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“How many times have you betrayed the North, Lord Baelish?”
Sansa Stark’s voice rings high and clear in Winterfell’s Great Hall, smile that just inches toward smug held firmly in place.
She thinks herself clever, Petyr thinks, and notes that it is bittersweet. He once thought this girl could be the perfect combination of Cat’s flawless beauty and his wits. It’s not often that he’s this wrong.
There’s too much of Eddard Stark in Sansa it would seem. Petyr looks straight into her blue, blue Tully eyes and tries to will her to see how this will go for her.
Come now, Sansa, he thinks. Come now, you know better.
But she holds her gaze waiting for him to confess. He holds his tongue. He knows where she will start.
“You murdered Lady Lysa Tully Arryn in the Vale and conspired to hide it. Do you deny it?”
Sansa looks from him, to Lord Royce, back to him, and Petyr reminds himself it would not do well to smirk.
“You are, of course right, Lady Sansa” he says, to shocked gasps that fill the hall and congratulates himself on sounding ashamed, shocked, and hurt. “I confess to conspiring to cover up the murder of my wife, the Lady Lysa Tully Arryn Baelish.”
He sees Sansa’s smile falter just then, and he turns to Lord Royce and grimaces, as if in pain.
“Forgive me, my lord,” he says, bowing humbly. He’d prostrate himself at Lord Royce’s feet if need be.
“Forgive me,” he says again, allowing his voice to break a little, as though he were crying. “My wife was always protective of her son, her Sweetrobin, Jon Arryn’s true heir. When the Lady Sansa and myself arrived in the Vale, Lysa thought to betrothed her precious boy to Sansa, a great honor to the Starks, the Arryns, and the Tullys.”
The hall is so silent, one could hear a pin drop. He has them. He remembers not to smile.
“But one day, the Lady Sansa was out in the yard building a snow castle I believe, and Lord Robert, well… a sickly child, and prone to fits, accidentally knocked it down.
He pauses to look at Sansa, sure to keep that mournful countenance up, and is inwardly pleased when he sees her horrified look.
“The Lady Sansa… she struck him,” he says, and pauses allowing gasps, and grimaces, and murmurs, and only continues once they have subsided.
“My lady wife was incensed. I tried to convince her that it was an accident, but…” he trails off, and looks at some point off in the distance, before sighing heavily and turning to Lord Royce.
“You remember, my lord, how Lysa treated the boy?”
Lord Royce frowns deeply.
“If someone so much as sneezed near him, she’d demand they be ejected from the Eyrie.”
Petyr nods.
“You can imagine then how she reacted to Lady Sansa. I did not know that Lysa planned to confront Lady Sansa in the high hall until I heard their shouts. When I got there the moon door was open and–”
Again, Petyr stops himself abruptly. He must be careful now, so careful. He slows his tone, and lowers his voice to a whisper.
“How I begged and begged Lysa to let her go,” he says, almost as if he were speaking to himself. Every eye in the hall is trained on him– except Lady Arya. She is looking at Sansa.
“But Lysa refused. I think… I think she meant to push the girl from the moon door as punishment for her treatment of Robert.”
Again, gasps from the crowd fill the hall and when they subside, he finishes.
“But Lysa had been sick for some time, her health was delicate, and Lady Sansa was stronger, and I didn’t think– but, surely, accidentally, Lysa lost her footing and fell through the opening of the moon door.”
Petyr downs his head, and he hears Sansa’s shaky voice from the dais, “He’s lying.”
He looks at her and then to Lord Royce. He’s pleased to see the doubt on Royce’s face.
“Forgive me,” he says again, locking eyes with the man. “I believed it an accident. I didn’t want to believe anything else, and certainly not Cersei Lannister’s lies. I sought to protect her for the love I bore her mother and her aunt. I did not think Cat or Lysa, if Lysa had been in her right mind, would have wanted the girl to be harmed.”
“He’s lying,” Sansa says again, angry now, but Lord Royce stands and Petyr addresses him once more.
“Forgive me, my lord. I helped her craft the story she told in your hall after Lysa’s death. At the time I thought she was Catelyn Tully Stark’s last living child and I would have done anything to protect her for the love I bore for the Tully sisters from our lifelong friendship.”
“I notice,” says Lord Glover, rising, “that you only ever mention your love for Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa. No allegiance to Ned Stark then?”
Petyr grimaces.
“There is no love lost between the Starks and I, it is true. Some wounds runs too deep,” he finishes, and places a hand on his chest for emphasis. No doubt the Northern lords know how Brandon almost killed him.
Lord Glover sits down, and Lord Royce stares at him, his face screwed up thinking, and then he turns to Sansa.
“If Petyr Baelish murdered your aunt, why did you not confess it in the Vale? You stood before myself, and Lady Anya Waynwood and told a tale that did not implicate him. Why?”
“I didn’t know who I could trust,” Sansa says quickly, too quickly. She takes a deep breath, and he can see her steady herself. “Lord Royce, you cannot believe him. He is lying.”
He sees Lord Royce’s eyes narrow at her, before he turns his gaze back to him.
“When you speak of Cersei Lannister’s lies… I assume you mean Cersei’s charge that the girl killed King Joffrey?”
