[Look To The Stars] Chapter 75: The Trouble with Going Home (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: Ahh yesss, we finally getting a certain character intro. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

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Year 299 AC/8 ABY

Outside Kingslanding, The Cownlands

Outside Margaery's pavilion, lantern light showed through the canvas as Jon wiped the soot from his wrists. He had not shaken Luke's warning all evening, the thought of dead men rising in Winterfell's crypts and the old spells failing along the Wall. He feared for his family in the North, yet he could not forget the man and woman who had burned behind the iron grating in King's Landing. Since their deaths, he had killed Stannis, Gregor, and Tywin.

He turned his hands over. For a moment, he remembered them covered in blood but a voice broke him from those dark thoughts.

"Come in, Your Grace," Margaery answered.

Jon lifted the flap and ducked inside, letting it fall shut behind him. A candle beside the cot cast a warm light over the grain ledgers. Margaery stood by the campaign desk with an ink-stained quill in her fingers. When she saw his face, she set the quill down at once, crossed the worn carpet, and reached for his hands.

"Am I that obvious?" Jon asked.

"I just expect the brooding at this point," she said softly, searching his eyes. "Did your teacher... make contact? Sorry, I am still trying to come to terms with all of these things."

"Yes, the family is safe with Robb and Ser Rodrik clearing Wintertown." Jon said as his fingers closed around hers, grateful for the simple touch. "The Wall still stands, Margaery, yet its old spells no longer hold. My uncle and I leave in the morning."

She drew a slow breath, her thumb brushing his knuckles. "So soon. I hoped you might have a day, even half a day, to breathe before the road claimed you again."

“So did I,” Jon said. “I wanted a little time with you.”

Margaery stepped closer and slid her palms up his tunic until her hands rested against his shoulders. “Then we have very little of tonight left to squander on war councils, Your Grace.”

"No Your Grace and no Daemon." he murmured, bending his head to hers. "Just Jon. Just when we are alone."

"Only Jon," she whispered against his mouth, and kissed him.

The tension that had locked his shoulders all day began to ease at the first brush of her lips. Jon wrapped one arm around her waist and drew her against him, breathing in the faint scent of crushed roses. He cupped her face, feeling the quickening pulse beneath her ear, and kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then her lips again as she tilted her face up to meet him.

When he leaned in once more, Margaery set a hand against his chest and gently pushed him back with a teasing smile on her lips. "Wait," she murmured, breathless. "Let me look at you for a moment."

Her fingers smoothed the wool she had rumpled, then tapped his collarbone. "Tell me what you will do when the fighting stops and you have a single day that belongs entirely to us."

"Sleep," he said promptly, and stole a brief kiss before she could pull away. "First, I will sleep until the sun is halfway up the sky, with the shutters bolted and no herald hammering with word of fresh trouble."

Margaery arched a brow. "You? You have woken before the crows every morning I have known you. By sunrise you will be staring at the ceiling beams and wondering whether the stableboys watered the horses."

"Then you can keep me in the bed," Jon said, warming to the game as her hand slipped around the back of his neck. "Read me a dull ledger until I close my eyes again."

"I refuse to waste a free morning," she said firmly. "If I am keeping you indoors past dawn, we will eat breakfast at a table by an open window. Warm honeyed rolls, fresh butter, and late peaches from the Mander, and nobody with a seal or parchment comes within fifty paces."

It seemed almost foolish to imagine warm fruit and sunlit windows while ash still drifted over the Blackwater, yet the picture settled into his chest like a hearth fire. "Add crisp bacon and dark ale," Jon negotiated, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, "and you can keep me indoors as long as you want."

"So we have a pact," Margaery said, drawing him closer. "But we do not have to stay indoors all day. I want to wear a plain linen gown that doesn't need three maids lacing my ribs, and I want to sit in the shade by the water while you tell me the names of those strange stars Master Luke showed you. And, every time your brow knots up the way it does when you think of duty, I intend to throw a plum at your head until you focus only on me."

Jon smiled and kissed her wrist where her pulse beat warm against his mouth. "You have good aim, my lady. I would--"

His words were cut off as her arms went around his neck, and this time when their mouths met, the playfulness gentled into something deeper and slower. Jon held her close, memorizing the press of her cheek against his, the light catch of her breath, trying wave away the thought of winter descending on the realm. He kissed her until the candle beside the cot burned low.

The horns sounding the dawn watch woke him.

Jon opened his eyes to find Margaery watching him. For a moment he lay still, remembering the night before and wondering how long she had been awake. He found her already awake and smiling when he turned toward her, though she seemed almost as shy as he felt.

“Good morning,” she said softly. “I wondered whether those horns would ever wake you.”

“Have you been awake long?” Jon asked, shifting to give her more room on the narrow cot.

“A little while. I wanted to let you sleep.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. There was more he wanted to say, but he had never shared a morning like this with anyone, and the words came awkwardly.

“I’m glad I stayed,” he told her.

“So am I,” Margaery said, reaching for his hand. “Though I would rather you had chosen a morning when you could stay a little longer.”

