[Look To The Stars] Chapter 60: A Father’s Writ, A Son’s Strike (Patreon)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM and George Lucas/Disney. I have no ownership.

A/N: Enjoy!

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Year 299 AC/8 ABY

The Green Fork, The Riverlands

Dawn came gray over the Green Fork, mist clinging low to the reeds as Ned sat his horse on a rise above the center and watched the host take shape in the half-light. Men stamped warmth into their feet, settled helms, tightened shield straps, and found their places beneath direwolf, merman, and moose banners.

Opposite them, Tywin had drawn his army into ordered ranks of red and gold, pikemen planted forward while swordmen and cavalry waited in reserve to be spent at the proper moment. Ned marked the burning tree of Marbrand, the boar of Crakehall, and the golden sun of Lefford, old houses built on western gold and discipline.

Jaime held the vanguard, the gold of his armor a fixed point even across the distance. Tywin kept farther back behind the reserve, where a commander could watch the line break and measure the cost before committing his own men to the breach.

High above, a black fleck turned a slow circle in the pale sky.

Ned let his sight drop from the black fleck above to the men who would die on the ground below, knowing battles were won in mud and blood on shields. Fire belonged only as a last resort.

Once, in a throne room heavy with smoke and roasted flesh, he had looked on Jaime Lannister and felt only contempt. The knight had worn the white cloak and kept his place beside a king who burned men alive. Ned had judged him for it then, and the judgment did not soften. Aerys had used fire for madness. Ned would use it for war, and sparingly. Let the realm call them both the same if it chose. The dead would gain nothing from a spotless name.

Halys Hornwood rode up first, the river mist clinging to his beard and his helm held tight beneath his arm. "My lord," he said. "Give the word."

"You drive the center," Ned said. "Hit hard, keep your ranks close, and pin Jaime where he stands."

Hornwood gave a brisk nod. "They will know the Northmen are here to stay."

Wylis Manderly came after, the heavy horse straining under a weight that would have folded a lesser mount and asked, "Do I proceed as planned?"

"Aye. The bank is yours," Ned said. "Hold it. If they drive you back, send word the instant your line gives."

"I shall hold, my lord." Wylis rested his hand on his sword's pommel. "White Harbor has weathered worse than westermen."

Galbart Glover and Cerwyn came next, their readiness laid bare. Galbart faced the coming labor with the certainty of a woodsman measuring timber to fall before night. Cerwyn, on the other hand, held a sharper edge. His eyes never left the Lannister ranks, his frame already leaning into the wait for the horn.

"Cross the ford at the shallows by the alders," he told them. "Keep to the high ground beneath the riverbank. When Hornwood has their attention, strike quick and hard at their rear. You are the hammer, do not hold back."

Glover grunted in agreement. Cerwyn said, "Their resolve will shatter when they feel the bite of our blades on their backs."

"If Tywin gives you trouble sooner, fall back and send word," Ned said.

Cerwyn nodded stiffly. "Aye."

Ser Andar Royce sat his destrier, the bronze runes on his armor dulled by the morning light. "I will abide by your command, my lord."

"You hold the reserve until I call," Ned said. "If the center opens, you close it. If the right buckles, you shore it up. I want fresh men at hand when the field turns."

Royce inclined his head. "As you command."

The lords dispersed to their positions, and Ned remained where the standard-bearers and hornmen waited, surrounded by runners and a handful of mounted guards. A commander who chased every clash soon ceased to command anything. He had learned that lesson through all his battles and carried it still, though every part of him wanted steel in his hand at the front where Jaime Lannister rode.

The line steadied, a horses sidestepping and snorting in the quiet. Far across the field, a Lannister horn rang out in a single drawn-out cry.

Ned looked once more to the black shape above. Steel first, he told himself, and fire when the line calls for it.

Ned lifted his hand, and the horns of the North answered.

The host broke forward as the sound rolled along the river. Hornwood’s van took the advance. They raised their shields and leveled their spears while boots drove through the wet turf. The two centers met and the crash carried up to the rise. Iron struck iron and timber cracked over the heavy thud of bodies breaking. The shouting came a breath later.

He walked down from the rise to gauge the fighting front, where the Kingslayer drove hard exactly as expected. The golden knight stood where the press ran thickest, sword rising and falling while his cloak snapped in the wind. Robert’s old claim that the man valued glory above all else proved true enough to pin Tywin’s vanguard firm.

A Hornwood rider pushed back through the kicked dust and broken soil. "The center is joined, my lord. The lions hold deep."

"He knows the ground, if he holds them fast," Ned said. "Tell Hornwood to keep pressing."

The man wheeled away.

The ground hid the long curve of Glover and Cerwyn’s flankers as they slipped toward the shallows on the left, while Manderly’s blue-green banner pushed along the river edge to his right. The Lannister host saw neither. If the northern pincers struck the rear before Jaime broke the center the field would fall to them hard and swift. The dragon would hold its silence overhead.

