In hindsight, Caitie should have expected to find Arya waiting for her in the shadowy alcove a few corners past Littlefinger's corridor, but she still had to stop herself from responding instinctively when a hand grasped her wrist and pulled her into the darkness.

"Stop," Arya said as Caitie reached for Owen. "It's me."

"Damn it, Arya, warn me the next time you do something like that."

Through the darkness, she saw Arya arch a brow. Her insides squirmed; she'd never snapped at an assassin before, and the more she thought about it, the more that seemed like a sure way to sign her death warrant.

But Arya had more important things to discuss, it seemed, for she simply said, "There was nothing. He's too good at covering his tracks. We'll just have to hope Sansa can persuade the others with whatever she learned from Bran."

It was not good news, but Caitie couldn't bring herself to care, the things Littlefinger had said to her still thundering in her ears. She refused to believe it. Jon wasn't going to marry Daenerys. In fact, as far as Caitie knew, he'd never considered marrying anyone at all. He'd always dreamed, of course, of being a lord and holding a castle—of having a family—but it was abstract. He'd never actually seriously contemplated the idea of marrying, and he certainly wouldn't marry a Targaryen conqueror.

But it makes sense, a voice whispered, and it sounded like the man she'd just left behind. And it's not as if he made you promises. It's not as if you wanted him to make you promises.

Arya frowned. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Right," she said wryly. "I'm sure."

"I just need to go… drink something."

"I think there's some arbor gold in the cellars."

Caitie shook her head. "Something stronger. Night's Watch ale. Or fermented goat's milk."

Arya snorted. "Suit yourself." She hesitated for a moment, pursing her lips. And then she did something that took Caitie by complete surprise: placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, in what could only be a comradely gesture. "Thanks."

Before Caitie could reply, Arya dashed off, quick as lightning and yet somehow soundless, and disappeared around the corner.

The kitchens was her next destination. Arya was right that the cellar would keep all the proper wines, but Tormund must have left behind some of his stock in the kitchens—or at least, she hoped he had. Disgusting as his fermented goat's milk was, it was what she needed to erase all memory of the last few hours. It wasn't Night's Watch ale, but it would do.

Of course, if she were willing to be honest with herself, she would have admitted the truth: that it wasn't the Night's Watch ale she wanted at all, but the Night's Watch itself and all the people she loved who had been a part of her life there. Sam, Gilly, Edd, Tormund, Wun-Wun—it was as though they'd carved out pieces of her heart and carried them away. And Jon had carved the biggest piece of them all.

Not that she was interested in thinking about him at the moment.

Winterfell's kitchens were much larger than she was used to, but she still found what she was looking for with minimal effort. Thank you, Tormund. She grabbed a bottle of his fermented goat's milk from a shelf in the pantry and plopped herself down onto the floor. Like the kitchens, this pantry was also too large, the sconces on the walls too bright, the food stacked in the wrong order, and the shelves too high.

But hopefully that wouldn't matter once the alcohol kicked in.

The first sip was disgusting. She swallowed with great effort, then braced herself for another. As she took her second sip, the door to the pantry swung open. She grabbed Owen and Cerys and held them at the ready, only to meet a pale-faced Arthur, eyes wide as he stared at her weapons.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, re-sheathing her daggers. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's all right," he said, relaxing. "Ghost led me here," he said, gesturing behind him to the direwolf, who maneuvered past and laid down at Caitie's side. "Now I know why."

She sighed, and patted the open spot beside her.

Arthur scrunched his nose up. "Is that sanitary?"

Caitie snorted. "More than Castle Black was. Come on—sit with me. I could use a drinking partner, and I'd much rather have you than anyone else."

That won her a smile, and Arthur did as she asked, only slightly hesitating before he sat down on the dusty floor. Caitie took another sip of her drink.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

She laughed. "Absolutely not." She pushed herself up and grabbed a bottle of some cider off the shelf. "Here. This should be more your speed."

He frowned, gesturing to the bottle of fermented goat's milk. "I've had real ale before, you know."

"This isn't ale. This is Tormund's stuff, and it's vile."

"Why are you drinking it, then?"

