[Look To The Stars] Chapter 73: The Living Must Answer (Patreon)

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

A/N: Enjoy the chapter!Edit: Just an update, I posted the older version of Jon's POV by accident. I updated it to the correct version.

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Year 299 AC/8 ABY

Winterfell, The North

The cabin's vibration traveled up through the seat into the backs of Bran's legs. After the cold and the blood and the long flight from the shore, the steady hum should have been soothing. It wasn't.

The snow dusted canopy of the wolfswood rushed beneath the cockpit viewport like a frozen sea. Bran watched the trees slide away and tried to build his words in his head, turning the order of them over and over to see how his mother would hear them. Every version fell apart before he could finish.

Sansa sat beside him, bundled in a blanket from the ship despite the warmth inside, having claimed the seat by the viewport to stare out in silence for a long time before finally turning to watch him.

"You still haven't told him yet." Her voice left no room for denial.

There was no point in pretending. "I was going to," Bran said. "I will."

"Master Luke should know what happened. The dead are—"

"I know!" he said, the words snapping out before he could stop them.

Sansa's back went rigid, her face settling into that smooth, lady-like mask she wore. "Then why haven't you used that thing he gave you?"

He wanted to call Master Luke, but his throat felt tight and the words wouldn't come out right. He couldn't look small in front of his sisters, not with Mara sitting there, who had flown across the stars and feared nothing.

"I'm making sure I know what to say," he said. "So he doesn't think I'm just—"

"A misbehaving child?" Sansa finished, one brow raised.

"A fool?" Arya piped up from the back.

Bran turned and gave Arya's smug face a look. Also, he could have sworn he heard Mara snort.

Sansa pulled the blanket tighter. "There is no point in worrying. We are still alive, and Master Luke trusts you."

Bran let out a breath. "I will tell Master Luke when we land. But Sansa... did they look like the stories?"

Sansa tightened the blanket around herself and went quiet. He watched her remember it, the way she gripped the edge of her blanket and looked past him to where Mara sat in the pilot's seat.

"I have never been that scared in my life," Sansa said. "The stories don't do them justice. It's as if the person is just standing up again, like it's still them. But it wasn't him anymore. It wasn't him."

Arya chose that moment to change the subject, asking the question none of them had wanted to touch. "What do we tell Mother?"

“About the dead,” Mara said from the pilot’s seat. “Start there. We're landing soon."

The ship dipped into a slow turn, and through the forward glass Bran watched the grey stone of Winterfell climb out of the snow. It felt strange that he could see the smoke drifting up from a dozen chimney tops but it was another notch in new experiences. Guards were already hurrying along the battlements, watching the strange vessel as it drew close. Jade's Fire cleared the inner wall above a stronghold thrown into uproar.

As the ship's dropping whine rolled over the towers, a bell was still ringing somewhere past the Great Keep. At the Hunter's Gate, riders tangled in the archway, some pushing out into the snow and others crowding in with frost on their cloaks. Hounds fought their leashes in the lower yard. Across the snow, guards moved at a run while stablehands hauled saddled horses clear.

Mara set the ship down right in the Great Courtyard. Men ran for the arcades with their arms locked over their eyes, then came crowding back before the landing struts had even finished settling.

Shouting and winter chill swept into the ship as the ramp lowered into the ground. Bran took in the courtyard in a single glance, spotting Maester Luwin beside the well, Ser Rodrik with a steel sword gripped by both hands, and his mother already breaking clear of the guards.

The ramp had not even finished dropping before his mother charged up it, fierce as a she-wolf defending her den. A single bruising rush brought her arms around Bran's waist and Arya's shoulder, dragging both of them against her chest until the bronze ring of her mantle struck Bran hard on the ear.

"Mother, stop, you're—" Arya clawed at Catelyn’s wrists, squirming as her voice got muffled against the crush of heavy wool.

Their protests never reached her. With fingers digging through boiled leather and fleece, she locked both of them against her chest as if the sky might reach down and pluck them away. Between their necks, she hid her face and drew a long, heavy breath.

When she finally released them, she shoved both children behind her hips, turning instantly to the girl left standing on the ramp. Mother moved in close and took Sansa's face into her hands. Her thumbs smoothed across his sister's temples, tracing the slender line of her jaw where a cutthroat's blade had once rested.

"Sansa." The word was a cracked whisper.

"I am unhurt, Mother." Sansa’s voice was quiet, carrying the rehearsed grace of a highborn lady. "Truly. We are all whole."

Mother drew Sansa down by the back of her neck, pressing her forehead tight against her daughter's brow until their breath clouded together in white plumes. She kept one hand twisted in Arya's collar behind her, refusing to let the girl slip away, while Bran held fast to the heavy folds of her skirts.

"Were you in danger?"

Arya hesitated.

