85 To Kill a Mockingbird

Muttering a rather… innocuous curse, Sam removed the burned out candle and fixed a new wick in place. Taking the still burning lamp on the other side, the perfect amount of light returned for the Lord of Horn Hill. "Ah, that's better." What would really be better was a light source with a continuous supply of fuel, but Sam doubted that would arise in his lifetime.

Peering at the thick volumes in front of him - desperate for some insight that would put them at an advantage to the coming battle against the dead - the sounds of giggles and high-pitched whining proved too much a distraction. "Little Sam, please be gentle with the pups," he chided softly."

"But they cute," the cherubic five year old called out, tickling the belly of a pure white pup.

Rhaegar laughed, his hand softly stroking a grey one. "Aye, they are Sam. But be careful. They're only a week old. Nestled in a large basket in the Imperial Solar were six direwolf pups, some dozing comfortably while others squirmed around. The Twins hadn't left the side of the pups in days as their mother rested. Ghost, the proud poppa, was shifting in between his duties as a father and as the Emperor's personal direwolf… leaving the twins to bond with them. Rhaegar lifted the grey one, softly stroking its back. "When I grow up, Eddy, you'll be by my side protecting the Realm."

A smile formed on Sam's face. How he got roped into babysitting the children, he did not know - oh seven hells, he did know. Someone needed to watch them while the trial went on, and since he was usually secluded with his books, he and Gilly were the perfect pair to watch over their son, the Prince and Princesses, and six direwolf pups.

"Alright, Saera." Gilly gently rocked the newest princess to sleep, walking to her crib. "Their Majesties will be back soon for you. Get some rest, little one." The lass, almost completely northern in look and color, opened her little mouth in a yawn before falling into a soft sleep. Gilly set her down. "Their Majesties make beautiful babies, Sam." She stepped close to her husband. "I hope our new one will be just as pretty."

Sam reached out to cup her belly. "If he or she looks like you, they will be." His family meant the world to him, and now House Tarly was expanding by one more. With Dickon now taking the white cloak of the Kingsguard, it would be up to Sam to manage the Reach until Margaery Stark's prospective second son would come of age. "Good news from home." Thinking about the Reach popped it into his mind. "Momma says Tella has been betrothed to Tommen Lannister."

Gilly smiled widely. "I'm happy for her."

"The boy is sweet, if I remember correctly. Nothing like his vile brother." Tommen had been at Casterly Rock since the fall of Joffrey's empire, adopted officially by Jaime and heir to the Wardenship of the West. His betrothal to the daughter of a noble house of the Reach and the sister of the Emperor's best friend was a first step in rehabilitating House Lannister. "I really want to be ecstatic for her, but these damn… sorry… books…" He trailed off, frustrated. Gilly leaned down, kissed his cheek, and picked up some read books to put them away.

"I hope Ghost and Nymeria have more pups," Arya sighed, happily tickling the belly of a rather active one, a dappled grey and tan she had named Rhaenys. "Then Aunt Sansa and Uncle Robb can have new ones for the ones they lost. Plus for our future brothers and sisters." She squealed in delight at the thought of all the puppies.

Her silver hair swaying as she laughed, the young Tarly heir was mesmerized. "They just puppies," Little Sam said, softly stroking a light-grey and white pup. "They grow big like Ghost?" The thought astonished him.

Arya giggled. "They sure will. Maybe bigger." She cuddled Rhaenys some more, the puppy softly licking her face. Little Sam watched the princess with awe, as if she was the most interesting thing in the world.

Chuckling, enjoying the sight of his son - despite the lack of blood relations, Sam was damned if Little Sam wasn't his own and his heir - dealing with Jon's daughter. She may have been three years older than him, but Sam could see betrothal negotiations happening between him and the Imperial couple in the future. If Little Sam picked up any of the Tarly stubbornness, he'd be zealous in pursuing the most eligible maiden in Westeros.

His amusement and happiness trailed off as he caught sight of Gilly standing. Alone. Holding a book in her hand. "My dear, what's wrong?" He stood to walk over to his wife.

She didn't move from the text. "Sam. You said Jon's real father was named… Rhaa-ger, right?"

"Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, yes. Same as his son." He peered at Gilly questioningly. The book in her hand was thin. Old, but thin. "Why?

"This book says is a diary by Rhaegar, but it only has a few pages of writing." She looked at him, wide eyed. "All seem to be about the Great Fall."

Taking it from Gilly's outstretched hand, Sam leafed through the sparse pages, scanning the writing. Each word filled him with greater and greater dread, until the penultimate paragraph caused his normally ruddy face to go ashen. "We need to tell Jon about this!"

"But poppa's at the trial," little Arya piped up.

Sam ran a hand down his face. "Blast it."

Turning the corner, Podrick found her in the private audience room. His betrothed was quiet, hands clasped in her lap as she stared at the painting on the wall. "Sansa?" The knight of the realm walked to her side.