Caitie merely shrugged and took a swig, which she immediately regretted, grimacing as she swallowed. Damn it, she'd need to drink the whole bottle just to be able to endure one gulp.

Arthur sighed. "What happened?"

"Fucking politics," she muttered. "It's all I do these days. Everyone has some problem they need solving and they keep asking me to help them find the solutions, but I don't know anything. I feel like I'm stumbling around in the dark, and everyone else has a torch except for me, but they still expect me to be able to see."

Ghost whimpered and rested his head on her thigh. She sighed and placed a hand on his head. It made her feel a little better, until she remembered Ghost's master, and her spirits fell once more.

Arthur stared at his hands, a deep crease in his brow as he frowned. "I'm sorry," he said at length.

Caitie tilted her head to the side. "For what?"

"For making you do all this. Making you stay and…" He groaned. "I'm sorry. I'm not good at this."

She took his hand and squeezed, because he'd completely misunderstood. "Arthur, I wanted to stay. This—" she raised her bottle, "—has nothing to do with you. It's not your fault. At all."

"But it is," he insisted. "Look, I know that I haven't been nice to you. And I know how hard you're trying for me."

"You're my little brother. That's my job. And I wouldn't have it any other way, because I am so glad to have you back. You know that, don't you?"

"I do," he said, sighing. "It's not really you I was mad at, anyway. I just—it was easier not to think about the things Father did—or made me do. I suppressed all of my anger because I had to, but I guess that seeing you… it was easier to blame you than it was to think about him."

"I know. And I understand that anger better than most. So whenever you want to talk about what he did, I'll be here to listen."

"Not—not now," he said. "But… soon."

"Okay. Whenever you're ready."

"Thanks," he said, smiling in relief. "So what happened to you today?"

Caitie huffed. "Well, we can say goodbye to our hard-fought independence, for one thing." She hadn't meant to sound so bitter about it, but voicing this truth only cemented the reality of what Jon had done, and damn it all—she was bitter. And it wasn't even that Jon had given away their independence; it was that he hadn't cared to even write to her about it. He had no excuses anymore. After all, he'd written to Sansa, even if it had been the most impersonal letter she'd ever seen.

"What?" Arthur asked. "What do you mean?"

"We are now subjects of the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys Targaryen." Caitie shook her head, the bitterness seeping into her stomach and turning to fury. Wun-Wun had died for Northern independence, and so had Edric, and hundreds more in the Battle of the Bastards. Thousands more than that had died in the War of the Five Kingdoms and Robert's Rebellion: from farm boys to fishermen to innocents who should never have had to lay their lives down, but had regardless, to Caitie and Jon's own brothers—and Jon hadn't even bothered to tell her why he was letting all their sacrifices mean nothing.

Perhaps it's because he's forgotten about me in favor of his shiny new queen, she thought bitterly. But that was unfair; she didn't know anything about Daenerys Targaryen. Maybe she really was everything she'd claimed.

"So the king knelt to the Dragon Queen?" Arthur asked, the color draining from his face as his brows knit together. "That's… not good."

Caitie snorted. Not good seemed tame to her. But she was curious to hear her brother's reasoning. "Well, you'll never hear me argue, but why do you think it's not good?"

"Because it's dangerous," Arthur said, shrugging. "I've been reading The Accords of Exceptionalism and Tyranny; it was written just after Robert's Rebellion. It's all about what led up to it."

"And?"

"Well, there's a lot of… technical terminology in the book, but in terms you can understand—"

"Oh, thank you very much—"

"The Targaryens, historically, refuse to abide by any laws, even their own. It's how Maegor the Cruel came about, and the Dance of Dragons, and the Blackfyre rebellions. It's why Prince Rhaegar kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark; why King Aerys killed Brandon and Rickard Stark in violation of the right to trial, and ordered Jon Arryn to send over Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon to be killed, too. So if we're pledging to their house again, then we may also be acknowledging that they have the right to operate that way—that the Rebellion was wrong, and that they can continue to do whatever they want to us, without any laws to stop them."

