[Look To The Stars] Chapter 70: Puppets of Flame (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: We got a pretty action packed chapter here. Enjoy!

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Year 299 AC/8 ABY

Kings Landing, The Crownlands

The deck plates groaned as Han cut the repulsors and dropped the Falcon onto the stones of the outer bailey. He had the ramp moving before the landing struts even locked. The courtyard was a mess of Lannister servants and pages scrambling over each other like ants in a kicked nest while they clutched ledgers that wouldn't save them. Past the high walls the rest of the city looked like a fuel depot going up after a direct hit. Wonderful.

"Threepio!" he shouted, and the golden droid shuffled down the ramp while trying to ignore the chaos. "You're on door duty. Keep the ramp open and let in anyone running from the fire who isn't carrying a sword. If anyone with a title tries to commandeer the ship, you tell them it's under Republic diplomatic seal and the captain will be very cross if they touch anything. Got it?"

"Sir, I must protest. The likelihood of a local noble respecting Republic diplomatic protocols is approximately—"

"Then make it sound scary in whatever language they speak. Chewie, with me."

C-3PO straightened. "I shall do my best, Captain Solo, though I must note that my flattery circuits are considerably more developed than my intimidation subroutines."

"Just keep them away from my ship, Goldenrod!"

Some kid in squire's gear scrambled out of the crowd near the gatehouse. He didn't have a sword and his face was white as a sheet, but he made a beeline for Han anyway. Either he had plenty of guts or he just didn't have anywhere else to run.

"Sers," the boy gasped, and Han saw his hands were shaking. "You're with—the flying castle belongs to you? Please, I need help. My name is Prodric and my lord—Lord Tyrion—he's a prisoner held by Ser Amory Lorch and six other men. They've orders he's not to move but the fire... the fire's climbing the lower wards."

Oberyn was at Han’s elbow before the kid even finished the name. The prince had been acting like a tourist on the ride down but that was over now and he looked ready to start shooting.

"Amory Lorch," Oberyn repeated. "Where is he?!"

Podrick Payne swallowed hard. "The Tower of the Hand, my lord. In the upper chambers but there are guards at the stair and more at the door."

"Then we are climbing," Oberyn said as he started to move.

Han clamped a hand on the man's arm. "Easy, Prince. Joffrey’s the target, not whatever grudge you’re looking for. We’re on a clock here and I’m not losing the kid because you went off on a side trip."

"He killed my niece when she was barely three name days old. Have you ever lost someone who was stabbed half a hundred times, smuggler?"

"Ah. Damn. No," Han said, letting go. "I haven't. I'm not asking for any favors for the guy, but I'm asking you to stay sharp. This whole place is going up in smoke and we don't have a time to waste."

Oberyn gave Han an icy smile. "You can secure the dwarf so he can lead us to the fool. Meanwhile, I get Amory. You have my word on that but no more delays."

Smalljon Umber grunted behind them, his greatsword resting on one shoulder. "That works for me. The dwarf talks, then we crack skulls." Harrion Karstark shrugged in repsonse. The Dornishmen Oberyn had brought were already fanning out toward the tower archway.

Podrick tugged at Han's sleeve. "I can guide you through the servant passages so we don't have to fight for every stair."

Han looked the kid over, guessing him for maybe fourteen. The boy was shivering with a fear Han recognized from his own early days running spice on the Falcon. Back then he’d known the routes but never knew if anyone would have his back, and seeing the kid point toward the door with those shaking hands brought the whole feeling right back.

"Then lead on," Han said. "Chewie, stick to him. You look like you're about to jump out of your skin, kid, but nobody's going to mess with you while the Wookiee's watching your back. He's got a way of making people real cooperative."

The kid’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he finally looked up and saw all of Chewie, but he kept his cool and started leading the way toward the inner ward. Finally, someone reasonable.

Barristain Selmy hadn't said a word since they hit the dirt, but he stepped up now with that fancy white cloak looking like a soot-stained rag. "Captain Solo, someone has to get these people out of the fire. There are women and children in this yard who won't last if they stay. Let me hold the rear and lead them back to your ship. They'll follow a white cloak even if doesn't serve thier king."

Han didn't like splitting the group, but Barristan was the only man here a Red Keep guard might still obey on sight. A white cloak, even under the wrong king, still meant something to the household men watching from the colonnade.

"Fine. Tell Threepio to play nice or I'm trading him for parts." Han hesitated for a second before adding, "And if Leia asks, tell her I went to go fix an injustice. She'll have my head for it, but she'll get why I had to go."

Barristan’s face softened. "Lady Leia sounds like a fierce woman."

