cp15

Chapter 15

The Great Hall of Winterfell was eerily quiet. Sat on my throne, with Sansa and Bran on my left and right and Brienne of Tarth at our backs, we surveyed the room for dissention. There was none to be found. Surrounded by men and women of highborn right, Northers and Valemen alike, they remained quiet as they stared at the spectacle in the middle of the hall. There was only one sound in the room, that of a choking, dying man.

Arya sheathed her Valyrian steel knife and took a step away from Petyr Baelish as he held his cut throat, gasping for air that he would not receive. He fell onto a carved stone effigy of a racing wolf chasing its pack then, struggling to hold the weight of his body up, before collapsing onto himself and going lifeless. Blood pooled over the muzzle of that carved wolf, and it made the scene all the more gratifying to see.

None were sad to see him dead. None were concerned for what was once an extremely influential man. Indeed, the eyes of the room were filled with vindication, especially once his crimes were made known.

Petyr Baelish had not taken kindly to being brought before a tribunal, but then, he had no choice in the matter. The King in the North commanded it. When his crimes were listed, given the first-hand accounts of Sansa, including the murder of Lysa Arryn and the conspiracy to murder Jon Arryn her husband years prior, and the treason of begetting the conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters and colluding with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to have our father imprisoned and executed on false charges of treason, Baelish was filled with denials.

And then Bran spoke.

Magic was a curious thing, and the Andals of the Vale were rightly wary of it when thinking of dragonfire and shadowbinders. But Bran's magic was benign in comparison, and indeed was filled with boons for the coming years. He candidly offered the building techniques of old to those with weak shelters, the farming techniques of the Reach to those with poor fields, and military strategies to those wishing to protect their lands. Bran's knowledge was freely given, for he did not understand the need for secrecy in the face of progress.

Bran was trusted. Bran was believed. Everybody knew that Bran was the greatest source of information in the known world. They thought of magic as a double-edged sword, and that Bran wielded it with particularly thick gauntlets of iron and grit.

And thus, when Bran said Petyr Baelish had indeed committed those crimes, and even quoted the man verbatim, the tension rose and the truth was made certain.

We were rebels to the crown that gave him his power, and he was the man that started the War of the Five Kings to begin with, though it could have been said that it would happen regardless, what with the bastard nature of the children of Cersei Lannister. That didn't matter though. What mattered were his choices, and his treasons.

Arya cut him when the verdict was cast, and as I stared at his corpse, a strange feeling welled inside of my core.

There was something… odd, about such a man being killed in such a fashion. He committed so many crimes and was the orchestrator of so much pain, and yet his own death was pathetic and easily done. He died like a weasel. Like a chicken meant for a roast.

Was this what the cleaners of the Red Keep felt when they found Tywin Lannister dead on the privy? Something similar?

I didn't know.

But the unknown held no place in the here and now. The die had been cast.

I turned to the Valemen in the room. "You know now why you were forbidden from fighting in the War of the Five Kings. Why you were kept neutral in the matters of the greater realm. A greedy man and a feeble-minded woman. Though I suspect you always knew and simply did not want to be involved."

Bronze Yohn Royce stepped forward, his eyes angry and his mouth set in a thin line. "The knights of the Vale are the greatest military might in Westeros, your grace. We choose our fights carefully. And I must warn you. That feeble-minded woman, as you so called her, was the mother to our lord."

"That feeble-minded woman was my aunt," I drawled. "My aunt that tried to throw my sister through the moon door. My aunt, who fed my cousin to her tit for many years longer than should have been done. I will speak of my blood however I wish… and it is that exact privilege that has me concerned. My cousin, your lord, Robin Arryn, what is to become of him? I understand Baelish had sway over him."

Royce grimaced. "He did, I am afraid. Baelish was likened to an uncle by my lord."

"Enough to propose marriages for him, I should say." Sansa sighed, still looking at the corpse with a glimmer of righteousness in her eye. "Lord Baelish offered me terms only days after Jon left. I did not accept both due to my desire to stay with my brothers and the wording of his proposal."

"The marriage of Robin is of importance, as will mine own marriage be later on, but it is not a concern for this gathering." I said, shaking my head. "I am instead concerned for his wellbeing. Lord Royce, I will not mince words. I have heard tale that my cousin inherited his mothers flighty and feeble nature, and that his relationship with Baelish only made him more susceptible to manipulation and bouts of panic. How do you believe he will react when word gets to him of what happened?"

The Lord of Runestone looked pained at the thought. "I– I could not say, your grace. I would hope that he would grow from this, but…-"

"But you worry it will only become worse." I finished for him.

"Indeed," he said, hanging his head. He then straightened his form. "However, I hold hope that when the knights of the Vale return to him, we will be able to steer him in the direction he needs to be without the interference of Lord Baelish."

"And when will the knights of the Vale return to the Vale?"

"When news of this execution reaches him, I suspect."

Rolling my hand through my hair, I deliberated on what to do. I needed the Knights of the Vale for the war, but without Baelish to tie them here, and with Robin being a flighty, needy boy, there was no guarantee that they would stay in Winterfell, away from their liege in the onset of winter. Even with their faith in Bran and his proclaiming that the dead were indeed coming, they might not stay put, for the mind is a confusing subject, and reason in the face of an inevitable end is rare. I needed something, anything.