"And here I was hoping you'd be the optimistic one," Caitie grumbled, taking a swig of her drink, not caring about the taste any longer. "I suppose we just have to hope she's not like the rest of her family, and that she wants to be a just ruler—it's what she said she wanted, anyway. Of course, she still brought dragons and is trying to claim the entire Seven Kingdoms for House Targaryen, calling herself the rightful queen despite the fact that Robert Baratheon ousted her father, so it doesn't bode well."

"I would say the fact that she's attempting to retake the Seven Kingdoms the same way her ancestors did, in spite of what they did, doesn't bode well," Arthur agreed. "Did the king say why he bent the knee in his letter?"

She shook her head. "No. But if you ask Lord Baelish, Jon knelt because he wants to marry Daenerys, because she's oh-so beautiful."

"Do you believe him?"

"I… I don't know. I don't want to, and we do need her armies. If she was refusing to help unless he bent the knee, then he might have done it. But I really just don't know. The letter he sent—it was so… It wasn't Jon."

"Maybe he was forced to write it."

"I'm not sure if that's better or worse," she muttered, though she knew full well it would absolutely be worse. "But the timing doesn't make sense, and apparently they were acting close at the summit in King's Landing. I don't know why he would act that way with someone who forced him into bending the knee."

Arthur squeezed her arm. "Well, you know the king better than I do. But I can't believe he would cast you aside so easily."

She blinked. "Wait, what?"

"Don't play stupid," Arthur said. "I've been going along with pretending I don't know for weeks, but this is just getting ridiculous."

Caitie groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

"What? It's no secret that you two are—"

"But we're not!" she exclaimed. "Gods, how could you believe that? Do you honestly think I wouldn't tell you if I was considering marriage?"

Arthur stared, apparently at a loss for words. "I—well—I didn't believe the rumors. But Johnna and Willa said you were together, so I thought…"

Caitie put her head in her hands. "Johnna thinks she knows everything even when she doesn't, and Willa's just a romantic. I don't know why you would listen to either of them about that; you're supposed to be the smart one in our family."

"But they're still right."

"They're not. We didn't—nothing's happened. He doesn't even know—" She stopped, heat rising in her cheeks as she berated herself for her near-slip. "It doesn't matter. So this is where all the jokes about Jon being your new good-brother came from, I take it?"

He grimaced, but didn't push her on the subject of her feelings. "I'm sorry; I mean, I did believe the betrothal part was a rumor, but the way everyone spoke about you two—"

"Everyone?" Caitie asked, a cold dread settling over her like a suffocating blanket.

Slowly, Arthur nodded. "Pretty much. They all believed you were secretly betrothed, and that you were just waiting until he returned to announce it."

So Littlefinger had been telling the truth. The small hope she'd clung to shriveled and died—and worst of all, it cemented the fear that he had told the truth about everything else, too. But she would deal with that later. For now, there was a more immediate problem. "Gods, this is Castle Black all over again."

Of course, it did explain a lot, too: why Arya had trusted Caitie with the information about Sansa, and why Littlefinger wanted her gone so badly. It also explained some of the looks the other lords gave her, as if they were appraising her. She'd thought it was because she was the Lady of Norwood, and her lands were vital to the economy of the North—but it was more than that. They weren't appraising her as the Lady of Norwood, but as a potential queen.

And Sansa had to know about the rumors, so why hadn't she said anything?

"Are you okay?" Arthur asked gently.

"No," Caitie said. "No, I'm really not. But I have to go. I need to—" She cut off, knowing that she couldn't tell Arthur the truth without potentially endangering him. After a moment's hesitation, she settled for saying, "I need to have a word with someone."

Arthur pursed his lips. "Don't do anything stupid."

As she pushed herself up off the floor, she gave him a grim smile. "No promises."

Caitie wasn't sure when she had decided to be furious with Sansa, but it was somewhere between the corridor leading to the Lord's Tower, and the landing step at the top of said tower. She had ascended the staircase a little frustrated, a little confused, more than a little upset, but the closer to her friend's office, the more those feelings congealed into the singular fury that had her pounding on the door to Sansa's office with all the force of an angry storm god.

