you can explain why you were trying to kill Jon." Her tone was acerbic, Sansa at her best. He saw her face change as she spotted the writing on the wall. "Oh, Arya."

Arya had the grace to look shame-faced. Then she glared at him. "Well, he is! All this way, coming here, I kept hearing the most outrageous stories about you both, and I told myself they couldn't be true! Then I came home, but it's not my home anymore!" Jon found himself blinking as the tears stung his eyes. She sounded so much like a hurt child.

"I told myself to wait until you came back, that you'd explain everything, and then you bring a Lannister. To our home."

"What do you know of Lannisters, Arya?" Sansa was in a rage, he could tell. Her voice wasn't loud, just icy. "You didn't have to live with them, surrounded by them, being beaten, married off . . . you didn't have to stay there . . . because you left me!"

She had been approaching Arya until they were nose to nose, almost, and he saw that Arya was just as angry as Sansa. On the periphery of his hearing there was a scratch at the door, and a whine, but he ignored it. Not now, Ghost, he thought. It was costing him enough to keep his thoughts pleasant and calm, because if Viserion decided he needed to intervene, there might be trouble. More trouble, he amended, as he watched the sisters spar.

"I was a child!"

"So was I!"

"Well, you're not anymore," Arya continued, her tone sharp. "And you seem to have reconciled with the Lannisters, because you've given the Kingslayer a new home!"

"Enough!" Jon spoke, startling himself as well as Sansa and Arya, and now both women were glaring at him. He could see so much of their mother in them, it was terrifying. "We need the Lannister armies, Arya, and if you've been here for a few weeks, you should know why!"

Arya frowned. "You mean, all that about the Others returning . . . that's all true? How can it be? It was just stories, like Old Nan used to tell us." She looked at Sansa, her brows meeting. "I travelled here from Saltpans, and I never saw anything like that." But she was hiding something, Jon could tell. She would tell them when she was ready.

"You should pray to your god of many faces that you never do," he answered, relishing the look of shock on Arya's face.

"What are you talking about . . . Arya? What does he mean?"

Arya looked to the side, unwilling to speak, he thought. But no-one could resist Sansa. "I went to Braavos, eventually. I . . . there's a temple . . . they're called the Faceless Men, and I-"

Sansa had gasped, a hand covering her mouth. "Those are assassins!" At their querying looks, she continued. "I heard Littlefinger talking about them once. Arya, are you . . . ?"

Arya looked down at her feet, and for a moment Jon was reminded of Bran. "I never really completed my training," she muttered. "I just wanted to come home."

But Jon remembered what Lady Catelyn had said – not to him, just in earshot – that whenever Bran lied, he always looked at his feet.

"Oh, Arya," Sansa said, opening her arms. "You are home!"

Arya was happy enough to be embraced by her sister, and for a few heartbeats, Jon thought things were going well, for a change.

"If only you both knew about the insane rumours that I heard, coming here. They were saying that you and Jon were married!"

Years ago, Tormund had tried to explain what it was like to be hypnotized by an approaching avalanche, a wave of ice and snow, to see it bearing down on you, but be unable to move. Finally, Jon understood, as he felt himself opening his mouth, and uttering what he was sure would be his last words. "But we are!"

The next few minutes were full of agitated words, anger and misunderstanding, but a loud noise in the sky above the keep silenced the angry voices in the room. The furious and prolonged screech showed that Viserion was no longer being fooled by Jon's attempt at sending him calm thoughts, and was coming down to settle the situation, his way.

"What in the seven hells was that?" Arya asked, eyes wide.

"That's Jon's dragon; I was trying to tell you," Sansa answered.

He could hear the superior tone and would have shot her an annoyed look, except he was busy convincing Viserion that he, Jon, was in no immediate danger, and that he should go back to his cave. Jon's head was full of what in a man or a child would have been annoyed grumbling: Viserion was tired of hiding. Jon couldn't blame him.

