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: This one took a bit longer as there were a lot of interactions but I hope you enjoy the chapter!
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Kingswood
Hooves drummed on packed earth in a dull, steady count, thousands at once, until the road itself seemed to keep the measure. Leather creaked, bits clicked, harness chains kissed against saddles, and twenty thousand horses moved north under one long command. After some miles the noise turned into weather. A stumble, a curse, a wheel striking a rut, all sounds that have become to common.
Jon rode near the front where the air stayed a little cleaner and the road could still be seen between horses. Ghost kept to his left, white as old bone where the sun touched his fur, red eyes level with many a courser's flank. Men gave the direwolf room without needing orders. They had learned that habit. The green hilt at Jon's belt had taught them another.
The Kingsroad ran ahead in a brown strip between summer trees, the Kingswood thick on either side. Storm's End lay days behind them now, sealed up with Stannis and five thousand men who had chosen a dead king's killer. Stannis had made himself irrelevant by having his brother killed, and Jon had dug that in by calling him kinslayer before twenty thousand witnesses. He could brood over rights and fires and shadows. He could never outride twenty thousand horse to King's Landing, and he could never strike this column from behind without opening his own gates and dying in the field. Stannis will answer for the kinslaying, Westeros demanded it. But his priorities were still Lannisters first, throne second, Stannis third.
A pair of Tyrell guards rode twenty paces back in green and gold, watching the verge. Another pair had peeled off before dawn, headed for the rear to sleep and eat before their turn came again. Olenna's hand remained on him even when her wheelhouse sat half the host away. But at this point, Jon had no quarrel with that.
He had not heard from Luke since the voice box call yesterday. Han had explained it after: Mater Luke and Robb were alive but Luke had sensed something amiss inside Winterfell's walls and gone to handle it. Alive. That was the piece that mattered but the thought of his younger siblings in some kind of trouble still very much bothered him. The only thought that kept him sane was Master Luke going to Winterfell to solve whatever he sensed.
A gelding snorted to Jon's right. Han rode beside him, slouched in the saddle. Weeks of practice had worn the worst stiffness out of his riding, but his hand still drifted to the pommel where a blaster should have been.
"King's Landing will be slower than this," Jon said. "Walls, supply lines, waiting for my uncle to come down on the other side."
Han gave him a sideways look. "Kid, one pass from the Falcon over those walls ends it before supper."
"A king who comes from the sky and burns a city open before men have a chance to choose him is Aerys with a finer blade," Jon said. "I need gates opened by men, grain carried in by men, and an army that can say it took the city for me."
Han settled deeper in the saddle and worked his shoulders one at a time. "Leia would agree with you, which makes this a miserable day. My back hates your horse, and your horse hates me."
A faint smile showed for only a breath before Jon let it fade.
The road ahead curved to the left around a stand of elms. Behind him the host took that bend rank by rank, the long column winding and straightening like an armored river. The men nearest the front drew themselves up in the saddle when Jon looked back. Those farther down the line kept their eyes on the green hilt. Riders out of the Reach still called him my lord whenever duty obliged them to speak. A few of the Stormlords had grown bolder of late.
My Prince. The title came stiff in certain mouths, hungry in others. Among the common men the names multiplied. The Stark Prince, the Green Knight, the Bastard Prince. The gossip never stopped even in an army and Jon was still getting used to the varying treatment.
Mid-column, where the baggage and wheelhouses rolled under heavier guard, Olenna's carriage would be moving at its usual stubborn pace, with Margaery and Leia inside it while the day held. That placement solved three problems at once. It kept Leia from a saddle six moons gone with child, kept Margaery where the older woman could watch her, and placed the foreign princess at the center of Tyrell control. Olenna never wasted a seat.
A new rhythm broke the road's long count. Jon heard it before the rider showed, a hard gallop from the van, one horse driving through a host that had settled into march pace. The scout came in lathered and pulled up so fast his gelding half reared.
"My Prince," he said, breathing hard. "We found a lone knight on the road, wearing the white of the Kingsguard. Says he's alone, no escort, rode hard from Kings Landing."
Jon's focus narrowed. A Kingsguard riding from King's Landing, riding alone. He is either a messenger, assassin, or defect… or bait. Cersei might send a white cloak for terms if fear had finally taught her sense. Tywin might send one to buy time. Joffrey might send one because the boy thought white armor made any threat grander.
Jory rode up on Jon's left. "My lord?"
"Hold the column," Jon said. "Bring him in under guard. If he reaches for steel, put him down."
Jory nodded and wheeled off, already shouting the order. The halt ran through the host in waves. Hooves slowed, then stopped. The long body of the army bunched on the Kingsroad and into the grass beside it, banners lifting above the stillness.
Jon swung down from the saddle as Ghost bounded over.