"Come in," Sansa called, her tone unusually cold—something which, under normal circumstances, might have worried Caitie, but right now, only made her angrier. She didn't even know why, but she stormed into the room, only just having the wherewithal to shut the door behind her and Ghost and lock it. She approached the desk where Sansa sat, ready to yell and scream and unleash all the pent-up stress that had accumulated over the course of the day.

"Arya told me what happened," Sansa quickly said just as Caitie opened her mouth, thoroughly ruining her dramatic entrance. "I'm sorry. I didn't expect him to threaten Arthur and the girls."

It took her a moment to regather her bearings, for she had not expected an immediate apology—but neither was she about to stop being angry yet. "Well, you should have," she snapped, though she half-regretted it when she saw the contrite expression on Sansa's face.

"You're right, I should have. It was my job to prepare you properly, and I didn't. I'm sorry." She stood, walking around her desk and placing a hand on Caitie's shoulder. "You did well."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"I know, it never does. But it won't be long now, I promise. It's just a matter of organizing the trial without Littlefinger knowing—which, thanks to your goading, shouldn't be too difficult—luring him to the great hall, and then convincing the other Valemen of his crimes. I intend to begin tomorrow, so he won't have the opportunity to act against you—

"Sansa," Caitie said, because she simply couldn't keep up the pretense any longer. "Did you know about the rumors?"

Sansa fell silent, casting her eyes down at the floor, and that was proof enough of the truth.

"I see. Why didn't you tell me about them?"

She eyed Ghost before answering. "I needed your reaction to be genuine when Littlefinger brought it up—"

"Oh, yes, thank you so much for that little present, but I mean before that—before any of this," Caitie snapped. "Back when they first started. Why didn't you tell me?"

Sansa bristled. "I wanted to. But every time I meant to bring it up, you would get this… look. As if you were contemplating jumping off the castle walls just to avoid the conversation."

"So instead you just let me walk around Winterfell, not knowing that everyone was whispering behind my back and accusing me of—"

"No one was accusing you of anything," she said. "This isn't Castle Black, Caitriona."

Caitie pursed her lips, hating how Sansa had read her so well, for she couldn't help the curl of her stomach as she thought back to the consequences of the last time rumors like this had circulated.

"Is it true?" Sansa asked, so softly that Caitie almost missed the question.

"No! How could you even think—why would you think—" She stopped, for that was when she noticed that Sansa's face had fallen. "What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

Caitie scowled. "Sansa, I just put myself through hell for you; I think you owe me the truth, don't you?"

"I only—don't be angry with me. But… I will admit there was a part of me that hoped it was true. I know you aren't thinking about marriage right now, and neither is Jon, but I had hoped once he returned, you might consider it."

Nothing could have surprised Caitie more than this admission. She gaped, unabashedly, having expected quite literally anything else besides… that. A part of her even wanted to believe that Sansa was simply manipulating her into not being so angry, but by now, Caitie knew Sansa well enough to see the vulnerability behind her eyes; one that spoke of the truth. "Sansa—"

"I know. You don't want to be queen any more than he wanted to be king, and I respect that. I have no choice but to respect it, considering what Jon has done." She sighed. "But I'd hoped to call you my sister one day, whatever the circumstances."

"But—" Caitie shook her head, unable to fathom what would possess Sansa to want her as anything. "Why?"

Sansa blinked, furrowing her brows as she answered, as if it were obvious. "Because you're my best friend."

"Even when I threaten you?"

"Especially when you threaten me." She looked down at her hands. "I never… Everyone who's ever claimed to be my friend has wanted something from me. My position as Ned Stark's daughter, my claim to the North once he died, my mother's face, my—my body. I've never had someone besides my family who simply… helped, because they cared. Except for you. So yes, even when you're threatening my life, you're my best friend—because I still know you'd never hurt me. And because I know that if you're threatening me, then I probably deserved it."

Caitie sniffled as she punched Sansa lightly in the shoulder. "You're such a pain in the ass, do you know that?"

"I know," Sansa said, the corners of her lips turning up. "And I know that I've asked more of you than I have any right to."

"Just remember to return the favor," Caitie said, but she couldn't help her returning smile.