Arya's face shone with admiration. Jon raised an eyebrow. Was that all it took, a dragon? He hoped the rest of the North would be as easily convinced.

A frantic knocking at the door stopped anything else he planned on saying, and when he opened it, a flustered Lady Brienne rushed into the room.

"Your Grace, my lady, Lord Baelish is- Lady Arya?" The sight stunned her for a few seconds.

"We'll explain later, Lady Brienne. What about Littlefinger?"

"He's trying to turn all the Northern lords and the Lords Declarant against you and Lady Sansa – seeing as most of the Lords already know, it isn't working, but there are many Knights of the Vale who don't know, and Lord Royce isn't succeeding in keeping them calm."

"What exactly is he saying, Lady Brienne?" Sansa seemed to realise that Brienne was embarrassed by the whole business.

"He's accusing King Jon of having married his sister, that he's just like Ser Jaime . . . at the core." Brienne's face was flame red, and Jon felt sorry for her.

"I hope Ser Jaime is keeping out of it," Jon mused.

"I instructed Karsi and the spearwives not to let him challenge anyone to a duel," she answered, "because of what Ser Lyn keeps calling me." She added the last almost as an aside, and Jon could feel his hackles rising. Ghost, who had raced in with Brienne, started growling.

"What exactly is Ser Lyn calling you, my lady?" Jon asked, and noticed that Arya was looking at him admiringly; for his tone? Perhaps, the implicit threat in his words was something she prized, nowadays.

"Soon we will have a conversation," he said meaningfully, to Arya, and she rolled her eyes. Then she seemed to remember something.

"I need to get something – which I found . . . somewhere!" Arya rushed off, and he exchanged looks with Sansa. Had Arya accepted the garbled version of his parentage too easily? He couldn't say, and neither could he understand anything about this new Arya. Though that was a lie, really – she was just as mercurial as she'd always been, and he mentioned this to Sansa on their way to the great hall.

When they entered, there was a chaos which he hadn't expected, but Sansa just sighed. "That's what they're like when you're not there, Jon."

Jon was just about to answer that he was sure his presence wasn't going to make a huge difference, when Littlefinger spotted him, as well as Ser Davos. Baelish said something to the Lords Declarant, just as Ser Davos banged on the great table for quiet.

Strangely enough, it wasn't Baelish who spoke first, though. It was Lady Waynwood, who glared at him, a look of disgust on her face.

"What do you say to these accusations, your Grace?" She managed to fill the last two words with utter contempt.

"What accusations are those, my lady?" Jon played for time, even as he counted his allies in the hall; Tormund, the Dothraki, the Unsullied. The spearwives were controlling Jaime Lannister, which was good. No-one had drawn steel yet, which was better, though a Valeman who he imagined was Ser Lyn Corbray kept walking up and down, his hand on his sword. If there was one man who would be deliberately stupid, that was the one – he supposed that Littlefinger had paid him enough.

"That you have committed incest with your sister, the Lady of Winterfell," she answered, clearly outraged.

"I have done no such thing, my lady," he countered, keeping his tone untroubled. He answered Lord Petyr's small smile with one of his own, which he'd been practicing for a while. Inside, his heart was singing – Baelish didn't know! He was throwing out accusations, to see what hit, but he knew nothing!

Her glare did not diminish. "Do you deny that you have married your sister, Sansa Stark, against the laws of gods and men?"

"I do not deny it, but I have broken no laws." Jon drew it out, relishing the puzzled and shocked expressions of the Lords of the Vale. "Lady Sansa is not my sister."

There were gasps in the hall, but not as many as the Vale lords had expected, clearly. Lord Royce, as the only one of them who was in the know, was shaking his head.

Now, Lord Baelish tried to take control. "By whose word do you say this?" His tone was sharp, and for a heartbeat, Jon wanted to rebuke him, remind him who he was addressing. But he wanted to deal with this situation and reveal himself at last. No more lies, even those of omission. He was tired of hiding.