Their mother's grip tightened hard upon her shoulders. For a moment pure fright cracked across her face. Then she pulled in a ragged breath and forced her voice steady.

"Ser Rodrik," she called, her eyes never leaving Arya, "call in every search rider. Maester Luwin, send word to the holdfasts. Tell them my children have been found."

Only then did Mother look up toward the ship's black doorway.

"Lady Stark," Mara said.

"Lady Jade." Catelyn's voice shook once, then steadied into iron. "You stole my children, put them in danger, yet you have brought them back. Why go to all this trouble?"

Mara made a false show of turning the word over in her head. "'Stole' is not the word I would use," she said. "You would do better to ask your son what this was all about."

The look his mother turned on him was enough to make Bran wish he was back on the Stony Shore. "We will discuss that inside. All of it."

Her hand seized Bran by the shoulder and took Arya by the hand, leaving Sansa nowhere to walk but between them. The bailey remained in motion around their hurried crossing. Riders turned their mounts, guards shouted the recall, and hounds barked against their leashes while Mother urged the family toward the Great Keep. Mara trailed a pace behind.

The solar door swung shut against the clamor outside, though the sound of the tolling bell still seeped through. Mother walked over to the other side of the table, deciding against unfastening her mantle, and sat in Father's chair. Bran felt a prick of jealousy toward Mara, who had the luxury of waiting near the entry while he and his sisters had to stand opposite their angry mother.

Readying herself for their story, Catelyn drew in a sharp breath. "Begin at the start."

Bran pulled himself upright, borrowing the calmness Father used when he held court. "I saw a raid through the weirwoods," he said even as his voice cracked. "The Ironborn were invading the North and setting fire to villages on the Stony Shore, and people were dying. So I--"

"Stop." Mother lifted a hand, looking at him in disbelief. "So you decided to run away to a raid? Without even a thought--!" She caught herself before she could shout and drew in another breath. "My guards were found asleep, explain that."

Bran swallowed. "I put them to sleep."

"Then you released Lady Mara from her confinement."

"Yes, and the blame is mine. I opened her cell. I asked her to take us."

He spoke the truth, because the undertaking had started with him. If Mother set her anger upon the acting lord of Winterfell, perhaps Sansa and Arya could return to being sisters who had merely followed too far. But decided Sansa stepped forward.

"No," she told their mother. "It was Bran's idea, but following him was my own choice. He gave me no command."

"Mother, no, I am the acting lord of Winterfell," Bran said. "It was my place to decide."

Arya pushed between them before she spoke. "And sneaking aboard was mine. He didn't even know I was there until we were already in the air."

"Arya, stop!" Bran snapped in exasperation.

"Why should I? You never knew I was on the ship."

"Enough!" Catelyn brought her hand down flat against the oak. The crack jumped through the room like ice snapping, and all three of them went stone still. She stood without a word, chest rising and falling hard under her soaked mantle. When she spoke again, her voice was still shaking.

"You saved lives, and I am proud of that, truly I am. But did even one of you pause to think before you leaped?" Mother's eyes swept hard across the three of them. "Do any of you have any idea what heedless folly you threw yourselves into?"

Arya opened her mouth to reply, but Sansa’s hand came up quickly to shut it.

"People were being killed, Mother," Bran said. "I am sorry for keeping it from you, but I had to go."

Mother’s fingers locked hard on Father’s chair until her knuckles paled, her face set to tell them again what they had done, but Mara pushed off from the wall. “They’re skipping an important part of the story.”

Mother’s eyes tightened, fixing squarely on him and Bran can again sense that amusement rolling of Mara. “What part?”

“The part about the zombies.”

Catelyn turned from Bran to face Mara in confusion. “Zom...bies?”

“Ah, right. I forgot what world I was in. I believe you call them 'wights'. Sansa can attest to that.”

“WHAT?! Sansa?”

Sansa swallowed before starting. “I was trying to heal a fisherman with Lady Mara's... alchemy?” When Mara merely shrugged, Sansa pressed on. “He died under my hands. There was no breath left in him, yet his eyes came open and turned blue. He tried to strike me, but Lady Mara hauled me back.”

“By the Seven! How did you stop him?”

Mara tapped the blaster at her hip, drawing all their eyes to the holster as she answered. “A blaster usually settles most problems.”

While his family weighed Mara's answer, a familiar cold wrongness seized Bran, the same chill he had felt from the Wall today and from the Stony Shore. Now it was coming from beneath Winterfell.

“Mother,” he said. “Something is--”

The words never left his mouth before a scream cut through the yard. A second voice shouted out, calling for the guards to help at the crypt.

His mother reacted before anyone else. Hauling the heavy door wide, she ordered the guards out to take the lead, turning only for one sharp look. “All of you, behind me.”

Mara already held her blaster drawn and was already running toward the inner yard.

