GOT: The Great — Chapter 296 - I Warned You Not to Trust Me

Drogo sat in Walder Frey's seat.

The chair was oak, its backrest carved with the twin-tower sigil of House Frey. The cushion had been compressed by the old man's weight for so many decades that it had taken the shape of his backside.

Margaery Tyrell sat to his right. Sansa Stark sat to his left, and beside Sansa sat Lady Stoneheart.

Lady Stoneheart wore a grey mask that covered everything below her eyes.

This wasn't the hall where the Red Wedding had taken place — that had been in the western castle. Drogo had chosen the eastern castle's hall for the feast.

The eastern hall was identical to the western one.

Same stone-flagged floors. Same arched windows. Same iron candle brackets jutting from the walls, same tallow candles set in them.

The Freys had built both castles as exact mirrors of each other, down to the placement of every tapestry.

Lady Stoneheart sat and looked at those identical candleholders, identical arched windows, identical stone walls. Her hands moved back and forth across her knees, rubbing.

After a while, she raised them and pressed her fingers to the corners of her eyes. She held them there for a moment before lowering them again.

Sansa reached over and placed her hand on Lady Stoneheart's knee.

Davos Seaworth and Tormund Giantsbane had arrived the evening before the feast. Both were road-worn, their saddlebags hung with rock-hard dried provisions, and behind them came over a thousand wildlings, every one of them grimy and unkempt.

Tormund was already bellowing that he was hungry the moment he passed through the gate.

When Drogo received them in the gatehouse tower, he was leaning against the hearth, warming himself by the fire.

He pulled an iron poker from the flames, a blackened lump of bread speared on its tip, tore off a piece without flinching from the heat, chewed it twice, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and then turned to look at the men who had just come in.

"I told you to hold the Dreadfort. What are you doing here?"

Tormund unshouldered his axe and leaned it against the wall. His voice was rough, still ragged from the long ride. "No special reason. Just wanted to fight alongside you and take a share of the spoils."

Davos stood beside him. "Same."

Drogo glanced at him. Davos wasn't that kind of man. But he didn't dwell on it.

The day the Twins had fallen, half the spoils had already been distributed, handed out to the soldiers from White Harbor and the Vale. The remaining half Drogo had kept for himself.

He looked at the wildlings, exhausted and slumped, and cut a portion from his own share and gave it to them.

Tormund's gratitude was loud enough to rattle the rafters. "That's wonderful!" he bellowed. "My king, you are a good man!"

Drogo didn't care about a little coin. As long as he had dragons, he'd never be short of it.

Midway through the feast, a roasted suckling pig was carried out and two more barrels of ale were brought in.

Drogo rose to his feet, rapped his cup on the table twice, and the noise in the hall gradually died.

"When I was at Rosby, I promised to make you Lord of the Riverlands." He looked down the table. "So why did you send a Sorrowful Man to kill me? Lord Baelish."

Petyr Baelish was seated among the Knights of the Vale.

He wore a dark grey velvet coat, fingers resting lightly on the rim of his wine cup. He listened to Drogo's words without his expression changing at all.

"I went to Braavos, not Qarth, my king." His tone was as composed as ever. "How could I have sent a Sorrowful Man to kill you? I heard the assassin was stung by his own scorpion — bled from all seven orifices on the spot."

"Bleeding from all seven orifices is one thing. Dying is another. Don't conflate the two."

Drogo looked down at him. "The assassin didn't die on the spot. Maester Qyburn stabilized the poison. Before the man died, he gave up the name of whoever hired him."

That much was true, Qyburn had tried to keep the assassin alive. But it wasn't the assassin who had named Littlefinger. It was the red priest Jonina Beeyon, who had placed her hand on the man's chest and drawn the information out that way.

If it had come from the assassin's own lips, Drogo wouldn't have believed it.

"Slander." Baelish stood up, both hands braced on the table's edge, his voice climbing sharply. "You call that evidence? I demand that Bronze Yohn escort me back to the Eyrie."

"Tormund." Drogo cut him off.

Tormund pushed up from his chair, set the half-gnawed chicken leg back on his plate, and wiped the grease from his hand on his trousers.

Bronze Yohn's sword came out of its scabbard.

There were fewer than 10 Vale knights inside the castle, the rest were encamped outside the walls, but every one of them was on his feet, hands on their hilts, closing around Baelish.

"Would you trample the guest right as Walder Frey did?" Bronze Yohn's sword tip pointed toward Drogo.

"He pledged his loyalty to me at Rosby," Drogo said. "He's not a guest. He's a subordinate."

"The Vale has never sworn fealty to you." Bronze Yohn didn't lower his sword. "We didn't come here to fight your wars. We came to seek justice for House Stark. I have a duty to protect the Lord Protector of the Vale."

From behind Bronze Yohn, Baelish raised his voice. "That day I only said it in passing — I never swore an oath. It doesn't count as allegiance."

"No oath, so it doesn't count. Fine." Drogo gave a slight nod. "Does that mean I have to let a man who tried to have me killed just walk out of here?"

Baelish ignored him. He grabbed Bronze Yohn's arm and dropped his voice low. "Get me out of here. Now."

Drogo walked forward and stopped less than 3 feet from the tip of Bronze Yohn's sword. He looked at Baelish, but his words were for Bronze Yohn and every knight of the Vale in that hall.

"Littlefinger conspired to murder Jon Arryn."

Jon Arryn. Lord of the Vale, Lord of the Eyrie, Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon. Bronze Yohn's liege lord.

He had died suddenly at King's Landing, swift, suspicious, the cause never explained to anyone's satisfaction.

"He gave Lysa Tully a poison called the Tears of Lys. Lysa poured it into Jon Arryn's cup with her own hands, then sent a letter to Lady Catelyn Stark telling her the Lannisters had murdered her husband."

Lady Stoneheart's hands lifted from her knees and clenched the edge of the table.

Sansa turned to look at her mother. Her mouth was slightly open, her lips trembling, words forming and dying before they could reach the air.

"It was you who started the war between the Starks and the Lannisters." Drogo kept going. "And then you colluded with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon and betrayed Ned Stark. When the Gold Cloaks had him surrounded in the Throne Room, you were the one who pressed a dagger to his throat."

"I deny it!" Baelish's voice cracked. He turned to face the whole hall and spread his hands wide. "None of you saw what actually happened. Every word of this is hearsay. Accusations without a single shred of evidence."

"You pressed a dagger to his throat."

The voice came from across the hall.

Everyone turned.

Baelish turned too. He saw who had spoken.

His body went rigid. "How are you here?"

The person continued: "You told Lord Eddard, 'I warned you not to trust me.'"

Bronze Yohn's sword tip dropped an inch. Then he sheathed it and stepped half a pace to the side.

The Vale knights no longer closed ranks around Littlefinger.

➤ Next: Littlefinger Could Not Escape Death After All