[Kill The Boy] Chapter 79: A Hundred Hearths, One Flame (Patreon)

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

A/N: Got stuck in this chapter for a bit and even with all my notes as there are so many characters. These Harrenhal chapters are not easy to write lol. Hope you enjoy this chapter!!

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Year 300 AC

Harrenhall, The Riverlands

The gaoler offered Olenna his arm at the top of the dungeon stair. She refused it and regretted the choice by the twentieth step, though she declined to show that regret by the fortieth. Randyll Tarly followed behind her, summoned from his bed and too disciplined to say what he thought of the hour.

"...you have to accept Samwell as your heir if we of the Reach are ever to hold any sway in this new Targaeryen court."

Randyll scoffed at Olenna's suggestion. "The boy is already of the Watch, doing his duty as a Maester. It's for the best. I will not accept the future of House Tarly resting on a coward, a wildling, and their bastard."

"Stubborn as an ox, Randyll, and half as clever. Coward or not, they say your boy was the first to kill a white walker — and the King has not denied it. Think past this war of his. When it is won, what purpose will the Night's Watch serve? The King has already shown he will unmake the Watch's oaths at a whim. What if he looses his friend from them next? Do you think he will stand idle while Samwell's birthright goes to Dickon? Then you are a fool, and a proud one." Olenna admonished.

"Hear me well, my lady. House Tarly is mine to rule, not yours. If Samwell comes through this war alive and proves himself, then by the Seven he will have his place back. Until then, he remains a maester. That is the end of it. I will hear no more." Randyll replied with finality.

Olenna was about to reply but an unnatural chill went through her as they reached the bottom, even with guards thick on the floor, and the gaoler led them deeper into the cells until the rattle of chains stopped them.

"Higher with that lamp. If I am to lose my sleep, I will at least see this blasted thing clearly."

Her guard lifted the lamp and the creature threw itself at the light, chains snapping taut with a jerk that sent Randyll and Erryk and Arryk reaching for their swords before she could draw breath. Olenna let the first shock drain away and then she looked her fill at the undead thing. Even then, an unbidden thought came to her. This was somebody's son, once. Now a prisoner of whatever accursed magic had taken hold of the realm.

Olenna had little patience for hearsay and less for buying what she had not inspected. Fifty years of trade had taught her that much, at least. She ordered the guard to hold the lamp high, letting the light reveal what the realm meant to bill the Reach for.

"Well, well, well," Olenna murmured. "The realm's come up with quite the clever new way to toss lives away, hasn't it?"

"Doesn't seem like the realm's got much say in this, does it, Lady Olenna?"

The lamp swung toward the voice on the stairs, its light catching gold where a hand should have been. Jaime Lannister halted on the last flight, with a guard two steps behind, and looked from Olenna to Tarly, then into the dark beyond the cells.

"Kingslayer," Tarly spat. All he had to say, all his judgment summarized in a pair of words.

"Lord Randyll, I see the displeasure etched on your face. Is it because you wish the creature was your son instead?" Jaime asked with a small grin.

Olenna, knowing exactly how Randyll would respond, placed her cane firmly against his leg and fixed him with a penetrating gaze, halting him in his tracks.

The Kingslayer took another step down and inclined his head, as if greeting her in a flower garden. "Lady Olenna. I never thought to find you here, of all the places in this castle. I assumed it was mere curiosity, but perhaps young Brandon's tales from the feast hold more sway. Amethysts, they said."

"Wine and a strange child, what an unlikely pair," Olenna said, eyeing Jaime up and down. "But you, Ser Jaime, what brings the Kingslayer below at this hour? Planning to rest your head in a cell for your crimes, perhaps? I should hope the wine's not clouded your judgment."

The chains shifted behind Olenna, and at Jaime’s back, the guard put his hand over his sword. Jaime frowned at her question, but seemed lost for a witty reply.

"You pushed an innocent child from a tower. Cruel, even by your house's reckoning," she said, mounting the steps and waiting to see if he would give her the way. He did. "They say you kept the city standing and your sister paid the price. How did you manage that, I wonder? I suppose I am grateful, all the same."

Jamie's eyes darted past Olenna to the shadowy cell at the far end of the chain. As she strode by, he made no attempt to deny his wrongdoing, but he did find his voice.

"I'll be fighting in the vanguard, likely to die there. But can you buy your grandchildren a way out?"

The Queen of Thorns bit her tongue, knowing full well that the Kingslayer was right, she couldn't buy her way out.

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The breakfast room's cracked glass warped the morning light in peculiar ways. Margaery poured the watered wine herself, sending the serving girl away with a subtle gesture. The burn on her jaw was livid in the light, and Olenna saw that she had yet to fully accept it. She decided not to pursue the subject.

Margaery's eyes narrowed as she studied Olenna intently. "Ah, so you did pay a visit to our guest in the dungeons. Interesting."

"We're going to be paying a very large tax, and by the Seven, someone ought to bloody know what we're paying for."

"And."

"The dead are rising, eternal winter waits upon the horizon, and our king is a bloody dragon with a dragon as a pet. It's madness, all of it. Sometimes I expect to wake from this nightmare and find Mace laughing himself silly because I fell asleep during one of his endless prattle sessions."

Margaery laid down her fork. "These are strange times, Grandmother, but you do not face them alone. We are alive and still growing."

"Living, yes. Thriving, no. The Northmen have seized the reins, and we've aggravated the king's ire enough."

The king's words from last night's meeting still rang in her ears, a choice she'd made in that icy chamber.

Margaery drew back her arm. "Is it my marriage to Joffrey that has the king's ire? Our house has always stood with the Targaryens, and surely he understands that union was but a move in the game, and that eliminating Joffrey suited all parties... no, that's not it, is it?" Olenna could see the girl arrive at it. "It's about Sansa."