“So would I,” Jon answered. He kissed her before sitting up to reach for his clothes.

Margaery sat up beside him, drawing the blanket around her. “I must get up as well. I’m taking food into the city this morning, to the families still sheltering among the ruins.”

Jon paused with his tunic in his hands. “Will you have enough?”

“More food is traveling the rose road,” Margaery said. “And I want to find the children who have lost their parents. Some may still be waiting where they last saw them.”

Jon pulled on his tunic, thinking of children waiting beside burned houses for someone who would never return. “Keep Ghost close while I’m gone,” he told her. “Take him with you when you go into the city.”

Ghost pushed his nose beneath the tent flap and slipped inside. He crossed straight to the cot, where Margaery offered her hand for him to sniff before rubbing behind his ears.

“I think he heard you,” she said. “Though I doubt the kitchen boys will thank me for bringing him.”

“They can spare him a bone,” Jon said as he pulled on his boots. “And if anyone objects, tell them the king insisted.”

“I shall make very free use of that,” Margaery replied, smiling as Ghost settled beside her. “Come and find me before you board the ship, Jon. I want to see you off.”

“I will,” he promised, and bent to kiss her once more.

Jon washed his face in the basin beside the campaign desk and buckled Leia’s lightsaber to his belt. Before stepping outside, he looked back at Margaery sitting on the cot with Ghost beside her, and wished the horns had let him sleep a little longer.

Jory Cassel approached as Jon emerged from Margaery’s pavilion and greeted him with a bow.

“Your uncle is with Lady Olenna, Your Grace,” Jory said. “The Westerlander's have assembled by the stockade, and Captain Solo sent word that the ship should reach us soon.”

“Thank you, Jory,” Jon said, though the bow still troubled him. “I’m not sure I’ll ever grow used to that. You were knocking me into the dirt in the training yard only a few years ago.”

“And your uncle expected me to put you back on your feet afterward,” Jory replied with a smile. “I’m still in his service, Jon. You can count on that.”

Jon smiled in return and clasped his arm before continuing toward Olenna’s pavilion near the baggage train. Two guards in Highgarden green stood beside the entrance. They bowed as he approached, and one drew the flap aside for him.

Inside, Olenna sat in a high-backed camp chair draped with fox furs, holding a cup of mint tea. Across the small folding table, his uncle sat with both hands braced on his knees. The table held neither maps nor supply warrants, and Jon began to suspect why his father looked so uncomfortable.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Olenna said, studying him over her cup. “I trust you slept well.”

“Very well, thank you,” Jon answered, hoping his embarrassment couldn't be seen.

Ned rose before Olenna could ask anything further. “Have the Westerland captains assembled, Jon?”

“They are waiting by the stockade, Uncle,” Jon said. “Captain Solo expects the ship soon, so we should see them before it arrives.”

“Always in a rush, you northern men,” Olenna remarked, taking a delicate sip of her tea. It seemed she enjoyed watching two Starks squirm far more than she cared for her breakfast. “Lord Stark and I were having a most productive chat about the season that follows winter. Old people must look ahead, to the future generation, you know.”

She cocked her head under her crisp linen wimple, inviting him to ask what Ned had promised or refused. Perhaps she hoped he would blurt out Margaery’s name and give her an eager suitor to bargain with before the ink even touched a marriage contract.

Jon wanted badly to ask how far the talk had gone, and he wondered whether his uncle had raised the match first or walked straight into one of Olenna’s ambushes. Yet pressing her now would only prolong Ned’s discomfort while the western army waited outside.

“Winter comes first, Lady Olenna,” Jon said politely, inclining his head. “Uncle.”

"Indeed it does," Ned said, rising and reaching for the scabbard of Ice leaning beside his chair. "Lady Olenna, we must hold this disucssion for another time. Duty calls."

Olenna set down her cup with a knowing snort. "Run along, then, the pair of you. Far be it from an old woman to stand between two Starks and a grim duty."

Jon held the tent flap wide for his father. As they stepped outside, Ned shot him a rueful glance, and Jon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling as they turned toward the western camp.

Jon walked beside Ned toward the timber stockade at the edge of the western camp. Ahead of them, fifty or sixty surviving western captains and sergeants stood in crooked ranks between two lines of northern spearmen. They wore dented steel and crimson cloaks, and their eyes followed the greatsword strapped across Ned's back. Near the gate, Randyll Tarly waited with a dozen Reach halberdiers, his gauntleted hand resting on Heartsbane.

Olenna Tyrell arrived a few paces behind Jon with two guards. She glanced over the bedraggled officers and gave a dry sniff. Ser Barristan stood at Jon’s right shoulder, watching the stockade door as the guard approached it.

At Jon's signal, the northern turnkey drew the heavy oak bar from the stockade door and led the Lannister brothers into the yard. Heavy iron chains bound Jaime's wrists, though he held his bruised chin high. Tyrion walked half a stride ahead of him. The earlier battle had left its mark on Tyrion's gait; he favored his stiff left leg with every step, his mismatched eyes red-rimmed and hard in a pale face. Perhaps Tyrion had spent the night staring at the timber walls and tallying every debt his house still owed the living.