That hope lasted only until Hornwood drove into the center. There, Jaime's cold fury met them head on. The lines clamped together, and men crumpled beneath boots and steel. A northern shield broke free, spinning into the churn as the wind brought the stench of opened bowels.

Another messenger galloped in from the right. "Ser Wylis asks for more archers on the bank. Lannister crossbowmen have taken the willow rise."

"Send fifty from the rear line," Ned said. "And tell him I have Royce ready if the weight grows worse."

From the river bend came Cerwyn's horn, two quick blasts. He'd had successfully made the crossing. Ned turned his horse, squinting for a better view across the field.

But then the first Lannister volley rose from a place where no Lannister volley should have been.

The snap of arrows cutting through the battle roar. Bolts shooting from the alders, slamming into the flankers below. A heartbeat later, pikes bristled through the reeds, blocking the path Glover had picked. Men and horses went over. One rider cartwheeled from the saddle, pierced through. Lannister heavy horse poured from the ridge, driving Cerwyn's men into the killing ground.

Ned's horse sidled beneath him. He reined it hard, his eyes fixed on the second volley as it tore into the crossing.

"They were waiting!" Royce shouted.

A mud-splashed rider burst from the riverbank, driving his horse at a wild pace toward them. The animal was lathered and limping, the man on its back nearly falling from the saddle as he reached Ned. A gash at his brow had split the skin to the hairline, blood running down his cheek.

"Lord Glover reports pikes manning the ford, crossbows hidden in the trees, with horses held in reserve. They knew, my lord. They knew."

For a single moment, the field narrowed to that singular truth. Tywin had not merely guarded the route and the crossing, but positioned his forces to meet Ned's strategy with one of his own, a direct response to the Northern Lord's plans.

"Tell Glover to break free of the trap if he can," Ned ordered. "Instruct Cerwyn to shield the retreat and stop his men from clustering tightly."

The rider drew a sleeve across his mouth, spitting out dust. "Lord Cerwyn, he's already amongst them, my lord."

"Then go!"

Spurring his mount, the rider veered sharply and set off in a dead run toward the river.

The trap had spread its jaws wider than the river bend, and Ned knew it the moment he saw it. Hornwood's men counted on the push from behind. With that gone, Jaime's forces could dig in and press. Worse still, the broken flank left a gaping seam, one Tywin could drive a lance through and roll upon Hornwood's side.

A cry went up from the right, Manderly's banner plummeting and vanishing in the crush. Then it reappeared lower, as a rider broke through from that quarter painted in blood.

"Ser Wylis is struck, my lord! A spear went through the shoulder, under the plate. But he keeps to the saddle and calls for aid. The lions have pushed fresh men against the bank."

Fresh men. Of course, Tywin still had depth.

Ned drew one slow breath, accepting that anger and the dead could wait, but the front could not. The price of delay was the field.

"Ser Andar," he said. "The reserve goes to Manderly. Hold his flank and seal the gap Glover was to open. If Jaime drives through that seam, the field is lost."

Royce gave a curt nod. "With me," he called, and bronze-armored riders wheeled after him, reserve foot hurrying in their wake.

Ned gave his horse to a runner and went forward on foot.

The rise had fulfilled its purpose, so Ned abandoned it. With the right held by Royce and the flankers gone, the center required a Stark at its heart. Ned had observed others bleed long enough, now was the time for him to join the fray.

Ned's hands tightened hard on Ice as he shoved past the Hornwood men, blade out.

The din enveloped him at once, his boots setting against the churn of the line as Hornwood men bled and brawled and cursed. Ned blinked away the crunch of a skull to make his stand, holding his place through the grinding clash of shields and the wet smack of a mace on bone.

Hornwood found him within minutes, blood caking his beard, shield arm hanging lower than it should. "My lord, you shouldn't—"

"Pin him!" Ned shouted.

Hornwood's eyes flashed wide, then his voice boomed out, "Forward!"

A messenger reached him on foot, surcoat half torn away. "Lord Cerwyn is pinned at the crossing. Stakes in the rushes. Horses breaking legs."

With a single stroke, Tywin's strategy had been executed flawlessly. By inviting the inevitable blow and secretly preparing the groundwork for it, he ensured that Ned's efforts were futile, unable to support Cerwyn from afar.

Ned sank his blade where the line could not hold.

A man in Crakehall colors swung a mace at his head. Ned ducked, stepped inside the swing, and finished him on the backswing. The press shoved them all sideways. Ned braced and pushed back.

A ripple ran through the line, and Ned knew Royce had reached Manderly.

Ned planted his feet and held the line, the men seeing the direwolf still standing. But holding was all they could do, for Tywin had depth that would grind them raw. Another quarter hour and the center would buckle under the weight.

Amidst the chaos, Ned grabbed hold of a boy reeling from the chaos, the boy's lost spear now replaced by a borrowed shield and the wounded archer it protected. Crimson dripped from a cut above the boy's ear, the clash's toll on full display.

"Boy, get to the rise and inform the captain to send the signal for the Queen!"

