"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"It's not about what I want. It's what honor demands."
Against a wall of the Winterfell courtroom, Petyr Baelish was unable to prevent a smirk crawling over his face. He'd done it again, driving the wedge of discord between the two sisters . Arya would soon be dead, by Sansa's decree no less, and one less obstacle in his way, one more rung under him on the climb to the Iron Throne. Sansa spoke up, listing the charges in a dull monotone. Bran looked on emotionlessly.
"You stand accused of murder."
"You stand accused of treason."
"How do you answer these charges, … Lord Baelish?"
Baelish blinked. He had heard every word correctly, but he could not make sense of them. Then he saw Arya's own smirk, and in an instant, understood how deeply outfoxed he had been.
The rest was a blur. He barely heard what he was saying, Sansa delivering accusations without pause, refuting his every argument and throwing his own words back in his face, Bran speaking just two sentences, and yet they were enough to send shivers down his spine, Royce smugly refusing to aid or obey him, exulting in his petty moment of triumph. All Baelish's pleading was in vain, and he fell on bended knee, looking with tear-filled eyes at the daughter of the one woman he'd ever loved.
"Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I will never forget them."
Something snapped within him at that moment, the rage at the injustice of the world he'd kept buried for all these years boiling to the surface. The ladder wavered for a brief second. He was already down on one knee, Arya approaching him with blade drawn, and he suddenly lunged forward to the table where his judges were waiting, bulling into Arya, drawing his dagger and holding it to Bran's throat.
"UNBAR THAT DOOR! NOW!"
There were confused shouts, several knights made to draw their swords, but stopped as Baelish's blade drew closer to Bran's neck, his eyes wild and darting. Then to everyone's surprise, Bran spoke up.
"Let him through."
Sansa stared at her brother, but he only repeated the sentence in his flat, bored tone. She gave a slow nod, and the guards at the door grimaced as they opened the heavy door, glaring hatred at the escaping traitor dragging Bran's wheeled chair as his safeguard. As he passed through, Baelish looked behind him and saw a patrol of guards armed with crossbows. Just as he thought of slitting the little freak's throat, one of them saw him and shouted, raising his weapon. Releasing both knife and victim, Baelish felt fear giving him wings as he ran down a side corridor, crossbow bolts thudding in the walls in his wake. Behind him, Bran spoke some words that he was too far away to hear. His mad dash brought him to the courtyard before any of his pursuers.
A squire was just finishing saddling a horse for his master when Baelish tore the reins from the astonished boy's hand, jumped in the saddle and was galloping out the main gate before his feet were in the stirrups, his flight almost checked by the enormous man occupying most of the portcullis. By the time the household troops had descended in the courtyard and ordering their own horses saddled, he was nearly out of arrow range. The swifter knights were all set to pursue him, but found themselves halted by the presence of the oversized stranger in spiked black armor liberally decorated with skulls, who showed no inclination to get out of their way. Even on horseback they had to look up to speak to him.
"Out of the way, knave!"
"I have business with whoever rules this castle. The faster you summon him, the better for you."
The stranger's tone showed that he would brook no argument. Already hands moved to hilts when a voice rang out.
"That would be me. I am Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Who are you and what do you want?"
The giant gave Sansa an appraising look.
"I have a name, but I am best known in this world as the Wolf. There is a man here by the name of Petyr Baelish. I'm here to kill him. Give him to me."
Ignoring the reactions of the knights, Sansa spoke with no more emotion than if a servant had reported there was cabbage for dinner, every inch the lady of a martial House.
"He's just fled. We are chasing him and bringing him to justice."
"Oh, was that him? Very well."
Turning on his heel, the Wolf walked out of the arched entry as cheerfully as if he had merely asked for directions to the nearest brothel.
The knights looked at one another. Who the hell was this lunatic? One of them, a disturbed expression on his face, whispered a few words in Sansa's ear, and she ordered a general halt before speaking further with him, the knights watching the giant go.
Arya Stark, for who orders were always more of a suggestion, darted out of the castle to catch up to the Wolf, whose every nonchalant stride required five or six steps on her part.
"Hold, Ser Wolf, if that is truly your name."
Without stopping, the Wolf turned his head to look her over.
"A good a name as any for a man, girl."
"I'm not a girl, I'm Arya Stark."
Realizing the giant was not about to stop for her, Arya resigned herself to keeping up with him.
"Why do you want Baelish dead?"