"By the word of Lord Howland of House Reed, Lord of the Greywater Watch."

Now everyone looked shocked and surprised, and Sansa threw him a hurt look. Well, it wasn't as though he'd had the time to tell her any of this, and it wasn't something which could be put in a letter! Still, he tried to look apologetic. She just glared at him, mouthing the word "more". She seemed to think that it wasn't enough for people simply to be given a name.

Jon cleared his throat and went on. "Lord Reed was with Lord Eddard, in Dorne, when they slew the Kingsguard in order to rescue his sister, lady Lyanna Stark." He did not look to the side at Sansa to see if she was impressed by his use of the word 'slew'. But he was tempted. "She died in childbed, having given birth to . . . me."

Lord Baelish took two steps forward, his eyes glittering in triumph. "So you are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, not a true Stark, or a true Northman!"

Jon felt himself grow very cold and hot at the same time and wondered if that was what going mad felt like. Then he realised it was just cold anger and an angry dragon, combined. "I am Jon Snow, just as I have always been. My uncle, Lord Eddard, was a true father to me, for which I will always be grateful. Lady Sansa, my cousin, is now my wife."

"And anyway," Baelish continued, as if Jon hadn't even spoken, "where is Lord Howland? Is he here? Where is your evidence for all these . . . fables?" He waved his hands in the air, as if to dispel the lies Jon was telling.

Jon was about to answer, when someone else did, for him.

"Of course he isn't here," Arya said, her tone as sharp as the sword she'd pressed up to his neck. She spoke from the doorway, where she was practically dwarfed by a large object she was struggling to carry in. "If he were here, he'd have something to say to you, Lord Baelish."

Jon had the pleasure of seeing Petyr's face change, as he probably wondered who exactly this girl was, and what she knew about his affairs. Looking around him, Jon realised that few, if any recognised his erstwhile sister, and cleared his throat.

"Lady Arya Stark, returned to us, by the grace of the gods."

Arya gave him a sidelong look, and he raised an eyebrow. What if he was talking about her Many-Faced God, rather than the old gods? Anyway, Maester Aemon had told him that one of the gods at the temple in Braavos was the Frowning Tree, so he was telling the truth.

She finally reached the great table, and lowered the object she was carrying, with a crash that resounded around the hall. Then, she removed the cloth that covered it, with a flourish. There, for all to see, was an immense harp, with strings that looked like silver. Most were broken, but when a breeze came through the open window, there was a humming noise, like a few bees, lost on their way to their hive. Jon found himself drawn to the large harp, and passed a finger over the figurehead, which was a dragon.

Just as someone in the gathered group shouted, "that's Rhaegar's harp", another person, clearer than all the rest, yelled, "That's ironwood, that is!"

Men moved aside to reveal the young man who had spoken, and his face was familiar, though Jon had to strain to remember his name. "Is it Gared . . . Tuttle? Sworn to House Forrester?"

Gared raised an eyebrow, seeming to catch the hint Jon was trying to drop – not to mention the fact that they'd last seen each other at the Wall, when they were both in the Night's Watch. "Aye, your Grace," he said.

Yohn Royce almost turned on the man. "What do you know about this harp, young man?"

"I know that it was the honour of our house to make a harp for the dragon prince," Gared answered. "It was a secret that was only passed on when close to death, the same way that my uncle told me. There is proof that this is Prince Rhaegar's harp. To curry favour, my uncle told me, the craftsman was instructed to carve the following in the base: Rhaegar I Targaryen."

There were gasps among the Northern Lords, the men from the Reach, and the Knights of the Vale; then Jon, with an effort, turned the harp onto its side. He saw the inscription, which wasn't faint, as would be expected after twenty years. This was made of ironwood, which lasted. The people in the great hall craned their necks to catch a glimpse, and the murmuring broke out again.