Han stayed mounted, looking south along the lane the scout had cleared. "We're stopping for one guy?"
"A Kingsguard. Alone, from King's Landing." Jon looked at him, then past him to the column settling into the halt. Twenty thousand men watching how their commander handled this.
Garlan Tyrell pressed his horse forward, helm tucked under his arm. "Ser Han, protocol demands the prince receive a white cloak personally. It's uncouth to not hear them out."
Han followed his gaze across the settled column. "Right. The show." He shifted in the saddle, leather creaking. "You're a magnet for interesting people, and you know what they say about interesting people. Though with a family like yours, that's probably—"
"Wait." Jon turned. "You didn't finish. What do they say about interesting people?"
Han blinked.
"And what's a magnet?" Jory asked from somewhere behind Jon's shoulder, leaning around to catch the conversation.
Han looked from Jon to Jory and gave up on whatever smart answer he'd meant to make. "A magnet is a... you know what, forget it. Whole thing's useless."
Chewbacca rumbled at his side, low and argumentative.
Han cut him a look. "Yes, I can explain myself, fuzzball." He circled one hand in the air as if the right shape might save him. "Loadstones. Same idea, only made by hand."
Chewbacca barked again.
"Yeah, because they're attractive," Han said, dry as dust. "Point is, interesting people get trouble padding after them like stray dogs."
Jon almost smiled. "Like stray dogs… hmmm. I believe I'd rather be boring."
"But boring's boring, kid." Han grinned, though his eyes kept tracking the southern road. "Yeah, boring's safer."
Word traveled fast in a stopped army. Wheels and voices for making way was heard farther back in the column. Jon looked over shoulders and horseflesh and saw Olenna's wheelhouse nosing forward through the halt, guards clearing a path before it. Of course she came herself.
The carriage rolled to a stop off his right shoulder. The driver climbed down first. Then Olenna came to the step with her cane and a look that said the whole road had inconvenienced her on purpose. Margaery descended after her, light on her feet despite the rut-scarred ground. Leia followed more slowly, one hand braced on the doorframe before she stepped clear. The two Tyrell guards who had stayed with the carriage came up then, taking station with the first pair.
The riders returned at a measured pace, escort ring tight around the lone man in their center.
Ghost's ears went up.
The old memory struck before the name did. Winterfell's practice yard. The clang of blunt steel once, twice, three times. A knight whose blade never wasted an inch. The instant after the third bout, when the old man had looked full into Jon's face and the color had drained from him like water poured out.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, here, alone, meant a tear inside the crown's own household. Whether he had been cast out or had ridden by choice, the city had lost its cleanest name. Lord and men alike listened when Barristan Selmy took a side.
Then the personal connection caught up. The offer to squire, and that haunted look of recognition in the old knight's face.
The escort eventually halted ten paces away. Selmy swung down without waiting for help. Days on the road had ground dust into the joints of his armor and left a grey film on his boots, yet nothing in him sagged. Yet without missing a beat, handed his reins to one of the escorts as if they were squires.
His eyes found Jon and stayed. He walked past the escort, past the Tyrell guards in green and gold, past the direwolf, past all of it. A man who had ridden days with one question did not waste his arrival looking at banners.
The color went out of him again.
"Well," Olenna said. "I suppose King's Landing is finally running out of sensible men."
Barristan's eyes stayed on Jon as though she had not spoken.
"My prince."
The title had been spoken to three kings by that voice. Jon had heard it once at Winterfell, aimed at Robert, and it had meant nothing more than duty. Aimed at him, it carried a force behind it.
"I suspect the boy-king's court will miss you, ser." Jon held his gaze. "What brought you to mine?"
"I would speak with you privately, my prince." His voice dropped, though it kept its shape. "What I must say is only for your ears."
With Olenna standing three paces to his right, Oberyn somewhere behind, and thousands of strangers, a private audience is simply prudent. But Jon cannot allow that.
"Speak freely, ser. These men ride with me. What you carry, they should hear, too."
Ser Barristan studied him for a long breath. Whatever he read in Jon's face, the old knight accepted it. He inclined his head the smallest measure, a soldier taking an order he hadn't expected.
"The road talk says Renly Baratheon is dead." Barristan's voice carried the flat precision of a man used to delivering reports to kings. "I have heard various version either blaming you or Stannis. I do not know which to believe but I know the boy I traded blades at Winterfell could not have done this."
"And you would be right, sir, Stannis sent an… assassin to murder his brother in his own pavilion." Jon let the words carry across the halted column. "I killed it but only after it had already killed Renly. Now, Stannis stands as a kinslayer, and five thousand men chose to seal themselves inside Storm's End with him rather than answer for it."
