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As the morning drew to a close and the sun settled over the castle, Caitie was left with a rare few hours of free time. Johnna would be training, Willa and Arthur would be working with Winterfell's gardener, and Elbert and Dim both had their own duties to attend to. Though most days she would have lessons in the training yard or letters to send to Norwood, she had given her pupils the day off after Sansa called her away for the morning, and she'd already gotten ahead of all her administrative duties two days ago.
Therefore, she retreated to the library, pulling her usual book of High Valyrian off the shelf, and settled into a comfortable chair in the back corner to pick up where she had left off. It was easier for her to ignore the outside world, to pretend nothing else existed beyond herself, when she immersed herself in High Valyrian. It reminded her of sitting in her little bubble of tranquility with Maester Aemon, and it was times like these that she missed him—when she didn't know what the future held in store. He would always have an answer, even if it was one she didn't want to hear. At least this way, she felt closer to him.
But the storm brewing upstairs still itched the corners of her mind. It was Ghost's absence which kept reminding her of it; she was so used to having him at her side, that whenever she looked up and saw he wasn't there, she remembered. And while Caitie hoped that Sansa and Arya were currently in the midst of a long-overdue reconciliation, she also knew that even if they'd patched everything up, it still left the issue of Littlefinger.
So while she passed a few hours in the safety and comfort of the library, soon she couldn't bear it any longer. Sitting there, doing nothing was only going to make her agitation worse. She needed to know that Sansa was okay, that Ghost was okay, and that the two Stark sisters weren't about to tear each other—and the realm—to pieces.
But when Caitie arrived back in Arya's chambers, they were not there, and neither was Ghost.
Fuck. Fuck.
Caitie raced back the way she came, skidding around corners and sprinting through hallways as shouts of protest came from those who were unfortunate enough to cross her path, until she reached the Lord's Tower, taking the steps up to Sansa's chambers two at a time. But neither Sansa nor Arya was there—and if they weren't, then she didn't know where they could be. Winterfell was too big to search on her own, and she certainly wasn't going to alert anyone. Heart thudding in her chest, Caitie was about to dash off to search the great hall, though she doubted she'd find them there, when a white mass of fur rose from behind Sansa's desk.
"Ghost?" Caitie asked, thinking to herself that this was either very good or very, very bad. He padded over and dropped a scroll in front of her, soggy from his slobber, but otherwise untouched. She picked it up and unrolled it.
C.
Follow Ghost.
Caitie choked on a laugh that was half a sob as her adrenaline faded. It was Sansa's handwriting. "All right, then," she said. "Take me to her." Ghost obliged, tail swishing as he led her from the lord's chambers.
In hindsight, it shouldn't have been surprising that their journey ended in the Broken Tower.
Once the tallest watchtower in the whole of Winterfell, the Broken Tower was now a ruin near the gates that most refused to look at. The unlucky recipient of a lightning strike over a century ago, the tower boasted a collapsed upper level, loose stones from mortar-turned-ash, and a jagged summit. Ruined beams and fallen stones littered the lower level, but the middle was relatively untouched, if one was brave enough to get there, as to do so meant passing the vermin scurrying across the floors and walking up staircases with steps missing. It didn't help that most believed the tower cursed; first from the lightning strike, and then as the tower from which Bran Stark had fallen.
But, Caitie supposed, it was the perfect secret meeting place.
She picked her way through the debris and scaled the steps to the middle level. There was a single window, which let in only a small patch of light. Otherwise, the wide, circular room was pitch black—or it would have been if someone hadn't lit a candle at the back. Arya and Sansa sat across from each other on the floor, a lantern between them, giving off just enough light to see by. They were speaking in hushed whispers, heads bent together, all animosity put aside. Arya heard the footfall first; she motioned for her sister to be quiet and held up the lantern. When she saw it was Caitie, she visibly relaxed, setting the lantern back down and nodding.
"You terrified me," Caitie hissed. "I went to Arya's room and you were both gone, and so was Ghost—"
"I'm sorry," Sansa said. "It was necessary." She beckoned for Caitie to sit.
Caitie huffed, plunking herself down on the dusty floor between the sisters, crossing her arms over her chest, and grumbling something unsavory under her breath.
Arya snorted.
Ghost lay down beside them, placing his head on Caitie's lap. She stroked his head as she watched the two sisters. "So is everything… okay?"