"Because he has been fated to die, and I have been sent to kill him."
"You were paid to kill him? By who?"
Straightaway Arya saw she had hit a nerve. The Wolf stopped, his face contorted with rage.
"PAY?! You think the High Executioner some common cutthroat, sent around the worlds to end lives for coin?!"
Arya jumped back, putting her out of reach of the enormous swords the Wolf carried.
"No! No! But it is seldom that we find men willing to do good deeds for free."
The Wolf's expression went from furious to a neutral anger at being delayed.
"Good deeds? I care not for what the man did, I only know that I must kill him."
"And who gave you that order?"
"The gods. The true gods of the north have deemed him worthy of my blade, the third of a set."
Arya stared. That this hairy monster was able and willing to kill Baelish was in no doubt, but since when did the Free Folk use religion as an excuse to attack? His madness was a strange one.
"I have a greater claim than you upon his life. He murdered my father, caused the death of my mother and brothers, ruined our House, deceived and murderered my aunt and uncle, started a war that killed thousands. And I will have revenge."
Now it was Arya's turn to feel the Wolf's gaze on her, and she realized he was not giving her a look of contempt or disbelief, but actively judging her ability to back up her words.
"Did he? I can understand why his life is thus coveted by the gods. Thank you for telling me, little song."
As they walked still, the Wolf barked out an order in an unknown language, a raspy, buzzing roar that sent Arya's skin crawling. Then her jaw dropped.
Floating in midair, a monstrous ship emerged from behind a screen of trees, its head a living thing, twisting and snarling in fury. A man at the stern tossed the Wolf a rope ladder over a wall of circular shields, which he grasped and started climbing. He had not taken more than three steps aboard when he turned around, staring incredulously at the young woman who had just climbed the ladder, still astride the gunwale.
"And why are you on my ship?"
Despite the measured anger in the giant's voice and the unequivocal leers of the crewmen, Arya managed to compose herself.
"If you are here to kill Petyr Baelish, I am here to do it first. My claim is greater than yours."
There was silence as the Wolf stared hard at her. Then he broke out into hoarse laughter.
"HAH! They do make them brave around here. You're the first of these Southerners to try and follow me or stop me on my quest."
"I am no Southerner, I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, my father was Warden of the North before Baelish betrayed him and had him executed!"
Following this passionate outburst, Arya drew her dagger. This did not seem to impress the Wolf in the slightest, for he merely shrugged, skulls clacking against his armor.
"I daresay his plotting has killed a great many fathers. Why should yours merit more vengeance than another's? Should I go around collecting all the orphans he's made and give them a chance to avenge themselves? Could get a bit crowded, you might want to consider stoning him instead. One rock per child or pouting adolescent and everybody gets their chance."
Arya felt the sarcasm rather than heard it, a dull thudding in her ears as a killing urge grew in her stomach. Leaping sideways, she held the knife to the throat of one of the sailors, a bald and bearded man.
"I will kill him if you don't take me to Baelish!"
"Can you row?"
Dumbfounded, Arya nearly let the blade slip.
"Can, you, row? You kill him, you take his place. Weregild won't get my ship moving any faster. Think about it before you make the situation a loss for everyone involved."
Troubled, Arya glanced at her would-be victim for a second. The man's eyes were distant, and his expression neutral, as if his imminent throat-slitting was of no bad consequence. The face of a man who might welcome death. What manner of madmen and fools crewed this ship? She lowered her knife.
"Einarr!"
The Wolf barked a few words to the crewman, who winced and nodded. Arya took a step back, thinking as to how an assassin might make herself respected when surrounded by men with no fear of death.
"Watch self, girl."
Arya turned. A man wearing a wolf's pelt decorated with dark feathers and snakeskins and holding a long staff bearing a crucified raven was speaking to her, a horrific puckered scar on each cheek.
"Jarl Strong Wolf not kill you now, busy other people to kill, but keep annoy him, you die. Slow."
He spoke haltingly, as if unfamiliar with the language, in sharp contrast to his master's flawless speech.
"Who are you?"
The man grinned, Arya wincing as the mass of scar tissue rippled and convulsed.
"Am Sven Swordeater. Seer of Jarl Strong Wolf, serve all gods like Jarl, but mostly Changer."
Changer? Was that another name for the Stranger? But the Wolf claimed to be on a murderous mission from the Old Gods of the North, why would they worship one of the Seven?
"And if I ask that he take me to the man he said he'd kill, will he do so?"