"His reasons for disliking us are less important than what he can do about it. The young dragon has ample cause and the power to act on it."

"But we did not mean for Sansa to be harmed. For the Seven's sake, we wanted her to marry Wilas! I told you I should have remained--"

Loras entered the breakfast room, proving he was not entirely blind to the tension. He noted his sister's anger, kissed her crown, and took his seat. "The feast went badly, I grant. But must it ruin the morning as well?"

"The King's ire has been roused, and we are the cause." Margaery said with a sideways look at Olenna.

The Knight of Flowers turned to Olenna, his brow furrowed in concern. "What did we do to anger the King? Did your offer of marriage fall on deaf ears, or did he misinterpret it in some way?"

"It wasn't the marriage offer that angered him. I never even made it. No, he's furious because Sansa was blamed for Joffrey's death — and rightly so. That was my doing. I should have seen how Littlefinger had set his sights on her."

"Yet that is not your greatest concern, is it? If the Targaryens sought our lives, we would have none," Margaery observed.

A sip of watered wine passed Olenna's lips. "No, it's not the creature below or a king worth an army that worry me. Burying an old deal should not cost me sleep." She sighed. "Yet that boy... years ago, I spoke certain words to Petyr Baelish in secret. Last night, he repeated them exactly as I had said them. My old dealings, well buried, now laid bare before the court."

Loras plucked a fig from the platter, studying it as if it held secrets. "I warned you not to underestimate the Starks," he said. "From all I've seen and heard, each of those children has had to fend for themselves. They are survivors."

"Duly noted. Now then, as for Samwell Tarly. The boy is clearly very close to the-"

The rest of her sentence was cut short by a knock at the outer door, followed by voices with one dominant speaker.

A moment later, the serving girl rushed back, face flushed and eyes wide with excitement. "My lady, a King's man awaits at the door. He says His Grace summons House Tyrell to the great hall."

"Requests," Olenna repeated, her tone carrying a hint of irritation. "Then inform that King's man that House Tyrell will attend once we have broken our fast. We've only just sat down, for the love of all that's holy."

The serving girl lingered, as if her skirts had caught on the door's outer edge.

"Out with it," Olenna demanded.

"My lady, the King's words were 'They need to get acustomed to not eating.'" She swallowed. "The realm is called."

Margaery put down her cup. Loras paused with the fig halfway to his mouth, staring at it as if the fruit had interrupted their breakfast.

"Those were the messenger's words, my lady."

Then we go hungry," Margaery declared, already rising from her seat. "The realm cannot be kept waiting."

Loras swallowed the fig whole and said, "He's a peculiar sort, I'll grant him that. Can't expect a man like him to dance to our tune."

"Impatience is no excuse, Loras," Olenna said.

Finding her feet with the cane, Olenna sighed and spoke. "The King calls, the Reach answers."

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The noise from the Great Hall reached him three turns before the doors did — not the orderly murmur of men waiting on business, but the ragged edge of men who had talked too long and settled nothing.

Before reaching the Great Hall, Aemon rounded a corner to find Melisandre blocking the corridor. The red silk of her gown contrasted with the dark ruby, and heat emanated from her, melting any snow that dared to touch her hem. She had not been announced, but her mere presence was an impenetrable barrier.

The guards fell back, but Aemon pressed on, his stride unwavering, with Val at his side, and Ghost at hers, leaving Melisandre behind them. His siblings matched his pace, and he wondered how Bran would respond to the priestess.

"My Prince," Melisandre spoke, her voice smooth as silk, "I ask only a moment of your time."

"Walk, then."

She fell in on his other side, and Val gave no ground, the space between them taut as a drawn blade.

"The flames," Melisandre said, "Are showing me naught but smoke, wood, and my own eyes staring back." She paused. "I have prayed on it, my Prince. The Lord has taken the light from me, for He knows His champion no longer needs one."

Because you are not feeding your leech anymore.

"My prince, I may yet serve you if you allow me a few sacrifices. Any prisoners alone would suffice—"

Aemon turned to her, his voice firm. "Burning more is not the service I need. I've made my thoughts on this clear, have I not?"

Something shifted behind her eyes. He had not seen it before. Then it was gone. Behind them, Bran slowly walked forward.

"You have made clear to her the folly of her zealotry, but her followers remain blinded. The sacrafice isn't just to speak to her god." Bran said.

Melisandre turned. The ruby caught the torchlight.

"Speaking to the Lord is surely one purpose, but is it the only reason for the sacrifice? There must be some trouble controlling the converts."

Melisandre glowered. "Think you understand the Lord's word, boy? The signs he gives are beyond the comprehension of any man or woman, yourself included. You speak without true wisdom."

"Wisdom is seeing that a religion cannot last when the blind and deaf lead it," Bran said bluntly. "But even your faith is faltering." Bran smiled now. "Your talks with Thoros. Your hesitations--"

"Bran, enough of that," Aemon said, his voice soft but edged with steel. He turned his gaze back to Melisandre, eyes flashing. "The ban stands, and it stands for all who follow your god, in my kingdoms. If anyone is set ablaze, I'll have your head on a pike, same as any murderer."

She lifted her chin. "I... understand. The Lord's answer will come as He wills, I have faith."

"You do not know him as well as you believe, then."

Melisandre's look of concern and surprise went unacknowledged by Aemon as he strode to the guards before the Hall of a Hundred Hearths who bowed and hastily opened the doors.

Inside, a hundred hearths burned fierce, but that did naught to warm the bone— not with snow drifting down through the broken ceilings, and the lords and ladies of the realm shivering like newborn babes. Upon entering, the sound of a staff striking stone three times echoed through the hall, lifting heads and causing uneasy murmurs to ripple through the gathered lords.

The herald breathed in deeply, ready to begin.