Sansa's lips twitched. "We've come to an agreement. Thank you for… thank you."
"I didn't do anything."
"You did," Arya said.
Caitie blinked, not having expected the admission from Arya of all people. She waited for her to say something contradictory, but Arya did not, and her sister soon took over the conversation.
"It's obvious that Littlefinger was attempting to turn us against each other. I think it's likely that you'll be next on his list, Caitriona."
"Lovely. You said earlier that you had a plan?"
"I do. But I need your help."
Caitie frowned. "I'm happy to, but if you want to assassinate him, wouldn't Arya be the better choice? Don't get me wrong, I would love to make him have an accident, but I'm not the one who's a trained assassin."
"I knew there was a reason I liked you," Arya said wryly. "But it can't be either of us; it needs to be Sansa."
Caitie looked at Sansa, her face grim and her complexion pale, even in the orange glow of the firelight. "If he's killed in Winterfell without good cause, then Lord Arryn will withdraw Jon's army. We have to convince the rest of the Valemen—Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood, Lord Corbray—that he's deserving of execution. If we do that, they'll be able to guide our cousin down the right path."
"Okay. So… how do we do that?" Caitie asked.
"We expose his crimes in a public trial."
"And then I get to try out my new Valyrian steel dagger," Arya said, eyes glinting.
Caitie snorted. "I can't wait to see the look on his face. But I still don't understand what that has to do with me."
Sansa took a deep breath. "I can't be seen speaking to anyone I don't normally; neither can you or Arya. But you have friends who can help."
"Who?"
"Firstly, I need you to speak to Elbert Tollett—discreetly. Brienne was right, we don't know who else Littlefinger has been speaking to or how closely they're watching you; but every Vale soldier we have on our side will be invaluable. You also have a rapport with some of our guards that I don't. I'd like you to speak with the ones you believe are trustworthy and ask them if they've heard anything odd."
Caitie nodded. "I can do that. What else?"
"Lord Rodrik—you're friendly, aren't you? And he's Roland's uncle, so your speaking to him won't appear strange. I need you to ask him if he'll station his guards during the trial."
"Easy enough. Is that all?"
Sansa hesitated, now, exchanging a glance with her sister that told Caitie whatever else they wanted her to do, she wasn't going to like it.
"There's one more thing," Arya said. "And just so you know, this wasn't my idea."
"That sounds… vaguely ominous."
Sansa pursed her lips. "I already know of one of Littlefinger's crimes. He murdered our aunt."
"You mean Lysa Arryn? His wife?"
Arya smiled ruefully. "I remember the day I heard about her death. I laughed so hard I cried."
"Well, at least Littlefinger was good for something, then." Sansa sighed. "The accusation won't be enough, however, as I originally denied the story." She tried to keep her voice level, but a sliver of bitterness seeped through.
To Caitie's surprise, Arya placed a hand on her sister's shoulder. "You did what you thought you had to do."
Sansa threw her a grateful smile, before she went on. "But he must have betrayed Father in King's Landing. It's the only thing which makes sense of his position at court after…" She cleared her throat. "The problem is, I don't know what he did—not the details, in any case." She swallowed. "But I have a way to find out."
"Bran," Caitie surmised, and Sansa nodded.
"Bran. And that is where you truly can help us."
"How so? Because he wasn't exactly forthcoming with information when I spoke to him."
"Not with that. We can't have Littlefinger catching onto our plan, but we're completely in the dark. The only thing we know for certain is that he wants me, and that he wants power. And there's only one other person besides Arya who stands in his way of getting it, and can therefore distract him from our movements."
As the implications set in, Caitie's mouth fell open. She tried to speak, but all she could manage was a choking noise. "N-no," she spluttered. "Absolutely not. You can't expect—"
"I know what I'm asking. I wouldn't if it weren't important. But we need him distracted while I speak to Bran and oversee the final details of the trial, and I'm sorry, but you're the only one who will take his attention away from Arya and I."
"What—what would I even speak to him about? The weather? The best way to slice a man's head off? Fashion tips?" she yelped.
"I'll tell you what to say," Sansa soothed, though it did absolutely nothing. "And I'll make sure you're ready, first. I won't ask you to do this until you're prepared."
"I—" Caitie groaned into her hands, because Sansa was right; as much as she hated it, the benefits of getting rid of Littlefinger for good far outweighed the risks. She had faced White Walkers. She could face this if it meant helping her friend. "Fuck, I'm going to regret this. Fine."