"Yeah, you've got no idea, buddy. Now, let's get moving!"

The boy led them through a low arch and into a maze, moving with a speed that surprised Han for a kid who’d been hiding all morning. They cut through a kitchen where the bread was still sitting in the ovens and the air was thick with the smell of something scorching. Han couldn't tell if it was the start of a wildfire disaster or just a cooking fire left to wander.

The servant stairs were a tight squeeze that forced Smalljon to turn his shoulders and left Chewie scraping against the stone on both sides. Han kept his thumb on the blaster's safety as they moved. He knew how easily a climb like this could turn into a trap because one man with a sword at the top was all it took to bottle up a boarding party.

Podrick stopped at a landing and gestured toward a door that led to the upper gallery. "That runs right over the main chamber. Ser Amory had Lord Tyrion there when I went for help."

Oberyn tested the door with a single finger and it swung open. "Then we have surprise," he said, sounding entirely too pleased. "My brother always says to encroach on your enemies when they least expect it."

The gallery was a narrow walkway hung with moth-eaten banners overlooking a round chamber lit by a single torch. The air was thick with dust and that faint, sweet-dirty smell Han now recognized as wildfire's favorite cologne. He moved to the railing and looked down.

Down in the center of the room Tyrion Lannister knelt with his hands tied behind his back and muzzled with Amory Lorch held a dagger to his throat. A pair of guards stood by the door and another three leaned against the far wall to watch the way in.

Han felt Chewie about to growl and stopped him to keep the silence while Oberyn shifted his grip on the spear.

"Hold it," Han breathed. "Why's he parked right in the center of the floor and why haven't these guys made a run for it?"

Lorch looked like he’d been through a meat grinder. Between the shredded surcoat and the wildfire burns blistering half his face, he was a mess, yet the hand at Tyrion’s throat didn't shake. Only his eyes gave him away, darting around with the look of a man who knew he was already dead.

"I'm looking to negotiate," Lorch yelled at the empty doorway. "I saw that ship land, so I know you're listening. Tell your lord I'll trade the dwarf for a way out of here. No tricks and no one follows me or the deal's off."

Beside Han, the kid made a choked noise with his eyes locked on Tyrion.

Oberyn straightened. "I will go down."

"In full view of his men? Bad plan. I can just shoot him."

"I would like to see that weapon of yours in action, but he has been waiting for an audience and I intend to give it to him." Oberyn started down the stairs. "I have no intention of letting Rhaenys's murderer walk free, Ser Han, but I will give him a chance to die with a blade in his hand. He never gave her that much."

Han had a dozen arguments ready but he held them back because he recognized the look of the room. The scenery was different here but the situation was an old one involving a hostage and a man with nowhere to run and a promise meant to be honored.

"What if you lose?" Han asked with sigh.

"Then, shoot him. Those without honor deserve none."

Oberyn descended the stairs without any hurry. He walked as if the chamber were a feast hall and Lorch nothing more than an honored guest.

Lorch saw him coming and yanked Tyrion’s collar tight. "Prince Oberyn, I didn't expect you here."

"No one ever expects me, yet I go where I please. Just as you did as you wished all those years ago. Let's simply get to the point of the matter, I have come to offer you a way out of this room."

Lorch's eyes narrowed. "What path?"

"You and I, one on one. If you kill me, you leave this place. My people are sworn to let you pass." Oberyn gave a sharp nod toward the gallery, and Han lifted a hand to show his target was clear. "The smuggler and I both give our word. You have a free path if you win."

Lorch looked at Tyrion, then at the door where his men waited. "And if I refuse?"

"Then he eats you alive," Oberyn said, pointing a finger at Chewie. The big Wookiee let out a roar that sent Lorch stumbling back in pure terror. "Either way you die, but this way you get the chance to fight back."

From his knees, Tyrion looked up at the Prince of Dorne with a desperate, muffled sound. The gag choked his words until Amory ripped it free. Tyrion gasped for air before his sharp wit returned. "You should take the deal, Amory. At least he’ll kill you with some style. It’s more than your deserve."

A heavy boot sent Tyrion skidding across the stone with a bloody lip. Before the little guy could even catch his breath, Lorch had the dagger out and ready.

"Done," Lorch said.

Oberyn tipped his spear toward the floor like he was picking a partner for a night out. "Let us dance."

Lorch shoved Tyrion aside and advanced.

Chewie let out a low rumble as Han looked from the two men to the fire devouring the city outside. Smalljon and Karstark had already taken their positions at the door to handle Lorch’s men if the deal turned ugly.