"King Aemon Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men—"

With an imperious gesture, Aemon cut the herald short.

The herald's voice petered out, swallowed by Aemon's footsteps clacking 'gainst the stone as he made his way to the throne. With each step, the air itself seemed to dance, and the fires in them hearths leapt, casting a strange white-violet light. The lords and ladies of the realm stopped shivering as the heat cast out the cold, now only bowing as he walked past, their eyes all on Aemon and Val as they approached. Val walked tall, her wildling beauty clashing with the refined southern lords and ladies. She held their stares with a serene, confident gaze not to be dismissed. Ghost padded at her heel, silent as falling snow, and the bowed heads nearest the aisle drew back from him as quickly as they had bent.

Low whispers and murmurs rose through the hall as Aemon strode to the throne, unease and curiosity setting the lords and ladies to shifting like a restless sea. Daenerys stood by the throne in black and crimson, nodding at him with a small smile that Aemon matched.

Once Aemon reached the throne, he faced the audience, with Val stationed opposite Daenerys and Ghost settling beside the dais, a white shape the eye kept finding. There, he saw Sansa, Bran, and Rickon settling into the Northern side, attracting many a stare. But Arya was absent, and his eyes roamed the packed hall, hunting for her. They landed on a carefree serving girl who had a smirk on her face, as if Arya knew Aemon was staring right at her. He glimpsed Gendry nearby, completely unaware of Arya's presence.

At least there's hope for her. Poor lad.

Stepping forward, Aemon reached the edge of the dais steps.

"My lords."

He let the hushed whispers of the few lords die away.

"Before the realm's business begins," Aemon looked down the length of the hall, "The first matter is a scheme older than most of you know, and a man I have kept alive so you could hear it from his own mouth."

Aemon turned to the Blackfish. "Bring him in."

"As you wish, Your Grace." With a dip of his head, the Blackfish departed the hall.

He continued. "This realm's been at war for years, all because of schemers pulling strings. Lies have been spread, lies you've taken as truth. If we're going to be one kingdom again, we need to bring to light this madness. Lord Connington and Aegon-- step forward." Aemon gestured to the corner where the Golden Company huddled together.

Murmurs of 'traitor' and 'Blackfyre scum' rippled through the lords as Aegon and Lord Connington strode forward, suspicion and confusion alike spreading like a chill through the hall.

"This plot's been brewing since Robert's Rebellion even started, to smash what's left of the Targaryen line, made weaker still by the Mad King. Their aim to throw the realm in conflict so they could put a Blackfyre in place of my murdered infant brother Aegon."

Jon Connington looked at Aemon in both shame and acceptance. He found the courage to speak. "Your Grace, I didn't know. You know we didn't know."

A voice rose from the Vale side. "Lord Connington, ignorance is no excuse." Aemon turned to see Lord Royce.

Lord Royce spoke up, his eyes on Aemon. "Your Grace, what sort of fiend could have dreamed up such a scheme, to cause this much mayhem?"

"Here he comes," Aemon replied as the Blackfish entered, flanked by guards and dragging an unsteady Varys. The lords' whispers intensified, now focused on the eunuch's arrival.

The towering guards dumped Varys onto the stones at the center of the floor, as if he were nothing more than a sack of rotten grain. His bent, ruined knee immediately gave way when he tried to rise but with effort, he gathered himself — and in the same moment, even here, even now, that smooth, sickening voice oozed out like the worst kind of poisoned honey.

"Ah, Your Grace, I'm delighted you've finally found the time to grant an old servant an audience."

"Varys of Lys, you stand accused of treason before the realm. For seventeen years you've spun lies to feed two kings, calling it service, and when they stopped listening, you turned them against each other. Every whisper, every war—all to put a Blackfyre boy on my murdered brother's place. Speak now, if you have any words left. These lords bled for your work—they may as well hear your voice." Aemon delcared.

The eunuch pulled his weight onto his sound leg. "Then hear the truth, my lords. There was no Blackfyre. Before the city fell I carried Prince Aegon out myself and put a common babe in the royal cradle—"

Ghost rose from beside the dais without a sound but Varys noticed him anyways.

Ghost never growls, but his red eyes said more as he stood at the dais, then descended to the floor. He paced toward Varys, who knelt with a shattered knee and a raised axe above his head, muffling the eunuch's whispers like wind snuffing a candle. Aemon's fury simmered underneath, unfed and silent, carried in the direwolf's steady approach until the eunuch could count his fangs.

"The boy beside Lord Connington," Varys managed, his eyes never leaving the wolf, "is Rhaegar's trueborn son. Whatever else you believe of me—"

Ghost stopped a sword's length away and sat, and somehow that was worse than his snarl.

"Lies from the Spider's web once more," Doran said as he came to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. He waved off the solicitous hands of Areo and Arianne, his face a mask of determination. Slowly, deliberately, he made his way forward, each step echoing his displeasure. "Elia's son? That boy is no kin of hers, nor of mine. Tell me, Aegon, are you who you claim to be?"

The man in question stood his ground. "Yes, and no, Prince Doran," Aegon said, drawing a long breath. "I am Aegon, for it is the only name I have ever known. But no, I am not the son of Rhaegar Targaryen."

Doran gave Aegon a nod before shifting his gaze back to Varys. "Do you have an answer for that?"

Varys held his tongue his eyes showed Aemon the man was trying to find a way out.

"My niece and my nephew were not the whole of it." Daenerys had not raised her voice, nor did she need to as everyone's attention followed her. "I was part of your scheme too, Spider. Say it. My brother and I begged bread through the Free Cities while your magister watched us starve from a comfortable distance until I was worth something. Then came the manse and the gowns and the kindness." Her chin lifted. "Two children of House Targaryen died in that nursery, and two more treated as pawns for your and Illyrio's games."