Tyrion halted ten paces from Jon and looked deliberately from Ned's greatsword to Jon's face. "Your Grace," Tyrion said, his voice sounding raw from grief. "Lord Stark. You summoned a dwarf and a prisoner in irons before an audience of captains. I assume you have work that requires a Lannister name."

"The fighting between our armies has ended," Jon said, pitching his voice so the ranks of western officers heard every word. "But a new greater problem has arisen. The dead have risen past the Wall and inside the North. Every sword that remains around King's Landing wastes time we need to keep living people breathing. Your father's army will march west to hold your roads, guard your ports, and prepare your towns for winter. I will allow you to command them for as long as this war lasts."

A murmur rippled through the assembled captains. Tyrion cast a sidelong look toward the officers, then turned his gaze back to Jon.

"You killed my father yesterday," Tyrion said. "Now you bid me march his beaten host back home to defend against more of those wights. Suppose his captains decide a stunted kinsman makes poor company at the first ford? Or a western garrison shuts its gates, and your southern lords decide my brother's neck should pay for their defiance?"

"Speak your terms plainly, Lord Tyrion," Ned said.

Tyrion braced himself and drew his crooked shoulders back to answer. "If I herd these men home, I simply require two things. First, public wartime authority backed by your crown, so every officer here knows that defying my word brings your judgment down on his head. Second, a safeguard for Jaime. While I lead this march, my brother suffers no summary retaliation for western mutinies, desertions, or setbacks that lie beyond my power to prevent."

Jaime let out a harsh laugh and rattled his iron cuffs. “Leave my neck out of your haggling, Tyrion. He’s offering you command and a road home. Take them before he changes his mind.”

“And leave you here to answer for every fool who deserts me on the march?” Tyrion snapped, turning toward his brother. “I mean to get you home as well, Jaime. You might let me try.”

Jon studied the two brothers. Likely half the western captains wished to slip away into the hills before nightfall, and only a Lannister whose word those captains dared not defy could march them home in order. Jon had promised himself he would bind his word only to what he could uphold, and the boundary here was clear.

"Hear me, all of you," Jon called out to the western ranks. "By my decree, Lord Tyrion Lannister commands the surviving hosts of the Westerlands for as long as this war lasts. Every captain, knight, and sergeant will obey his orders on the march and in the west as if they came from my own mouth. Any man who deserts his banner or raises steel against Lord Tyrion answers to royal justice."

Jon looked back down at Tyrion. "When this war ends, we will hear your pleas. As for your brother, you have the safeguard you ask. Ser Jaime Lannister remains a hostage of the crown. I pardon nothing he has done, nor place him above judgment, nor promise when he shall go free. He will answer to the law for his own deeds. Yet I pledge my royal word that no man will harm or punish Ser Jaime for defeats or rebellions in the west that you had no power to prevent."

He turned to Randyll Tarly. "Lord Tarly, take Ser Jaime into your keeping now. You will hold him under the crown's safeguard."

Tarly stepped forward, his mail hauberk chinking as he inclined his head. "I hear the king's decree," Tarly said, his indifferent eyes moving from Jon to Tyrion.

Tarly raised two fingers, and four Reach halberdiers marched forward to take charge of Ser Jaime. Before the guards drew Jaime back, Tyrion reached out and gripped his brother's bound forearm. Jaime looked down at him, his mockery gone, and gave a tight nod. Tarly's men led him toward the Reach pavilion.

With a palm resting on the hilt of Ice, Ned followed the prisoner's departure with solemn eyes, perhaps measuring the strange necessity that held a Stark to preserve Jaime Lannister's life while dispatching Tywin's son west under royal authority.

Tyrion watched Tarly’s men lead Jaime away before turning back to Jon.

“I shall write to my brother when we reach the Golden Tooth,” Tyrion said. “I would be obliged if Lord Tarly remembered to give him my letters.”

“To be demanding more... you forget your position, Lord Tyrion,” Jon said. “And you will be far too busy restoring order there to concern yourself with letters.”

Tyrion gave a stiff nod, then pivoted on his aching leg and climbed onto a mounting block beside the stockade gate so he stood eye-to-eye with the tallest sergeants.

"Captains of the West!" Tyrion barked, his voice ringing sharp across the yard. "Form your companies by banner along the ditch! I want headcounts, wagon tallies, and wounded rosters in my hands within the quarter-hour. Quartermasters to the supply carts now, and the vanguard forms on the Goldroad before noon. Move!"

For a moment the ranks held still. Then a grizzled captain in a dented helm saluted with his mailed fist. The officers straightened their lines, barked orders to their sergeants, and broke toward the camp lanes to muster their men.

While the Queen of Thorns remained by the stockade to confer with Tarly, Jon walked with Ned into the northern quarter of the camp. Even with time to spare before the Wookiee returned, Northmen had already gathered armed and ready for the flight north. Ahead of them, Jon noticed Prince Oberyn Martell waiting by a open storehouse with his thumbs hooked in his belt.