When they got closer, they found the crypt entrance gaped wide, and two guards were hauling a third man clear of the steps. Thick blood masked one side of his face. Near the ancient archway leading down to the Stark dead, the great ironwood door hung open to the dark.

Two figures had climbed onto the snow.

Tangled in rotted scraps of ringmail, a withered shape bore a screaming guard down into the snow, black fingers ripping through the leather gorget to tear at his throat as hot red blood sprayed.

Mother caught Arya by the wrist before she could clear Needle, dragging both girls behind her. "Guards!" her shout tore across the courtyard. "Call all the guards!!"

Bran braced his feet hard as he as out of the hush of the godswood came Master Luke's voice, reminding him of the constant river of life flowing through stone, snow, and muscle alike. Straight toward the crypt door he thrust both arms, fixing upon the dead creature tearing at the guardsman, and drove forward with everything in his chest.

The unseen blow landed like a heavy timber. The mail-clad corpse flew back off the soldier, tumbled through five paces of bloody slush, and crashed against the stone wall of the crypt entrance. The stone cracked where it hit. The fallen guardsman rolled onto his belly, coughing blood as he scrambled frantically toward the stables.

The corpse stirred. Its shattered spine popped with the a dry crackle as it twisted itself upright. The creature found its feet, blue light burning in its sunken sockets, and lunged straight toward Bran.

Mara jerked the black cylinder up in her right hand and squeezed the trigger, shouting, "Clear the doorway!"

A streak of brilliant scarlet light streaked through the courtyard. The blast took the dead man square in the center of the chest. It lifted the body off its feet, punching a hole the size of a fist through it's chest, and hurled it down the stone flight.

The Stark dead had only begun clawing its way back up when Mara sent three swift red bolts into it. Her second blast took the creature's right knee, blowing it apart into white dust, and the third ignited it at last. The flames that burst forth also caught the wights that clambered across its shoulders on fire.

"Close the door!" Mara barked towards the guards nearest to the door.

A pair of guards threw their weight against the outer planks. The ironwood leaf surged forward, then jarred to a dead stop against a burning corpse pinned in the frame. Flaming fingers hooked around the wood, heaving the door outward with unnatural force.

The guards lost their footing on the bloody ice. One came down hard on his hip, and the other fell backward as the door groaned open another foot.

Wrenching her sleeve out of Mother's grip, Arya sprang to Bran's side and thrust both hands forward. Bran stretched out beside his sister. He felt the biting chill of the door's iron bands, the dense grain of the northern wood, and the crushing momentum of the dead heaving from the dark below. Arya's push caught his own like two rushing rivers meeting. Together, they drove the weight of their minds against the timber.

The hinges screeched as the oak drove hard against the thrashing bodies. The wight’s skull cracked apart under the pressure, and the heavy door slammed flush against the stone archway with a boom. Ser Rodrik sprang forward, throwing his whole weight onto the heavy oak bar as the other guards scrambled in to help. The timber dropped into its iron brackets with a deafening clatter.

Inside the crypt, muffled fists could be heard hammering the door.

Bran let his shaking hands sink down. His chest heaved for breath while a sharp ache thudded behind his brow. Beside him, Arya wiped a streak of dark blood from beneath her nose with the back of her sleeve.

Mother stood three paces off, frozen where she was.

She had watched Master Luke make snow dance in the courtyard like an outlander's trick, but she looked at Bran and Arya now as if they were strangers wearing her children's skin.

M“Sansa, give her your handkerchief.”

Something struck the door from below.

Mara kept her blaster trained on it. “Keep fire here. If one gets through, burn it.”

“Ser Rodrik, post men at the entrance,” Catelyn said. “Have others ready to relieve them, and bring torches.”

She looked at Mara. "Thank you.”

Mara nodded without lowering her weapon.

Catelyn turned to Bran. “Lord Luke. Now.”

He pressed the stud on the comlink.

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Outside Kings Landing, The Crownlands

Earlier that evening, Jon stood with Master Luke beside the timber dais outside King’s Landing. High above the shattered dome of the Dragonpit, Rhaegal wheeled through the smoke. The dragon's bronze-green scales gleamed dully in the fading sun's copper glow, his wings beating a slow, heavy rhythm that sent soot clouds billowing down toward the Blackwater.

Jon's legs wobbled as he grasped the table's edge for support. His boots felt as if they were filled with lead, and his vision had grown thin at the edges after hours of unceasing action. The street battles, the wildfire, the corpses dragged from cellars, and the grueling labor had left him spent and hollow.

“Am I breaking the Jedi way for what I have to do now?” Jon asked.

Luke looked toward the guards outside the stockade before he answered. “I know you mean to hear them fairly. I would still look for a way to keep them alive.”