"Where did you find this, Lady Arya?" This time it was Lady Waynwood asking the question.

For a moment, Jon wondered where Littlefinger had got to, but then he was distracted by Arya's answer.

"It was buried with my Aunt Lyanna."

The murmuring resumed but was quickly cut short.

"You lords say that you will not trust Targaryens, but I am young, and they have never hurt me." It was Gared again, with a defiant look on his face. "I was at the Red Wedding, and there were no Targaryens there. It was the Lords of the Crossing who murdered my lord Forrester, and all my friends. When I came back home, my family had been butchered by Bolton and Whitehill men, my Northern brothers!" The bitter tone was almost as painful to hear as what he was saying. "Young lord Ethan was murdered in our hall, at Ironrath! Not by any dragonlord, but by Ramsay Snow, lord Bolton's byblow! The lad drowned in his own blood in front of his lady mother, and who helped us then? No one!"

The Northern lords were trying to avoid each other's eyes at that point. Lord Glover, in whose lands Ironrath was, looked particularly abashed.

"You say that King Jon here avenged the Red Wedding, and if that is true, then he's good enough for me. Iron from ice!" he concluded, a defiant tone to his voice, and Jon had to conceal his pity. Those were the Forresters' house words – who else would say them, now?

"That's as may be, but who's to say the king is anyone besides Ned Stark's bastard?" So, Ser Lyn and Littlefinger were still in the hall, were they? It was the former who had spoken, Jon saw, but the puppet master wasn't far away, his hand on the strings.

Jon met Baelish's eyes, which glittered with hatred – he'd known that the man had been obsessed with Lady Catelyn, but with Sansa too? Corbray wasn't finished, though.

"A harp proves nothing, my lords, except that Lady Lyanna was beloved by Rhaegar Targaryen, which we all have known, for some time." Jon listened in astonishment. Corbray wasn't generally known for his eloquence, but he must have been trained very well. "Lord Reed is not here, and all I can see is an incestuous marriage, flying in the face of all the gods, old and new."

Corbray's fingers were twitching nervously about the hilt of his sword as he spoke, and Jon couldn't believe his eyes: this madman was going to draw steel on him in his own bloody hall. Well. Technically it belonged to Sansa, he knew that. He managed to pull himself together with an effort, and advanced on the Vale lord, making sure he expressed all his anger in his look. That he was successful, he knew by the faces of the other lords, who quickly backed away, leaving Corbray in a rapidly widening circle of empty space.

But Jon was dividing his senses, something he'd never known he could accomplish. While he saw and heard what was happening in the hall, he could also sense Viserion approaching. If he urged everyone outside, and timed it right, the dragon would appear as soon as everyone emerged into the courtyard. He wondered whether the Old Keep would be strong enough for Viserion to perch on, because the courtyard would be too crowded for him to land in. Well, it would have to be strong enough, because Viserion was approaching ever faster, and would arrive in a few heartbeats.

Jon glared at Corbray but said nothing as he walked past, and opened the two large doors which led directly to the smaller courtyard, where the small Sept had once stood. Before it had been destroyed by the Ironborn. He turned to the gathered noblemen and women.

"Come, my Lords. The courtyard will be large enough for me to show you my Targaryen heritage."

The Northern lords were rubbing their hands and grinning, like green boys who'd won their first swordfight, Jon thought. Yohn Royce was allowing himself a small smile, and when confronted by Lady Waynwood and Lord Hunter, simply answered, "Wait and see."

Corbray and Littlefinger he ignored, and Jon was glad of that. Lord Royce had finally chosen his side, and it was the right one. At first Jon strode alone, through the arch which led to the large courtyard, ahead of the others in the hall. It was not yet dusk, he thought, casting a critical look at the sky. Good. No-one could say that they hadn't seen what he was going to show them.

He looked to the side out of the corner of his eye – Sansa was speaking urgently to some Stark soldiers – and then looked ahead as she caught up with him.