Ser Barristan studied Jon as he spoke. Jon senses whatever he saw in Jon's face, it settled whatever conflict Barristan felt. The old knight inclined his head the smallest measure.
He drew one long breath through his nose, straightened his shoulders, and knelt.
"When I first saw you in Winterfell's practice yard, I thought I saw a ghost." His eyes held Jon's from the knee, steadier now than they had been standing. "I offered you a squireship because I couldn't look away from his face on yours. It wasn't until I read Ser Arthur's last entry in the White Book that I understood what three of my brothers died protecting."
All around them, the host had stiffened.
Ser Barristan continued from the knee with his voice remaining formal. "Ser Arthur Dayne. Ser Oswell Whent. Lord Commander Gerold Hightower." He spoke each name reverently. "Three brothers of the Kingsguard sent to Dorne while Prince Rhaegar rode to the Trident. Three brothers absent while King's Landing fell. I served beside those men but I could never understand why they stayed in Dorne. But I know now, what their oaths cost them even till the end."
His gauntlet closed on his own knee. "I should have been there. At the tower, with my brothers."
The crack was brief. He steadied himself with one breath and kept going, the public exposure wearing at edges he would have smoothed in a private room.
"At the Trident, I watched helplessly as your father Prince Rhaegar was struck down," Barristan said. "I was too far from King Landing to save Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. But… but I do not want to be too late again, I wish to serve you as I wish I could have your father."
My father. Three Kingsguard posted in Dorne to protect Lyanna and an unborn child. Three swords that could have stood between Elia's children and the Mountain. Rhaegar had chosen which family lived and which family died, and Arthur Dayne had carried out his command dutifully like all these other Kings Guards. Jon was the son who survived because another prince and princess didn't have the same protection.
He could have said that, he wanted to say that but it was not the place.
"You honor my father's memory, Ser Barristan. I would be a fool to refuse the sword that guarded him."
Even saying those words, Jon couldn't help but think about the stupidity — the red pass, the cradle, his uncle killing Arthur Dayne to reach a sister the Kingsguard were sworn to keep from him. All the good men who bled when they should have been working together, just because Rhaegar kept his own counsel.
Barristan lowered his head. "Whatever years remain to me, they are yours, my prince."
Jon leveled his stare at Barristan, weighting if his words actually held merit. As everyone held their breath, he finally spoke.
"Rise, Ser Barristan. Be warned, I have not taken a crown, and these men follow me on their own will but if you wish to serve me, I will not stop you."
When Jon spoke those words, a roar broke out behind him. It started close, with the men who had heard every word plain, then ran outward through the halted host until banners shook and horses tossed their heads and the whole road gave itself to sound. Reachmen beat mailed fists against their saddles. Stormlords thrust spears into the air. Somewhere farther back men were shouting the prince, and the dragon, even the king, each name taking hold in a different corner until twenty thousand throats made one answer. Jon let it wash past him.
Barristan rose from his knees, slowly, as his body remembered how old it was, though none of those years had ever taught it slowness. For the first time since he had ridden in, his attention left Jon and traveled over the host he had just joined, banners first, then the ring of mounted lords, the Tyrell guards, Han on horseback with his perpetual slouch. And finally, his gaze found Chewbacca.
Barristan stepped in front of Jon on pure training, one hand dragging at his sword, body already turning to meet the great furred shape beside Han's horse. "Get behind me, my Prince!" Barristan's blade sang free, its edge catching the morning light. "I will deal with this, this beast!"
Jon's hand found the old knight's wrist, feeling the tremor running through the arm. "Ser Barristan." He kept his voice a whisper. "Leave him be."
He pushed the blade down slowly as if not to spook Ser Barristan. When the point kissed the churned mud at their feet, he spoke again. "He rides with me and is a friend."
Barristan gave Jon a wide eyed look.
"My prince." Ser Barristan grunted. "I ask your forgiveness but what is… this being?"
Han's laugh cracked across the moment like a whip. "Chewie, at this rate we better put the helmet back on."
Chewbacca answered with a roar that carried enough genuine outrage to send three horses sideways.
Han raised both hands. "Yeah, I know it hot and annoying. Still, every new guy that sees you wants to stab you."
That loosened the choked air. Even Jory laughed. One of the Stormlords choked on his own grin and turned it into a cough. Barristan himself looked as though he would have preferred a lance through the ribs to being caught in that mistake before an army.
"Fear not Ser, they are friends, just not of—" Jon began.
Then the next sound came out of the north and cut the laughter dead.
It rolled over the treetops in a long grinding bellow, deeper than thunder and steadier, with a hard edge that set the horses shifting under their riders. A wheelhorse near Olenna's carriage screamed and pulled against the traces. Men turned as one, all faces lifting toward a sky that had held only low cloud a moment before.