The boy staggered when his foot snapped on a dead man's leg, then righted himself and scrambled for the rise.

Ned pivoted to face the press, his sword a blur of steel as he parried a spear thrust and sank his blade into the westerman's neck. Another assailant met his end on a Stark guardsman's blade, but Ned's mind flashed to Brandon, choked with grief as their father burned. The same call for vengeance now fell to Ned. He shoved a dying man aside and kept his weapon raised, determined to see this through.

From the rise, three lengthy notes reverberated across the Green Fork, succeeded by two shorter.

Heads turned on both sides of the line.

A black speck dove from the sky, wings folded, in a hunter's stoop. Morghaes came clear against the morning, black scales and long neck stretched forward as wings tore the mist apart.

First came the roaring that drowned out even the clanging of metal. Then a black fire unlike any he had seen before, washed over the Lannister baggage and horse lines in one unbroken stream.

Heat pressed against Ned's face as the fire spread, a wall of orange and black flames rising behind the Lannister ranks. Canvas flashed. Grain wagons burst. Tethered destriers tore loose, some burning, some mad with terror, crashing into the reserve cavalry before the riders could mount. Men ran from the wagons with cloaks aflame. Others fell where they stood.

On a single pass, Morghaes soared and banked away from the field, with Daenerys keeping to a steady pace.

Fire raged as it always had, a hungry beast devouring flesh and timber. Men were tossed like rag dolls as frantic steeds trampled over them. The putrid stink of seared hair and burning pitch wafted to the center, but the dragon's flames had scorched the rear alone. The front still stood firm, swords and spearheads still untouched by inferno.

Then Tywin displayed why men feared him as new horn calls cut across the uproar, spurring the standards to reform and the reserve to draw back in orderly files. Rear guards coalesced around the road south, the Westermen's lion still holding its head even in its bloodied and scorched state. Harrenhal had once melted beneath dragonfire, and Tywin was heading for those walls again.

The battlefield shifted drastically around Ned. Westermen who had held their ground began to pull back, turning their faces from the acrid smoke that drifted over the lines. Hornwood pushed forward, and those who had been fighting to survive now found themselves facing men who just wanted to flee.

Ned bellowed command, "Press them, Hornwood, and keep the order. Take prisoners if possible!"

Jaime, however, remained resolute in the midst of the chaos.

The gold knight had hacked his way within ten yards of the direwolf standard when the Lannister rear went up in flames. The men around him broke but Jaime refused to. He pressed on through the smoke, his cloak on fire at one edge.

The first blow came high and fast, and Ned caught it on his blade and felt the impact ring through both arms to his shoulders. The second came low for the leg and he stepped clear, barely. Jaime was faster, had always been faster, and every exchange proved it.

"There you are," Jaime said through the roar.

A Stark guard charged at Jaime from the left, but Jaime killed him with a single stroke. He did not even break his stride as he stepped over the fallen body like a stray pebble in the road.

Ned swung but Jaime turned it and the impact jolted through Ned's arm to the shoulder. He cut again and Jaime answered with a stroke that beat his blade aside and opened a gash across his forearm. Ned backed into a Hornwood man, felt the man brace him from behind, and used the footing to cut low. Jaime parried but the press closed on him from three sides at once.

A Hornwood man grabbed his sword arm. Jaime broke the grip and opened the man from shoulder to sternum, but a second northman caught his cloak from behind. A third hooked his leg. Jaime cut the cloak free and put the third man down with an elbow that crushed the bridge of his nose, but he was fighting the crowd now, not the swordsman. A shield rim caught him across the temple while he killed the man on his cloak. The gold helm spun into the mud.

Jamie went down thrashing. Four men pinned him, and even then he nearly rose.

Ned stood over Jaime, his lungs burning and arms trembling. He did not know if Tywin was aware his son was trapped in the heart of the enemy lines. A lord might order such a retreat, but a father would suffocate on it.

Jaime looked up through the blood and mud and found a grin that held little mirth.

"So the wolf lord calls dragonfire now. Your best friend would have loved you for it."

The field stank of death, whether from the madness of wildfire or the heat of war, and Jaime knew it. Yet he always sought to have the last word.

"Take him," Ned ordered the guards, ignoring Jaime's taunts.

Jaime was hauled upright and forced to march through the muck, away from the field.

A shout rose from the southern edge of the field, and heads turned as Morghaes descended.

The dragon came down beyond the wreck of the baggage, where the ground lay open enough to spare the horses a full panic. Even so, men scattered from the landing place. The dragon's wings sent a gust that stirred up ash, and sent scraps of burned canvas tumbling across the field. The winged beast settled in stages, smoke billowing from its maw, surveying the wary men who backed away.

Jorah Mormont arrived first, the two sellswords close behind. The old exile crept toward the dragon like a man approaching a drawn blade. Beskha, the tall woman, barked at the men farther back and Asher Forrester, half-singed but wholly alive, was shooing away a pair of fools who had wandered too close.