Varys looked to her, perhaps to plead that she of all people should understand, but the words failed him. Her face offered no opening, and the white wolf sat between them with red eyes wide open.

"He has no answers," Bran said. "I do."

Sansa did not stop him this time, and the room turned toward Bran.

"When the Mountain climbed the stairs to the nursery, Varys was beneath Maegor's Holdfast, in the third tunnel below the kitchens, revising his plans when Aerys refused to listen to him about Tywin. He did not go to the nursery that day. He had never gone near it. He instead wrote to Illyrio Mopatis nine days later that the field was cleared for planting."

"Sorcery," Varys said softly. "Whatever you think your sorcery has shown you—"

“You were eight,” Bran said, “or nine. The man who bought you wanted king’s blood. He gave you sweet wine, cut you, and burned what he took. The flames turned blue. Something answered.”

“Stop,” Varys said.

Bran looked toward the red woman.

Varys followed his gaze, his head snapping toward the red priest and priestess.

"Bring me a block." Aemon looked down at the kneeling eunuch. "Varys of Lys. Varys Blackfyre. I judge you guilty of high treason against the Realm. The sentence is death."

Ghost rose and padded back to the dais, leaving Varys with a face emptied of everything but a vacant stare. The eunuch kept his eyes on the Red Faith. Aemon watched him, unable to tell if the terror was for the axe, the fire, or the boy who held the answer to both. As the guards forced his head onto the block, Aemon unsheathed Blackfyre.

"Any last words?"

Varys stayed silent, staring as if everything were a lie while the hall held its collective breath. Aemon did not wait for a reply; he swung the blade down and severed the eunuch's neck in a single stroke.

As the guards dragged the eunuch's body toward the doors, the hall breathed out. Into that silence Val spoke, unhurried, to no one and everyone.

"I see now why my people stayed north of the Wall. The dead only want your life." She followed the retreating guards with the headless body. "But southern schemers want everything else before they take the life."

The tension broke into a small coughing laughter, loudest among the northerners before they could quench it.

“Lord Connington. Aegon. Varys made weapons of you both. I will not punish you for his lies and manipulation.”

"Your Grace—"

"I am not done, Lord Connington. Your debt to the realm is not discharged so easily, not with everything at stake. The Golden Company knows siegecraft and discipline so they will serve under my command, led by you, as your penance. The crown needs your Company's skills, and I mean to have them, contract or not. This is not an offer, Lord Connington. Be ready to receive my officers on the morrow."

Strickland and Connington exchanged glances, but Aegon replied without acknowledging either of them.

"The Golden Company will be ready, Your Grace." The boy's voice stayed level, a sign of courage Aemon had never doubted.

Aemon nodded and turned back toward the audience. "Varys was not the only schemer hell-bent on destroying the realm. Many of you are ignorant of Littlefinger hand in the wars — poisoning Jon Arryn, starting the war of the Five Kings by falsely pitting the Starks against the Lannisters, and selling children to brothels. But the dead cannot be put on trial."

Jeyne Poole flashed in Aemon's mind as he looked at Sansa, and a bitter wish for Littlefinger's return rushed through him — only to kill the man again.

"They can still be judged. Petyr Baelish is attainted, his name and titles erased, every ship, holding, and hidden account seized for the war — beginning with this castle."

Aemon spied a few lords and knights stiffen, their eyes gleaming with avarice as he spoke. Even with the realm in disarray, all they could think of filling their purses.

"His silver has bought more than whispers — it has bought hands, and not all those hands are dead. The crown knows some of the names." His gaze swept over the hall, from the Vale to the Riverlands to the Reach, settling on Olenna. "Any man who took the Mockingbird's coin would do well to bring the crown his honesty before the crown comes asking. And I assure you, it will."

As expected, Aemon saw only nervous shuffling in response to his words. No one moved to acknowledge their crimes, let alone confess them.

"Varys and Littlefinger are known to you, but one more group remains to be addressed, the Maesters."

Confusion spread through the lords and ladies as they spotted the handful of maesters in the hall, their eyes darting like cornered animals. The maesters remained frozen, unable to find a reason to move.

"Lord Baelor."

The heir to Oldtown stepped out from among the Reach lords, a tall man gone grey at the temples, and the smile that had named him Brightsmile was nowhere on him now.

"The Citadel stands in your family's city," Aemon said. "So answer me this. Who taught you your letters?"

Baelor's reply was measured, cautious. "A maester of the Citadel, Your Grace," he said, like a man testing the depth of water before wading in.

"Who reads your ravens? Who mixes your father's medicines?"

"Maesters, Your Grace. As in every keep in Westeros."

"As in every keep in Westeros." Aemon let the silence take hold until the accusation was heard. "Within the walls your family has guarded for a thousand years sits a circle of archmaesters who count themselves the true rulers of the realm. They hated magic, so they poisoned dragons — slowly, over generations, while the Targaryens thanked them for their service."

"Your Grace." Baelor had gone deathly still. "If the crown means to charge House Hightower—"

"It does not. Your father has not come down from the top of his tower in ten years, my lord, and your sister keeps her books and her instruments beside him. The grey rats trust no house in Westeros less than yours — a family that never stopped studying what they were built to smother. If the Hightowers had been part of it, I would not be telling you this. I would be telling them." He nodded to Bran. "I have their names."

Bran shoved a parchment at a guard, barking a few words, and the guard rushed it to Baelor. The Hightower scanned it like a man reading a list of the dead, and Aemon's eyes locked on the exact line where Baelor's jaw froze in place.

"I know these men," Baelor said. "Two of them examined me for my link— for my education. One of them dined in my father's hall at my sister Lynesse's wedding."

"Then they will open their doors to you without suspicion. The Citadel sits in your city, Lord Baelor, and you answer to Highgarden." Aemon's eyes went to Olenna over the heads of the Reach.

