To epitomize the world in which we live, we must first step back and remember that we are flawed.
But to understand the world in which we live, we must recognize that man realizes just this: the good exploit the flaws and the wicked jeopardize their...
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In the Great Hall of Winterfell, Sansa fights the quickening of her breath as they await the final presence of her sister, the storm outside bearing upon the walls and making them groan while they pull upon their furs and reassure their sight for a historial trial they've all awaited. Standing behind Sansa, Stannis keeps his eyes locked on the knights of the room without a moving glance, all while Bran sits at Sansa's side—not to lead these Northerners, but to impart his own knowledge that can reassure them of what none of them saw.
The door creaks open and the winds whistle with a frenzy as Arya enters the hall with two guards at her back, a certain confidence in her posture that can be read from many different angles—but Sansa wants to grin at this perfect plot they've managed—so proud is she. But beneath the stone mask, nothing moves as the guards take their positions elsewhere at Sansa's nod, the door shutting with a clang at the back of the hall as her eyes move about—pointedly noticing Petyr Baelish leaning against the wall.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Arya asks simply as she finally turns to Sansa with blue eyes meeting grey, and the two mirror the strength of their direwolf sigil.
"It's not what I want. It's what honor demands," Sansa responds with the air of a lady.
"And what does honor demand?"
"That I defend my family from those who would harm us," Sansa asserts, "That I defend the North from those who would betray us."
Arya's head tilts to the left, a glance not made towards any particular person but placed in the vicinity of the murderer in their midst. She smirks, "All right, then. Get on with it."
"You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges..." Sansa's chin rises as she takes a deep breath and then dives into these waters of victory as she turns to the man on the right, "...Lord Baelish?"
It takes a moment, and then it sticks—his name upon her lips at the end of an accusing sentence, and Littlefinger flinches and does a double-take at Sansa as his grey eyes flash brightly in a way she has never seen—he is shocked. Internally riled with this win, Sansa watches Arya grin from afar as Petyr sends glances at the lords and knights, none of which look shocked by the progression—and he needs to know how they've managed this secret.
"My sister asked you a question," Arya's voice echoes about the room with her taunting smile.
But Petyr stares only at Sansa as he steps in front of that table, seeing nothing less than mild contentment from the Lady of Winterfell as he quirks his head confused, "Lady Sansa, forgive me. I'm a bit confused."
Sansa leans forward as her arms cross on the table, her eyes wickedly pretending to be surprised by such a request as she asks, "Which charges confuse you? 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?"