"Is he close by?" she murmured.

He nodded, reached the middle of the courtyard, and turned to face them. By then, the word seemed to have spread among the Dothraki, the Unsullied, and the men from the Reach. They'd all seen Viserion before, but they would probably be surprised to note how much he'd grown. His thoughts were interrupted, though.

"Why are we out here, my lord, on such a cold and inclement day?" Littefinger's voice sounded especially peevish, but Jon didn't even address the fact that he was not, in fact, a lord, or wonder where Corbray had gone. Though it did worry him. No, instead, he burst out laughing, and intercepted a fleeting look of pure hatred on Littlefinger's face.

"Cold and inclement, my lord Baelish?" He tried not to sound contemptuous, he really did. But when he saw the Northern lords, they looked equally puzzled. The sky was clear, with only a few wispy clouds in the distance. There was snow everywhere, to be sure, but they were in the North, a few days from the Wall. "This is the North, my lord! is like a summer's day, for us. But I will not keep you here much longer."

At that very moment, almost as though he had planned it, Viserion, who had been gliding towards them as silently as an enormous dragon could, let out a mighty screech. Everyone looked upwards, where an immense white dragon flapped leathery wings to hover in place. Those who had seen him before wore expressions with different degrees of smugness, while the others looked equally terrified and entranced. Arya, for one, looked overcome with joy.

Jon had made sure that no-one would try to send an arrow Viserion's way, though his scales were so hard, nothing short of a scorpion would even make a dent. Still, he hadn't wanted confusion to break out, and had told Ser Davos to discreetly spread the word amongst sergeants who could be trusted. The servants he'd left to Sansa, and she was even now calming them, as much as she could.

Viserion flew the length and breadth of Winterfell, letting out the occasional screech, and finally settled on the First Keep, looking like nothing more than a gigantic bat, albeit one with very sharp teeth. Jon had sent the thought, giving it as much strength as he could, that there was to be no fire today.

Jon turned to Littlefinger in a sudden movement which seemed to take him by surprise, and was satisfied by the look of shock on the man's face. Jon wanted nothing more than to crow about his success in surprising the man who knew everything, all the kingdoms' filthy secrets. But he managed to quash the impulse, folding his arms.

"Well, my lord? Are you satisfied?"

Baelish gave a conciliatory smile: "Of course, your Grace! Never did I expect such a thing, a Stark and a Targaryen! Surely-"

"Well, I'm not satisfied!" Sansa's words cut through Baelish's sure to be treacly speech like a sharp knife.

"My lady?" Baelish gasped, shocked to the core. Jon mused that not even the dragon had brought out such a reaction.

"I am not your lady – I am your Queen!" Sansa continued. "I accuse you, Lord Baelish! I accuse you of betraying my family and myself, to the Boltons, to the Lannisters, to whichever House paid you the most!"

"I deny that accusation!" Baelish had the audacity to look hurt at Sansa's words, and Jon shook his head.

Sansa wasn't finished. "I accuse you of persuading my Aunt Lysa to poison her lord husband, Lord Jon Arryn! I heard her with my own ears, say that you persuaded her to put 'tears' in Lord Arryn's wine, after which he sickened and died – because of the poison Tears of Lys!"

Littlefinger's eyes bulged. It seemed that he'd always thought of Sansa as a little kitten, Jon thought, but grown cats had claws. Speaking of cats, Jon was surprised to hear Jaime Lannister's voice.

"I accuse you of betraying Lord Ned Stark to his enemies, and later persuading King Joffrey to have him beheaded instead of sending him to the Wall, as had been agreed." Jaime smiled, sardonically. "Perhaps you shouldn't have betrayed your supposed ally in a throne room full of people, my lord. Even though I wasn't there, my sister told me everything."

Baelish opened his mouth to utter another denial, but was interrupted by Arya, this time.