Daenerys spoke up, her voice commanding though Aemon could hear the shimmering rage. "So, will the Reach hunt down these traitors and deliver them to the crown for justice?"

Olenna shifted her gaze between Daenerys and Aemon. "These conspirators will face justice for their treachery. You have my promise, Your Grace."

"I understand the need to quell such annoyances at this critical time. Thank you, for Euron." Baleor spoke, his voice heavy with emotion. "I heard of your battle at Sunspear. I lost two brothers to that squid bas—apologies."

"None needed. Good, that is the end of the schemers, and the end of their lies. But there is one lie left in this hall, my lords." Aemon turned from them and climbed the dais steps, past Daenerys, past Val, to the throne that had stood empty through the morning's business. He faced the realm from the top of his own hall.

"My lords — it's past time I introduced myself properly. My name is Aemon Targaryen, the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen but some of you know me as Jon Snow, the bastard son of Eddard Stark."

"No, my mother was not abducted and as foolish as Rhaegar was, he was not a rapist." Aemon turned to Val and raised his hand, and she climbed the steps to take it as he faced the realm entire. "The woman beside me is Val of the Free Folk, my wife. We were wed before the weirwood in Winterfell's godswood, witnessed by my house and the North. She is queen by my word and law."

The lords looked from Aemon to Val to Daenerys, and the hall came alive with whispered talk. Those of the Faith, despite their jittery nerves, couldn't resist muttering curses.

"We are long past that, whether I am a bastard or not. I believe I have made my claim clear enough." Aemon sat. "If you wish to contest it, or my choice of bride, this is your only chance."

The murmurs in the hall swelled, yet their substance stayed unchanged. Heads swiveled toward Daenerys, and she seized the moment to declare her position.

When she spoke it was to the council, not to him. "You heard the King. He is a Targaryen — you have seen his fire, and I need say no more." Her eyes found Val, and something in them measured and settled at once. "And your queen walked out of the far north a warrior in her own right. The realm could do worse."

Val flashed Daenerys a crooked grin, then fixed the rest with her gaze. "Who's warming whose furs ain't up for debate."

"Then my claim is settled." Aemon waited one last moment for any one to dare object. "Half of those here does not need me to prove the enemy. They have seen it first hand.The other half of you have had two days in this castle with one of the dead chained below your feet. My gaoler keeps a book — every visitor, name and hour. This morning that book holds two names."

"Lord Randyll. Tell them what is chained down there."

Tarly stepped forward without fanfare. "It's a corpse wreathed in folly, still reaching for life even as it falls to pieces," he said bluntly. "It just... kept coming, a tireless thing that doesn't know fear or pain. It's not something a man can reason with. Ten thousand of these? They're the ruin of any army."

Aemon let his eyes move across the southern ranks. "The men who have seen these things went down for another look. Ask yourselves why the rest of you did not."

There were few that would look Aemon in the eye now.

"So hear the first law of this council. Any lord or lady who has not stood before the dead puts their name in that book before their declaration is sealed. The vaults stay open. The stairs are that way. How can you pledge grain and men against an enemy you could not be troubled to look at."

"Ladies, Your Grace?"

It was Davos Seaworth who said it, stepping out from the stormlanders with Shireen's hand still in his. The Onion Knight had never learned a courtier's way of disagreeing with a king, which was to wait until the king had left the room.

"I have a wife at Cape Wrath. She has borne me seven sons and buried four of them. I would not have her within a league of the thing below, nor any woman I have ever met. Standing between them and that is what the rest of us are for."

The southern ranks had straightened, and Aemon could see the anticipation on their faces—half the hall was ready to cheer.

"You've already looked the dead in the eye, in Skagos. You know what they are. When their line breaks, will they spare the women and children?"

Davos was an honest man. "No, Your Grace."

"No. The dead do not honor the innocent. At Hardhome, they struck at the fishing camps first — old and young, women by the racks — and all they killed stood up to join them. You mean to shield your family, and your courage is unquestioned. But your wife will be at Cape Wrath, and you at the frontlines. A holding that relies on its women in place of warriors arms the enemy. So the ladies will come down with the lords, and all above ten years will train with spear and knife, alongside the men, every day."

"Your Grace, you cant't mean every--" Genna Lannister tried to ask but Aemon cut her off.

"Yes, every woman. Ask the Queen how many dead men she has put down, my lady."

The Lannister woman looked at Val. Val answered the unasked question. "More than your sons."

"Take heart from this: the dead can be slain. Fire and dragonglass are the weapons to use, along with the spell-forged steel of ancient Valyria. Lord Randyll wields such a blade today, and it is no mere ornament. Heartsbane is a true answer."

He looked past him to the southern ranks. "Dragonglass is being mined from Dragonstone by the wagonload — knives, spearheads, arrowheads. Every man who marches for the Moat marches with glass at his belt."

"And fire, Your Grace?" The Vance lord was wary. "Wildfire?"

"Any fire will ignite it. The creature below burns like any dead thing, hungry for the flame to catch." Aemon's lips curled. "Though I've been known to hasten the catching."

A voice spoke up, sounding small and nervous and clearly not belonging to any lord.

"Can you make the dead go away?"

Shireen Baratheon stood beside Davos, holding his shortened fingers with a grip that suggested she feared the question might pull her away. The realization that she had spoken her thoughts aloud colored her scarred cheek with red.

"Apologies, Your Grace." She bowed as curtesy, but Davos stopped her, shaking his head with a small grin.

Upon hearing who had spoken, a few gathered laughed, and Davos turned upon them, silencing the laughter.

"Seven hells, a little girl has more guts than the rest of us." Bronn of Stokeworth pushed out from the crownlanders. "She is right, though. You landed on this castle as a dragon, Your Grace. You can face an army of the dead by yourself. If you can do all that, what do you need us for?"