Daenerys dismounted, her landing less than graceful. She steadied herself, rising to her feet. A smudge of soot marred one cheek, while damp, pale strands of hair clung to her brow. Her hand found Morghaes's neck, the dragon dipping its head slightly at her touch.

Whatever she had been in Braavos, she had set it down somewhere on the road south.

A sentry brought a horse from the northern encampment. Ned mounted and rode to the landing site, dismounting when he neared the destination. As he approached on foot, he felt the weight of stares from every direction, from Northern warriors, prisoners, and the wounded who had dragged themselves to their elbows in the grass.

Daenerys's eyes found his, a moment of unspoken understanding passing between them.

Ned gave Daenerys a short, deliberate nod. Her shoulders eased, the tension in the air between them lifting for a fleeting moment.

Ned addressed the men briskly. "Attend to the wounded, get them water, now. Separate the prisoners by their rank and realm. Inspect every wagon still on its wheels, from first to last. I expect tallies by the time the sun sinks!"

Hornwood limped through the smoke towards him. Manderly approached from the river side, his arm bound in a bloodied sling, cursing each jolt of his horse. Somewhere beyond, Glover and Cerwyn were rounding up the remnants of their flank from the reeds. There would be names to learn, graves to mark, and Tywin Lannister still alive.

But the first battle was won.

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Tywin's command tent stood at the heart of the taken camp, its crimson walls streaked brown from smoke and river damp. The packed earth inside was trampled by boots, ash, and a thin smear of blood where a wounded westerman had been dragged clear. Tywin ran an orderly war, but the dragonfire forced a hastier retreat than any plan could allow. Maps remained pinned under daggers and brass weights.

Ink and blood both tell a tale of war, a truth he had long ago learned from bitter experience.

The table within was broad, a map of the Trident laid out with roads marked in red ink and fordings in brown. Beside it sat wax tablets tallying grain, lists of fodder, names of captains, and wagon counts. Tywin ruled by measure, and even in retreat, his order showed.

Ned read through the nearest stack while men moved in and out behind him, carrying chests, casks of wine, and two ironbound strongboxes. The ledgers gave what he expected: supply routes from the west, gold promised to freeriders, a note on remounts for the reserve cavalry. All was useful. Yet the river kept pulling at him: the alder bend, the hidden pikes, the crossbows in the trees. A trap so exact could not have come from the enemy.

Ser Andar Royce entered carrying one of the ironbound chests. With a grunt of effort, he laid it on the table near Ned's elbow. The lock had been shattered by a warhammer, leaving splintered wood and bent iron clinging to the hasp. Without a word, he stepped back to his work. Papers filled the chest to the brim, tied in bundles with dyed cord, some sealed, others opened and shoved back in haste. He laid them in rough order beside the map.

Pink wax drew Ned's gaze, catching the light. The flayed man stared up from three separate seals, his twisted features a silent accusation.

Bolton.

Ned broke the first seal with his thumb.Inside, a neat hand laid out the strength of the northern host. Columns detailed the van, center, right, and reserve by count, with archers and horse listed separately. Wagons were numbered. The second letter outlined roads, halt points, and the day of march. A third described the dragons, noting their size, scale colors, fire reach, and proposed countermeasures using massed crossbow volleys. Bolton had watched Daenerys land at the Twins and recorded everything he saw.

The fourth gave Tywin the river.

A small map had been folded inside, inked with the Green Fork, the alder stand, the shallows, and the long sweep Glover and Cerwyn were to make under cover of the bank. Crosses marked the places for the pikes and the trees for the crossbowmen. Bolton had given Tywin the battle before dawn ever touched the reeds.

Ned read every line twice, his eyes scanning the parchment for any hint of deceit.

He had divided Bolton's forces, kept him from the dragons, and waited for irrefutable proof. The proof came — in a Lannister tent, but a day too late.

North men lay dead in the reeds because Ned had held to proof.

Bolton's letters left no room for doubt. He had sworn to serve Winterfell, yet betrayed Ned's trust for Lannister gold or favor, or some darker purpose. Whether gold, favor, or a secret pact, it made no difference. Oathbreaking and treason demanded the same consequence.

All that remained was the sword.

He tucked the letters inside his surcoat, close against the quilted lining, and gathered the rest of the correspondence into a neat stack for later sorting.

Outside, the camp had shifted from battle to labor.A ring of empty ground surrounded Morghaes, who crouched low against the earth, as men hauled the wounded toward cookfires turned to infirmaries. Dead horses were dragged from the lanes between tents by others.

Ned walked past the blackened wagons to the northern edge of the camp and stopped where the ground fell away toward the river road. Somewhere beyond those fields Bolton rode with Maege Mormont, the Greatjon, and the rest of the harassment force, still thinking himself secure inside his own lie.

Riders would go tonight, fast men on fresh horses. Orders would be sealed before the camp slept. Bolton would be brought to heel and brought north, or Ned would ride to him when the host could spare the time.

Either way, the road had narrowed to one end.

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By the time Shadow Tower came into view, the column had lost its earlier cohesion.