The Prince didn't wait for an invite. He went from zero to a blur of yellow silk and spinning steel in a heartbeat. Lorch tried for a simple gut-stab but Oberyn just brushed the blade aside and stepped into the man's personal space. A quick crack from the butt of the spear caught Lorch behind the knee and the big guy started to go down.

The prince didn't even bother to shout. "Fifty strikes, Lorch. You're paying back every one you gave Rhaenys."

The spear was a blur that left Lorch’s shoulder bloody and his thigh sliced open from hip to knee. The big guy tried to close the distance and turn it into a wrestling match, but he was swinging at air. Oberyn didn't even look like he was trying. He just stayed light on his feet, moving like a man dancing with a partner who’d already finished the dance.

Han had watched the kid move with a lightsaber, but this wasn't that kind of fight. This was slower and meaner. Every strike Oberyn landed was designed to stretch out the pain because he was collecting on a debt and he wanted the man to feel every bit of it.

Lorch was leaking from a dozen holes and his eyes were darting like a trapped animal's. He looked at the gallery and the exits before his gaze locked on Tyrion, well aware he wouldn't last the fifty strikes. Han saw the shift in his weight and knew the play before it happened. Instead of facing the Prince, Lorch lunged for the dwarf to use as a shield.

Lorch didn't make it halfway before the spear punched through his neck. He went down hard and the blade ended up a finger’s width from Tyrion’s ribs with the shaft still vibrating from the hit.

Two of the men-at-arms at the door hesitated, but the rest didn't. Four guards rushed Oberyn at once. Han already had his blaster out and dropped two of them before they could take three steps. Chewie took the third and Oberyn’s spear found the fourth. The two smart ones looked at Lorch’s body, then at their dead companions, and finally at Han and Chewie. They dropped their swords and ran.

Han took the stairs three at a time with Chewie right behind him. Oberyn had already pulled the spear free and was wiping the blade on the dead man's surcoat with a distant look.

"Great, you got your pound of flesh," Han said. "Now let's get out of this hole while we're still ahead."

Podrick was already there, fumbling with Tyrion's ropes. "My lord, are you hurt? I tried to find help, I ran as fast as I could—"

Tyrion worked his wrists free and grimaced at the boy. "Pod, your new friends are certainly an interesting bunch. Now the help I was expecting..." He took one look at the Wookiee and gulped before turning to the prince. "But it counts. Prince Oberyn, I owe you my life."

Oberyn gave a sharp drawl. "Pardon the lack of manners, Lord Tyrion, but we've got a schedule to keep. Where can we find Joffrey?"

"Right. Joffrey’s a fool, but he’s a predictable one. My money is on the throne room, unless he’s already gone to ground in the cellars."

"Alright," Han said, checking the power cell on his DL-44 before nodding at the boy. "Kid, you're back on point. Let's go find us a king."

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Tyrion still taste of blood from his split lip from Amory's boots to his face and wished he could stab him himself. But that was a minor thing compared to the sight beyond the walls. Wildfire was devouring the city... yet in certain quarters the emerald flames were dying out. Tyrion watched the impossible retreat of the fire and wondered how it was possible. Could it be true? Do they truly have a sorcerer?

Tyrion looked over the men who had bought his life. Han Solo stood ready with that fire-spitting tube of his, overshadowed by a mountain of fur and muscle that might have eaten Tyrion for a light snack. Nearby, Prince Oberyn cleaned his spear on a scrap of Ser Amory’s surcoat with the satisfied air of a man leaving a feast. A pair of Northern guards held the stairs with naked steel, their gazes shifting from the bloody prince to the battered Lannister while they tried to decide which of them posed the greater threat.

"Jon's heading for the throne room," Han said, taking his hand off his ear. "Comlink chatter says he's maybe five minutes from Joffrey. We can meet him there."

Tyrion shook his head. "Com... a what? Speak common, Solo, and tell me how you're finding a boy across a castle we haven't even scouted yet."

"Magic," Oberyn said, and that slick smile of his didn't make the explanation any better.

"Just take us to the throne room," Han said with a tired sigh. "I don't have the breath to explain it right now."

"Hmmm... right, the Throne room." Tyrion turned to Han. "Wait, where is Cersei? Pod, where is Cersei?! Where is Tommen?"

Podrick looked nervous and replied, "I believe Queen Cersei has barricaded herself in the royal quarters. I think... I think Prince Tommen would be there."

"We need to head there now," Tyrion turned to his new companions.

Han caught Oberyn’s eye and shook his head. "No more detours. The King is why we're here."