Petyr tries not to smile. She has gone from ‘Lady Sansa’ to ‘the girl.’ This is going rather better than he’d hoped.
“Yes, my lord,” he says, sighing heavily. “I did not want to believe Lady Sansa to be a kingslayer and kinslayer, but…” he trails off.
“Spit it out, Baelish,” Lord Royce says, aggrieved.
“I have a here a raven from King’s Landing. It is Olenna Tyrell’s deathbed confession. It says–”
But Lord Royce cuts him off.
“Give it here, Lord Baelish,” and Petyr does, more than willingly, noting, pleased, that he is Lord Baelish again.
Nestor Royce reads the parchment and pales, and thrusts it at Lady Arya. “Read it aloud.”
The girl seems surprised that he’s addressing her and not her sister and takes the parchment gingerly.
“The Lady Olenna of House Tyrell has confessed to the poisoning and murder of King Joffrey Baratheon, first of His Name during his wedding to her granddaughter, the former Queen Margaery. She confesses she retrieved the poison from…”
Arya trails off and stares at Sansa for a moment, and Lord Royce clears her throat for her to continue. Arya does, her voice almost a whisper.
“…from a necklace worn by the Lady Sansa on the day of the wedding. Lady Sansa and her husband, the Imp, Lord Tyrion Lannister are both wanted for questioning.”
Arya looks from Sansa, to Lord Royce, and then to him. He meets her gaze steady on.
“It’s not true,” she says, resolutely, and she sees Sansa give her a warm, smile.
They’re bonding, Petyr thinks dryly. How nice for them.
He sees Arya’s eyes open wide in surprise when he nods eagerly at her.
“I want to believe it as well, my lady, but I cannot fathom why Lady Olenna would lie on her deathbed. House Tyrell is extinct. She had nothing to gain.”
“Cersei is lying then,” Arya spits. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He’s pleased when Lord Royce speaks for him.
“Then why publish Olenna’s confession at all? Why not keep the word that the girl and the imp were wanted for his murders?”
There is a stunned silence in the Great Hall that follows Lord Royce’s question, and Petyr sighs.
“Perhaps Cersei is still angry that the Tyrells once planned to betrothed Ser Loras to Lady Sansa,” he offers the room and delights when another set of excited murmuring breaks out.
“Lady Sansa,” Lord Royce says, and Petyr can tell her’s forcing himself to use the honorific. “Is this true?”
Sansa falters.
“Yes, but–”
Lord Royce cuts her off. “So you were in confidences with the Tyrells in King’s Landing?”
“Yes, but–” Sansa is cut off again, but this time by the Lady Lyanna Mormont.
“So you were engaged to Joffrey, then almost engaged to Ser Loras, and then married to Tyrion?”
“Yes, but–” Sansa, begins again, looking as though she were about to cry.
“You must have hated the Lannisters,” Lady Lyanna says thoughtfully, and looks at Sansa as if measuring her capability for murder.
“I did, but,” Sansa says, and he can see tears sparkling in her eyes. “I never killed Joffrey. Lord Baelish is lying, he was there, he’s the one that got me out of King’s Landing right after Joffrey was poisoned!”
Petyr allows himself to nod sadly.
“It is true, my lords. I turned my ship, which had been bound for the Vale, back toward King’s Landing when Lord Varys sent word of what Lady Olenna was planning. I believed the plot to be a concoction of the Lady Olenna’s and the Lady Margaery, and I never believed the Lady Sansa to be a part of their plots.”
He gives them all a sad smile.
“I was a fool, blinded by the love I had for Lysa, by my mourning for Cat. What better wedding present for Lysa than her niece, delivered to her, safe and sound. What better way to honor the memory of Catelyn Stark, who died trying to save her son at the Red Wedding, than to save her daughter from the lion’s den?”
It was well done, he thinks, looking at the northmen shifting angrily at the mention of the lions. He resists the urge to smirk.
“Then you had foreknowledge of the murder plot against Joffrey and did nothing?” Lord Royce asks, and it sounds as though he is torn between anger and some other emotion. Worry? Fear?
“I have no love lost for the lions,” Petyr says harshly. “I knew Joffrey from my time in King’s Landing. He was a cruel boy, callous and murderous, as the Lady Sansa can testify to, if she wishes.” He doesn’t spare her a look, but hears her intake of breath. “I thought Lady Olenna had the right of it, in preferring Tommen’s rule.”
There is more murmuring from the northmen at this and Sansa seems to sense the tide turning. She stands and slams her hands on the table.
“He’s lying to you,” she says again, and Petyr is pleased to see some of the northmen shifting uncomfortably. They’re starting not to believe her. “He made it so I was wanted for murder, and told me he would take me home and keep me safe.”
“You were wanted for murder,” Lord Royce reminds her gently while Petyr nods.
“If you were so scared, my lady,” Petyr says, looking directly at Sansa, “why did you not go with Lady Brienne when she came for you in that tavern.”
He sees Brienne shift nervously, her little squire looking worried beside her. They both stay silent.
“My lords,” Sansa entreats them, and she sounds composed, but he can hear the slight edge in her voice.