The column stretched in uneven lines through the trees, compressing where the path narrowed and spreading out again around obstacles. Spearwives and black brothers with tattered cloaks marched side by side. Thenns in bronze armor moved among women carrying children swaddled in furs. A handful of northern riders kept watch at the edges, their eyes scanning the woods. Every few dozen paces, someone turned to look back.

Luke stayed near the front and tracked numbers. Wounded first, then children. Wagons last, if any wagon still had a wheel worth the name. He marked who could march under their own power and who would need a horse, cart, or stronger shoulder. The rearguard fight had bought them time, and nothing else.

Ahead, the Wall loomed, its pale face bisecting the morning sky. Shadow Tower clung to the base, a dark silhouette against the ice. Above the gate, black-cloaked figures lined the heights, their bows ready, appearing small from this distance. One figure stood apart, motionless as a carved figurehead on a ship's prow. Benjen had identified him as Denys Mallister, the commander of this post, a man old enough to honor an oath and stubborn enough to keep it.

Luke glanced up briefly.

The ice shuddered with a low vibration, like the hum of a damaged power cell. Luke pushed the notion aside and redirected his attention to the column ahead.

"Tormund," Benjen called out as he reined his horse closer. "Keep your people from crowding the gate."

Tormund Giantsbane signalled the Wildlings with a harsh command, warning them to form up. "You heard him! Move in lines. First one who pushes gets my boot in his arse!"

Robb rode up on Luke's left, Grey Wind keeping pace. The boy sat rigid, shoulders hunched under the strain of leading men twice his age through this godsforsaken frost.

"You see them?" Robb asked, nodding toward the Wall.

"Yes," Luke said.

"Think they will lets us through without trouble?"

"They'll understand the choice in front of him. Whether they accept it, I can't say."

Amidala brushed against Luke's leg, her white fur now grayed at the paws from the slush and dried blood, as she moved on past. With a glance up at the Wall, ears perked, she quickly turned away and rejoined the marching line.

Above them, a horn sounded from the top of Shadow Tower, echoing across the snow-covered landscape. The black-clad guards in the tower shifted, lowering their bows momentarily before raising them again.

Wildlings, so many of them. A sea of living bodies stretching to a gate that had stood against them since time immemorial, at least as far as Luke could grasp.

That persistent tremor in the Wall grew bolder and more insistent. Luke drew a deep breath, letting it steady his focus as he kept walking.

They halted a bowshot from the gate.

From the parapet, Mallister's voice carried down to them. "Hold where you stand! Do not move any further!"

Tormund cursed as Mance Rayder rode forth, his patched cloak flapping at his horse's side. Qhorin Halfhand walked with him with his hand on his blade ready for a confrontation. Benjen strode to the front, and Robb handed his reins to Smalljon, moving to stand with his uncle. Luke followed, knowing he had to speak for what lay beyond any man's ken, and that the wounded waited behind, frost sinking deeper into their bones.

Denys Mallister looked down and saw his problem. Duty on one side, survival on the other.

"Benjen," he called. "You are the last person I would have suspected to bring a host of wildlings."

"I bring you people the dead will take by nightfall if you leave them here," Benjen answered.

"They are raiders, oathbreakers, murderers, and the sworn foe of the Watch. Something you seemed to have forgotten, First Ranger."

Mance's face split into a mirthless smirk. "We're cold, hungry, and running for our lives, Mallister. I've been in black before, so spare me the sermon."

The men along the Wall shifted at Mance's words, a few cursing and one spitting over the side.

Mallister's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare mention the Watch. You wore black. Then you abandoned it."

"And lived long enough to see what lurks in the shadows of the trees," Mance said, "A skill well worth keeping."

The crowd above was unsettled, and for good reason. Some had seen the horrors that lurked in the night, while others held tight to whispered warnings. So it spread, a current of fearuneven in its flow, as the living faced the looming dead. A few looked at Benjen as if his presence alone might settle the matter. Others watched the wildlings behind him and found an old enemy easier to grasp than a dead one.

Mallister said, "The gate stays shut."

Tormund surged forward, his voice booming out, "HAR! Then we crash through, Crow! You think you can hold us all back? Think again!"

Overhead, the creaking of bows stretched taut mingled with the twang of drawn strings. At the murder holes above the tunnel, black brothers materialized with spears leveled. In the front lines of the Free Folk, axes and shields rose in a mirroring stance, the entire front contracting.

Luke's voice caught in his throat as his mind was drawn upward by the shifting ice. The vibration's deepening pull drew Luke's eyes to track the ancient seams of the Wall, their weathering etched in a fading blue, before his focus snapped back down to the immediate crisis.

"Commander," Luke said, his tone clipped. "Each moment here only strengthens the hunter tracking them. You need to see the danger waiting out there."

Mallister's voice was firm as he spoke. "The vow I swore is what matters, not your pleas."