"True enough," Oberyn agreed, "Yet the Queen is a prize we cannot afford to leave behind. We must take her as well."

"Precisely," Tyrion answered, his voice tight with the memory of Bronn screaming ghost. "Capture my sister if you must, but let me reach Tommen first. He has no part in her madness and I will not leave him to the wildfire. And thank the gods I've shipped Mycella to your brother, Prince Oberyn."

"Myrcella in Sunspear? That is news to me, though I have been long on the road. Surely you did not think the hand of one girl was enough to buy the spears of Dorne."

Han gave the bridge of this nose a frustrated rub. "Enough!" He touched his ear again. "Jon, can you handle Joffery... wait of course you can. We are heading to capture the Queen... understood. Goodluck, kid."

Tyrion stared at the man in disbelief. "Was that truly Jon Snow you were speaking to?"

"Less talking, more running."

Tyrion led the charge at a waddling half-run. The Red Keep had collapsed into a single chaotic maze, erasing the lines he had known since he was a boy. There were no more velvet-draped royal halls or austere servant stairs, only a shared tally of ruin. Grey smoke from burning timber and the sickly green haze of wildfire leaked from beneath every heavy oak door. Looters ignored them as they fled with their arms piled high with palace silver. He did not even slow down to acknowledge the septa huddled in a nearby alcove, her eyes clamped shut as she begged the Mother for a mercy that was not coming.

The gold cloaks at the next junction leveled their spears when they appeared until they caught sight of the hairy giant. It was a marvelous bit of theater. One man dropped his steel as if it had turned into a viper while his fellow shrank against the wall, his eyes wide and pleading for the stone to open and hide him.

"Move," Han said as he raised his strange weapon. The men did not need to be told twice. They fled the wrong way down the corridor and never looked back.

"The hairy giant frightens them more than your weapon," Tyrion observed. "I am unsure whether to be impressed or insulted on behalf of the men who serve my house."

"Chewie has that effect on people," Han said. "And he's is not even trying yet."

"I noticed. If he were trying, I suspect they would have thrown themselves out the window. Now, the royal apartments are through the far door and up a short stair, and the Kingsguard will be stationed at the entrance."

Single file was the only way up the narrow stair. It spilled them out into the solar's waiting room, an antechamber dominated by a Myrish carpet that represented a small fortune in gold. Beyond the expensive weave, two knights of the Kingsguard stood watch before the doors.

Ser Boros Blount was exactly where Tyrion had predicted. His hand rested on his sword hilt and his face was set in the blank, bovine patience of a man who had built a career on doing exactly what he was told. The other knight was younger, a Swyft cousin by the look of him with a weak chin and the eager posture of someone who had received his white cloak recently enough to still believe it meant something.

The Swyft boy saw Chewbacca clear the stairs and made a sound like a kettle left too long on the fire. His hand went to his sword hilt and stayed there, frozen with the blade only halfway drawn.

The older knight had better sense than the boy. Boros drew his steel just as Smalljon Umber moved to intercept him, though the man couldn't stop staring at Chewie like he was waiting for the floor to give way.

"Stand aside, Blount," Tyrion said. "I need to speak with my sister."

"The queen gave orders," Boros announced, brandishing his steel as if he were a hero in a song. "No one enters. Especially not demons." It was a brave stand and a remarkably short one. Han stepped into the gap and leveled that metal rod at Blount's chest. A flash of red light took the knight's life before he could even finish his breath. Tyrion looked at the smoking ruin of a Kingsguard and felt the sudden urge to learn all he could of Han Solo's sorcery, but his sister was behind that door and the ledger was already bleeding.

The Swyft boy dropped his weapon. It clattered on the marble, and he stepped back with his hands raised. "I yield. I yield! Please, the monster— don't let him eat me!"

"Be still and keep your mouth shut, and Chewie won't make a meal of you," Han said.

Tyrion left the surrendering boy behind and shoved the door open.

The room was a monument to Lannister excess, all gold brocade and hearths wide enough for whole boars. Now the chairs sat in a useless semicircle around an overturned table and the shattered remains of the wine. Cersei had drawn the curtains against the green ghost-light of the city, but she had not been able to shut out the smell. With her back to the door and her golden hair a tangled mess across her shoulders, Cersei stood alone by the hearth. She had lost a slipper somewhere in the wreckage of the room, leaving her remaining foot drenched in spilled wine.

His nephew was a heap of silk and velvet on the floor.

The boy was curled on his side like a child with a stomach ache, knees tucked tight and never to be straightened again. Bare feet poked out from nightclothes embroidered with golden stags, and his blue lips were parted as he stared at the leg of an overturned table. He looked only mildly surprised, as if he simply hadn't expected the day to end quite like this.