The sorcerer shrugged.
"Can try. Only very brave ask Jarl Wolf, only very lucky get what want. You brave, board longship without ask. Feel lucky, girl?"
Arya looked to the Wolf, who was laughing at the man called Einarr. Einarr did not seem to get the joke. Turning around, he headed towards the prow, the crew taking their place at the oars. There were no benches, each man sat on a large sea-chest that presumably held his possessions. Pulling in unison while one of their comrades beat a small drum, the ship rose higher in the air, the Wolf's gaze sweeping the land below for his quarry. Suddenly the living figurehead gave a hideous howl, and the ship turned of its own accord, heading south.
Taking a deep breath, Arya walked quickly through the rowers to the prow, making sure to stay well out of arm's reach. Then she spoke up.
"Ser Wolf... Strong."
The Wolf, disturbed from his survey of the horizon, snarled back.
"What now?!"
"I have a request to make of you, as you deny me my vengeance."
"Do you now. You insult me, sneak aboard my ship, and then make demands of me?"
Arya held his gaze. In some strange, detached way, she realized she held no fear of this man or his crew despite them clearly being hardened killers, but that she might not be there to witness Baelish's death.
"A request."
"And what request would this be? To stand idly by and let you kill the man while I wait for the task given me by the gods to be performed by another? To break his limbs and let you deal the finishing blow, adding cowardice to blasphemy?"
"No."
Arya unsheathed the Valyrian steel dagger she had intended to use on Baelish.
"This is the dagger he used to bring ruin to me and my kin. He held it to my father's throat when he betrayed him. All I ask is that you kill Baelish with it."
The Wolf watched her closely, but again she held his gaze. Nodding once, he took the dagger and examined it. Now uncomfortably aware that she was one weapon short on a ship full of unfriendly and leering men, she crouched slightly while he continued his inspection, her hand hovering close to Needle's hilt.
"Done."
"And you will let me be there when you kill him?"
Another long look from the Wolf which she bore stoically.
"Hmph. All right. You may as well bear witness to his death. Never did like traitors much."
Resuming his watch, the Wolf leaned on the prow, looking at the snowy expanse below.
Far below, Petyr Baelish was still galloping away from Winterfell, but the initial rush was now over and he realized he had to slow down or risk falling. He twisted in the saddle. There were no pursuers that he could see at that moment, but it was best not to trust to chance, even though he had always been skilled at moving great distances in a short time. He dismounted and led the horse to a small grove off the main road.
Tying up his horse out of view of the road, he sat back against a tree to take stock of the situation. He judged it difficult but not hopeless. He had slipped a few rungs on the ladder, but he would get his revenge and his prize. Smirking to himself, Baelish snuggled himself tighter in his cloak and fell asleep. Soon he was dreaming, his breathing as regular as the noise thrumming through his head. But the noise grew louder, and he woke with a start, realizing the noise was no dream but a rhythmic shouting, accompanied by a dull boom. His eyes darted left and right, but he could not find its source. The sound grew louder still, until Baelish realized it was coming from above his head. Looking up, he put a hand against the tree to stop himself from falling over. Up in the sky was an enormous longship, its sail unfurled and its oars swinging regularly to move it through the air.
As he stared at the thing, he realized the noise that had woken him was the rowers grunting in unison as they propelled the ship forward. And as it swept past him, he saw the prow, carved into a horrid shape, suddenly twist around and glare straight at him. Figures were now visible on the deck, all looking in his direction and pointing.
Whoever or whatever these people were, he felt they had no friendly intentions towards him. Hastily untying his horse, he slowly led it under the cover of the trees, the infernal shouting following him as the ship moved closer to earth. Panic seized him when he recognized Arya on the ship, and he urged the horse into a gallop on the road even at the risk of breaking his neck.
But there was no escaping that ship, which moved as if the wind itself were at its command. Soon the overpowering sound of the rowers' drum drowned out his own heartbeat, and he saw its shadow pass over him. Sneaking a glance to the side, he saw the ship leisurely keeping pace with him, Arya glaring daggers at him and a giant in black skull-covered armor looking at him with anticipation. Finally the inevitable happened, and the horse, already foaming at the mouth, collapsed under him. Baelish was sent rolling in the snow, and had not yet stopped when a loud crunch told him someone had jumped from the ship.
Frantically he got up and had nearly taken a step before a vast hand descended upon his neck and held him fast.