"Thank you."
"But Sansa, even if you do get all the information you need from Bran, there still isn't proof."
"No, perhaps there's not. Arya will break into Littlefinger's chambers while you distract him and I speak to Bran, though I doubt we'll find anything. But if we do this right, that shouldn't matter; Littlefinger will be caught off guard and unable to defend himself. Besides," she added, with a small smirk, "I persuaded the Lords of the Vale to believe my story, once. I can do it again."
Things progressed quickly after that. Caitie first met with Elbert, and Sansa was right; it was easy to do so without arousing suspicion, as they routinely took their supper together. She merely asked the others to give them a moment of privacy after they all finished eating, and when Johnna, Willa, and Arthur all protested, Dim Dalba was gracious enough to physically force them out of her room. Once alone, Caitie told Elbert the barest minimum of her plan to remove Littlefinger from power, purposefully omitting any mention of Sansa and Arya, as they'd previously agreed. Fortunately, she didn't have to push too hard before realizing he would be more than happy to help.
"Finally, we can get rid of that slimy git," he said when he finally caught on. "I've been waiting for someone to do something about him for ages; why Lady Arryn married him—ugh." He shook his head, face set with determination. "You say the word, Caitie, and I'll be there."
Lord Rodrik was easy to corner as well; all it took was asking to speak privately about his nephew's recent wedding, and she was able to get him alone. She had to explain very little before he was enthusiastically reaffirming his support for Sansa. "To be honest with you," he'd said, "I'd been wondering what was taking so long. Should've known it was bloody-fucking-politics. But if anyone can get it done, it's Lady Sansa."
The guards were a different story. She had built up something of a friendship with a few of them—Henk and Koner, in particular. But it was difficult to speak to them in private without someone taking notice. And while she trusted Henk and Koner's intentions, she didn't quite trust their intelligence enough to let them in on such an important secret. Therefore, all Caitie could do was ask vague questions about overhearing any odd conversations among their fellow guards, and hope they were telling the truth when they said no.
All in all, she spent most of her time simply keeping up her appearances. Very little about her daily routine fundamentally changed—the only difference was that she avoided Sansa's office as much as she could during the daylight hours, and spent more of her free time with Arya in the training yard than she usually would have. It was the nights that kept Caitie perpetually on edge, when Sansa would coach her in the basics of the Game of Thrones, as she had once called it, with Ghost as their ever-vigilant guard.
The gist, at least, was simple: reveal as little of your true intentions as possible, lead your opponent where they wish to go, and hope they reveal something to you in the process about their intentions. Every word, every movement was calculated to elicit a certain response, and while very little was based on truth, keeping the emotions real was important for authenticity. Caitie just hoped these lessons would be enough, for time was running short, and they hadn't even gotten to the specifics of what she was supposed to say to Littlefinger when she approached him.
For a few days, at least, everything seemed to be going according to plan. And then… then the letter came.
To be honest, Caitie should have expected it. Bran had confirmed that both Jon and Tormund were alive and well and returned from the north with their mission completed, though he had refused to elaborate beyond, no matter how hard she pushed. It would have soothed her, but considering the refusal to say anything else and the fact that Jon's next destination was King's Landing for the peace summit—which in many ways, just as dangerous as beyond the Wall—Caitie's nerves only frayed further; the only thing she could do was hope for letters from them both, hopefully with an explanation.
Yet, she still was surprised when Maester Wolkan found them, his usual bumbling demeanor replaced with downcast eyes, mouth set in a firm line, and every movement wrought with tension.
"A letter, my ladies," he said gravely. "From the king."
The two women exchanged glances as butterflies erupted in Caitie's stomach. Sansa stood, plucking the scroll from Maester Wolkan's hand without a word. He gave them a stiff bow and exited the room to give them privacy. As Sansa read, her face drained of all color, and for one horrible moment, Caitie feared the worst. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but she'd hoped, at the very least, that Jon would provide her with details of his mission north.
"Sansa?" she asked, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. "What is it?"
Sansa looked up, and without a word, handed the scroll to Caitie. In all, the letter was short; only a few lines. But it wrapped around her heart like vines and squeezed until she could hardly breathe.