Qhorin's words cut off Luke's response. "You cannot imagine the horrors that await beyond this gate. I have seen the Fist overwhelmed by the dead, their eyes glowing blue. And there are more of them out there, fresh from the battlefield just waiting to strike again. You must open this gate, Mallister, or we are all doomed."

Mallister stood silent for a long breath. "You ask me to break my oath in every way that matters."

"No," Benjen said.

He stepped farther out into the open space before the gate, where every bow above had a clear line on him.

"You ask me to break my vows if you leave these people unguarded," Benjen said. "I swore to guard the realms of men. Those realms reach beyond your hatred for wildlings, Denys. Mine do too."

A brother near the gate tunnel barked, "They have killed us for generations."

"And we have killed them," Benjen snapped. "You want an old tally while the dead stack new corpses at the door?"

The rasp of steel echoed from below the Wall. At the inner gate, a ranger's hand fell to his sword drawing it halfway. A wildling in antlered helm met the challenge with an axe raised. Robb's reflexes took over, his own blade at the ready. Grey Wind's lips curled back revealing his teeth and Amidala pressed close to Luke's side ready to strike at a moments notice.

Luke's hand drifted as he looked at the gate. One Force push and it would rise, regardless of Mallister's will. The wounded behind him could not afford to wait for the old men to finish their pointless arguing.

But before Luke could continue, Benjen turned and put himself between the two lines.

"If blood is the price here, take mine first. I am your brother, and I am responsible for their presence."

Time seemed to slow.

As Benjen stood, Qhorin stepped up beside. "Same role as him. Same fate if it must come to that."

The hold broke there. A few men along the Wall glanced from Benjen to Qhorin, then to the crowd of women and children behind the front line. One black brother lowered his bow, then another. Mallister's gaze flicked from Benjen to the civilians.

Then he leaned over the parapet and ordered, "Raise the gate! Brothers, take the tunnel. Maintain order or I'll seal it on all of you!"

The relief surged through the front ranks like a landslide, the men shouting, cursing, and laughing briefly and hard. Tormund roared at his people to move, and Mance exhaled, turning his horse towards the next problem, while Benjen bowed his head for a moment before straightening.

The great gate began to rise.

Chains clanked deep in the ice. Timber groaned. The first Free Folk surged toward it until Tormund and Sigorn started hitting them with the flats of their axes and staffs.

"Women and children, move!" Tormund bellowed. "Wounded, right behind. The rest of you, hold your ground."

Luke stayed back from the tunnel mouth, guiding the most dire cases forward. An elderly woman with a shredded calf rode on a pony. Two spearwives carried a man between them. A Night's Watchman with two fingers missing stared at the opening gate, as if he had forgotten how to walk.

As the vibration within the Wall grew stronger, a tightness formed behind Luke's eyes.

"Keep moving," he said. "No stopping in the tunnel."

As the first people vanished under the ice, a child began to cry, and her mother drew her close, taking the lead into the tunnel.

He took out the comlink, thumbed the switch, and heard a wash of static before the answer came.

"Master Luke, sir?"

"Threepio, bring the Falcon over. Land in the clearing south of the gate."

"Oh dear. At once, Master Luke."

The Falcon arrived swiftly enough to be seen, yet slowly enough to avoid causing a stampede. Its shadow crossed the ground first, then the engine note rolled over the Wall.

The Night's Watch brothers who had fought against wights and wildlings lost what little composure they had left. Some reacted by dropping weapons and falling to their knees in prayer, while others drew steel and pressed against the walls, eyes fixed on the sky. A third stood paralyzed at the parapet, repeating the same words over and over. Two men at the winch fled their posts until Mallister's roar brought them back.

Even as they stared in awe, the Free Folk kept walking. Tormund waved his people on as if metal ships came down from the sky every winter.

The Falcon's engines roared as it dropped below the Wall, then fell silent as it touched down.

The Free Folk's line snaked into the tunnel, guided by Tormund and the giants, Benjen's brothers barring any retreat at the gate. Amidala had drifted to the fringes, kneeling beside a child swathed in furs. For the moment, all was calm, and Luke found himself with a few precious minutes before he was called upon again.

He made his way to the ice.

The sounds of the passage faded as he moved closer to the Wall. Each step peeled away a layer of noise. The Wall consumed his gaze, an expanse of ice and snow, its surface stratified with bubbles, cracks, and mended seams. Up close, it almost looked an artwork.

Luke opened his gloves and set his palm against the ice. Frost bit his skin first, then the Wall answered.

Power pulsed through the Wall in bands and fields, one over the other, across centuries of care and repair. Someone had woven it, reinforced it, tended it, and added to it. He had pressed his palms to the stone on Yavin and in the old chambers under Coruscant, feeling the hum of the dead who had shaped the rock to last beyond empires - the same energy, in a different tongue.

As Brandon Stark's name rose to Luke's awareness, a reply echoed from the far side of the Wall.

Force hammered the whole length of the structure in repeating waves, each strike aimed to match the Wall's own internal pattern and shake it loose from within. The matrix shuddered under it. Small failures flashed through the web, then healed, then reopened, flashing up and down the line. A defense built for ages was being tested, and its worn state grated.