As they drew near he stepped forward to meet Ned while Jon stopped beside his uncle. Oberyn's dark eyes fixed wholly on Ned, and Jon wondered whether he meant to open an old wound before they boarded the ship.

"Lord Stark," Oberyn said, the words barely above a murmur. "A word before your sky-ship carries you back to your snows."

"Speak, Prince Oberyn," Ned said calmly.

“The Mountain and the old lion are dead,” Oberyn said, stepping closer as men passed the doorway. “But you saw Elia’s children before Robert’s throne, Lord Stark. I have heard enough about the men who killed them. I would hear about the man who accepted them.”

Ned’s expression hardened. “I saw them,” Ned said quietly. “Tywin’s men had brought their small bodies before the throne.”

"And Robert readily accepted what they had done."

With a deep sigh, Ned replied. "He did. I saw... no horror in him at their murder."

Jon nearly spoke up to remind Oberyn what his uncle had staked, carrying another Targaryen child out of the south and risking his own household for years to shield him from Robert. Yet the prince had laid no charge of harming children, and Jon hesitated, uncertain what such a defense would answer.

“Men say you quarreled with him over it,” Oberyn said. “Yet you remained his friend. When you spoke together afterward, did you never think of them?”

At Oberyn's question, Jon looked toward his uncle, wishing Oberyn had asked him something easier and ashamed of the wish.

Ned looked straight into Oberyn's eyes and offered no excuse. “I thought of them,” Ned said quietly. “I could not trust his judgment after that, nor the men he chose to keep about him. I went home to Winterfell, but I had known Robert since we were boys in the Vale. We grew up together under Jon Arryn’s roof, and I loved him as a brother.”

Ned paused before continuing, and Jon saw how carefully he chose his next words. “You ask how I could still love him afterward,” Ned said. “I have asked myself the same. Even when I feared what he might do, I would remember him as he had been, and I wanted to see my friend again. I know what that must sound like to you.”

In all the years Jon had grown up beneath his roof, Ned had sparsely spoken of Robert, yet when he did, it was never of fearing him. Lowering his eyes, Jon wondered how many such fears his uncle had carried in silence.

Oberyn studied Ned while men passed behind them, and Jon began to wonder whether he meant to answer at all. “I wish you had made him answer for it while he lived,” Oberyn said quietly. “It might have meant something to him, coming from you.”

Ned kept his gaze on Oberyn, but offered no reply. After a moment, the prince stepped aside to let them pass.

“Go north to your family, Lord Stark,” Oberyn said.

Jon followed Ned between the tents toward the open ground beyond the camp, where the Northmen chosen for the flight had gathered to await the Millennium Falcon. The soldiers carried their arms, and the healers kept their satchels beside them, leaving the ground clear for Chewbacca to bring the ship down

Morghaes rested beyond the outermost tents, stretching his mended wing while Rhaegal circled overhead. Smalljon Umber waited beside two saddled coursers and a leather-clad northern outrider with Randyll Tarly who was speaking with one of his captains.

Ned approached Smalljon and pressed a scroll sealed with the Stark seal into his hand. “Ride north along the kingsroad until you find your father’s vanguard,” Ned said. “Give him this yourself. He is to turn the host for home at once.”

Smalljon tucked the scroll inside his brigandine. “My father will have the tents struck before the wax cools, my lord.”

"Make haste but you must split for your own homelands once you reach the North," Jon turned to Lord Tarly. “Keep a strong force here to hold King’s Landing and help Princess Daenerys restore order. Send the remaining Reachmen and Stormlanders home under their own lords, while they still have time to prepare.”

“I will settle the numbers with their commanders, Your Grace,” Tarly said. “Some will want every sword back, but they can take that grievance with Morghaes.”

Jon watched them go until the familiar roar of the Falcon drew his attention skyward. The ship descended toward the open ground beyond the camp, where the waiting soldiers drew back to give Chewbacca room to land. Han came to join Jon and Ned as the landing struts settled and the engines quieted.

When the ramp lowered, Chewbacca appeared at the hatch and called down to Han. Han answered him as they approached, then listened while the Wookiee continued.

“What word did Chewbacca bring from Winterfell?” Jon asked, stopping beside Han at the foot of the ramp.

“Your brother and Rodrik got the first rising in the winter town pinned down and burned before dawn,” Han said. “Chewie’s been flying over the surrounding farms. They brought survivors in and helped where they could, but there were still placed not visited yet.”

“His place is with his people,” Ned said quietly. “I am glad he remembers that.”

"They're still fighting along the outer lanes, Lord Stark," Han said plainly. "Chewie says the snow's thickening all across the barrows, and your maester's ravens are flying as fast as he can empty the cages."

Daenerys approached through the camp with Asher and Beskha beside her, and the soldiers gathering near the Falcon moved aside to let them pass. She came straight to Jon before he could turn toward the ramp.

“Let me come north with you, Daemon,” Daenerys said. “Your ship has room for another passenger, and Morghaes can follow if Chewbacca keeps a steady pace.”