Beyond the benches, men carried bodies out through the ruined gate. Healers ran around like headless chickens as there were just too many injured for one of them to deal with. Lines of smallfolk clustered at a water cart with cups in their hands. Ghost lay beside the steps, lifting his head whenever a stretcher passed.

Daenerys sat beside Robb on the front bench. He leaned towards her and said something Jon could not hear. She turned to him with a smile, resting her hand on his arm as she answered. When she looked back towards the stockade, her hand stayed where it was.

“I cannot pardon what they have done.”

“You could keep them imprisoned,” Luke sighed as he continued. "But I know you cannot. I am still trying to get used the rules of this world."

“I do not have a choice in this, Master.”

Luke came closer, lowering his voice. “We always have choices, Jon. Never think otherwise. But I do concede you position. Just know that this Tywin may say things about your family. Don't let his words cloud your mind.”

He looked toward the stockade again, opening his mouth to say his mind was clear, but Margaery's approach made conversation impossible, her skirts gathered to clear the ash-covered boards.

“Lady Margaery,” Luke said. He rested a hand briefly on Jon’s shoulder, then went down toward the benches.

She offered no curtsy as she came up to him, anger held tight behind highborn manners as she came straight to his side. Her gloved fingers caught his collar, brushing ash away from it. Her touch was fierce, her thumb pressing hard against his jawline but dropped before the lords on the benches saw more than courtly business.

“Your relentless pace hasn’t slowed,” she murmured, her tone hushed for his ears alone. “Have you sat down since the fighting ended?”

“There hasn't been time,” Jon said. “They are still turning up the dead and unburnt caches of wildfire.”

“Jon, the fighting is done. There is no cost in letting other men carry the weight for a while. Or do you fear that stopping would force you to look at me instead of turning away?” She saw him flinch and did not stop. “What happened in the city? You can tell me.”

He studied the fire-scarred King’s Gate, weighing his words, and always came back to the truth as the answer. He finally founds the word to one of the worst moements of his life. “While the wildfire speard in the Clobber's Square, Master Luke held the main burst in the street. But a second gout tore through the masonry, climbing toward the tenements.”

Margaery's touch landed on his back as she shifted, the warmth of her palm a silent comfort.

“Master Luke taught me how to shape the air to choke it. I thought I had the patience. The skill to hold it back. But in the end, the fire fought back, and broke out of my grip. It went sideways into an alleyway.”

His eyes closed as the memory returned. "Behind the iron grating, there was a man and a woman. They'd crawled under there to escape the street. The flame went right into them. They screamed only for a moment, then the flames took them."

A brief quiet held between them before she answered. Her words, when they came, were stripped of the tender pity.

“Joffrey ordered those pyromancers to light the alleys,” she said. “You did not bury Aerys’s jars beneath the cobbles.”

“I directed the fire.”

Her hand shifted from his back to cover his own. “You tried to save them,” she said. “Loras has wept in the dark after sending scouts to be butchered in the woods, but he never took the blood of the whole realm. You cannot blame yourself solely. That belongs to the Lannisters."

She glanced toward the open holding pen where the guards stood watch over Stannis Baratheon.

“You need rest,” she said, her voice now actually a whisper. “The prisoners can sit in the mire under guard until first light, and the Seven Kingdoms will not breakout into rebellion before dawn. Come with me to my pavilion to get something to eat, and give yourself a few hours of sleep.”

The shelter of a quiet tent pulled at him like a dull ache. Jon looked from the charred gate back to the benches, where Oberyn Martell waited with thin patience as guards kept him from reaching the captives, particularly Tywin Lannister. While, Randyll Tarly watched like an old mastiff waiting for the horn.

“No.” Jon spoke quietly, but the answer set like iron. “The lords are watching, and closing my eyes will only let the fire take them in the dark.”

Margaery took a slow, searching look at his face. “You are as stubborn as a mule,” she said, letting out a theatrical sigh.

“Aye.”

“Then stop leaning on that table. Stand upright.”

She turned her shoulder away and smoothed the green wool of her mantle with two crisp pulls. She took her place a few feet to his right, chin lifted to the crowd, the calm and untouchable daughter of Highgarden standing beside the claimant.

He looked down to the Valeman herald waiting at the base of the platform.

"Bring the prisoner," Jon commanded, taking his seat on the makeshift throne.

Stannis Baratheon came down under Tyrell escort, his crown and sword gone along with the fleet he had brought into the bay, leaving him in a sweat-stained arming doublet with metal fetters biting red rings into his wrists. His cheeks were sunken hollows but his eyes were hard flint that gave no ground to the men spitting at his boots.

He halted three paces short of the timber dais, the link between his ankles clinking. Ghost rose, hackles rising but Stannis took the direwolf’s red stare without a flinch.

The herald unrolled his calfskin. “Stannis of House Baratheon. You stand before the King and realm charged with the murder of your brother Renly by sorcery; with the ritual slaughter of Robert Baratheon’s baseborn son Gendry; with the reanimation of the dead through blood magic; and with every soul slaughtered by that unnatural host inside this city.”