A moment later the presence reached Jon as well, high above them and coming fast. A cluster of presences burning through the air with such speed the body almost refused the truth of it.
Master Luke and Robb. Finally.
Grey and squat and scarred all over with old burns and patches, the thing came down broadside to the light, too broad for any bird and too controlled for any beast. Its belly was round and plated, its nose blunt, one side thrust forward farther than the other, and atop its back sat a round dish of metal like a shield fixed to a tower roof. Heat shimmered behind it. It descended in a smooth arc and leveled over the road, its shadow swallowing the column whole.
Wind struck a heartbeat later. Cloaks snapped flat against legs. Dust and dry leaves spun up from the roadside. Horses bolted in clumps, dragging riders before the bits caught hard enough to turn them. The Reach held formation, though one Stormlord near Fell colors laughed in a high cracked way while his horse fought him. Garlan was already riding the line, shouting men back into order. Near the baggage, Marwyn moved the wrong way entirely, straight toward the descending hull with his robes whipping about him.
Barristan's hand had found his sword again. Jon didn't bother to dissuade the knight, the man had been through too many surprises already.
Margaery stepped nearer, skirts snapping in the wind. "Jon," she said, quiet enough that only he could hear, "is that them?"
"Aye."
"Marvelous," said a thick voice said behind Jon. "Absolutely and utterly marvelous." Marwyn had crossed the distance from the baggage train without Jon marking when.
The Falcon passed over the front of the column so low Jon saw seams in the grey plating and black marks scorched across the underside. Ghost pressed against his leg, fur driven flat by the wash.
The ship banked, slow now, and turned back toward the open ground beside the road.
Han's head came up before anyone else's. "That's my girl," he said to nobody.
It was coming in to land.
The Falcon came down in the field beside the road steadily. The round landing feet touched grass, sank a little, and drove heat into the damp earth. Steam lifted at once, white against trampled green, while the belly of the ship gave one last grinding groan and settled. The smell of hot metal, like a forge, reached Jon a moment later.
Han was on the ground before the ramp lowered all the way. He shoved his reins at the nearest rider and started toward the ship with the long loose stride of a man reuniting with a long lost lover.
The ramp gave a hissing noise as it dropped. The first figure through the opening proved stranger than half the host had yet imagined. Gold from head to heel, bright as a lord's treasure and built in the shape of a man, another oddity Jon was starting to get used to descended with careful steps and both hands lifted from his sides as though the mud itself had taken a personal offense at him.
"Oh dear," it said in that polished, fussy voice Jon remembered from the Reach. "We seemed to dropped in on a private meeting, Master Luke. Maybe we should turn back?"
No one answered him. Jon didn't think anyone even knew how to respond to it while the golden creature picked his way onto the grass and peered at the steam rising under the hull with wounded dignity.
Then a smaller shape rolled down after him, blue and white and round as a barrel with a silver dome for a head, giving out a burst of whistles so shrill and irritable that Jon knew it before he fully saw it.
So that was R2-D2.
Jon recalled Luke speaking of him fondly on the Northern Maid. He had heard that harsh little voice leap from Luke's talking box in the Reach. He had built up something far bigger and terrifying in his head, not this small thing. The droid came only to Ghost's shoulder, if that, and rolled to the foot of the ramp with all the offended energy of a small lord kept waiting.
Ghost moved before Jon had any thought of calling him back.
The direwolf padded across the churned grass in silence. R2-D2 stopped. The dome turned. Ghost lowered his head and sniffed once at the metal shell.
R2 let out an indignant shriek that made the people with a direct view step back.
Ghost gave the little machine one last look, found it unworthy of further effort, and turned his attention to the other visitors.
Smalljon Umber ducked through the doorway, broad as a gatehouse and trying much too hard to look casual, like men rode sky-ships in Last Hearth every market day. One hand rested on the pommel of his sword and the set of his shoulders dared the world to laugh.
Harrion Karstark came behind him with more success. His face had gone grave and watchful, though his eyes still moved over the field as if measuring what he stumbled into.
Grey Wind filled the ramp after them, larger than Jon remembered and somehow more ferocious, with Amidala beside him in white. Ghost's ears went forward. Three direwolves in one place had an attraction of their own.
Then Luke came into view.
And Robb came with him. Auburn hair blown wild by the landing wind. A face leaner than the one he remembered from Winterfell, with a lightsabre hilt at his belt where a sword should have hung. The boy who had shoved him shoulder-first into snow was still there somewhere, but the road north of the Wall had carved deeper lines into him.
But the problem is what they held between them.
A wight.
They bore the dead man between them in a metal frame, each gripping a side. A silver band clamped the corpse's wrist, and from it ran a bar of pale blue light that held the thing upright. Its head jerked toward the nearest living body with every step down the ramp.