Cersei held the empty vial like a captured prize.

"Too late," she said. Her voice was a slurred ribbon of sound. "You are too late, little brother. I kept him safe. I kept him from the dragon and the wolf and the foreign sorcerer. No one will take my children."

Tyrion knelt and touched the boy's cheek. The skin was warm but the heat was already fading into the stale temper of a dying hearth rather than a living pulse. There was no heartbeat to be found. He had known that from the doorway and the touch only confirmed the arithmetic.

"You killed him!"

"I saved him." Cersei turned to face him with pupils shrunk to pinpricks and a thin line of blood running from her left nostril. The poison was already claiming her. "Joffrey will make them pay. He will make you all--"

"The Red Keep has fallen and Jon Snow is likely standing in the throne room at this very moment. Joffrey is as good as dead. You have murdered your own son for nothing!"

Cersei stumbled as she stepped toward him. The empty vial slipped from her fingers and rolled under the overturned table. "You will tell Father I kept them safe," she said, her voice a ragged plea. "You Jamie they are with the Mother. Tell him I kept our children..."

She collapsed into the chair behind her like a marionette with cut strings. Her head lolled against the gold brocade as the blood from her nose ran faster, a dark rivulet tracing a path over her lip and chin.

Tyrion watched as his sister died.

A hundred times he had played this out in his head, weighing the merits of a headsman’s axe against a trial before the lords of the realm. He had considered a quiet dose of poison to match her own methods, or a fall from a high window that the world would call an accident. None of those dreams had prepared him for the reality of his sister drunk and raving, murdering her own son to preserve a virtue that had never existed.

But he felt no grief for her. Tommen... Why? Just Why?

Han's voice came from the doorway. "Is he—?"

"Dead. Both of them." Tyrion stood with his eyes stinging. "Essence of nightshade mixed with wine, most likely. He would have felt a stomach cramp and then drowsiness before the end. She was not being cruel. She was merely insane."

Behind Tyrion, Podrick let out a choked-back sob. The boy had served the prince his breakfast only hours ago, and now he was struggling to keep his eyes off the body on the carpet. Even Oberyn had gone quiet. The Red Viper stood with a closed face, his spear dangling uselessly from a slack hand.

Chewbacca gave a sad growl that even Tyrion could understand.

"I-I am sorry for your loss Tyrion. He's just a... But we need to--." Han abruptly stopped talking as his hand to his ear. "Luke, I hear you. What? What the hell are you talking about? WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE DEAD ARE RISING?!"

Oberyn pulled his gaze from the dead. "What?" he demanded, mistified. "What are you talking about?"

A noise drifted in from the hallway behind them, making Tyrions skin crawl. Something was dragging itself toward them with a wet and crackeled sound that suggested shattered limbs. A whisper followed the sound, a hollow rasp that grated like rusted nails being ground between teeth.

"Take the city," the whisper said. "Take the city for the true king."

Oberyn did not wait for an invitation. He was across the floor and through the doorway in a blur with his spear rising to meet whatever waited in the dark. When he called back, the arrogance had been stripped from his voice.

"What in the seven hells?!"

The young Swyft knight was crawling toward them on his belly. His neck was broken, his head lolling at a sickening angle and his chin dragging against the stone because the spine could no longer lift it. But he was moving. His hands clawed at the carpet with the slow and deliberate purpose of a man who had been given an order he could not disobey.

The light pulsing beneath his skin was the sick green of wildfire reflected through dark water. It leaked from his eyes and mouth, looking more like a demon than Chewbacca ever could.

"Take the city," the dead knight whispered, and his lips moved around words that were not his own. "Take the city for the true king. Take the city for Stannis."

“Not again,” the Smalljon said, his voice rising in disbelief. “Wait. They do not look like the wights we face in the North.”

Behind him his sister’s corpse began to shift.

The sound was small at first, the rustle of silk and the creak of the chair as it adjusted to a shifting weight. Tyrion turned to see that Cersei’s eyes were open. Green fire burned within them, consuming the pupils and the whites until nothing remained but a cold, patient light that held no mercy.

"Take the city," Cersei said, but the words were a chorus of a dozen whispers crawling out of a single throat. Beneath that terrible, layered sound, Tyrion heard the distant rhythm of a woman’s chant drifting up from the Blackwater. "Take the city for the true king. Take the city for the Lord of Light."

Tyrion just wanted to pray for the nightmare to stop, but there were no gods left in this room.

Han in response shot her twice in the chest.