A ragged, grateful laughter filled the hall, even from the few northerners present. Before Aemon could respond, bells rang out among the Queen's Men, their tones patched and uneven. Patchface swayed under his antlered tin helm, gazing up at a roof half-shattered. Each step he took set the bells ringing.

"Under the sea the dragons are made of snow," he sang. "I know, I know, oh, oh, oh. The cold king rides where the snow-wings go, but the cold king kneels to the queen below, oh, oh, oh."

The laughter drained from the hall, leaving a silence as heavy as the chill in a corpse. Patchface turned in a slow circle, arms spread wide, bells chiming off the beat of his steps, like a man presenting a bride at a wedding.

"Under the sea the bride wears purple stones. She has slept so long in her bed of bones. Her brother lit a fire to keep her warm, oh, oh, oh, and the fire is burning still. He took her crown when she lay down to sleep, and he has come back for the dreams, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh. The shadows come to dance, my lords. Dance, my lords, dance, my lords."

Bran's eyes fell on the fool, and Aemon saw in them the same blend of fascination and wariness that he'd seen in other men's eyes when they looked at Bran.

Aemon recalled the sound of bells at Castle Black from his time in the Night's Watch, when Melisandre had deemed the fool a threat, her sacred flames yet burning bright. Now her once vibrant ember was but a broken promise, her ruby clutched tight as nails digging into her own flesh.

Daenerys stood rigid, her eyes fixed on Patchface where he swayed, his bells gone quiet. "Songs and riddles," she said. "I have had my fill of both." She turned to Aemon. "Nephew, you destroyed one of these dragons beyond the Wall. These lords will want to know how—and so will I."

Remembering where he was, Aemon spoke. "The fool tells the truth. You deserved to know all of this before I asked you for anything, so hear it now. The enemy has dragons... made of ice. I fought one beyond the at Wall, at Hardhome. It flew faster than I could and came closer to killing me than any living or dead thing before it. In the end, I destroyed it but spent eight days recovering from my wounds."

“Larger than either dragon outside,” Val said. “Larger than my husband in his other skin.”

No murmur followed but Aemon's ears caught the shift in heartbeats — hundreds of them, stumbling out of rhythm like men tripping in the dark.

"There are three more," Bran said, as if the news couldn't get worse. "The more mount's for the white walkers."

The lords who had wintered at Winterfell stood unmoving, having already heard this from Aemon's own mouth. It was to the others that he watched change. Randyll Tarly, who had looked upon the creature in the dungeon and thought they faced only foot-soldiers, was now reconsidering his strategies. Genna Lannister pressed her hands to her mouth, her gaze lowered as if desperately hoping Aemon's words were mere jest. Loras Tyrell turned to gaze at his sister, as if to reassure himself of her presence.

The lords had pledged fealty to him, thinking him invincible. Yet here he stood, admitting that he'd nearly tasted defeat.

Aemon glanced toward Davos and Shireen. "To your question, no, my lady. Not alone. That is why you are gathered here."

Shifting to Bronn, he addressed the question wirling in thier minds. "You asked what I need you for, Lord Stokeworth. While your ditches are dug, I will be in the sky above the Neck against three dragons of winter. Below me, someone must feed a hundred thousand people, arm them, move them, and hold the walls when the dead arrive."

He looked from Bronn to the rows of lords pressed across Harren's floor.

"I can be a dragon. I cannot be a realm."

As Bronn bowed, his usual smirk melted away stepping back into the crowd of crownlanders.

"Now you know the enemy. The North is emptying—every village, every holdfast moving south of the Neck. The Wall is abandoned, Castle Black and Eastwatch march for Moat Cailin as we speak. It's where this war will be fought, the narrowest path. The Neck stretches from sea to sea, boggy and treacherous. The dead don't tire, so we won't let them meet us on open ground, where their numbers overwhelm. We'll make them come to us, in our own terms."

"Moat Cailin, the strongest fortress in Westeros, is a ruin. Three towers standing of twenty. I do not mean to hold a ruin and a fortress is not built by one kingdom. The Moat is northern ground, and no man in this hall knows the Neck as its own people do. Lord Reed."

Aemon spotted him without trouble. Howland Reed, a head shorter than the lords around him, stood where the noise was thinnest and had listened to the entire morning without a word.

"The ground is yours to read, Lord Reed. You know where it bears stone, where it swallows stone, which paths freeze first. Your people have held the causeway against every army that ever marched north to die on it, and your guides have walked every dig at the Moat."

"Your Grace," Howland Reed said, his mild voice drawing the hall's quiet, "rebuilding the moat is only the start. We will need to extend it. The marshes make the Neck impassable to men, but the dead may move differently. Even they will find trouble, though. We know every opening, every path that can hold an ambush or a trap."

Aemon nodded at Howland's answer. "If the Moat is to be rebuilt and extended, it will require resources — and those resources are needed now. Every mason and miner in Westeros, with provisions to match. As they work, every soldier, every warrior from Dothraki to Unsullied to Golden Company, must lend a hand. No one stands idle. Ser Jamie, you will lead the first group to the Moat to begin the preprations and prepare it for the arrival of your Brothers of the Watch."

The grumbling from the Westerlands quieted under Aemon's hard stare. There stood the Kingslayer, sent to the Watch in open council, with his aunt Genna Lannister watching from twenty paces away. She betrayed no emotion.

Jaime already knew his duty, then inclined his head. "A command with a view was always my desire, Your Grace," he said.

“About time,” Marq Piper said from among the riverlords. He was young enough to have buried half his family and old enough to remember every name. “Mine went to the Twins beneath guest right and never came home. The black cloak is more mercy than they had.”

Daven Lannister's dagger slipped silently out of its sheath, silver flashing in the hall light.