"I will. And don't listen to Littlefinger. He knows how you feel about Jon; he was bound to use it against you at some point."

Her stomach sank. "He says he has spies in King's Landing who told him Jon and the queen were… friendly. And let's face it—it makes sense of, well, everything." Her voice wavered on the last word, for it had been one thing to think this, but it was another to admit it out loud. And she had always known that Jon might have to seal an alliance through marriage, but if he had already bent the knee, then he shouldn't have needed one with Daenerys. Her duty as the protector of the realm would have compelled her to join their fight, especially once she knew the threat was real.

And if he wasn't tying himself to her for the good of the realm, then…

"I'll see if I can locate any scrolls Littlefinger might have received; at least that way, we'll know for certain."

Caitie shook her head, for however much the uncertainty hurt, the idea of knowing for sure was worse, somehow. "Don't. There's no point. If it's true, then there isn't anything we can do about it, and if it isn't, then we've worried for no reason."

She tried to keep her voice steady, but something must have shown on her face, for Sansa's eyes softened. "Caitriona," she said, much too kindly for Caitie's liking. "Do you love him?"

She froze, unable to meet Sansa's eyes. "Please don't ask me that."

"I'm not asking as Jon's sister; I'm asking as your friend. Whatever your answer is, I'll understand."

A part of Caitie wanted to lie, to say that she didn't love him and never had. It would be so easy to box the truth away, to pretend it didn't exist. Yet, somehow, she found herself murmuring, "It's not that."

Sansa frowned. "Then what is it? Why don't you want to admit that you—"

"Stop!" Caitie screeched, for she couldn't bear to hear the words said out loud. She'd intimated the truth to Tormund, and he'd done the same, but no one had ever said it so plainly. And she couldn't help the fear that if she admitted it—no careful avoidance or workarounds, but the raw truth—she might just lose Jon for good. "Just… stop."

"But why? I don't understand—"

"Because I can't, okay? I just—I can't."

Sansa observed Caitie for a moment, her lips pressed together as if she were fighting the instinct to argue. For that singular moment, Caitie was almost certain she would. But she did not; when the moment passed, she merely sighed. "All right. I won't push you."

Caitie breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

Sansa nodded. "Of course."

There was a long pause. "So," Caitie said at last, beyond ready to change the subject and only now remembering what Sansa had been up to during the discussion with Littlefinger. "What happened with Bran?"

Sansa's face drained of all color. "It—" She stopped, looking down at the floor as she took a deep breath. "It's worse than I could have ever imagined."

The last vestiges of Caitie's resentment and frustration fell away as she watched the clear heartache on Sansa's face. "Are you all right?"

She shook her head, and when she looked back up, her lips had thinned to a straight line and her eyes had hardened with not just rage, but determination. "No. No, I'm not. But I will be when this is over."

"Did you get what you needed, then?"

"I did."

"And…"

Sansa's fists clenched. "And when I'm through, there won't be anywhere left for that monster to hide."

Caitie had never seen Winterfell's great hall without its tables.

Usually they lined the sides of the room, but they had been removed for the trial, replaced with the guards and lords standing packed in rows, allowing for a wide open space at the center of the room. She had squeezed in between Arthur and Rodrik beneath one of the windows, with scarcely any ability to move. At one point, she'd needed to scratch her nose, and in the process had accidentally elbowed her brother in the face, prompting Rodrik to stifle a snort as Arthur glared, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Sorry, she mouthed, and looked over at the great table, where Sansa presided, stone-faced and utterly still in her chair. To her left sat Bran in his wheelchair, expression serene. Maester Wolkan stood behind him. The air buzzed with nervous energy as everyone waited for the trial to begin.

"Would Lady Stark really execute her own sister?" Koner whispered behind her.

"Well, we're here, aren't we?" replied Henk.

Rodrik and Caitie exchanged a glance. Should everything go to plan, there would be only three people in the great hall who knew the truth besides Caitie, Bran, and Sansa: Rodrik, Arthur, and Elbert—the last of whom had surreptitiously positioned himself near Littlefinger in case of an escape attempt. Everyone else in the hall should, in theory, believe the trial was for Arya, though no one could quite figure out what the charges were.