Stannis fixed the herald with a piercing stare, as if he were nothing, but he remained silent.

Footsteps followed as Davos Seaworth walked into the enclosure alone. His wool coat was stiff with Blackwater salt, and fresh blood soaked through the linen shirt at his left bicep, where he had held his blood soaked son in the healer tents an hour before.

Stannis cut his eyes toward his former Hand. Davos gave him no look in return.

“How fares your son?” Jon said, his voice soft.

“My son Devin breathes,” Davos said, fighting to keep his voice from wavering. “The maesters were able to sewn his belly. But I am here because I stood on the beach when the red woman built her pyre.”

He turned his body half toward Stannis, his voice gaining iron.

“Our fleet was gone. Only three galleys sat in the shallows, oars ready, with a clean run east past the mudflats. I begged him to use the boats. I told him we could sail for the Wall or the Stepstones. He looked at the water, then he looked at the boy Gendry.”

Davos’s fingers pulled hard against his throat pouch.

“I told him the boy had done nothing to him. I said Robert’s blood was in the lad, and the gods would curse the man who spilled it. Stannis heard me. He told me the realm was his by right, and that a king who shrank from blood was no king at all. He gave the nod to Melisandre. I watched her cut the boy’s throat over the surf.”

A heavy, sickening horror settled over the benches, and no one spoke.

"Then the dead came out of the tide." Davos fell silent.

Jon turned his attention to Stannis. “Lord Stannis. You have heard the testimony. What is your answer?”

Stannis looked at Davos until the smuggler’s eyes dropped. Then he faced Jon.

“Davos speaks the truth. He always has. Renly was a traitor who stole his elder brother’s birthright and mocked the law. I had him murdered. Gendry was a tavern bastard, but Robert’s blood ran in him, and that blood was what it took to break this city. The fire witch promised me the Iron Throne. The law made it mine. Every man who stood between me and that chair was in rebellion against the rightful king.”

“A rightful king does not unleash wights upon his own people,” Jon said.

“They were weapons,” Stannis answered, his voice devoid of any emotion. “If I had taken the city, the realm would have been whole. The law would have stood. A king does not weep for the tools he must break to forge the crown.”

Jon rose to his feet, but a familiar chime cut through the evening wind before he could say a word.

The sound came from the far edge where Master Luke stood, a few paces from Robb, drawing a small cylinder from his belt. Jon strained to hear the dry static so tried his best to use the force to enhance it and the voice of a breathless child followed.

“…Luke? Can you hear me? Master Luke…”

“Bran,” Master Luke said into the metal casing. “I am here. What's happened?”

“They’re coming out of the crypts,” Bran’s voice broke through the static, hurried and panicked. A heavy crash against wood echoed behind him. “The old Stark kings are wights. They walked right off their tombs. We’ve blocked them, but they keep rising every—”

Robb lunged forward from the bench, his knuckles white against his sword belt. “Bran! What of Mother? Where is Sansa and Arya?”

Luke focused only on Bran's voice. "Slow down, Bran. First, I need to know if your family is safe."

“We’re all safe,” Bran panted, the static hissing louder. “Mara took charge. She used her... gun?” Bran stopped, and a woman’s voice came through. “Yes, a gun to shoot the ones who attacked us. But the Wall... Master Luke, I felt it. The trees shivered. The ice in the north screamed, and then everything went cold.”

"Yes, I felt it too. It was--" Master Luke cut off his own words as if he came to some sort of realization. "Wait, you said Mara took charge. She was let out of her cell?"

Another pause came from the other side, but a new voice soon followed.

"Bran let her out. To stop an Ironborn raid." Jon recognized Arya's voice immediately.

Bran cut in. "Shut up! Let me explain!"

Luke closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them, the calm had hardened into granite.

“Let Mara and the guards hold the crypt,” Luke told the box. “Use fire. Nothing else stops them. We are coming.”

Master Luke lowered the comlink and turned towards him and the crowd.

“The wards of the Wall must have truly broken for this to happen,” Luke announced gravely. “I fear the dead rising in Winterfell will not be the last incident.”

Men stood behind the benches, asking what had been said. Jon heard Winterfell’s name repeated further back, then someone called out to ask whether the castle had fallen.

A collective intake of air hissed through the few Northerns in the ranks. Robb was already standing and pacing. “We have to ride—”

“We'll take the Falcon,” Luke said, his voice cutting through the panic. “Sorry, Han. I need her again.”

Han stood beside Leia at the end of a bench. He looked toward the ship, where Chewbacca was already beckoning to Luke.

“Damn it. All right, take her. But I'm staying with Leia.”

“Good. We agree.” Luke said as he fastened his comm back onto his belt.