Luke pulled his hand back.

His fingers had gone numb to the wrist. He flexed them once and got little in return. The timeline in his head, the comfortable one that allowed for marches, councils, and careful politics, was shredded. Beyond the North, something vast pushed against the other side, steady and relentless, testing the structure like deep water against a hull. Time was no longer a luxury.

"Master."

Robb had come to stand at his shoulder, Grey Wind a pace behind with ears laid flat. Luke turned from the Wall and read the boy's face, now settled into a patience that troubled him.

Robb hesitated, then spoke firmly, "I have unfinished business north of here before we go south." Anger simmered in his voice as he drew a breath.

"There's a wildling named Craster north of the Wall. This bast— he breeds his daughters and gives his sons to the Others." Robb's mouth pulled to one side. "One of them, Gilly, told me the truth of it. I swore I'd come back for her if I lived. Her and the rest, if they'll come."

Luke's lips pressed together in disgust at the news.

What kind of monster… doing that to your own daughters and sacrificing your own sons.

Robb was not seeking Luke's approval, but asserting his next move.

Rescue the helpless, tend to their injuries, and move them to a safe place - that's the work ahead of us for the next hour.

"We leave now," Luke said, walking for the Falcon.

Robb matched his pace, falling into step beside him.

After entrusting Benjen with the gate and Tormund with the line, Luke crossed the clearing with purpose, Robb, Smalljon, and Karstark on his heels. Robb's direwolf loped alongside, and Amidala stayed by Luke's side. The Falcon waited where Threepio had left her, a welcome sight against the snowy backdrop, its squat, ugly form a reassuring contrast to anything that might appear more elegant.

The ramp dropped, and Karstark hesitated at its foot, torn between his loyalty to Robb and his own stubborn pride. In the end, pride won out, and he boarded the ship, joining Robb inside.

Luke slid into the pilot's seat, Threepio vacating the co-pilot's chair with a worried mutter about frost in his joints. The hold sealed with a heavy clang that reverberated through the ship. Luke guided the Falcon into a smooth ascent, banking northward and leveling off above the treetops.

In the hold, Karstark sat on a bench, both hands locked around its edge. The skin across his fingers had gone pale. He held his back rigid and stared at the bulkhead opposite as lights blinked over his head. Each time the Falcon banked, the man jumped off his seat.

Smalljon sat across from Luke, arms folded tight, mouth twisted in a crooked line. He kept his gaze averted, glancing away whenever Karstark's eyes flicked his direction. The man's evasive posture fooled no one. After another turn, Smalljon reached for his knife and he drew a whetstone from his pouch. The rasp of stone on steel filled the hold, a steady, grim accompaniment to the engines' hum.

Robb had his elbows on his knees and his head bent, one hand resting on the hilt Luke had given him in the Frostfangs. Silence had settled over him.

As Luke left the Shadow Tower behind, the silhouette of Craster's Keep emerged before him, a jumbled mess of roofs and palisades. One pass was all it took for his Force-senses to prickle with alarm. The foul stench of the slave camps he had encountered on Tatooine clung to this place. In the eyes of the women was an eternal, gnawing fear, carved deep by years of hardship and neglect. They huddled together in crowded quarters, most of them hardly more than girls.

The Falcon set down with a hiss, its ramp lowering to reveal the churned snow beyond Craster's gate.

The shutters flew open with a bang. A girl's face appeared, a baby cradled under her chin, and beside her a woman with a bruised cheek. They froze, staring into the blinding floodlights.

The front door burst open, and Craster emerged, axe in hand, fur cloak flapping around his bulk. He strode three paces into the churned snow before halting as he laid eyes upon the Falcon.

Grey Wind landed first in a controlled descent while Amidala followed cautiously. Robb and smalljon touched down next, with Karstark bringing up the rear and landing unevenly.

Craster's eyes widened as he took in the unfamiliar sight before him. "What in the seven hells is that thing?"

Robb ignored him. "Gilly! Where are you?!"

The name carried through the yard and a stir behind the hall door followed. Then Gilly came into view, thinner than Luke expected, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and both hands clamped around the babe at her breast. She looked from Robb to Grey Wind and then to the ship behind them. Her mouth opened.

"You came back," a girl, most likely Gilly, said with tears in her eyes.

"As I promised," Robb affirmed.

Craster lurched toward her, but Smalljon moved in front of him, one big hand falling to his sword. The interruption gave Gilly a chance to turn and shout toward the hall.

"He's here. The wolf lord. He's come back on a dragon!"

The yard filled in pieces after that. Women at the doorway first, then girls peering around them, then a pair of children who stopped at the sight of the ship and the wolves. The pattern was familiar. Fear ground into every face, every flinch, every pair of eyes that wouldn't hold his.

Before the crowd could thicken and delay, he started doling out jobs.

"Smalljon, get the bundles and children loaded first. Karstark, assist Smalljon. Robb, take care of those who are wounded or ill."