Jon looked from her determined face up to the battlements, where Morghaes gripped the crenellations with talons as long as dirks. "Soldiers still camp outside these walls, Daenerys, with the bloodshed still fresh," Jon said. "If both dragons leave the capital today, the peace we bought with blood will fray before nightfall."

"Lord Tarly has his vanguard, and Lady Olenna has the Reach's grain," Daenerys answered, stepping closer so only Jon and Ned could hear her over the clatter of the supply carts. "The North is where the dead are rising. Lord Robb is holding Winterfell but I want to be there."

"And I need a Targaryen with a dragon holding the Red Keep," Jon said gently. "The lords and the smallfolf know what Morghaes is, and they know your blood. I need you to command their obedience while I deal with the North."

Daenerys lifted her chin, her disappointment plain. She glanced up at Morghaes, then looked back at Jon and gave a single nod.

Jon turned to the white knight beside him. “Ser Barristan, you will remain with my aunt.”

“Your Grace, I had intended to accompany you,” Barristan replied. “You need a Kingsguard by your side.”

“And I am leaving her in a city we have only just taken,” Jon said. “You know the Red Keep and the men who served there. Help her choose her guards, and keep her safe. I can defend myself better then most, and I will have my uncle's men with me.”

Barristan glanced toward the waiting ship before bowing his head. “As you command, Your Grace.”

“I would welcome your counsel as well, Ser Barristan,” Daenerys said. “Once the ship leaves, come with me. There is much I need to learn about the household.”

“Of course, Princess,” Barristan replied.

As Jon finished speaking with Daenerys, he saw Margaery approaching with Leia, Ghost walking beside them. Han went to meet his wife and offered his arm, and Jon joined them near the foot of the ramp.

“Will you be coming with us, Princess?” Jon asked, looking down at her pregnant belly in concern.

"I am staying in King's Landing, Jon," she replied. "Since last night, I have felt the dark side pressing southward through the Force. Every time I turn my thoughts toward the North, the babies twist and kick against it." She pressed her fingers firmer against her cloak. "They feel that cold in the Force already. If I board that ship and fly straight toward the source, I will carry both of them closer to it. I have to keep them away from it while I can."

Jon glanced at Han, remembering how firmly he had refused to leave Leia when Luke flew north. He understood his refusal better now. “Of course, Princess,” Jon said. “The children's safety comes first. Han?”

Han planted himself beside her. "Where she stays, I stay," Han said. "I'll keep an eye on Leia down here and lend Queen Daenerys a hand if this city starts getting ideas."

Ned looked at Leia's hands resting over her unborn children, his expression softening. "You and your husband have already done more for my house beyond a price, Princess," Ned said. "A parent's first charge belongs to the children they carry. Stay in the warmth and guard them well."

"We will keep watch over the city together, Princess Leia," Daenerys said, stepping beside her.

Jon leaned in to embrace Leia carefully, then gripped Han's forearm. "Be watchful, Han. Even a war weary south has enough knives left in the dark."

"Kid, after the week we've had, a few knives in the dark almost sound relaxing," Han said, clapping Jon's shoulder.

His attention had already shifted as he saw Margaery and Ghost walking down towards them. Once close enough, Jon knelt with both hands sinking into the thick white coat at the wolf's neck as he touched his forehead once to that broad skull. When Ghost moved away to leaned against Margaery’s skirts, she stepped close and offered Jon her hand. He held it a moment before bowing his head to kiss her fingers.

“Come back to me,” Margaery said softly.

“I will,” Jon replied, reluctant to release her hand with the ship waiting behind him. He gave it a gentle squeeze before letting go.

Above the battlements, Rhaegal bugled a ringing cry. Green scales flashed in the sun as the young dragon swept down from above the gatehouse towers, spread his ribbed wings wide, and landed squarely atop the Millennium Falcon's upper hull.

Han spun on his heel, craned his neck backward, and threw both hands into the air. "Hey! That's not your nest, get off of there you giant lizard!" Han shouted up at the roof. "He's gonna dent to sublight vents!"

Chewbacca came heavy-footed down the steps of the ramp to tilt his furred head back for a look at the dragon's perch. The booming run of barks that followed ended with one great paw waved in dismissal toward Han. Han stared at the Wookiee in disbelief.

"What do you mean, he fits fine? You're the one who has to weld the seams if he peels a plate!" He waved a hand toward Jon in reluctant surrender. "Just tell him to keep his talons out of the exterior wiring."

Jon reached out through his bond with Rhaegal, urging him to settle. Rhaegal in response rumbled deep in his throat, folded his wings, and reluctantly lowered his head along the hull like a hound settling before a hearth.

"Clear the ramp!" Tarly barked to the soldiers gathered beside the ship.

The last two healers hurried up the metal incline while the soldiers below stepped back. Jon and Ned walked up the boarding ramp together. At the hatch, Jon paused and looked back over the camp as Chewbacca began closing the ramp from the cockpit.