Piper's eyes flashed. His own blade came free.

Jaime readied himself for a fight, fixing his gaze on the Piper men.

Genna, sensing the escalating tension, swiftly moved to Daven's side and placed her hand on his, imploring, "Daven, please."

"The verdict stands," Aemon growled. "Draw steel here and lose the hand. Sheathe your blades."

Piper’s eyes remained fixed upon the lions behind Daven. Not even the fear of death could suppress the hatred simmering in Piper, as neither side gave ground.

"NOW."

The voice that came out of him was deeper than any man's should be, with an unsettling undertone no human throat could produce, and the hearth nearest the riverlords turned its flame toward the dais. The command hit like a hammer, the Riverlords and Westerlanders stumbling to sheath their weapons and snap to attention. All around, the lords and ladies in attendance were equally jolted, the hall falling into a restless murmur.

Brynden Tully grasped Piper's wrist and pushing the younger lord behind him.

"Your Grace," the Blackfish interjected, as if Aemon had merely called upon him next."Bogs are no barrier when frozen. In a harsh winter, the fens become solid. Then, the dead could will simply traverse what the maps claim is impassable."

"The Moat Cailin is far from impregnable," Aemon conceded, appreciating the Blackfish's attempt to distract from the tension."But it will lure the dead like a nighted flame. If any breach its defenses, that's why we've armed everyone, including the women and children, with dragonglass. To wage this war, we need gold, stores, ships, roads, labor, soldiers — and truthful accounts of each."

A riverlord wearing quartered Vance colors came forward. "And the free folk, Your Grace? Thousands south of the Wall already, and thousands more upon the roads. They eat from northern stores. Does your law count them, or does it count only what the rest of us must spend to feed them?"

"The free folk have already fought the dead, before anyone here even believed in them. They come under the same count, the same duties, and the same protection. Or do you think we are less?"

The Vance lord's attention swung toward Val, and without needing to look, Aemon knew her grip had tightened on the dagger hidden at her hip. He felt her tension, the disciplined restraint that held the spear from flying through the man's throat. The lord could only nervously bow and retreated.

"My lords, the crown has its own records—every tally of grain and gold. Lady Sansa will let you know what you must commit. You may refute it once, if your own records differ. But know this, a false count, or false swearing against the count, will hang you."

“Every holding feeds and clothes its smallfolk through winter. Use your own stores; the crown covers an honest shortfall. They are the levies, diggers, and wagon-hands already assigned. I won't pretend this hall gives a damn about them but let them starve and the dead gain recruits. Open your granaries.”

"And from today until the dead are beaten, there will be no feasts in the Seven Kingdoms. No tourney boards, no name-day galas, no harvest revels. Any heir who obstructs the war may be passed over for one who will serve. If a whole house conspires to starve the host, its lands go to hands willing to work them."

Arguments erupted across the hall as he finished speaking. A westerman demanded if dead oxen counted as misfortune, while a Darry man shouted that the west had long been labeling dead peasants as misfortune. Near the doors, someone called out that attainder required proof. He was growing tired of dealing with these southern lords.

"Your Grace, with what gold will we fund this war?" Genna Lannister asked, her words cutting through the hall's murmur. "The crown you inherited is bankrupt, its treasury just Littlefinger's accounts and a city in ruins. How does the Reach's bounty alone sustain a realm throughout years of winter war?"

"Braavos's." Aemon looked past her, to the envoys standing near the clerks. "Lord Tycho."

The Braavosi diplomat came forward, his bows executed as if each motion was a carefully choreographed dance."No lord, Your Grace. Only a simple servant of the Iron Bank of Braavos. The Iron Bank has closed its accounts with the crown of King Tommen, which is in default. It stands behind the crown of King Aemon. The evacuation of the North moves on the Bank’s letters of credit. Grain is contracted through Gulltown until spring—Braavosi hulls, Braavosi insurance. And repayment of the whole is deferred until the war is won.”

He paused the length of a coin turning over. “Without interest.”

Genna repeated. "Without interest, eh? Well, that's right generous of you, Lord Banker."

"The Bank is prudent, my lady. It lends against the future." Tycho's courtesy did not flicker. "His Grace is the only party offering one."

"The Bank's terms are the realm's terms," Aemon said. "Thank your masters, Lord Tycho. Tell them the crown's memory is as long as theirs."

Tycho bowed once more, slightly lower than before, then retreated to his place among the gathering of envoys.

"Grain needs roads. So does news. Until this war ends, crown officers oversee every rookery, castle, and holdfast. Maesters tend their birds and retain their chains. No raven flies without the officer's knowledge. Any man who delays a warning or changes one hangs beside the man who falsifies a count."

The three maesters standing with the clerks traded uneasy looks until one began writing before the others.

"One law more. No fire, steel, or blood upon the Isle of Faces, for the God's Eye is crown godswood. Ser Brynden will choose riverlords for its guard and Lord Royce will supply Vale knights. Any man who breaks its peace pays hand and life, whatever banner hangs above him."

Tytos Blackwood spoke fervently, like a man at prayer, “Raventree thanks the old gods for a king who guards their wood.” At the same time, Jonos Bracken wore the face of a man who had bitten into a lemon and said nothing.

But he did hear a distinct whisper. “Heathen bastard.”

Aemon found the speaker by the pepperpots sewn across a saffron surcoat.

“The knight in saffron. Third rank from the west wall. Come forward and say it again.”

The westermen opened around the knight, who entered the aisle with his chin high and his color gone.

"I said the hour grows late, Your Grace, and the petitions long."

"You said 'heathen bastard'. My hearing is better than you were told." Aemon searched the man's face and found no name. "Bran. Who is he?"

Bran turned his head to the man in question, and by now, they all had learned what it meant when he did so.