“And what of our own dead?” Olenna asked. “Must I send word to Highgarden to put guards on its graves?”

Luke looked towards her. “I don’t know how far this has spread."

Tarly rose and beckoned to his men. “Set a watch on the bodies. Keep the wounded well clear of them.”

“I’ll warn the healers,” Leia said. She caught Luke’s arm before he could leave and drew him into a brief embrace. “Call when you reach the children.”

Luke held her a moment, then stepped away.

Robb on the other hand hesitated, glancing back at Jon on the timber platform, then down at Stannis kneeling in the dirt. He was caught between the North and his brother.

“Go,” Jon told him. “Protect our family.”

Robb walked up to him and gripped his’s forearm, a hard, bone-crushing clutch. “It's never ending isn't it.”

Jon held his brother’s arm a moment longer. “Winter is here, Robb.”

Robb nodded and released Jon’s arm. Daenerys met him at the foot of the steps, reaching for his hand as he turned towards her.

“Send word when you have made sure your family is safe,” she said. “I want to hear from you.”

“You will, Dany.” Robb took her hand. “As soon as I can.”

“Take care of yourself, Robb,” she said quietly. Her fingers tightened around his for a moment.

His brother smiled at her touch. “I’ll come and find you when I’m back.”

Daenerys smiled in return, and Robb lingered beside her.

Luke called from the ramp. Robb looked towards the ship, and Daenerys lowered her hand.

“Go,” she said, drawing her fingers from his.

Robb hurried towards the Falcon. At the ramp he looked back, and Daenerys raised her hand to him. Jon almost smiled. Robb had been quick enough to laugh at him over Margaery.

A high-pitched whine tore through the air as the Millennium Falcon shrieked into life, deepening into a roar that kicked up a storm of ash. The ship tilted, banked toward the clouds, and ripped north through the smoke before vanishing into the dusk.

Jon kept his eyes on the empty grey sky where the light had vanished. The pull to be aboard her was immense—Robb and Master Luke were racing toward Winterfell while he remained anchored to the south, surrounded by burning rubble and twenty thousand strangers.

The sound of chains clinking made him tear his eyes away from the sky, remembering the trial still waited. He moved to the edge of the platform.

“Stannis Baratheon.” Jon said, his voice carrying over the mutter of the crowd. “You have answered the witness. You have conceded the murder of your brother and the blood of Gendry Waters—”

A warhorn brayed from the northern roads, cutting through Jon's words.

What now?

Under the fluttering grey direwolf of House Stark, a hundred horsemen appeared on the horizon. Their wool cloaks were stiff with yellow road mud, and their mounts looked gaunt from the journey.

Jon squinted at the approaching line until the man who thought to be his father most of his life came into focus at the head of the host, face grey with exhaustio. Four Northern soldiers rode around Jaime Lannister, who sat behind them with his golden armor gone and his wrists bound in hemp.

His uncle's stallion was still blowing steam when he dismounted. He ignored the sky entirely. Mud crusted his cloak as his grey eyes took in the dais, the kneeling Baratheon, and Jon.

“Uncle.” Jon went down a step to meet him. Ned caught his shoulder, and Jon put a hand over his.

"We rode hard to reach you as soon as possible, Jon." Ned's gaze drifted toward the smoking city, his face darkening. "I see I have missed much. Where is Robb?"

“Gone north with Master Luke. Bran reached us just before you came. The dead are rising in the crypts.”

Ned’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Wights? In our crypts?!”

“Bran said the Wall... the wards are gone. Master Luke, Robb and I felt it eariler today too.”

His uncle let go of him. “Where is Catelyn? Has she got the children with her?”

“He said they were all safe. I heard Arya beside him.”

“In the keep?”

“He didn’t say.” Jon could still hear the crash behind Bran’s voice. “They’d barred the way out of the crypts.”

“I need to speak to Catelyn.”

"It won't be long before Robb and Master Luke reach Winterfell."

Ned looked north where the Falcon had flown. Jon followed his uncle's gaze but saw nothing of the ship.

“They only just left,” Jon said.

“I should have been with them.”

Jon had no answer that would satisfy his uncle. “We can only be patient and wait for them to contact us.”

A short cough broke from Margaery at his right. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “Lord Stark.”

Ned looked at her. “You must be Lady Margaery.”

Her fingers slipped into Jon’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stark. But right now, the realm is watching.”

His uncle nodded to her, then looked down at Stannis, his hand closing around the pommel of Ice.

“Have you heard Stannis?” Ned asked.

“He has confessed to his many crimes.”

"Good." Ned drew Ice from its scabbard. He held the greatsword out to Jon. "Take it," he said. "And show them Northern justice. I will hear your sentence."

Jon closed his hand around the grip. The long hilt felt light, but the balance was true. Jon stepped down toward Stannis. Ghost matched his pace, silent as falling snow.