Robb looked straight at Jon.
His eyes found his brother across the field and for a breath the dead man between them stopped being the most important thing on the ramp. Jon watched the recognition hit — Robb's grip on the frame shifted, loosened, his weight pulling left toward the brother he hadn't seen in months.
That's when wight found the gap.
It wrenched sideways against the weakened hold and lunged off the bottom of the ramp, dead teeth reaching for the nearest living flesh. Smalljon was three paces away, back half-turned, one hand still resting on his pommel as though the whole landing were beneath his attention.
The teeth sank into his leather gauntlet with a dry crunch.
"Fuck you, you gods forsaken cunt," Smalljon roared, and struck it with his free hand.
At least one thing remained the same, he definitely hit like an Umber.
The dead man's neck broke with a crack of frozen wood. Its head came off clean, spinning once through the air before it bounced down the ramp, rolled across the wet grass, and fetched up in the mud at Randyll Tarly's boots, right beside Olenna Tyrell's cane.
Master Luke stood on the ramp holding a thrashing headless torso, wearing the expression of a man whose carefully controlled demonstration had just been reduced to a terrifying spectacle, and even from a distance Jon could see Master Luke sigh. Robb still had one hand on the frame, the other reaching for the blue hilt, a breath too late for either to matter.
Then the column blew apart in sound.
Horses reared all along the front and the panic ran through them faster than any shouted order. Men hauled at reins. Lord Tarly yelled for formation, but that was a difficult ask when all their fears have been confirmed. Riders in the rear pushed forward to learn the cause while the men near the front dragged back from it, and the road bunched on itself in a snarl of hooves and curses.
The noise went on until the head in the mud bit at Tarly's boot.
And the while the body, headless now, kept trashing in Master Luke and Robb's grip.
The field emptied of sound so fast Jon's ears rang with the absence. Men had voices for fear, for surprise, for sudden blood. This gave them nothing. Both halves moved. Both halves reached for the living.
For a northman, the old tales always sat near the skin. Winter was their teacher. Snow and dark and the way old men looked at the woods when the wind changed. These southrons on the other hand had come up on songs of gallant fools and holy swords. The Long Night lived in their septons' books and nurses' tales, faded thin by thousands of summers.
Now it chewed mud at their feet.
Tarly's thumb pushed Heartsbane a finger's width from the scabbard. His face had lost all color. He looked from snapping head to headless body with the speed of a commander redrawing a war in his skull.
Olenna lowered her eyes to the thing at her slippers, set the ferrule of her cane between its blue eyes, and gave it one testing prod. The jaws snapped shut on oak. She withdrew the cane and looked up at Jon. "These things have a deal of spirit left in them yet, even when the head's gone."
"Grandmother, get away from that thing!" Loras yelled as he stepped up to her, with his sword drawn.
"Oh, calm down child, it's just a head"
"I know it's just a head Grandmother, but Loras is right, please get away from that monster, we don't know what it's capable of." said Margaery as she kept looking between the head and Jon.
"In all my experience," Leia said, "stormtroopers, bounty hunters, even Vader himself—I never thought I'd see the dead walk."
Marwyn stood with his heavy shoulders pitched forward, staring at the head the way a man stared at a door that had opened after thirty years of knocking. Sam stood a little behind him, rooted, face white, hands useless at his sides while his father held Valyrian steel half drawn ten feet ahead.
Smalljon stared down at his mauled gauntlet. "Bloody thing," he said, as if the whole field had stopped over a mule that kicked too much.
Luke held the frame on the ramp, a thrashing headless corpse in his grip and no surprise on his face. Jon read weariness there, and acceptance.
C-3PO chose that moment to say, "I did urge restraint while transporting the creature, Master Luke. Truly, I feel vindicated."
R2-D2 answered him with a blistering burst of whistles.
Luke's eyes lifted from the thrashing body. He looked across the field, then to Jon.
"Good to see you in one piece," Han stopped three paces from the ramp, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the thing still jerking in Luke's grip. "But this thing better have not made a mess of my baby—" He gestured vaguely at the air between them. "Remember, it's our only way out of this rock."
"Still runs," Luke said. He released the corpse and it crumpled to the ramp in a wet heap. "I checked before we landed."
Master Luke crossed the field alone. Amidala dropped from the ramp beside him, white fur bright against the churned field, and the front of the host opened without any order at all. He stopped an arm's length away and looked at him once, fully. He always did that, as if he meant to read bone and blood and every choice made since last meeting.
"Jon. It's hasn't been that long since we last saw each other, but it seems you've grown taller."
"It been an… interesting experience since your departure. But Master, what about Winterfell?"