"Rolph Spicer. Sybell Westerling's brother. Castellan of the Crag. Lord of Castamere by Lannister grant." Bran paused. "At the Golden Tooth he returned Martyn Lannister and gave Tywin's men King Robb's route, his strength, and the day he would reach the Twins."

Spicer's nervousness began to seep out as he stared at Aemon.

"His sister fed Jeyne Westerling moon tea," Bran continued. His voice faltered. "No heir. That was part of it. Castamere came after the murder. Payment for guest right."

Marq Piper was the first in line, and the riverlords crowded behind him, their shoulders colliding in their rush to reach Spicer until the guards lowered their spears to block the way.

"A child's tale," Spicer pleaded. "Half the west stood at the Golden Tooth!"

“Ser Brynden.” Aemon’s eyes remained on Spicer, his anger bubbling inside causing the flames to shift ominously. “When the undead are surging against you, would you trust this man to guard your back?”

“No.” The Blackfish replies with clenched teeth. “A man who sold guest right will sell a battle line. Hang him.”

“Rolph Spicer,” Aemon said, “the crown charges you with treason against King Robb, conspiracy in his murder, and murder beneath guest right. What say you?”

Spicer's tongue tangled as he cried, "I-I did no such thing! I am innocent!"

The first words spilled out weak and uncertain, but the last rang out with a desperate bravado. Aemon's stoic silence stretched on, an unspoken challenge.

Realizing his pleas fell on deaf ears, Spicer changed tactics. "Trial by combat, I demand it," he spat out, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "The gods themselves shall decide the truth!"

“The gods are welcome to attend. The crown accepts.”

Spicer looked toward the guards, expecting one of them to step into the aisle.

Aemon descended from the throne, unfastening his cloak and handing it to Satin, who gave him Blackfyre in return. "Look not at the guards. The crown's champion is already here."

Those gathered nearest the center edged back to the hearths, parting an aisle of bare stone between the dais and nearest fire. A guard handed Spicer his sword and shield.

"This is not right. This is a farce of a trial. You all must see that." Spicer turned around, searching for support, but found only open hostility.

“Whenever you are ready, ser,” Aemon said. “The gods are watching. You wanted them here.”

The point of Blackfyre dragged the floor as Spicer advanced, shield raised. Aemon made no move to lift his own blade, and Spicer seized the opening, shouting as he lunged for his foe's unguarded middle.

Gasps were heard all around.

Spicer pushed forward, his sword driving through the black wool, hitting one of Aemon's old scars.

The blade bowed but Aemon was motionless.

Spicer recoiled and brought his shield up to shield his face. The cloth tore, revealing unbroken skin beneath, but the blow did not pierce. His sword shook in his hand as he tried to move back words.

"What--?" Spicer tried to say but Aemon finally raised Blackfyre and swung.

Blackfyre crossed the shield on a falling diagonal, striking iron and oak, and pierced Spicer from left shoulder to right hip. His upper half slid sideways, entrails spilling across the rushes before the rest of him collapsed beneath the broken shield. Blood spread toward the riverlords.

I am sorry I could not save your babe, Rob.

While Aemon wiped Blackfyre upon Spicer’s cloak, the few northern lords and the riverlords stared cheering. Meanwhile, beside the nearest hearth, a young westerman turned away and retched at the grisly sight.

Guards carried Spicer out feet first, and Aemon went back up the dais to the throne.

“Castamere returns to the crown,” Aemon said, and then turned to Bran. “Where are the Westerlings?”

Bran's eyes glazed over, turning milky white.. The change did not last as mere moments later, he blinked and stared at Aemon, pupils back to normal.

"Shadow Tower," Bran said, his voice a near-whisper.

Aemon's brow furrowed as he puzzled over Bran's cryptic words. "The Shadow Tower? How in the seven hells have the Westerlings—"

"No, Jon. Not the Westerlings," he said, his voice growing louder as if he were walking closer to something. "The Wall at the Shadow Tower has fallen."

For a long moment, no one breathed as Bran's words sank in. He swayed unsteadily, Sansa's hand tightening on his arm.

Aemon mentally tallied the vulnerable targets. The Shadow Tower marked the Wall's western end, leaving every fort south of it exposed. "The Watch, Edd's men, the western castles—the dead. Are they in pursuit?"

Bran blinked slowly, the world still coming back into his eyes. "Not yet. They march blind, and the dead have not found their road. Yet."

Aemon descended from the throne. "I will see them safe off the Wall's shadow and learn what is at their backs. The Westerlings will have to wait." He turned to find Daenerys and Val already watching him. "The council is yours until I return. Sansa — the counts and the commitments. Nothing waits on me. Val — the free folk ready to move at first light. Daenerys, we need the dragonglass. Now."

"Bring us the truth of it," Daenerys said firmly. "Whatever that may be."

Sansa only nodded, already turning towards Sam.

"I need you alive," Val stated bluntly. "Men who keep their oaths are harder to replace than ones who don't."

"Bran." Aemon met his brother's eyes. "I need you to guide me to them."

"You have them." Somewhere high in the ruined rafters, wings stirred in the dark.

Halfway to the doors, Aemon realized no one else had budged. They stood frozen in the rushes, gawking at each other— a thousand souls awaiting word that the world had not just crumbled. Aemon pressed them.

"You heard him," he called out, his voice ringing through the hall. "Ravens to send. Places to go. Move!"

Like ice on a river, the crowd shattered and dispersed. Then he was through the doors and into the snow.

His brothers were out there in the dark, marching south through the Gift, blind to what followed. He could even see Edd cracking jokes about the end of the world. But Aemon meant for them to come home, to hearth and hall, to a place where they didn't have to laugh at the dark.

He walked through the yard to the gates, then down the incline to the God's Eye. With the dark water of the lake behind him, he let the fire come.