“Stannis Baratheon,” Jon said, his voice carrying through the crowd. “You knowingly sacrificed an innocent boy for blood magic. You loosed an unnatural host upon this city. You chose murder over lawful defeat. For the deaths of Renly Baratheon, Gendry Waters, and every soul torn apart by the green fire, I sentence you to die. Do you have any final words?”

Stannis looked up. “My wife and daughter,” he said. “They had no part in my mistakes. They should not carry my blame.”

Jon gave a nod and stepped beside Stannis, raising Ice with both hands to bring the great blade down in one clean arc. The steel bit through the neck with a heavy thud. Stannis Baratheon’s torso pitched forward into the grass, and his severed head rolled three paces through the trampled clover.

“Take him away,” Jon said, resting the point of Ice in the earth. “Burn the body and bring out Tywin Lannister.”

Tywin Lannister limped between the guards. Jaime strained against his bonds near the rope.

Tywin's eyes passed over Ice and settled on Ned.

“A Targaryen bastard holding Stark steel. Lord Eddard, I had not thought you capable of keeping such a jest to yourself. Daemon, a fitting name for a dragon bastard.”

“Aegon and Rhaenys,” Jon said, trying to hold his anger back. “What orders did you give for them?”

Tywin turned back to him. “Robert could not hold the throne while Rhaegar's children lived. Someone had to see to it.”

“And they were children. You could have kept them as hostages. My sister was hiding beneath a bed.”

“And had she lived, some lord would have married her and raised her claim. Girls grow into women. The men who marry them grow ambitious.”

Jon shifted his hands on Ice as Tywin spoke of marriage and future wars, but Jon saw only a bedchamber floor. He could picture Arya wedged beneath a bed, holding her breath against heavy boots. Rhaenys had been three, too small to understand the armored men or the iron finding her in the dark.

“So you bought Robert's favor with her life.”

“I secured his throne. You have profited from it as much as any man here. Had your brother lived, you would have spent your life kneeling to him.”

Jon tried to imagine the man Aegon might have become. He had only a name, and what his uncle had told him of the body.

“As you said, I was raised a bastard. I could have borne it.”

“Then you know very little of princes.”

“The Reynes at least knew you for an enemy. My grandsire opened his gates to a friend. You waited until you were inside to show him how brave a Lannister could be.”

Tywin took a step toward him. A guardsman’s arm came across his chest.

“Impudent pup! I governed these kingdoms for twenty years. Aerys could scarcely sit through a council. He left me to settle his debts and keep his lords from one another's throats, and when the realm prospered, they cheered him.”

“Father,” Jaime said from the rope.

“Be silent!” Tywin thrust the guardsman's arm aside. “Your grandsire was raping Rhaella while I did his work. His own queen! He could do as he pleased, so long as I was there to govern for him. I made this realm!” he shouted. “Whatever your father meant to inherit, I built it. And you presume to judge me because Stark kept you hidden long enough to put a sword in your hand?”

Jon wanted to lift Ice. He could feel the chill of the dark voices rising again but he kept its point in the dirt.

“Have you anything else to say before I pass sentence?” Jon asked.

“Your Grace.” Tyrion had come forward from the benches, still under guard himself. “My father still has men in the West. Let him order them home. You could have their oaths before your army reached the Golden Tooth.”

Jon glanced toward the sky where the Falcon had vanished. How many men would he lose taking the West while the dead were loose in the North?

“And in exchange of what?" Jon asked. "I spare his life?”

“You keep him under guard until he has fulfilled his promises.”

“I have promised nothing,” Tywin said.

Tyrion turned toward him. “Then give me something I can offer, Fa--.”

“You will let me answer for myself, imp.”

Lady Olenna leaned forward on the bench. “If your son can spare us another march, Lord Tywin, I should hear him. I have men who ought to be home for the harvest.”

“The West will have another lord,” Jon said. “This one has done enough.”

He could see the anger boiling over in Tywin but then his eyes went to the stockade. “I demand trial by combat.”

Jaime stepped against the guards holding him. “Cut me loose. I will stand for him.”

“You will do no such thing, Jaime. I name Ser Gregor Clegane.”

Tyrion turned toward his brother. Jon tracked the glance to find Jaime still straining against his captors, his tethered wrists held up between them.

“You shall have your trial,” Jon said. “Bring Clegane out and get him a sword and shield.”

At the timber stockade near the baggage park, iron bolts groaned open.

Gregor Clegane walked out into the torchlight. He stood nearly eight feet, a wall of flesh sheathed in soot-crusted plate battered by axes from the afternoon's fighting. In his gauntlets rested a six-foot greatsword, held with the careless ease of a butcher weighing a cleaver. He brought no shield; his reach was defense enough. His yellowed eyes rolled in his skull like an ox catching the reek of the slaughterhouse, fixing at last on Oberyn Martell with a cruel smile.