"Nothing to worry about right now, they are all safe. All whole." Luke's gaze flicked past him to the host, the wheelhouse, the lords closing in already. "The Imperial is contained. The rest we can talk about with a smaller audience."
Jon breathed out once through his nose. The knot in his stomach eased a little.
"You'll have it," Jon said, taking a quick glance back. "But you have to understand, I didn't ask for it to turn out this way."
Luke's mouth shifted to show approval, maybe. Or acknowledgment that the boy from Winterfell had grown into a man who gave directions with twenty thousand men listening.
"No, but you stepped up to the challenge," Luke said. "And that's all anyone can ask of you."
Luke's eyes held his a moment longer.
Grey Wind reached Ghost before Robb did. The wolves hit each other shoulder first, hard enough to spray mud, then circled, heads low, tails stiff, taking in scent and all the change the months had made. Ghost made a rough low sound in his chest. Grey Wind answered with one of his own and shoved against him again, more greeting than challenge. Amidala watched her sons with the patience, her amber eyes following every turn.
Robb came off the ramp with the same forward drive he had as a boy, though his face had more man in it than when Jon last saw him.
Jon moved to meet Robb halfway. Robb's hand struck his forearm. Jon caught his in turn. The grip turned, as it always had, into a shoulder hit and a hug. For one beat Jon held his brother. Robb felt leaner and his grip closed with a force that belonged to a man keeping hold of solid ground.
Robb drew back first, looked him over from boots to face, and gave him the sort of grin only brothers survived.
"Gods, Jon. I leave you alone for a little while and you come out as a Prince."
Jon looked him over in turn. "You brought me a walking corpse. I think you win."
Robb barked a laugh. There it was, the same boy who devised ways to prank the inhabitants of Winterfell.
"Heard about the speech," Robb said. "And the trial. I wish I could have seen you knock some sense into these southerners, but I didn't know you had a white cloak too." His eyes flicked once toward Barristan. "From wanting you to be his squire to serving you? I feel there should be some irony in there somewhere."
"You're one to be talking," Jon said. "Fighting the dead and who knows what else. What in the name of the Old Gods made you go past the wall?"
That earned another grin, smaller now, warmer. "It needed to be done Jon. The North and the Free Folk cannot be at each other's throats as the Long Night approaches." Robb's gaze ran over the banners, the lords, the green hilt at Jon's side. "You wear command well enough. Still no crown."
"Crowns sit poorly on bastards."
"Seems the realm missed that lesson."
Then the world came back all at once.
The little blue barrel shrieked at Marwyn when the archmaester reached toward the Falcon's hull, and C-3PO wrung his golden hands beside them, insisting the heat was still active and the man would sear his flesh. The wight head in the grass continued to snap at empty air and men kept a wide ring around both halves.
Robb caught Jon's sleeve and turned enough to bring the northerners in. "Smalljon," he said, slapping the giant across the shoulder. "I'd like to re-introduce you to my cousin, Prince Daemon. Well, brother truly."
"Daemon?" The Smalljon's brow creased like fresh-ploughed earth. "But—"
"Robb." Jon's voice cut low, meant only for the man beside him. A single glance did the work of a paragraph. Later.
Robb's expression shifted through something complicated before settling on rueful acceptance. "Aye. Later, then."
The Smalljon looked between them, first at the heir of Winterfell, then at Jon. His jaw worked silently. "But you are Lord Stark's—," he said. "You're Jon Snow. What am I missing?"
"Smalljon." Jon's hand found the man's shoulder, steadying. "It's true."
The silence that followed had was a strange one, as no one knew what to say next.
Harrion Karstark had drifted closer, close enough to hear. His face had gone the color of old parchment. "Lyanna Stark and... Rhaegar?" The name came out strangled. "The dragon prince? Rhaegar Targaryen?"
Robb nodded once, solemn.
The Smalljon opened his mouth. "The Old Gods themselves have gone mad."
"Wouldn't count them out," Robb said. "They've had eight thousand years to plan."
"Harrion," Jon said.
Jon had worn Karstark for months in Oldtown, had answered to Torrhen as if the lie were skin. The man had a right to know he was using his brothers name falsely.
"My lord… I mean my Prince." Karstark bowed his head the smallest measure, grave and steady. His eyes had already gone to the host, the Tyrell banners, the mounted Reach knights, the Martell colors farther back.
Olenna arrived before Jon could say more. Margaery flowed beside her with Loras on the outer flank, his sword sheathed now though his hand still hovered near the hilt as if it wanted another excuse. Tarly came from the other side, Heartsbane still a finger out of the scabbard. Oberyn drifted in from somewhere to Jon's left, which was where Oberyn always seemed to come from, as if roads bent to make room for him.