Fear clawed at Caitie's heart nonetheless, her mind going through each possible

What if Littlefinger had caught on to the plan, because she had clued him in? What if he had known all along? What if he was simply too smart for them? Caitie could picture him, clear as day, getting the upper hand, right when Sansa believed him defeated. He was so dangerous; she hadn't truly understood that until yesterday. But now she did. And with that knowledge came the realization that she, Sansa, and Arya were merely children, trying to take down a monster almost as dangerous as the White Walkers.

Adding to her fear was the way Littlefinger seemed so remarkably calm, leaning against the opposite wall to Caitie, half-concealed by the soldiers in front of him. Every so often his eyes would flicker to hers from across the room, knowing and triumphant.

But triumphant about what?

The doors at the back of the great hall creaked open, then, and light from the outside flooded into the room as Arya stepped through, flanked by two guards. The doors shut behind them; Arya and her guards walked forward until they stood in the center of the hall. As the guards dispersed, taking their place beside their brethren, she looked left, then right, calmly assessing the state of the great hall—from Caitie and Arthur adjacent to her, to the guards lined on each side of the hall and boxing her in, to Littlefinger over in his corners.

When her eyes finally met Sansa's, everyone in the room seemed to take a collective breath. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked, clasping her hands behind her back and planting her feet firmly apart; a distinctly military stance, as if awaiting orders.

Which, Caitie supposed, she was.

For a fraction of a second, Sansa wavered, uncertainty written on her face as she stared at her sister. "It's not what I want," she said, casting her eyes down at the table, and back up again. "It's what honor demands."

"And what does honor demand?"

"That I defend my family from those who would harm us. That I defend the North from those who would betray us."

Arya looked to her left, subtly checking to see if Littlefinger was still there, and then back to her sister. "All right, then. Get on with it."

Sansa took a breath, her eyes never leaving her sister, and lifted her chin. "You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges…" Only now did she face the true object of her ire. "Lord Baelish?"

As the entire room turned their focus squarely on him, Caitie had to fight a relieved laugh. For once, there was no smirk or triumphant gleam in Littlefinger's eyes; there was only shock and confusion—and perhaps fear—as he stared, eyes darting from Sansa to Arya and back to Sansa again, for the first time in what Caitie assumed was his entire life, at a loss for words.

Arya smirked as she leaned forward to address him, and it was clear that she was enjoying the game far more than Sansa was. "My sister asked you a question."

The loathing in Littlefinger's glare as he stared at Arya lasted only a moment; then he spun on his heel and addressed the great table. "Lady Sansa, forgive me," he said. "I'm a bit confused."

"Which charges confuse you?" Sansa asked innocently, leaning forward in her seat—and perhaps she was enjoying this. "Let's start with the simplest one: you murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the Moon Door and watched her fall. Do you deny it?"

"I did it to protect you."

"You did it to take power in the Vale," she corrected. "Earlier, you conspired to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him. Do you deny it?"

Caitie could see the gears in Littlefinger's head turning as he stared, open-mouthed. "Whatever your aunt might have told you…" he said at last, sweeping into the middle of the great hall beside Arya. "She was a troubled woman." In a pitiful attempt at swaying the crowd to his favor, he added in a louder voice, "She imagined enemies everywhere."

"You had Aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn, when really, it was you," Sansa said, her tone growing more biting with every word. "The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was you who started it. Do you deny it?"

"I know of no such letter."

"You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark," Sansa bit out, her eyes red and glistening with unshed tears, any enjoyment of his trial lost at the severity of his crimes. "Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason. Do you deny it?"

"I deny it!" he exclaimed, blotches of red erupting on his face and neck. "None of you were there to see what happened! None of you knows the truth!"

"You held a knife to his throat," Bran said, and the hall went very still. His voice was calm, as it always was, but matter-of-fact. Slowly, Littlefinger turned around, staring at Bran in horror. "You said 'I did warn you not to trust me.'"

"You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister." Arya unsheathed her Valyrian steel dagger. "But that was another one of your lies. It was yours."