"Petyr Baelish, or Littlefinger. I am called the Wolf by some, the Inescapable by others. Today you die."
Baelish twisted his neck around. The Wolf was looking him up and down, clearly displeased.
"Oh come now, you're even more of a disappointment than the last one I killed. No weapon even, and if you had magic you'd have used it by now. Bah."
"Einarr! Sverd!"
The Wolf's henchman jumped down from the ship, carrying a light blade. He gave it to Baelish, whose hands were shaking so badly he dropped it. The Wolf sighed, and forced him to his knees to pick it up.
"More used to putting daggers in people's backs, from behind, under flag of truce and in the dark, are you? Get up, you flower-blooded runt, get up and fight for once in your life! Nothing sadder than a schemer when things don't go just as planned."
The Wolf held up Baelish before standing him upright in the snow, then taking a few steps back.
"They say even a cornered rat can put up a fight... Let's see if you can fight as well as a rat, little Fingers!"
Something squirmed in Baelish's gut, and he felt a rage wash over him that he had forgotten for decades. The same fury he had felt all those years ago, when he had first challenged Brandon Stark for the hand of Catelyn Tully and lost miserably, a loss that had festered within him, gnawing at him, and resulted in one of the greatest wars Westeros had ever known. How many tens of thousands died because he could not give up his love?
He ran forward, screaming, sword held high, and he struck again and again at his foe. Chips of bone flew as the blade fell until Baelish finally fell to his knees, utterly exhausted and panting, the sword dropping from his numb hands.
"Are you done?"
Baelish lifted his head. The blinding rush of battle had worn off, and his eyes widened at the realization of what had happened. The Wolf had not drawn his blade or even moved a muscle, content with letting Baelish make a fool of himself by attacking in ineffectual frenzy, inflicting no more damage than a kitten. Arya, who had joined the handful of warriors on the ground, could no longer restrain herself and collapsed into hysterical laughter.
Paralyzed by fear, Baelish's eyes welled up with tears, prompting a look of disgust from the Wolf.
"Not again... Is this truly the best this world has to offer? Am I to give my masters the skulls of weaklings and cowards?"
The Wolf's hands moved to Baelish's throat, then over his eyes. A sudden memory flashed into Baelish's head.
"No! No! Can... serve you!"
"What?"
"I can... I can serve you! I remember you now, from King's Landing, you killed the Mountain and said you'd return to conquer the seven kingdoms!"
The thumbs relieved their pressure. Baelish's eyes were wide, his voice squeaky and desperate. The Wolf shrugged.
"And I see that my warnings were so well-heeded that he was still the closest thing to a challenge this world has offered me. And what help can you provide that would justify my sparing you?"
"Ser Wolf, NO! He's trying to-"
Without even looking back, the Wolf's voice drowned out Arya' interruption.
"You, girl, are a stowaway, and the only reason I haven't thrown you to the men is because they row like drunken swine once they've drained their balls."
Arya fell silent, in shock at both the insult and the threat.
The Wolf's head turned to look Baelish in the eye.
"You were saying?"
Baelish's confidence returned to his voice. Now he was in his element again. Whatever otherwordly magics the barbarian had access to, whatever strength his immense body gave him, they could not compare to his own skill in pushing pawns across the board, in playing with people's emotions to get them to do what he wanted as easily as a whore obtained money from a man. The ladder had wobbled for a brief moment, but was back under his feet.
"I can tell you the weaknesses of every kingdom, where to strike and who to kill first. I can give you spies, informants and traitors, get you maps, tell you where the richest plunder can be had! Just spare my life, and I will serve you unquestioningly, Lord- er, Wolf!"
Baelish looked pleadingly at the Wolf, who remained unimpressed.
"A promising tale indeed. Anything else you want out of me, as a reward for your good behavior?"
Baelish fell silent for a moment. It was working, the brute was even easier to manipulate than he'd thought!
"I want... Sansa! Give her to me, and I swear I shall serve none other than you!"
"Who?"
"You won't have her!"
Slipping easily past the crewmen's attempts to restrain her, Arya dashed forward, her blade flashing. Baelish's eyes widened in horror, then spun as the Wolf rotated his body, Needle jabbing through his heavy leather cloak and ringing against his armor. In his free hand the giant swept up Arya, his gauntleted hand closing around her neck.
"I will not say this again: Do not interrupt, girl."
Then he turned back to Baelish.
"Who is this Sansa?"