The blaster bolts punched through silk and flesh and out the other side, but Cersei only staggered. She did not fall. The wounds closed as he watched. Green light knitted the edges together in a sick parody of healing, the skin sealing itself without even the courtesy of a scar.

"What in the—," Han’s voice died in his throat. "Out! Everyone out!"

Chewbacca’s weapon roared and kept shooting at the Swyft knight in the spine and kept going, and finally the dead thing collapsed into a heap of shattered bone and torn white wool. The green light flickered and died.

Cersei was still advancing. Her movements were slow, a drunkard’s shuffle with a terrible purpose behind it. Oberyn stepped into her path and swept her legs with the butt of his spear. The blow should have shattered bone, and perhaps it did. Her legs folded wrong, bending at angles that would have left a living woman screaming on the floor, yet she kept moving. She crawled. The green fire inside her did not care about broken bones.

"Take the city," she whispered. "Take the city."

They did not stay to finish the rest of the dead but turned and made a run for it instead.

"Jon, can you hear me? We have a problem! The dead are rising and speaking of Stannis!"

A pause. Then Han replied. "Copy that. Heading to you now."

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Jon moved through the outer gallery of the Red Keep at a pace just short of a run with his lightsaber unlit but ready in his hand. The corridor ahead should have been held by gold cloaks. Instead it was empty except for a squire crouched against the wall and two men in Lannister crimson running the wrong way beyond him.

The Lannister men saw him but failed to react in time. While one fled past him shouting about the lower gate and the green fire of the dead, the other saw the direwolf on Jon’s chest and tried to draw. Jon was faster, closing the gap before the blade was clear of the scabbard and pinning the man's arm at the wrist.

"Where is Joffrey."

The guard's eyes were wide. "The throne room. He's in the throne room. He ordered the doors barred."

"And you left him."

"The dead are inside the castle, my lord. Ser Mandon went down and rose again with green fire burning in his eyes. Can you not hear the screams, my lord? The screams!"

Jon released him. "Go. Keep your sword drawn and do not stop for anyone who does not answer when you call. And take that squire with you."

Jon left the man to his flight. He pushed past the silent squire and into the long gallery that served as the vein to the Great Hall. Thick smoke choked the passage with the cloying smell of wildfire. Beneath the heat of the burning city he felt a different chill, a coldness that no fire could produce.

Han's voice broke through the crackle of the comlink with a clipped and tight urgency.

"Jon, can you hear me? We have a problem! The dead are rising and speaking of Stannis!"

Jon did not slow. Two serving girls scrambled from a side passage and nearly ran into his chest. One of them shrieked but the other only stared, her eyes searching his face as if she recognized the ghost of a man she had once seen in a dream or a drawing.

"East corridor," Jon said. "Servant's stair. Do not go toward the lower yard."

"I know," he said into the comlink. "The force... something is terribly wrong. I am approaching the throne room now."

Han replied. "Copy that. Heading to you now."

Luke's voice joined the channel. "Jon. The dead are rising all through the eastern districts. The pattern is spreading from the river. I am containing what I can at Cobbler's Square, but the source is somewhere near the gatehouse."

Robb's voice followed, raw with exertion. "The Mud Gate is crawling with them. Grey Wind is holding the line, but they do not break like wights. These are faster. They speak."

Jon rounded a corner and found three more gold cloaks. Two of them lowered their spears. The third dropped his and ran. "Robb, hold the Mud Gate. Han, clear the family wing and then move east toward the Great Hall. I will find you."

Two guards who havn't fled yet held their swords to block the way, but Jon did not break his stride. He reached out and threw a blunt wave of Force against them, sending both men stumbling back into the stone. It was not a killing blow, only a shove to let them know the fight was beyond them.

The doors to the throne room were oak banded with iron and barred from the inside.

Jon sensed the presences behind the door. Twenty men waited on the other side with their fear-sweat sharp and their armor clattering as a crossbowman fumbled with a bolt. In the heart of the noise lived a jagged light that flickered like wildfire. It was a frantic thing, and it did not know its own end was standing at the threshold.

He snapped his lightsaber to life and carved through the heavy bar.

Jon kicked the doors open and let the green light lead him. The room erupted at his presence and three bolts sought his chest, but he caught them and buried them in the walls. Four guards were already rushing him before the bolts were even cast aside. He moved through them as he might a stand of reeds in a stream, his blade singing as it sliced through their steel, carving through the men with ease.

The remaining guards froze in their tracks, paralyzed as Jon swept his gaze across the Great Hall. Joffrey was not on the Iron Throne.