It was impossible to miss the signs of cornered prey now; Littlefinger threw himself forward, red-face, and leaned across the great table in his desperation. "Lady Sansa," he begged, "I have known you since you were a girl; I've protected you—"

"Protected me? By selling me to the Boltons?"

He shook his head. "If we could speak alone, I can explain everything."

Sansa leaned back in her seat, her face a stone mask. "Sometimes, when I'm trying to understand a person's motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister?" As Littlefinger backed away, eyes filling with tears, her lip curled in disgust. "That's what you do, isn't it? That's what you've always done—turn family against family, turn sister against sister. That's what you did to our mother and Aunt Lysa, and it's what you tried to do to us."

"Sansa please—"

"I'm a slow learner, it's true. But I learn."

"Give me a chance to defend myself. I deserve that."

Sansa pursed her lips, but she leaned back and fell silent. Caitie wondered what Littlefinger might say to defend himself, but as it turned out, he had no plan of defending himself at all. Instead, he spun on his heel and strode towards Lord Royce, only a few men separating him from Caitie. "I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you escort me safely back to the Eyrie."

Lord Royce scoffed. "I think not."

And that was an indictment in and of itself. Caitie could hardly believe it-but now she realized the truth: that whether or not she'd underestimated Littlefinger was irrelevant, because they had all underestimated Sansa.

Littlefinger faced the great table once more and fell to his knees, sobbing. Caitie hadn't seen such a pathetic sight since the execution of Janos Slynt, but this time, there was no horror, no fear, no sympathy. He'd hurt too many people for that, and would continue until there was no one left but him if they allowed him to live. So Caitie only watched, disgusted by the tears threatening to pour down his bright red face. "Sansa, I beg you; I loved your mother since the time I was a boy."

"And yet you betrayed her," Sansa replied coolly.

"I loved you—more than anyone." His voice broke.

"And yet you betrayed me." She stood, and curiously, Caitie noticed a tear track on her cheek. "When you brought me back to Winterfell, you told me there's no justice in the world, not unless we make it." Sansa nodded to Arya. "Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I will never forget them."

Arthur's hand slipped into Caitie's. "You can look away," she whispered.

He shook his head, but his hand clutched tight to hers as they watched the execution unfold.

Arya stepped forward; Littlefinger trembled as she drew closer to him. "Sansa—" he rasped, but his final plea was cut short as Arya's Valyrian steel dagger slashed across his throat.

It was not as quick a death as Caitie would have liked.

He bobbed in place, blood pouring from his neck as his hand clutching at the wound. "I—" he tried to say, before he fell to his hands and knees, a horrible gurgling noise replacing his attempts at speech. The sounds seemed to last an age before he finally keeled over onto the stone floor, landing with a loud thud, and went silent.

Caitie looked away from the body, unable to stomach the growing pool of blood. She supposed she should have felt relief, but instead, dread curled in her stomach, for even though he'd died today, everything he had told her still remained.

And that, she realized, was why he had looked so triumphant before the trial. Not because he had caught on to Sansa and Arya-but because he'd known he'd succeeded in shaking her. And now, even though they'd won against him, it was a hollow victory.

At the great table, Sansa stared at Littlefinger's body; lips parted and tears streaming down her face, her entire body shaking. And Caitie realized that however much this had to happen, however much Sansa hated him, ordering Littlefinger to die had been one of the hardest things she'd ever needed to do.

At last, she nodded to the guards, and they hauled his body away for cremation, leaving only the pool of blood in his place. Once she swept out of the great hall, the voices started up, for everyone wanted to gossip about the trial. Only Arya and Bran did not, opting instead to stand around, watching everyone with equally blank expressions.

Caitie turned to Arthur, who was paler than she'd ever seen him. "Are you all right?"

He swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Caitie wasn't sure she believed that. "Arthur—"

"Ah, it's the lad's first execution, Caitriona. Let him enjoy it," said Rodrik, clapping Arthur on the shoulder.

He snorted, a bit of color returning to his cheeks. "I'm not sure I'd call an execution enjoyable."