Sansa,
Cersei Lannister has pledged her forces to our cause, as has Daenerys Targaryen. And if we survive this war, I have pledged our forces to Daenerys as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We are both coming to organize the defense of the realm.
Jon Snow, Warden of the North
"No. No—he promised—he wouldn't…" Caitie trailed off, for Jon wouldn't have bent the knee, but there was hardly any trace of the Jon she knew in this letter. Indeed, if it hadn't been for his signature and his penmanship, she wouldn't have known it was him at all.
"'Cersei Lannister has pledged her forces,'" Sansa mimicked, her lip curling in disgust. "We're accepting aid from Cersei? And he's bent the knee to this Targaryen, who we know nothing about save that she's bringing an army of Dothraki and dragons into our home. What is Jon thinking?"
"I don't know," Caitie said. Jon had never trusted Cersei's offer—so why was he accepting it now? And as for bending the knee to a Targaryen… "Maybe it was the only way."
"The only way for what?" Sansa cried. "He said he was going to Dragonstone for the dragonglass, and to attempt to recruit this Dragon Queen's armies—but he's gotten the dragonglass, and if the queen had expected him to bend the knee immediately upon pain of death, he would have already done so or died. The fact that he's waited until now… it can only mean that he wanted to bend the knee. And I want to believe in him—I do. But how can he expect me to bend to a southerner?" She spat the word as if it were some sort of hideous beast, and though Caitie understood, though she agreed with Sansa's reservations about bending the knee to someone she didn't know and didn't trust, she couldn't stop herself from defending those she loved who were born south of the Neck—perhaps because it was easier to focus on that then on what Jon had just sent them.
"They're not all bad."
Sansa's eyes flashed. "You would say that. You've only ever known love from the southerners you've met."
"You never knew Ser Alliser." She received the coldest of glares for that, but soldiered on, regardless. "Don't pretend there aren't southerners who didn't treat you kindly."
"To further their own ends," Sansa muttered.
"Even Margaery?"
"Especially Margaery."
"What about Tyrion?"
She pursed her lips. "My relationship with Tyrion was… complicated. He tried his best to protect me, but in the end, he couldn't—any more than he could protect himself."
"All right, that's fair. But I'd also point out that Brienne and Podrick are both southerners."
"I never thought I'd see you defending Brienne," Sansa said, a smile tugging at her lips. "But there's a difference between Brienne and Podrick, and Daenerys Targaryen."
"It's that she wants to rule you," Caitie said, because of course she understood. She had never been good at kneeling; even to Jon, she had never done so. He was king, but he had never been her ruler, nor Sansa's. They had always been his equal, all of them working together to protect the people of the North. Except, apparently, he didn't see it that way, and that infuriated her as much as it hurt.
Sansa nodded. "And I won't be ruled again. My family has bled for a free North; I have bled for a free North, and so has every other man, woman, and child who lives here. If that freedom is taken away… then what was it all for, Caitriona? I spent the last five years without any say over my life, and now I'm supposed to kneel to a family who conquered my home, who burned my grandfather and uncle alive, and who kidnapped my aunt and raped her until she died."
Lyanna's kidnapping and subsequent death was a particular sore spot for Sansa, and it wasn't difficult to understand why. But it was more than that, too, for what right did Daenerys Targaryen have to the North—or to any of the Seven Kingdoms, for that matter? Her family had been driven out after three hundred years of brutality, of subjugation, of supposed divine rule that, in the end, led to multiple unlawful murders and the deaths of thousands of innocents. And what did it say about Jon that he would give the North's hard-fought freedom away to a person who wanted to bring all of that back, take their men to do it, without even telling them why? He could have easily included such an explanation or reassurance in his letter—even something as simple as trust me—but he hadn't; instead his words had been completely… well, detached. And it would be easy to believe that he'd had no choice in the matter, but Sansa was right. If he was only bending the knee now, after having been free of her for days, it meant that he wanted to, not that he had to.
"The best-case scenario is that she only agreed to come north and fight if he bent the knee. Which… I suppose we should have expected," Caitie said, fiddling with the end of her braid.
"I told him not to go." Sansa shook her head. "I told him—and you—that she would expect him to kneel to her; that the letter Tyrion sent him wasn't entirely truthful, but does anyone ever listen to me? No, of course not—" She halted her tirade as a knock sounded at the door. "Who is it?" she barked.
Littlefinger's voice answered. "Lord Baelish."