"I accuse you of paying a Faceless Man, an assassin from Braavos, to murder Lord Eddard on the way to the Wall, if he had managed to take that road!"

Lord Baelish was starting to look like a landed trout, Jon thought. Even if half the people watching did not know what a Faceless Man was, they understood the word 'assassin' well enough. Jon wondered how Littlefinger would answer all these accusations, because a man accused had the right to defend himself.

As it turned out, Baelish chose not to avail himself of that right. Just as Jon had thought that no-one was watching Lyn Corbray, a shriek proved his fears right. The man had a very young stable boy, who had been fascinated by the dragon, immobilised, with an arm around his neck and a knife to his ribs. The scream came from his mother, one of the cooks, who had to be restrained from attacking Corbray with her bare hands.

Sansa stormed forward, enraged, and Jon was the one to hold her back, with a few moments wasted before he realised that he was the only one who could lay hands on her.

"Keep back, all of you!" Baelish shouted, and Jon realised that, behind him, Brienne as well as many other lords had drawn swords. "You will let us ride out for a league, and no harm will come to him! I vow to release him after that!"

A few of the knights of the Vale who were still loyal to Baelish opened the gates, and Corbray managed to mount without losing his grip on the stable boy, who looked green with terror. Sansa, furious, pushed Jon away and wrenched a crossbow from a soldier, aiming at Baelish's back, and letting loose. The only reason she missed was that Baelish spurred his horse to a gallop, and Jon couldn't hold back his admiration for her attempt. Turning back to the crowd, he caught Arya's eye and felt his face grow warm.

He wanted to ask for calm, but felt that he could hardly do that with a mother who faced the possible death of her son. The cook was led away, half-fainting, while Brienne rushed up to them. "Your Graces, give me permission to follow them – I know I can do so without being observed!"

Sansa looked at Jon, her face full of hope, but he shook his head.

"Not yet, my lady. I know a quieter way."

Everyone turned to Viserion, who spread out his wings to their greatest span, and flapped so hard that many in the courtyard staggered. He flew off the First Keep, and landed in front of the main gate, causing people to gasp at his size; he looked so much bigger on the ground. Jon strode forward, beckoning Brienne, Ser Jaime, and Tormund to walk beside him.

"Wait a quarter of an hour, then follow them as best you can. I pray that they will keep their word, about the boy."

"Yes, your Grace," Brienne answered, and Jaime and Tormund simply nodded.

No doubt they would wonder why he'd asked them, Jon thought, as he climbed onto Viserion's back. Brienne's sense of honour would compel her to safeguard the young and innocent, no matter their station in life. Jaime would follow where Brienne led, that was clear now. And Tormund was Free Folk – he had much more sympathy for the smallfolk than all of the kneeler lords in Westeros. Though he'd certainly shown an interest in Brienne, also.

As Viserion ran in his usual ungainly fashion to build up speed, and then launched himself into the sky to the oohs and ahs of the watching crowd, Jon had only one thought: has he grown?

.

.

Notes:

So, I wasn't expecting to post so soon, but this chapter seemed complete, so there you go!

A few points:

Gared Tuttle is a character from the Game of Thrones Telltale game, which yes, I played this August instead of writing. But wait, come back! It only took me a few days, and I got this amazing new House (which I think is mentioned once in ASoIaF), and some things to add to my story.

Ironwood is canon, and the doors of the Winterfell Crypts are made of ironwood. Some things about Gared are from the game, others aren't. To be honest, I was kind of disappointed with Gared's denouement in the game, so I decided to steer him my way, and completely ignore the way the game ended.

Re. the Faceless Man Baelish is accused of hiring: what was Jaqen H'ghar doing in the black cells? Faceless Men don't stay anywhere they don't want to, and they especially don't choose the Wall. There was only one possible reason for his presence, and one man who'd have enough money to hire him.

So, what about Baelish, you ask? Oh, he's done - but not off-page, don't worry, I wouldn't do that to you.