"When it's that slimy bastard, you bet it's enjoyable."

"Well, when you put it that way…" Arthur gave Caitie a half-smile. "Go on. I'll be fine."

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Though she didn't like it, Caitie left him and Rodrik to their own devices and approached Arya. "Well, it's over," she said by way of greeting.

Arya nodded, not taking her eyes off the pool of blood. "It's over."

"Are you doing okay?"

"He wasn't on my list," was her answer. "But I suppose I could add him posthumously."

Caitie furrowed her brows. "Is this the list of people you want to kill?"

"Mm. A black brother I met told me to say the names before I sleep. He said it helped."

"Oh. Who else do you have on your list?"

Arya shrugged. "Most of them are dead now."

"Did you…?"

"Some. Not all."

"And did it help? Killing them?"

Arya frowned in confusion, as if no one had ever asked her such a question. "It got me what I wanted," she said at last. "That's what matters."

"What did you want?"

"Vengeance."

Caitie smiled. "Ah."

"What?" Arya asked.

"Nothing," she said, because she didn't think Arya would appreciate Caitie pointing out that she'd avoided answering the original question. "You should go be with Sansa. She could probably use you right now."

Arya shook her head. "You should go. I'm not good at the whole… comforting thing. Not anymore."

"You don't need to be. You just need to be there." When Arya hesitated, Caitie added, "To be honest, I think she'd prefer you to me."

Arya shrugged. "If you say so."

Caitie stared after her as she headed the way Sansa had gone, until she disappeared through the archway behind the great table, which led first to the council room and then to the battlements. Once she was gone, Caitie turned to Bran, who was watching her intently.

"What?" she asked.

Bran looked at her for a moment longer before he answered. "Jon has returned to Dragonstone; he will depart with the queen and arrive here within a fortnight."

It took a moment for the words to register; when they did, Caitie stifled a sob of relief. A fortnight. Jon will be home in a fortnight.

But once she'd recovered from the initial relief, she realized what else Bran had just told her. "He's coming with the queen?"

"Yes. They will sail to White Harbor together, then ride to Winterfell."

Together was the word that stuck out to Caitie. Littlefinger's words echoed in her head once more. She chewed on her lip as she thought over what to ask, hoping that if she worded her question correctly, Bran might give her an answer. "Bran, why did he bend the knee?"

She shouldn't have been surprised when he answered, "I can't tell you."

"Well, what can you tell me?"

Bran hesitated before he answered. "There has been enough commotion for one day. Come to my chambers tomorrow morning. I need to discuss something important with you as it is; I will explain all I can then."

"Tomorrow morning?" she asked. "You promise?"

"I promise."

Caitie closed her eyes, trying to subdue the urge to throttle him. And maybe she would, at some point—but not until she had what she needed. "Fine. I suppose that will have to do." She turned away, until another question came to her, one which would require little more than a yes or a no; one to which she still wasn't sure she wanted an answer. "Did he have a choice? And not bend the knee or get eaten by a dragon—a real choice. Did he have one?"

Bran looked down at the table, concealing his face from view, and said, "Yes."

Welp. It's time for a random rant.

So, I finally got around to playing BG3, and first off it's fucking incredible, but I went into it without a making character backstory because I figured I'd just come up with one as I went along, and that was probably the worst video game mistake I've ever made—and I once sided with the Templars in DA2 as a mage. (It was my first playthrough, I was romancing Fenris, Carver was a Templar, and I was afraid they'd turn on me if I didn't side with the Templar.) Idk why I thought it would be like Dragon Age or Mass Effect instead of DnD, considering that it's literally a Baldur's Gate game, but, um... yeah. Anyway, so I obviously scrapped my first playthrough (7 hours into the game), because I just had no direction or investment in my blank-slate Tav, and now I'm sitting here like... should I just make Caitie? I mean, I'm pretty sure I still have the initial DnD character sheet I made for her 4 years ago somewhere, sooooo. Or should I stop being lazy and fill out a new character sheet (because I really sort of want to play a half elf)?

Sigh. I just really hate making new characters. I always have to name them, and I think we've established by now that I suck at it.