Sansa closed her eyes, steeling herself. She swept around her desk and seated herself behind it, a stony expression masking her frustration. "Come in." The door swung open and Littlefinger entered. "I'd like to speak with Lord Baelish alone, Lady Norrey," she said coldly.
All Caitie could do was nod. She hurried out of the room and let the door shut behind her; but even though she knew she should leave, should let Sansa play the game, something kept Caitie rooted to the spot.
"Here. Read it," Sansa said, only slightly muffled by the door between them, and why she was showing this to the man who was attempting to destroy her family, Caitie didn't know. But she spoke loudly enough for Caitie to hear, and that had to be on purpose.
A long silence passed as Littlefinger read Jon's letter. "It's not easy for ravens to fly in these storms," he said at length. "Perhaps Jon tried to send word earlier."
"No, this is the way he is, the way he's always been," Sansa said, her tone laced with frustration. "He never asked for my opinion; why should he start now?"
But he's always asked for mine, Caitie thought. So what changed?
"I can't believe he'd surrender the Northern crown without consulting you."
"This is his writing, his signature. He pledged to fight for Daenerys Targaryen." Sansa sighed, and when she spoke again, she sounded utterly defeated. "He's bent the knee."
There was a pause. "I've heard gossip," Littlefinger said, "that the Dragon Queen is quite beautiful."
Caitie's heart stilled.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Sansa asked.
"Jon is young and unmarried. Daenerys is young and unmarried."
"You think he wants to marry her?"
"An alliance makes sense. Together, they'd be difficult to defeat."
The sad part was—Littlefinger was right. As much as she wanted to dismiss his words as nothing more than a plot, an alliance made perfect sense; for Daenerys Targaryen, it would bring the North back into the kingdom—and for Jon, it would mean securing her armies and dragons for the defense of the realm. Moreover, having a bastard as King-Consort would go a long way to reducing the stigma surrounding bastards as a whole. But… would Jon do such a thing? Marry someone he hardly even knew? Without consulting Sansa? Without consulting…
Well. Maybe that was why he hadn't consulted them.
"He was named King in the North," Littlefinger continued. "He can be unnamed."
At those words, Caitie shook her head and boxed… whatever it was she was feeling away, deciding she'd deal with it later, for Littlefinger had just revealed his true motives, and that was more important than the possibility of Jon marrying someone else.
Sansa said nothing, and Caitie hoped she was recalculating. Whatever his reasons, Jon bending the knee to Daenerys Targaryen and Littlefinger making his move because of it had not been factored into her and Arya's plans, and Gods only knew how this would affect them.
At last, she spoke. "Even if I wanted to, Arya would never go along. She always loved Jon far more than she ever loved me, and she'd kill anyone who betrayed her family."
"You are family, too," Littlefinger said. "Would Arya really murder her own sister?"
"Do you know what she is, now? Do you know what the Faceless Men are?"
"Only by reputation. They worship the God of Death, I believe. I never trust godly men."
"They're killers. And Arya was one of them," Sansa said—and Caitie had absolutely no idea why she was telling Littlefinger this, but she hoped it wasn't a mistake. Sansa allowed her words a moment to sink in, but when she continued, there was a small waver in her voice, as if uncertain of herself. "What do you think she's after?"
"She's your sister. You know her far better than I ever could." He paused. "Sometimes, when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do?" His voice was but a whisper; if he hadn't been close to the door, Caitie wouldn't have been able to hear. "Then I ask myself, 'how well does that reason explain what they say and what they do?' So tell me: what's the worst thing she could want?"
Sansa was quiet for a moment, but when she did finally speak, her words were so full of grave certainty that Caitie worried Littlefinger might have gotten his hooks in her once more. "She could want me dead, because she thinks I wronged my family."
"Why did she come to Winterfell?" he asked.
"To kill me for marrying our enemies and betraying our family."
"Why did she unearth the letter Cersei made you write?"
"To provide proof of my betrayals. To provide justification after she murders me."
"And after she murders you, what does she become?"
"Lady of Winterfell."
Caitie breathed a sigh of relief. Littlefinger truly was an idiot if he honestly believed Arya Stark would ever want to be the Lady of Winterfell, but at least this provided Caitie with proof that Sansa hadn't fallen for his tricks. With that reassurance, she crept away from the door and ducked around the corner of the corridor to her right.