"Sansa Stark, she is... Everything I did was for her, everything! And I would rather let the world burn than see her taken from me!"
The Wolf looked at Baelish for a moment, his expression unchanged, while Arya struggled furiously in his iron grip.
"Very well."
Both his victims let out gasps of surprise and indignation respectively, but he went on.
"You would serve me. Then you would serve my gods as well? Will you obey their will and their purpose without question, pledge your life in servitude to the true gods of the North?"
The gods of the North? Baelish struggled to remember what he could of the wildlings' ways, desperate to please his new master and hoping to loosen his grip on his throat. Best to overplay the craven coward now than to anger him and be killed on the spot. He had not escaped death at Arya's hands in a dim courtroom to be slain in so ignominious a manner.
"Er- gladly, Lord Wolf!"
The sycophantic tone did nothing to improve the Wolf's expression.
"You speak without asking who they are or what they do. What can you tell me of Chaos, Fingers?"
Baelish was struck dumb. What on earth could the giant mean? Every man in this world was motivated by his own gain, his own urges or, for idealistic fools like the Starks, by their code of conduct, but chaos for chaos' sake was unheard of.
"Chaos is... chaos is the path for men to achieve greatness. It creates opportunities, openings that can be exploited by those who see them."
Without realizing it, his speech gained in passion as he went on. Though he had often explained his philosophy, it was not often he was asked to develop it further.
"It is a ladder, an eternal climb upwards with slips and falls, but always renewed. Only fools and the wifully blind cling to their rung, so afraid to lose what they have that they cannot see how much more they could take."
The Wolf looked at Baelish a long while, then a slow grin broke out over his face.
"I can see why the Raven wanted you for himself. Rarely have a seen a more obvious cheater, backstabber and traitor. You will go far in the Crystal Labyrinth. Now-"
The giant stood up straight, holding both of his victims at arm's length.
"-as you have agreed to serve the same gods I do, it is only fitting that I make their will towards you clear."
"I was sent here to find you, to duel you to the death, and should I prove myself the better fighter, to extract several trophies from you. Now, we can both tell it is obvious this battle would be entirely hopeless on your side. I should judge you were never a strong lad, were you? Ever won- ever been in a fight?"
Baelish felt himself reddening. It was true that he had long ago abandoned all pretense of martial virtue, but something in the Wolf's words seemed to crawl under his skin and make his knuckles itch for a sword, if only to prove him wrong.
"So, the will of the gods must be respected, and yet it is forbidden for me to slaughter a defenseless weakling and parade it as though I had slain the Everchosen himself. No, we shall look upon a clearer sign."
"Are you a betting man, Fingers? Do you often trust your luck to see you through the times of tumult and land on your feet?"
Baelish felt the situation starting to escape him again. But before he could answer, the Wolf continued.
"This is what will happen. I will tie you to a tree. Then I will walk nine and ninety steps away from you, blindfold myself, and nine times try to kill you. If after the last attempt you are still alive, I shall consider it the Raven's will that you are to live and serve me as you have promised."
Baelish's eyes lit up with hope and despair, but Arya's were full of fury.
"NO! He murdered my father as surely as if he'd swung the blade! He-"
"Yes, yes, you told me what he did, and I tell you that I do not care. It is not for me to question the will of the gods, and if this man's fate had not been tied to my own I should not care what you did to him or he to you."
"Einarr!"
After an order from the Wolf, his lieutenant approached carrying a strip of sailcloth, followed by half a dozen of the ship's crew carrying heavy ropes. He presented it to his master, who only sighed.
"það er of lítið!"
Einarr returned to the ship and came back with a longer cloth, while the smaller cloth was used to gag Arya despite her struggles. Baelish, still thinking feverishly as to how he could get out of this predicament, noticed the resigned expression on the lieutenant's face as his chieftain berated him. Downtrodden, beleaguered, taken for granted... with the right kind of push, he might very well be the inside man Baelish would need to escape the Wolf's clutches.
The Wolf dropped Arya to the ground and made for a tree at the edge of the road, where his men pushed Baelish to his knees before securely tying him against the tree, face rubbing against the bark. Despite his struggles, Baelish could not loosen them, and it even seemed they cut tighter into his flesh with every pull. There was no escaping a sailors' knots.
He heard them pulling away, the Wolf stepping slowly and deliberately until the crunch of his footsteps in the snow faded away.