Robb's nod was brief, his stride purposeful as he approached the woman in the doorway, her two small daughters clinging to her skirts. Kneeling to their level, he met their eyes, spoke softly, and gestured to the ramp. With a determined nod, the woman set off.

Gilly was better than any speech. She went among them naming Robb as if that alone could bridge the gap between terror and motion.

"He brought the great dragon to face the dead things. He came as he said he would, so take your babes and go."

That got the first cluster moving. Some hurried at once. Some stood rooted until a sister dragged them by the wrist. When the wolves passed near, children cried, and Luke sent Amidala and Grey Wind to the edges of the yard. There, they could watch the treeline instead of the loading line.

Exhausted and hollow-cheeked, an older woman stood in the doorway, a toddler clutched to her hip. Her eyes fixed longingly on the Falcon, and she stared at it as if she was trying to muster the courage to move. When she looked down at the child in her arms, her resolve solidified. Luke angled his body to the side to show that it was save to board. She walked toward the ship, and climbed the ramp, her back rigid.

A girl of perhaps fourteen reached the foot of the ramp and balked. Her eyes fixed on the strips of light running along the hold and she flinched back, one arm rising to shield her face. The overhead glow was steady and white and nothing like fire.

Luke stepped down beside her, took the bundle from her arms before she could drop it, and angled his body to block the worst of the light.

"The brightness fades once you're through," he said quietly.

She shifted her gaze from him to the bundle cradled in his arms, her eyes narrowing in the harsh light. Squinting, she reached out to steady herself against the wall as she climbed.

Craster's shock gave way to a roar, its fury lashing at Smalljon, then Gilly, then the women in turn.

"You ungrateful whores! After all I have done for you lot! Back in the hall. Back, I said!"

Only a few obeyed. Luke felt the agony of their choice in that moment. This crude shelter, it was all they had ever known.

Gilly had reached the bottom of the ramp with the baby when Craster caught her by the arm and yanked her around, jolting the child in her blanket. She cried out. The babe wailed. Craster drew back his free hand.

But his arm stopped mid-swing.

Craster's face contorted with rage, his muscles bunching as he strained against an invisible barrier. His fist hovered two feet from Gilly's face, while his boots scraped futilely in the snow. He couldn't move, the veins in his forearm bulging like cords. From his throat came an animal sound, a raw mix of fury and confusion.

Luke's palm was raised, fingers splayed.

But before Craster could even scream, blue light filled the yard.

Robb ignited his lightsaber in a single fluid motion. In the blink of an eye, the blade flashed and Craster's head separated from his body, leaving the man unaware of his fate. The corpse crumpled to the ground, leaving the would-be assailant's fist hanging mid-air, frozen in futility.

Robb killed the blade and clipped the hilt to his belt, his eyes already on Gilly.

The yard fell silent.

Long-ingrained dread kept the women rooted at the door, their eyes caught between Craster and the snow. Like rabbits frozen between a predator and the edge of the clearing.

"You cannot tell me that was wrong," Robb said.

Luke lowered his arm, meeting Robb's eyes for a long moment before a slow nod of assent.

"No Robb, I can't in my heart disagree with you."

A woman shut her eyes. Another spat at the dead man in the snow. The woman with the boy shoved him toward the ramp, causing him to stumble. The eldest of the holdouts, a heavy woman with grey streaks in her hair, studied Luke intently. After a long moment, she nodded then disappeared inside. She returned carrying a bundled blanket and a small sack, her gaze never once straying to Craster's body as she passed it. She walked to the ramp, her back straight as a board.

After that, the last of them moved.

As the final minutes ticked by, the loading process grew chaotic. The hold was quickly filling, yet more people pressed in. Luke moved swiftly, passing infants up the ramp, catching a woman as she stumbled, and helping to load the few possessions they had managed to gather: sacks, cloaks, a carved spoon, and a rag doll made of wool scraps.

Threepio descended the ramp with both hands raised and his polished face catching every lamp flame in the yard.

"Please, if you would be so kind as to proceed in an orderly fashion," he said.

A child shrieked and buried her face in her mother's skirts. One woman reached out and touched the droid's arm as she passed, her fingers tracing the metal as if checking whether it was real.

"It's alright, he is a friend. Threepio, go help them buckle in," Luke said.

"Of course, Master Luke."

Karstark, carrying a sack of turnips under one arm and a sleeping boy under the other, watched the gold droid sidle down the aisle and said, "I am surprised they aren't more scared. Though I can understand, it's been a strange day so maybe it's par for the course for them."

Smalljon barked a laugh before he could stop himself.

"Talking about these women or yourself, Karstark?" The silence was answer enough, and Smalljon just laughed harder.

At last the yard stood empty save for Craster's body, Luke faced north.

A black wall rose along the horizon, spreading across the sky as it drove south beyond the dark cut of the mountains. The snow's current fed toward it, pushed by the same presence that strained against the Wall.

The ramp sealed behind Luke as he stepped inside, his gaze lingering one final moment before the hatch shut.