Down past the rising door Han held Leia by the shoulders as Daenerys watched from beneath Morghaes's broad black shadow. But his eyes only remained on Margaery, already longing to hold her again. The ramp clanged shut and set the deck plates humming beneath Jon's boots as Chewbacca lifted the Falcon smoothly into the morning sky, heading North with Rhaegal crouched atop the hull.

The Falcon eventually leveled out beneath the low clouds. Jon braced one hand against the curved corridor wall until his knees found the rhythm of the deck and trying not to let the dizzyness throw him off. His uncle on the other hand had no such problems as he unclasped his cloak, folded it over his arm, and walked into the circular main hold.

The dozen northern guardsmen and the volunteer healers from the city made room for one another around the table in the main hold. One of the younger healers pressed his hand flat against the vibrating bulkhead with wide eyes, then let out a shaky, almost maniacal laugh that would have concered Jon if the travel sickness wasn't there.

Ned set Ice upright in its oiled leather scabbard between his knees and lowered himself onto the curved bench behind the table. He looked up at Jon, his grey eyes quiet in the white glow of the lights overhead. "Sit for a moment, Jon. Even at this machine's pace, we have time."

Jon hesitated for a moment but sat beside him. Now that the shouting of the camp had fallen behind them, the people they had left seemed closer than ever.

"I hated leaving them behind," he said. "Daenerys wanted to go north as badly as I did, and Margaery has a starving city to feed."

"They have work only they can do," Ned said, resting a scarred hand on the pommel of his greatsword. "And they have Ghost, and Morghaes, and Captain Solo. You placed the city in capable hands, Jon."

Jon looked down at his gloved knuckles. "Does it ever get easier? Walking away from the people you love because another road needs you first?"

Ned's mouth softened at the corner. "Never once. Every time I rode out of Winterfell's gates, I looked back at Catelyn on the steps until the trees hid the keep. You learn to carry the ache without letting it slow your purpose."

Neither of them spoke for a few breaths, leaving only the sound of the engines thrumming and the low murmers of the soldiers around them. Jon glanced sideways at his father's weathered profile.

“I wanted to speak for you, Uncle,” he said. “When Prince Oberyn—”

"I know." Ned looked straight ahead at the scuffed metal deck. For a heartbeat, he seemed older than the man who had ridden into the camp the evening before. "You need not answer for me."

"You gave him the truth without an excuse," Jon said quietly. "Not many men in that camp would have."

Ned turned his head and laid his palm briefly over Jon’s shoulder, his grip solid. “You will have men ask you harder questions than that before this war ends. Answer what you actually did, pay what you owe, and leave the rest to the gods.”

He gave Jon’s shoulder a small squeeze, then glanced toward the guards and healers gathered around the table.

“There is something else I would speak to you about,” Ned said. He rose, drawing Jon aside into the passage beyond the hold. Once they were clear of the others, he lowered his voice.

“Jory told me where he found you this morning.”

Jon felt himself redden. He had wondered whether Olenna suspected, but hearing Ned speak of it so plainly left him struggling for an answer.

“Uncle, Margaery and I—”

“You can tell me what you intend when you have spoken with her,” Ned said. “But whatever comes of it, if she bears your child, I expect you to acknowledge that child and care for them both. Marriage talks and the demands of your crown will not excuse you from that.”

Though Jon had intended to speak for himself, Ned’s unwavering eyes left him with nothing save the answer he had offered him since childhood.

“Yes, Father,” he said.

Ned nodded and led the way back to the table. When they had settled onto the bench again, he turned the conversation toward home.

"I expect Arya has tried to sneak past the crypt guards twice by now," Ned said, a dry warmth entering his voice. "Perhaps Catelyn has Sansa helping Maester Luwin sort the linen bandages, and Bran will want to hear every detail of how your green dragon rode this ship up the narrow sea."

“Bran will want a turn himself,” Jon said with a smile. “I’ll be with Chewbacca if you need me, Uncle.”

Jon rose from the bench and followed the narrow passage to the cockpit. Chewbacca sat at the controls as they skimmed beneath the coastal clouds. When Jon reached the doorway, the Wookiee greeted him with a low rumble and pointed toward the glass above his head.

One green foreleg and the curve of Rhaegal’s folded wing showed beyond the frame. Jon could feel how much the dragon enjoyed the wind and the speed of the flight. And the yearning for Jon to join him. He sent the feeling to Rhaegal, We will, later.

“He seems quite pleased with himself,” Jon said, settling into the empty chair beside Chewbacca.

Chewbacca chuckled and returned his attention to the controls. Jon stayed beside him, watching the coastline pass below.

By late afternoon, the pale walls and slate roofs of White Harbor rose ahead. As Chewbacca banked toward the port, Jon frowned through the glass. Oily smoke drifted sideways over the waterfront, and coastal cogs lay tethered at their moorings with their loading cranes idle.

Jon turned toward the passage. “Uncle, come and look at this.”

Ned joined him in the cockpit and braced a hand against the doorframe, leaning forward to follow Jon’s pointing finger toward the smoke. As the ship banked, he studied the streets leading away from the waterfront.