Baelish, alone with his thoughts, suddenly regretted his choice. Of course, the brute was likely to miss at a hundred paces and blindfolded, relying more on his strength than any finesse, but that did not make him any happier. He winced as there was a clang behind him as something metallic bounced off a rock, followed by a cheer from the barbarians behind. The Wolf had been carrying a dozen swords around his waist, was he throwing them?!
Another clang, this time further away, and another cheer. Were they counting the number of blades being thrown at him, or were they calling out corrections?
A whistling sound and a thud, this time in front of him. Baelish scraped his nose on the bark as he cringed at the sound. Three misses.
Another, closer this time. Four. Baelish's heart seemed intent on rising out of his chest.
Another. Five. His clothes were soaked with sweat.
Another. Six. He could not stop himself from whimpering softly.
The tree shuddered and Baelish screamed as a sword crashed next to it, the audience whooping and cheering. The Wolf bellowed something in their harsh tongue. Was he chastising them for unwittingly guiding him, or for sarcastically applauding his near-success? Only two more.
The eighth one was slow in coming. Was the Wolf trying to remember his last throw, getting the conditions exactly right so as to end him so close to salvation? What depths of cruelty would this monster sink to? It was a relief to hear another whistling sound and hear the sword sail past him into the woods.
As he heard the thud, hope erupted in Baelish's chest. Just one more miss, and he would be free, free to plot and scheme again, back on the eternal ladder, carefully aiming this barbarian at his enemies before removing him, and then, take the Iron Throne, and with Sansa at his side he would-
A series of crunching sounds behind him, and suddenly the shock of pain as a blade entered his back between his shoulders.
He screamed, feeling his head being twisted to see both the Wolf and Arya, unblinded and ungagged, the Wolf's hand still grasping the dagger's handle as he pulled it out and sliced through Baelish's throat.
"I did warn you that I am inescapable."
Hideous gurgling was the only answer, and the last thing Petyr Baelish saw were the unblinking eyes of Arya Stark. Just before the darkness took him, he saw her smile.
As the last breath left the corpse, the Wolf wiped the dagger clean on Baelish's coat, muttering words in no language Arya knew. He then pulled his sword out of the ground and proceeded to carefully cut the body from the tree and desecrate it, stabbing it in the gut, ripping out its heart and finally decapitating it. The gruesome ritual performed, he walked back to his ship, his crew already gathering up the fallen swords.
Arya followed him as the sun started to set.
"Why did you lie to him?"
"Lie? I told him I would try to kill him nine times."
"But you threw eight swords at him before you took off your blindfold."
"The ninth blade succeeded, for it is the number of the Raven God, and it is his way to remove his pawns when it serves his purposes. It is only fitting that I betrayed him in his moment of greatest hope, just as I battled the warrior and flayed the torturer."
"But he was telling the truth. If you'd given him my sister, I really think he would have helped you as he said. So why didn't you spare him?"
"Why didn't I take him up on his offer to reveal the weak points in the defenses of every city, the competent commanders to assassinate before a battle, the richest plunder, the best ways to defeat entire kingdoms with minimal effort and bloodshed on my part, to offer me the world on a silver platter?"
"… Yes."
The Wolf turned to look Arya in the eye, speaking with absolute sincerity.
"Where's the fun in that?"
There was an uncomfortable silence as Arya pondered the mindset of a man who would deliberately refuse an easy yet underhanded way, not for the stain on his honor but for the challenge of it. Like a dark mirror of her own father.
"Why are you telling me all this? Are you planning to kill me afterwards?"
"Not right now. The gods have not spoken to me of your fate, and it may be you play no part in their plans, or are simply considered unworthy of my sword. As for why I am telling you, I had left no survivors last time, and from the coward's reaction, my first foray into this world went so unnoticed that he only remembered me at the moment he needed to save his skin."
Grabbing the rope ladder, the Wolf paused one last time to look at Arya.
"We may meet again, girl. There are two more yet to sacrifice before Chaos comes to this world. I trust you have no claim on their lives either."
In the fading light, Arya watched him climb the rope ladder after the last of his crew, staring at the ship until it had disappeared into a hole in the air that closed up behind it, before realizing she was alone at night in the forest, her dagger still in the Wolf's hands.
Her return to Winterfell the next day was marked by much discussion and speculation, but while she confirmed that the fleeing Baelish had been brought to justice for his crimes at last, only her siblings were told of the ignoble death of Petyr Baelish of the Fingers, Lord Protector of the Vale, mastermind of the War of the Five Kings.