Yes, sweetling, come now, make your last three mistakes, thinks Petyr. He knows what’s coming next. There’s two last charges she will lay at his doorstep.
“Joffrey was horrible and cruel, yes, but I did not believe he deserved to die,” she says.
Arya gives her a double-take, as do many of the northmen.
One, Petyr thinks.
“I did not kill him. I did not conspire with the Tyrells to kill him. I confess, Lord Baelish smuggled me out of King’s Landing, but not before he killed Ser Dontos.”
Two, Petyr thinks.
“The Lannister fool,” he tells the crowd quickly. “I was worried he was a spy and would report back to Cersei. I am sorry for having killed him if he meant well, but I am not sorry if he were another of Cersei Lannister’s catspaws.”
Sansa looks close to tears again.
“He bought me to the Vale for a fortnight, and then sold me to the Boltons. To Ramsay,” she adds for emphasis, and he hears, rather than sees, the Karstarks and the Umbers shift angrily.
Three.
“I confess it,” Petyr says sadly, “and it is my greatest regret. I did not think the Boltons so cruel. They fooled me, as they did many of us in this hall. I had made a promise to the Lady Sansa, to bring her home, and that is what I thought i was doing.”
He looks around the Great Hall meaningfully, before his eyes come to rest on Lady Sansa.
“If you would sentence me to death for not knowing how cruel Ramsay Bolton could be, I would accept that sentence,” he says quietly, and silently congratulates himself on a job well done, as Lord Glover stands quickly.
“King Jon has already pardoned all who stood with the Boltons. No one could know the extent of their immense cruelty.”
The hall is silent for some time, and Sansa’s staring at him from the dais, eyes wide in her pretty face. And fearful.
Arya watches her the whole time before turning to him.
“This dagger,” she says, laying the blade on the table. “Is it yours?”
“It was,” he says, evenly. “I lost it in a bet to Tyrion Lannister, but I am told that he gave it away. A serving woman who came north after the destruction of the Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing found it here when she was cleaning out one of the chambers, recognized it at once, and returned it to me.
“A story easily checked,” Lord Royce says, and looks around the hall. “Where is the girl?”
Petyr points her out and the small, blonde girls comes up. She is shaking and looks nervous at being in front of all the northmen.
“I-if it p-please m’lords,” she stammers out, “I used to w-work in service of King Robert. H-he, used to p-play with the dagger sometimes. H-his s-son J-J-Joffrey was always asking after it.”
Lord Royce studies the girl, trying to suss out if she’s lying, when suddenly the serving girl pushes on in a bout of speed.
“I didn’t see King Robert it with it ever again or King Joffrey or Queen Cersei and I fled here after she blew up the Sept because I was sure the gods would smite King’s Landing and I found employment here and I was so grateful that when I found the blade I turned it to Lord Baelish right away because I knew the blade had to be valuable if it belonged to the King once and I–”
The serving girl takes a deep breath and continues.
“I didn’t want to give it to Lady Stark because I remembered how upset everyone was after what happened to Lord Brandon and I didn’t want to upset anyone I was afraid she would put me out, you see,” the girl finishes quietly.
“Bran said you told him you didn’t know who it belonged to,” Sansa says sharply. She’s clinging now, to her last hope.
“So I did,” Petyr responds evenly. “I didn’t know who the dagger truly belonged to after the bet. I thought Tyrion Lannister, but when I was still in the capitol, I was told I was wrong. I did not know whose hands it had passed into.”
The lords are looking back and forth between him and Sansa and he almost smiles at how distraught she looks.
“What would you have us do?” Lord Royce says, addressing Arya, and not Sansa. Sansa pales.
Arya stares at him. “Jon left Sansa in charge of Winterfell,” Arya says, but Petyr can hear the edge of uncertainty in her voice. He knows she is thinking of the letter he planted, remembering all Sansa had done to be Queen.
“We’ll wait for Jon to decide,” Arya says quickly, looking at Bran for reassurance. Her brother’s gaze is elsewhere. Arya gives Sansa a swift look and then nods to herself.
“We’ll wait for King Jon to decide, she says resolutely,” and seems surprised when the men nod at her.
“My lady, there is still the matter of justice for the former Lady of the Vale, Lady Lysa. Your aunt.” Lord Royce reminds her, and Arya grimaces, but nods.
“What Lord Baelish described was an accident,” Arya says stiffly. “All the same, if you wish for a trial, we shall conduct one.”
Lord Royce opens his mouth to speak, but Arya cuts him off.
“When our King has returned.”
Lord Royce promptly closes his mouth and nods in acquiescence.
“Escort Lady Sansa to her chambers,” she says, nodding to one of the northmen who rises at once.
Petyr smiles. Arya’s use of “Lady Sansa” not “Lady Stark” is telling.
“And escort Lord Baelish to his,” the girl says looking at Brienne, who nods, grimly.
He is to be a prisoner in his own rooms then, he thinks. Arya will keep a close eye on him, but this is fine.
She’ll be keeping a close eye on Sansa too, mistrustful of everything her sister does.
And he has kept his head.
Petyr Baelish allows himself a smile.