“There are carts stuck along the road to the northern gate,” Ned said. “Can he take us closer to the harbor?”

Chewbacca rumbled an answer and brought the Falcon around over the waterfront. Jon leaned forward to look down at the quays as they passed beneath the cockpit. When Chewbacca pointed toward a broad, clear stretch beside the fish market and began his descent, Jon reached for Rhaegal through their bond. Off and wide, Rhaegal. Take the outer stone mole until I call.

Rhaegal answered with a surge of eagerness, spread his wings, and launched himself from the ship's back. The Falcon bobbed slightly as the dragon's weight left the hull. Jon watched him circle the harbor mouth before settling on the granite blocks, where he folded his wings and turned to follow the ship.

Chewbacca landed on the fish quay and lowered the ramp. Jon rose from his seat and followed Ned back through the hold, where their guardsmen gathered to accompany them ashore.

Cold salt wind carried the smell of smoke into the ship as they descended. A harbor watch captain hurried toward them with three spearmen, looking from the Falcon to the dragon on the breakwater with wide and terrified eyes. But, he slowed when he recognized Ned, then turned to Jon and dropped to one knee.

“My Lord Stark—Your Grace,” the captain panted. Jon motioned him to rise. “Thank the gods you’ve come. Maester Luwin’s raven reached us yesterday. We began burning the bodies awaiting burial and posted guards at the crypts and burial grounds.”

“Have any risen within the city?” Ned asked.

“Some, my lord,” the captain said. “There were bodies in houses we had yet to reach. We burned those as well, and the watch still holds the streets.”

“What happened along the waterfront?” Jon asked, looking toward the smoke.

“A wrecked coaster drifted against the tide-steps an hour past noon,” the captain said. “Its crew were dead, but they were moving about the deck. We burned those that came ashore here. Others went over the side and climbed out by the cooperage.”

He pointed toward a stone passage along the wharf. “My men are fighting their way into the yard. The dockworkers and their families have barred themselves in a shed beyond them, and the dead have reached the door.”

Through the arch, Jon saw guards struggling to hold a wight against the wall with their spears. Another battered at a shield, driving its bearer backward. Beyond them came the thud of fists against wood and a woman’s sharp cry. Jon looked back toward Chewbacca, who stood at the foot of the ramp.

“Chewbacca, can you look over the other landings?” Jon asked. “Some of that crew may still be coming ashore where the guards cannot see them.”

Chewbacca nodded and beckoned toward the ship. The captain called one of his watchmen over.

“Go with him,” the captain told the man. “Show him where they went into the water, then look between the ships.”

As they hurried up the ramp, Jon drew Leia’s lightsaber and turned to Ned.

“Uncle, take our men and help them through,” Jon said. “I’ll get to the shed. Have the healers ready for anyone they bring out.”

“Be careful,” Ned told him, drawing Ice. He turned to their guardsmen. “Spears and boat hooks with me! Bring torches!”

Jon sprinted along the wharf as the Falcon rose behind him, gathering the Force into his legs. Rather than push through the men fighting in the passage, he leaped over the wall beside it. From above, he saw five corpses in soaked sea-leathers crowding the shed’s door, their pale hands tearing at the splintering boards.

His green blade snapped to life as he descended. He landed between the door and the nearest wight, then turned into a sweeping cut that sheared it through the ribs. Two more reached for him, and he took their arms off at the elbows. The severed hands struck the stones and continued clawing toward his boots.

Behind the cracked door, a wounded dockworker stared through the gap with a hatchet in his hand.

“Stay inside!” Jon called over his shoulder as a dead fisherman lunged at him. He swept his lightsaber through the wight’s legs above the knees, then kicked it aside as it fell. “Keep the children away from the door!”

At the entrance to the yard, Ned joined the guards holding the two wights in the passage.

“Hold them there!” Ned ordered. “Hooks on the shoulders!”

A guard caught one beneath the arm and hauled it sideways. Ned cut its legs from beneath it with Ice, then raised the blade and struck the second through the collarbone. Both collapsed as the blue light vanished from their eyes, and even the severed legs lay still.

Jon caught sight of them while the dead he had cut apart continued dragging themselves across the stones. He could hold those back with his lightsaber, but Ice ended them outright.

The captain and his guards dragged the motionless bodies out of the passage. Ned advanced into the yard with the Northmen, spreading his men along the path to the shed while the harbor guards brought their torches forward.

Jon drove the remaining upright wights away from the door, cutting through their legs so they fell beyond reach of anyone coming out. A guard pinned one of the crawling bodies with a boat hook, and another stepped past him to help Jon cover the doorway.

“Now!” Jon shouted to the dockworker. “Bring them through!”

The man pushed open the door. Dockworkers hurried out with mothers and children among them, supporting three injured men who could scarcely walk. Jon moved beside them, severing a grasping hand before it could catch a boy’s ankle. Ned stood at the arch with Ice, directing the families toward the watchmen waiting outside.

Beyond them, the healers laid their litters on a clear stretch of quay and hurried forward to help the injured.