"Jon," Olenna said, looking first at Robb, then at the ship, then at the two lively pieces of dead man with weary disgust. "If your brother means to make entrances, I prefer future ones be less dramatic."
Robb inclined his head toward her with courtesy just short of insolence. "My lady. That wasn't the plan, it just turned out that way."
"Seems to be a common occurrence in your family, things not going as planned."
Margaery's hand found her grandmother's elbow before Olenna could say anything else cutting.
"Grandmother," she murmured, pitched for Olenna's ears alone, "that not how you taught me to welcome honored guests, especially a heir to a Great House. They're still standing in the mud looking like they've swallowed something that didn't agree with them."
Olenna's gave a unladylike snort, but she allowed herself to be steered. Margaery released her and turned toward Luke with a smile calibrated to the wattage of a minor blessing.
"Master Luke." She inclined her head, neither too deep nor too shallow. "You traveled far with Lord Robb. I know Jon has been worried sick for his brother, so thank you for bringing him back safely, and welcomes any kin he's chosen to bring with him."
The little golden translator droid beeped something that the golden droid translated.
"The sentiment is appreciated my lady," C-3PO replied. "The Republic is grateful for the hospitality of the House of Tyrell. We are but humble servants in the wake of great—"
"He means yes," Luke said.
Margaery's laugh was quick and honest. "Then yes is more than enough. Any family Jon carries is welcome in the Reach. We've room, and need for good allies."
Robb caught Jon's eye across the space between them. The corner of his mouth twitched, the way it used to tease during feasts hosting other daughters of noble families. Any family Jon carries. Robb's gaze flickered to Margaery, back to Jon, and the twitch became something more deliberate.
What's going on here? that look said. While also conveying, Be careful.
Jon could only roll his eyes at Robb in response.
Olenna gaze shifted to Master Luke.
"You do favor both ugly and marvelous gifts, Master Luke."
"They do a better job at convincing than words," Luke said.
Oberyn came nearer, bright-eyed and easy. "So you're the wizard my daughter traveled with from Oldtown."
Master Luke met his gaze. "And you must be Lady Sarella's father. She's a good spy, though I can see she has learned much from you."
Oberyn's smile gained an edge. "Can you now? More of that magic you taught your apprentice?"
"I have taught my apprentices many skills."
"Secretive. A Martell trait." Oberyn looked from Luke to Jon. "I am Prince Oberyn Martell. My daughter tells me you fight like nothing she's ever seen and I would very much like to cross swords, if of course the young Prince allows it."
Barristan spoke from Jon's shoulder. "So would I, I never got the chance to in Winterfell."
Master Luke inclined his head. "Ser Barristan, it would be my pleasure."
Behind the lords, Smalljon was staring at Jon with the particular intensity of a man whose world had rearranged itself twice in ten minutes, knowing there was northern bastard prince carrying a Targaryen name. Karstark stood beside him, quieter, his composure holding better than the Umber's but his eyes doing the same work.
Leia pushed through the cluster of lords, one hand pressed against the swell of her belly. Luke saw her coming and straightened, the severity in his face softening into something almost boyish.
The hug was brief, fierce. Mater Luke's cybernetic hand fumbled at her back before settling.
"You can play with swords later." She pulled back, holding him at arm's length. Her eyes swept him up and down. "Right now I want to know what happened beyond the Wall. Every detail. Don't edit."
Luke's eyes hardened. His gaze cut to Jon, then back. "It's a long story Leia and a terrible one at that. The dead are numerous past the wall and if they get through..."
Jon watched the color drain from Garlan Tyrell's face three feet away.
"The Others—" Luke began.
The head in the grass lurched and rolled half a turn. Three riders cursed and dragged their mounts back.
"Jory."
His guard captain stepped in at once. "My Prince."
"Secure the wight and keep guards around it. And clear forty paces around the ship. No man goes near it without my word or Master Luke's."
Jory nodded. "At once."
"Garlan, ride the line. Tell every captain to start making camp and if they fear the dead, tell them that…"
Robb replied to the unasked question. "Fire."
"…fire and dragonglass kill it. Keep the truth ahead of the fear."
Garlan bowed in the saddle. "I'll see it done."
Jon than spoke to all of them. "Let us move this conversation somewhere more appropriate."
Luke inclined his head. "Lead on."
------------------------------------------
The command tent rose ahead, canvas walls bellying in the morning wind.
The tent swallowed them first. Tarly entered behind him and stopped three paces in, Olenna came next, Margaery half a step behind. Oberyn drifted in as though the tent had made room for him. He found a place against the canvas wall, close enough to Barristan that their shoulders nearly touched. The knight stiffened at the proximity. Oberyn smiled.
Barristan moved to Jon's right flank, exactly where a Kingsguard stood. His hand rested on his sword pommel.