It didn't take long before Sansa's door creaked open and Littlefinger exited. She heard him take a single step forward, then stop abruptly—and Caitie knew she had concealed herself, but the hairs on the back of her neck still prickled; though she didn't know why, she could have sworn that he had stopped to look in the direction of her hiding place. She wanted to peek out and see, but she didn't dare, instead freezing in place, hoping—praying—that he would continue down the corridor opposite hers.
Either she got very lucky, or else Littlefinger had more important things to do than confront her over listening in on his conversations. His footsteps resumed, growing slowly softer until at last, they faded into silence and Caitie allowed herself to relax. She waited a few more minutes before reentering Sansa's office, and when she did, her friend was still sitting at her desk, scowling at an invisible enemy.
Sansa looked up as Caitie closed the door behind her. "Did you hear all of it?"
She nodded.
"Don't listen to what he said about Jon. I'm sure he wouldn't…" Sansa shook her head. "It doesn't matter right now. We have to move quickly. I'm sorry there's not more time to prepare you, but this letter changes everything. I need Littlefinger dealt with before Jon returns."
"I know," Caitie said. She took a deep breath. "Just tell me what to do."
The corridor which housed Littlefinger's chambers was one that Caitie had never traversed before. Though it appeared the exact same as every other in Winterfell, there was something much more foreboding about it; every step she took, the stone walls seemed to get narrower, slowly creeping inwards and closing in around her. And she knew it was all in her mind, of course, but that didn't make it better. In some ways, it made it worse.
In her arms, she carried Vestriarzira hen Valyrio, as Sansa had instructed, open to a random page, though she was hardly paying attention to it, even as she pretended to be engrossed. Arya was watching from the shadows nearby, ready to pick Littlefinger's lock whilst he was distracted, and all Caitie could think was: What if he realizes I'm just a distraction? What if he becomes uninterested in the conversation and leaves? What if he realizes what Sansa and Arya are planning because I say the wrong thing?
So many what ifs, and they replayed over and over again on a loop as she saw Littlefinger approach out of the corner of her eye. He didn't see her at first—and she pretended not to see him, either. That was the plan: allow him to believe that he dictated all points of conversation. And she could do it; she knew she could, because she had done it before.
But it wouldn't be pleasant.
"High Valyrian?"
Caitie looked up from her book. Littlefinger was standing in front of her, brow arched and smirking as always. She nodded, knowing that Arya must be in his chambers by now, and hoping that if there was evidence there, it wouldn't take her long to find it. "I learned at Castle Black," Caitie said, hoping her voice wasn't too shrill. "My father always said I had no talents, but I'm quite good with languages."
There, she thought. I've left you an opening.
But he took an entirely different route. "Is this to impress our new queen?"
Though the question surprised her, Caitie thought it best to answer truthfully. "Only her armies. They're Essosi, so they might not speak Common, but most should speak some dialect of Valyrian. I'd like to be passable at conversation, at least."
"You're more accepting of this Targaryen than I would have expected."
She bit back a swallow. This… this was not what Sansa had told her to expect. "Why wouldn't I be?" she lied, and Littlefinger seemed to know it.
"You planned to marry the King—or Warden of the North now—didn't you?"
Caitie could do nothing but stare, jaw dropping as at last she sputtered out, "What?"
"You may have thought you were being subtle," he said, smirk widening, "but I was the owner of the finest brothel in King's Landing. I know what desire looks like. To learn he courts another woman—a queen no less—must be difficult for you."
She shook her head, because this—it couldn't be. Sansa had said he would try to manipulate the situation to his favor, but she'd never said he would use the Dragon Queen to do so. It could only mean one thing: he'd known she was listening to his and Sansa's conversation. Perhaps he was hoping that Caitie would tell Arya about Sansa's "plot" to overthrow Jon; and that she, in turn, would prove herself a traitor, too. Or perhaps he was trying to make her doubt Jon and join in them in his usurpation. Or, worst of all, he knew what she'd been tasked to do, and if that was the case, then they were fucked.
Whatever his reasonings, and whatever they meant for the future, Littlefinger had not implied such things to upset Sansa, but to upset her, and the thought of that made Caitie's blood boil. "Look, I don't mean to be rude," she said, forcing herself to sound calm. "But what the fuck are you talking about?"
Littlefinger obliged with a little bow, ignoring her foul language. "Well, I have my ways of learning the dealings of those in King's Landing—"
"Spies, you mean."