And it came, from a source unexpected.

Bran's cold voice echoed the hall. "We must go to the gates."

I looked at him. "What for?"

"Tormund Giantsbane has returned."

It took a moment for those words to make sense, but when they did, I grimly stood. "My lords and ladies, I believe a new venue is needed. Please, if you would, follow me to the gates."

They did not deny me, and so we left the Great Hall and headed towards the castle courtyard. On the way, I paused to inform a pair of washerwomen that the Great Hall needed to be cleaned immediately, and that an execution had occurred. I had no desire to see that body any longer, and so ordered the corpse of Baelish be brought to the wildfire testing grounds.

When we reached the courtyard, we were greeted by Tormund Giantsbane and some twenty lieutenants of his, wrapped in the thick, insulated furs that the free folk preferred. Behind them, in a dilapidated wagon, were three large crates with the mark of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, held down by thick, castle-forged chains of steel.

Instantly, I knew that he had succeeded.

I sidled up to the large man and spoke quietly. "How hard were they to find?"

"Not hard at all, little king," Tormund shrugged, pointedly not speaking quietly. "They're our own. Brought back right in front of us."

The thought sent a tremble through my body. "I need one now, Tormund. I think it's time we show the southerners what we're preparing for."

"You are a southerner," he chortled, slapping me hard enough on the back to force me to stumble forward. "But aye. If we don't do anything with 'em, then we wasted our time."

Nodding, I turned around, facing the nobility of the North and Vale, lingering on those that doubted my words, such as Robbet Glover and Cley Cerwyn.

"My lords and ladies, highborn and low, children and elderly, I need your ears!" I called out, earning the immediate attention of the yard. Smiths stopped their work to hear me speak, as did tanners and butchers and soldiers of all manner of age and sex. Everybody that heard my words approached, and soon, the courtyard was filled by almost a thousand souls.

"When I sent for the free folk to go north and protect the Wall on our behalf, many of you questioned me, both privately and publicly, behind my back and in my face. And I understood. What I commanded went against thousands of years of toil and struggle, went against what many of you stood for. And because I understood, I had them go on another, more secret, mission. Jon and I have spoken of the dead, have been preparing for it, but few of you have seen them. I myself have not! I only have faith in my brother, for I know him to be honest.

"But that is changed!" I hollered, motioning towards Tormund. Him and one of his men carried one of the heavy wooden boxes from the wagon and dropped it down by my side, the chains surrounding it rattling. A disturbing hissing sound came from the box, echoing the yard, and flinches were made common. Arya and Brienne both approached the box, their Valyrian steel weapons at the ready. "And I bring proof of our enemy!"

I turned to Tormund. "Open it."

The ginger-bearded beast grinned, unlatching the chains from the crate, removing a pair of iron bars locking its opening. With one decisive kick, he knocked the lid of the box open, and the freak followed suit.

It was a horrifying sight, the representation of what was coming. The wight was small, missing its left leg and right arm, but still unrelenting as it dragged its body through the dirt, straining against the heavy chains holding its body down further, rushing towards me. Bracing myself, I jumped away when it grew close and grabbed it by the back of its neck, forcing it down. But this was no skeleton, it was a wight born from a fresh corpse, with muscle still on its body, and keeping it down was a struggle.

"There are three things that can kill them!" I bellowed to the frightful crowd. "Valyrian steel, which is too rare to have much of! Dragonglass, which Jon Stark has gone south to gather! And fire, which is why we are experimenting with wildfire in the first place! If we do not use these, they will never stop! They will never yield! They will make to murder us all and add our bodies to their ranks! Unless we fight!ARYA!"

My sister raced towards me at the call of her name, pulled out her dagger, still coated in the blood of Petyr Baelish, and knifed it into the skull of the wight. A horrible crack that sounded like shattered ice sounded from the stab, and the wight fell limp from beneath me.

I stood, dusting the grime and ichor of its dried blood off of my clothes, and approached the pale-faced delegation of the Vale. Yohn Royce's jowl wobbled as he swallowed hard, and though he had a good foot of height on me, he seemed small as I stood before him.

"The Vale came to the aid of the Starks on the words of a traitor in the Battle of the Bastards." I said, quieter than I had been speaking before, but still loud enough for all to hear. "That traitor is now dead, and you are honor bound no longer to stay in Winterfell. But now that you have seen the truth of this war, I ask of you this: will the knights of the Vale stay, ignoring the summons of their liege lord to fight for the future of Westeros? Or will they return to their mountains, and hide like cowards in their castles to keep their vaunted neutrality as the realm is once again threatened?"

He seemed to struggle to come up with his words, staring at me, then the body still pierced by Arya's knife, and then to the people all around, before slowly, ever so slowly, going to his knees. The lords of the Vale followed his movement, all falling to their knees.

"Until the Great War is won," Yohn Royce said, his voice wavering before hardening into steel. "The knights of the Vale will fight for the living."

And as the crowd thundered into applause, and the chanting name of "STARK! STARK! STARK!" sounded from the ramparts, as even the wildlings from behind me hooted and hollered with the enthusiasm all around, I felt my smile grow ever surer.