Han pushed in past Chewbacca, who ducked through the entrance with his fur brushing the canvas. The Wookiee settled near the center pole, arms crossed, and the tent creaked under his weight. Leia entered last, one hand pressed to the swell of her belly.
Smalljon and Karstark remained outside with the wolves. The tent held twelve souls and the air grew thick with breath and body heat and the particular tension of people who did not trust each other standing closer than they liked.
Jon positioned himself at the head of the table. "You are all now aware that the Long Night is soon to be upon," Jon said. "This is a war council now as the proof stands outside. What it means for the realm requires discussion."
He turned to Luke his left and then to the Robb at his right.
"The lands beyond the Wall," Jon said. "I need to know what we're facing."
"It's… not good Jon." Robb's voice was almost a whisper. "The dead are like a unstoppable horde, they don't eat, they don't sleep, they don't feel. They don't make a sound until they're on you."
"Do they have any other weakness other than fire and dragonglass?"
"The Walkers." Now Robb really had their attention. "If you can kill one of them, the wights it controls also dies. But that's the thing, they are almost impossible to kill. I killed on by using the force to push it off a cliff as it was going for a killing blow, but if it wasn't toying with me, I wouldn't be here."
"How many?" Oberyn leaned forward, elbows on the table, a cup of wine forgotten in his long fingers. The candlelight carved shadows beneath his cheekbones. "How many of these speakings things have you faced?"
Robb's eyes drifted off as if he was reliving the encounters. His hand dropped from his side, fingers curling against his thigh.
"Four I've seen clear enough." He met Oberyn's eyes. "I do not know how many more there are, but I know there are more. Could be a hundred for all I know. All I know is that if Master Luke hadn't arrived when he did…"
"The White Walkers are something I have never encountered before," Luke said. "They are like a… disease in the force. They are able to call upon nature itself and summon blizzards and are ferocious warriors, but they are not a they. They are one being."
"One? How can so many White Walkers be one being?" Han asked in a skeptical tone.
"You should know by now that with the force anything is possible, Han." Luke answered with a raised eyebrow.
"Yes, yes, force this, magic that." Olenna's cane struck the ground once, sharp as a judge's gavel. "Spare me the wonderment. I will ask the real question: how do we stop them?"
Luke's fingers brushed the hilt at his side, an unconscious gesture. "They felt like one person speaking through a hundred mouths," he said. His voice remained level, unhurried. "If I am right about what I sensed in them — and I believe I am — they share a single will. If we destroy the source, we end the Long Night once and for all."
The tent breathed around them. Somewhere outside, the clamor of soldiers can be heard.
Luke stepped forward. "There's more to this. Something is hitting the Wall from the far side. And it grows weaker by the day."
"How long do we have, Master Luke?" The question came from Margaery.
"I do not have an exact timeline, but I know it won't hold the attacks at bay forever." Luke's voice held no softening. "When the Wall gives, and it will give, that army comes south."
"Unknown timing is poor comfort," Oberyn said. His tone stayed light, but his eyes had gone flat and hard. "That means start preparing immediately."
"The dead walk." Tarly's voice cut the air. Jon has never seen the man look so uncertain. "That much is plain. What I need to know is what is next."
"Our plans have not changed, Lord Tarly." Jon answered. "We need to remove the Lannisters first, else we will never unify the realm against this threat. We take Kings Landing first, consolidate our forces with my aunt and uncle and face this threat head on."
Lord Tarly actually smiled at that. "Take the city, consolidate, then turn north against an enemy that may breach the Wall before we're done. I can live with that."
"An army marches on its stomach whether the enemy breathes or not." Olenna spoke from her position by the map table, her cane planted before her like a marshal's baton. "I've fed this host for weeks. The grain doesn't grow itself, and it doesn't move itself. If the war changes shape, the logistics need change with it."
"Everything changes with it," Barristan said.
Han's arms uncrossed. "Before this war starts, I want to get my pregnant wife off this—"
"We are not leaving." Leia's voice came sharp.
"Leia—"
"There are millions of lives here, Han." She spoke with a commanders authority. "Their lives are just as valuable. I am staying."
"Dragonglass." Robb's voice cut in. He had been watching the room, Jon noticed. "We need dragonglass if we are to face this coming war."
Margaery answered. "Dragonstone has deposits. If we can secure the island—"
"Dragonstone is held by Stannis," Tarly said.
"Stannis sits in Storm's End with five thousand men," Jon said. "The dragonstone garrison is small. Like I said, we take King's Landing first, then—"
"Jon." Han leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm gonna say this again. We got a faster method."
Closing his eyes, Jon breathed out through his nose, slowly. He understood what Han wanted, and given the circumstances, he had to accept the consequences.
Jon opened his eyes. "I need to speak to my uncle first."
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