Joffrey had sought refuge behind the throne, huddled on the steps with his back to the blades. Sweat and wine had ruined his silks and his crown sat crooked on his head. He was babbling, his eyes wide as he looked at Jon, but he had no orders left to give.

"No!" Joffrey screamed. "GUARDS. STOP HIM!"

Jon began his ascent. The guards gave way before him and retreated toward the stone walls as he neared. After watching his green blade shear through oak and iron and bolts alike, none of them found the boy on the throne worth the price of their lives.

"You burned your own people," Jon said. "You fired on a flag of truce and murdered your own messenger." He came to a halt three steps below the Iron Throne. "Yet, you have lost. Surrender, now. This is your only chance to leave alive."

"I am the king." Joffrey's voice cracked. "I am the king, and the city is mine, and I will burn anyone who says otherwise!"

The last word broke into a scream. Joffrey lunged with a dagger in his hand, the blade wet with something dark. Jon did not know whose blood it was and he did not ask. He stepped into the lunge to catch Joffrey by the wrist and held him there.

A single hiss of green light cut the air.

The crown rolled across the black stone and came to rest with a tinny clatter that sounded too small for the silence it left behind. Joffrey lay at the foot of the Iron Throne, eyes still open in shock.

The crown lay on the stone near his boot. It was gold and set with rubies, the rim bent slightly where it had struck the floor. Behind it the Iron Throne rose in a mountain of blades and shadows. The crown and throne was within reach and it should have felt like vicotry. But it didn't.

Jon's comlink erupted.

"Dany!" Robb's voice, shouting over the roar of flames. "Dany, the Mud Gate swarms with them. They are climbing out of the Blackwater. Burn them!"

Daenerys's voice, distant and crackling with dragon-wind. "I see them! I am on my way."

"The dead are rising through the eastern districts," Master Luke’s voice broke through the static. "I have the cache at Cobbler’s Square contained but this dark spell is spreading, Jon. I am going to find the source to end it."

Jon looked at the crown. "I understand Master. Joffery is dead, I'm going to head to you--"

The body moved.

It was small at first. A twitch of the fingers. A shift of the shoulder. The green light kindled in Joffrey's dead eyes, and his mouth opened, and from it came a voice that was not his.

"Take the city," Joffrey whispered. "Take the city for the true king. Take the city for Stannis."

Green fire kindled within the boy, leaking from his eyes and mouth and the deep wound in his chest. It pulsed with a distant, rhythmic chant as the thing that had been Joffrey began to rise. The corpse of a king pulled itself upright, moving with the horrible and broken grace of a puppet dancing on strings of flame.

The blade was out and moving before the corpse could fully find its feet.

Jon took the arm with the first stroke and the head with the second. He followed with three more, cutting the torso into pieces that could no longer rise or speak or command the dead. Joffrey Baratheon lay scattered across the black stone in a dozen parts when the green fire finally flickered and went out.

The crown lay where it had fallen and Jon stepped over it.

The four guards were rising too but Jon did not let them finish. He took them as they came, his blade making quick work of the dead.

"Jon." Han's voice, sounding out of breath. "We're pushing east toward the Great Hall. The family wing is full of them."

"What of the smallfolks? Have they escaped yet?"

A pause. "No, we got civilians with us. Kitchen staff, some maids, a couple of squires who were smart enough to run the right way. Where do you need us?"

"Do no come to me. Get to the Falcon. I will clear the eastern wing and meet you there."

He left the throne room without looking back. The remaining guards had already fled.

The screams began before he reached the first stairway.

The noise led Jon to the east gallery, where the banquet hall had been turned into a slaughter pen. A barricade of overturned tables offered no safety to the woman who had died behind them, for she was standing again with green fire burning in her sockets. A dozen survivors were pinned against the far stone. Jon took them in with a single glance as he closed the distance. He saw serving girls and pages, a bleeding maester's assistant, and a noblewoman in stained velvet clutching her maid. They had sought the protection of the crown and found only the dead waiting for them in the dark.

A stout maid cowered against an overturned table with her teeth chattering and her hands buried deep in her sleeves. Beneath the wood of the barricade, a wight that had once been a serving woman crawled toward her. Its livery was still smoldering from the wildfire and a green light pulsed behind its broken, hanging jaw as it moved.

Jon reached out and the Force answered, snatching the dead washerwoman from under the bench and dragging her ten feet across the floor. Nails shrieked on marble until his green blade fell, cutting through shoulder and hip and neck in three clean strokes. He then pivoted to stand between the noblelady and the dead household knight. The thing had dropped the man it was strangling and was already lunging for the girl.