Oberyn was on his feet before the gate swung shut, his red silk mantle snapping behind him. “The beast is mine! He is mine for Elia!”

“No,” Jon said, pointing at at Oberyn to halt. “Amory Lorch was yours, Prince Oberyn. Aegon was my brother. The blood is mine to answer. You shall have all three heads I promised you.”

Oberyn’s mouth hardened into a bloodless seam. His spear shaft dug into the dirt between his boots. He stared at Gregor, then at Jon, and spat into the dust. “Then let him name the man who sent him before you take it.”

Jon’s fingers brushed the metal cylinder at his belt. Leia’s weapon offered an easy kill, but watching lords and septons would call green fire sorcery, poisoning the verdict. Gregor Clegane rolled his iron shoulders in antipication, the butcher who had shattered Aegon’s skull and torn Elia apart. Anger surged hot in Jon's chest as he could sense the malice coming out of the moster before him, tempting him to abandon restraint. He looked down at Ice resting point-first in the dirt. The ancestral sword of House Stark demanded the man who passed the sentence swing the blade.

Jon drew a breath, let the anger cool into duty, and gripped the leather hilt. “He will answer here.”

Jon stepped out into the open to face Clegane. Ghost started forward to follow him. Even Rhaegal came down upon the bare ground near the gathering, his wings still partly flared. He dropped his head toward Clegane.

“Stay, Ghost. Guard Margaery.”

When he saw the direwolf move back to Margaery, he turned to face his adversary.

The Mountain raised his visor. “Another dragon whelp. At least you’re bigger than the last. He crushed too easily.”

“His name was Aegon.”

“Call him what you like, you'll die like him all the same."

“Clegane,” Tywin called from behind Jon. “Attend to your opponent.”

Jon kept his eyes on the greatsword. “And Elia?”

Clegane showed his teeth. “Come closer. I’ll tell you what she sounded like.”

Jon’s grip hurt. He loosened it a little and watched Clegane’s hands.

The visor dropped shut. Clegane came on with his greatsword lifted, and Jon sensed the downward cut before the giant’s arms even shifted. He sidestepped left. The steel bit the earth beside his boot.

Jon struck back in the same motion, Ice biting into the mail between Clegane’s right gauntlet and vambrace. The iron links parted cleanly beneath the edge. A wash of blood covered the giant’s fingers as he wrenched his arm clear. Clegane roared in pain, and Jon could not deny that he took satisfaction in the sound.

Clegane dragged his sword free and shifted it into his left hand. The next cut swept toward Jon’s waist. He sprang back, letting it pass, then drove Ice’s point at Clegane’s throat.

Clegane took the point on armor, turning into the strike so the steel only screeched off his pauldron and slid wide. Jon drew his blade back into balance. Blood still dripped from Clegane’s right gauntlet.

“Who ordered my sister’s murder?!” Oberyn called.

The Mountain turned his visor toward the prince and flung his greatsword at him.

Gasps broke from the watching crowd. Jon pulled his left hand from Ice and seized the spinning sword in the Force. It halted dead, level with Oberyn’s chest. He turned the point toward the earth and lowered it into the empty sand beside him.

Clegane took that distraction to rush Jon while his left hand was still extended. But he was ready as he stepped outside the reaching arms, returned his hand to the hilt, and cut behind the giant’s knee.

The leg folded. Clegane struck the ground on one knee and swung a gauntlet at Jon’s head. Jon ducked it, caught the rim of the helm in the Force, and pulled it back until Clegane’s chin lifted clear of his gorget. With both hands, he drove Ice across the bared throat. Links of steel dragged at the edge, then gave up against the stroke.

The head dropped in front of Jon as he stepped back as the bulk collapsed, blood spattering his boots.

A roar of cheering went up immediately, though Oberyn’s eyes only shifted from the severed head toward Tywin. When his uncle came forward with a cloth in hand, Jon took it, scouring Ice clean as the guards marched Tywin into the clearing.

“Your champion is dead, Lord Tywin.”

Tyrion came forward. “Your Grace. Please.”

“Fetch the block,” Jon commanded. “Kneel, Lord Tywin.”

“Jaime,” Tywin said.

Jaime strained against the men holding him. “I am here, Father.”

“You will find a way to return to Casterly Rock. You will keep it.”

“That remains to be decided, Lord Tywin.” Jon said. “I will decide who holds Casterly Rock.”

Tywin lowered himself, but Jon could see the anger and the defiance still rolling off the man in waves.

“Father...” Tyrion said, unable to anything but watch.

Tywin's final glance at the Red Keep became his last sight. Jon placed himself behind the kneeling lord, hoisted Ice, and delivered the stroke. The body slumped forward as the head rolled on the ground.