He smiled properly at this, perfectly aligned-teeth visible to her for the first time since meeting him. "Clever girl. Yes, spies. And they were more than happy to inform me of the king's—excuse me—the Warden of the North's… friendliness with his new queen."
He's lying. He's lying. He's lying. Yet, no matter how many times she repeated the words, she didn't believe them. "And what does that have to do with me?" she snapped. "I'm not planning on marrying anyone, let alone Jon."
"So the rumors are false? That is certainly interesting."
Caitie was endlessly grateful for the book in her arms, because otherwise she might actually have killed Littlefinger—something of which Sansa would probably disapprove. "What rumors?"
He furrowed his brows, looking genuinely confused for the first time since the conversation began. "You didn't know?"
"If I knew, would I be asking you?"
He nodded. "Fair enough. Rumors that you and the Warden of the North are secretly betrothed, and are awaiting his return from Dragonstone to announce it."
All the preparation Sansa had given Caitie fled her mind; she could only react with a cry of, "No! That isn't—No!" She bit her tongue to keep from asking her next question: Is that what everyone thinks of me?
Littlefinger smirked in triumph, but he kept his voice neutral. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter if it's true. People believe all sorts of things, true or not, don't they?"
"Evidently," Caitie said, trying to claw back some control over the conversation. "But I don't see how that's my problem."
"Don't you? Tell me: how do you think Lady Stark would feel, knowing you betrothed yourself to her brother?"
"Except I didn't—or has that fact not penetrated your thick skull?"
"You haven't," he agreed. "But you want to."
Caitie huffed, but there was nothing for it. "Fine, let's say I do. So what?"
"Nothing at all. I'm sure Lady Stark would welcome you into her family with open arms. Of course," he added, as if an afterthought, "if she were to learn of your journey down to the dungeons the night of Rendon Norrey's death, that might change."
She narrowed her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Littlefinger ignored her. "A traitor to the North, an accomplice to Ramsay Bolton, and you gave him a peaceful death. At best you would be considered a kinslayer. At worst… your brother, your little Wildling friends—you have a lot to lose."
Caitie tried to keep a leash on her fury, but how could she? For it was one thing to threaten her, but it was another to threaten her family. She gritted her teeth, fingers digging into the leather cover of her book. "What do you want?"
"Loyalty," he said, smiling still, as if he had merely given her a compliment rather than threaten everyone she loved. "War is coming with this Dragon Queen, make no mistake. And when it does, where will your loyalties lie?"
That was a question with an easy answer: to the people she loved—her family. And beyond that, the North, the Free Folk, and the realms of men, from the Wall to the southernmost tip of Dorne.
But she wasn't about to give him that information. "As if I would tell you."
"Perhaps you should," Littlefinger said. "I can make a valuable ally, you know. If you were to help me, I could help keep your secrets safe."
"And if I tell you to piss off, instead?"
"Hmm. Well, I doubt the Dragon Queen would take kindly to your… infatuation with her future betrothed. Neither would Lady Stark, once she finds out the truth of your father's death. Your list of friends would grow thin, at that point."
Caitie wanted to laugh at such an abysmal offer. Loyalty he wanted and friendship he'd offered, but Littlefinger didn't know the first thing about either. They were not transactions, for they couldn't be bought or sold, nor were they based on necessity or practicality.
And maybe that sort of bullshit worked in the south, but this was the North, and southerners didn't do well in the North without invitation.
Caitie shook her head. Her voice sank to a whisper; Littlefinger had to lean in to hear. "You think you're untouchable, don't you? All this knowledge and cunning, you think it protects you, just like armor does. But if I were to take my daggers and slice it across your throat right now, tell me: do you think all the knowledge you've accumulated would protect you? Or do you think you would bleed and die, just like the hundreds of others I've killed?"
His face paled, his throat bobbed, his eyes flitted away from her to the ground between them.
"Good, you understand me, now. So let me make something very clear to you, Littlefinger. If I think for one second that you are a danger to the people I love—" She smiled demurely. "Well, I had a friend who was the legend of Gin Alley. Karl Tanner—maybe you've heard of him. And I didn't survive all those years north of the Wall without him teaching me a few tricks. Now, if you'll excuse me."
She didn't wait for a reply before she swept past him, her heart heavier than it had been in a long time.