The dead knight's mouth opened. "Take the city," it grated, three voices in one ruined throat, "take the city for the true--"

Jon silenced the thing with a stroke through the jaw, taking head and limbs in a single blur of motion before he kicked the torso down. He pinned the carcass flat under the heavy bench to keep it from crawling again.

The woman stared as if he were another monster, her face a mask of fear and her hands knotted in the fabric of the maid's arm.

"My lady." Jon pitched the words soft to settle her like a skittish mare. He lowered the humming blade, keeping it well clear of her. "Look at me. You need not fear me but you need to move, the dead will not remain dead. Get up."

She remained pinned for a long moment. Then something in her shifted and she found her feet. "Thank you, Your Grace!" The title surprised him, but she was already turning away in a graceless, stumbling run. She dragged the weeping maid along by the sleeve and did not look back.

"Down the gallery!" Jon raised his voice to fill the room. "All of you, follow her! The roar is rescue! MOVE!"

They hurried out with the septa driving the pages before her like a gaggle of geese. The old steward trailed behind them and stopped for a moment at Jon’s side, his fingers white around the hilt of a useless knife.

"The dragon's son," he said. His voice shook. "They said you'd come to burn us."

"Aye, they said a great deal." Jon turned him by the shoulder and pushed him after the others. "Run!"

Jon moved them at a pace slow enough to keep the wounded in line but fast enough to outrun the smoke. A scorched gold cloak lurched through a doorway with its sword still drawn, its armor black and steaming. Jon's blade found its spine before it could draw breath. Another creature followed from the rear, and he ended its second life with a single stroke.

"Keep moving!" he shouted.

Blaster fire hissed over the comlink as Han spoke. "We’ve made the outer bailey and waiting in the Flacon, Jon. Where are you?"

"East stair. One minute." Jon cut another wight in half and kept running. "Keep the ramp open."

They burst from the smoke-blackened archway of the east stair as the outer bailey opened wide before them.

Jon saw the Millennium Falcon resting in the courtyard with C-3PO stationed at the foot of its ramp. The golden droid had his arms raised while addressing a small cluster of people.

"Please proceed in an orderly fashion," the droid was saying. "Captain Solo has authorized temporary diplomatic shelter, though I must emphasize that livestock, open flames, and drawn weapons are strongly discouraged aboard the vessel—oh dear."

A bowcaster bolt hissed past as Chewbacca pinned a fire-wight to the courtyard stones. To the left of the ramp, Oberyn Martell’s spear flickered open a dead man’s throat and then severed the spine when the corpse refused to fall. Smalljon Umber stood at the arch to the inner ward to hold the line, his soot-streaked face masked in blood as he braced his greatsword and shield.

Near the base of the ramp, Tyrion Lannister and a squire were busy loosing bolts that failed to slow the dead. Tyrion looked up and caught Jon’s eye. He watched the glow of the green blade and the survivors following in its wake, his face changing as he took in the sight.

"Jon Snow!" Tyrion said. "You look as if you fought through an army of dead."

"..." Jon said. "We need everyone aboard and in the sky."

Han moved into place beside him with his blaster held ready despite the visible exhaustion in his face. He gestured toward the group gathered near the ship. "That’s thirty or so survivors including your lot. The whispering is getting louder and the doors below won't hold much longer."

"Take the city," a wight said as Jon cut it down. "Take the city for the true king."

"Get them up the ramp," Jon said. "Don't wait for me, I sense Rhaegal coming."

As if Rhaegal had heard Jon, a dragon’s roar broke across the sky above.

The courtyard dissolved into a blur of fire and falling bodies as the people climbed the ship. Chewbacca cleared the way with his massive arms while Han’s blaster bolts took three wights in the head, the burning skulls shattering under the heat. Once everyone was boarded, Han called out.

"Jon!" Han's voice sharpened. "We are leaving but I'm sure more are coming them thorough. I'll provide you with cover fire!"

Jon watched the dead swarm the gate as the Falcon rose, but the cover fire was not needed. Rhaegal banked low instead and drowned the entry in a torrent of green-gold flame. The vanguard turned to ash before they could reach the courtyard. The dragon landed and Jon moved at once to mount.

“Soves!” Jon called out. Rhaegal answered the command with a great snap of wings, climbing toward the smoke to stay with the Falcon.

"Luke!" Han barked into the comlink. "You copy? Tell me you have a plan, because I've got a bad feeling and a half-charged blaster."

The comms hissed with static and the rising scream of the dead grew louder.

Then Luke’s voice broke through the noise. "I found the thread. I am closing in on their position now."