At the seaward corner of the yard, another dead sailor dragged himself onto the tide-steps. Jon saw pale faces beneath the water behind him, then grasping hands as the others climbed toward the slipway. Eight reached the stone apron, their soaked sea-leathers clinging to them, one still carrying a broken oar.

“Back through the arch!” Jon called to the guards. “Rhaegal is coming down!”

Once the watchmen finished burning the crawling remains by the shed and withdrew through the arch, Jon followed the last man out and looked across the yard. The approaching wights had gathered on the stone slipway, clear of the wooden buildings.

Jon reached for Rhaegal through their bond, drawing the dragon’s attention to the dead at the water’s edge.

Rhaegal unfolded his wings and launched himself from the breakwater. He glided across the harbor mouth, caught the stone seawall with his rear talons, and lowered his head toward the slipway. Flame swept over the advancing wights. Jon felt the heat even from that distance as their sodden clothing caught and their bodies collapsed.

He watched until the last of them stopped moving, then looked toward the sheds. The fire had left them untouched.

Jon sent Rhaegal back to the breakwater and clipped his lightsaber to his belt.

“Keep that passage clear,” Ned called to the watchmen as he came to stand beside him. “There may be more in the water.”

The captain sent men back toward the landing stages, then crossed the quay to the wounded. Jon followed him. Their healers had begun binding the injured men’s wounds, while the rescued families gathered nearby.

“I’ll send for our healers, Your Grace,” the captain said. “They can arrange somewhere for these men to be cared for.”

“Do so,” Jon replied. “Ours will stay with them until they arrive.”

The captain beckoned to one of his guards and sent him up the street at a run.

“We have men watching the other landings,” he told Ned. “I will warn them about those that went over the side.”

“Have them keep oil and torches close,” Ned said. “They must burn anything they bring down before it can crawl among the houses.”

“I will see to it, my lord,” the captain replied.

While the healers worked, the Falcon returned from its circuit of the harbor and settled onto the clear stretch of quay. The watchman hurried down the ramp to his captain.

“There’s another dead man caught in the mooring ropes beyond the wreck,” the watchman said. “You cannot see him from the street, but he was pulling himself toward the landing.”

The captain called two guards over. “Show them where,” he told the watchman. “Take a hook and a torch.”

Jon watched the three men leave, then looked toward Chewbacca as he came down the ramp.

“Thank you, Chewbacca,” Jon said. “We’re waiting for the city’s healers. Then we can be on our way.”

Chewbacca rumbled in acknowledgment and went to help their men gather the empty litters. Beyond him, Rhaegal watched from the breakwater beneath the darkening northern sky.

By the time the city’s healers arrived, the watchmen had escorted the uninjured families away from the waterfront. Jon waited while the healers spoke beside the litters and arranged to carry the wounded into the city. Along the quay, guards took their places with spears, boat hooks, and burning torches.

Ned joined him as their own healers gathered their things.

“We can bring our men aboard now,” Jon said. He looked toward the breakwater and called Rhaegal back through their bond. “The captain has the waterfront in hand.”

Ned watched the guards a moment longer before turning toward the ship “Then we go home,” he said.

--------------------------------------------------------

Outer Space

That same day, a holographic image of the Rakatan Crucible turned above the projector table. Thrawn rested one hand on the console rim and enlarged the image, examining the narrow spaces between its inward-sloping planes. The surviving fragments of Palpatine’s private records supplied a name and an image, together with claims of power over life and death. They offered considerably less about its operation.

Palpatine had pursued the Crucible in the hope of attaining immortality. Thrawn needed to know whether its capabilities could help him defeat the enemies beyond the galaxy. A means of preserving life might have military applications worth the search, though he would want evidence before committing his forces to any plan that depended on it. For now, he needed Jade’s findings.

A communications officer approached the table with a data card in hand. Thrawn inclined his head. “You have something, Lieutenant?”

“A compressed burst from the outer relay net, sir,” the officer said, sliding the card into the table’s secondary slot. “Much of the packet is corrupt, but we recovered a signature identifying Mara Jade’s vessel.”

Thrawn touched the display key. A partial set of coordinates appeared beside the Crucible, with gaps marking the portions the processors had failed to recover.

“Was there a message from Jade?” Thrawn asked.

“We recovered location data only, Admiral. The ship may have transmitted it automatically.”

Jade could still be carrying out her assignment. She might also have lost the means to report. Thrawn studied the surviving coordinates, considering where they could begin looking for her.

“What can astrogation make of this?” he asked.

“They have narrowed the search enough to plot a course, sir, but they cannot identify the destination system. They recommend taking further readings along the approach.”

“Have them send the proposed course to the bridge,” Thrawn said. “Continue working on the packet. I want any further transmission from that vessel brought to me immediately.”

“Yes, Grand Admiral.”

Thrawn lowered his hand to the comm switch.

“Captain, astrogation is sending you a course based on Jade’s transmission,” he said. “Once you have confirmed the route, proceed.”

The captain acknowledged the order. Thrawn left the Crucible turning above the table and opened the star chart beside it.