The Hand to the Emperor didn't budge, eyes glossing over the finely painted canvas - at the figures rendered through the precision of the paint and skill of the artist. It was one Jon insisted on, one of the entirety of the living Stark family. Men standing, in their full northern combat regalia, while the women sat in resplendent dresses. Jon and Daenerys, their children around them in the center. Robb and Margaery holding little Jon Stark to their left. Rickon, Bran, and Meera, the former of the three watched over by Catelyn behind him, the only Stark child without a betrothed or lover. On the right of Daenerys were her and Podrick, joined on the far right by Arya and Gendry. Gendry looked strong with his warhammer, but it was Arya that Sansa paid attention to. The artist was brilliant in capturing her. Decisive, yet also graceful. Joined together with the entire family, a united front against all that stood in their way.

"The lone wolf dies, the pack survives."

"It must be done, Podrick," Sansa said, voice calm. Willing herself to be calm.

"I trust you, my Lady." Leaning over to kiss her cheek, she gripped his hair and pulled him into a sweet kiss on the lips. Chaste, but loving and passionate in its own way.

The door opened, causing Podrick to pull away. "Sansa?" It was Robb. He looked cold as ice - a mask all of the pack were putting on for today. "We're ready."

She nodded. "I'm coming now."

As she made her way out, Robb caught her arm. "I hope you know what you are doing."

"We'll soon see, brother."

Every noble within King's Landing at the time were crowded into the Throne Room. Many had even made the journey from afar, Bronze Yohn Royce bringing young Robin Arryn of the Vale, Edmure Tully and his family from Riverrun, and Tyene Martell and her new husband Bronn from Sunspear among the cluster of recent arrivals. Joined outside on the cold winter's day by tens of thousands of onlookers outside. This was to be the trial of the decade, as many had said. Rumors spread of how lively and entertaining it would be, decisive for the fate of the Realm and for the discovery of the deeper truth.

While nearly all had unease or disgust at the nature of the proceedings, Lord Petyr Baelish couldn't wipe the smug smile off his face. Notes tucked under his arm, dressed in his finest doublet and cape, he had no reason to feel anything but euphoric. He had an airtight case against Arya, and pretty soon the infighting within the Imperial Family would be like a wildfire storm. It was an amazing feeling, plans coming together like this.

Jon and Daenerys arriving in the annex, somber and dressed in their usual combination of Targaryen and Stark colors, Littlefinger bowed. "Your Majesties. Do not worry. I shall ensure justice is done this day, for you and for the Prince and Princesses."

Dany had no expression, while Jon looked simply tired. "Forgive me, Lord Baelish. But you won't be conducting the trial today."

Blinking, Littlefinger looked at his Emperor in surprise. "Sire?"

Jon held up his hands. "This isn't an insult of your ability. But Arya is of the north." He gestured to Sansa, who walked up behind him. "She deserves someone of the north to conduct this trial, and Sansa volunteered. Forgive me of any slight on my part, my Lord."

Eyes flickering between the Emperor and Sansa, Littlefinger sighed. "As you will, sire." Handing his notes to Sansa, he willed himself to put it out of his mind. While he wouldn't get his shining moment condemning Arya for the world to see, it didn't change his plans. His victory. The victory was still here, and it was glorious.

All rose to their feet as Missandei heralded Jon and Daenerys, the monarchs taking their seats upon their thrones with all due haste. Their guards - Ser Jorah for Daenerys and Ser Dickon Tarly for Jon - stood slightly behind the thrones, while the Imperial family were in straight-backed chairs to the left and right of the dias. Bran, passive as usual, had the most obscure position on the far-left. Same as in the painting.

A quiet descended as Daenerys cleared her throat. "Bring in Arya Stark."

Utter silence as the doors opened, Sandor Clegane behind and two Unsullied flanking the chained Arya, who marched down the length of the throne room with her head held up high. Davos, Lord of the Dreadfort, stood next to Gendry, doing his best to calm Lord Baratheon down from his rage and sadness at seeing his wife in chains. But most just watched numbly, not knowing what to think.

Jon, especially, fought conflicting emotions. He drew upon all of his ice to steady himself. "Who speaks for the crown?"

"Are you sure you want to do this, brother?" Arya asked the Emperor, simply.

Calm, Jon looked away from his sister. "Who speaks for the crown?" he repeated.

"I, Sansa of House Stark, Hand to His Majesty." She took the stand of the trier of fact, looking at Arya. "May I have leave to begin, to bring honor to and justice for our family."

"You may."

Nodding, Sansa met eyes with her sister for an interminable moment. "Before we begin, do you have anything to say, Lady Baratheon?" Hanging back, across the throne room from Sansa, Littlefinger watched with his arms crossed, supremely enjoying the show.

Chains removed, hands now clasped behind her back, Arya would not allow her emotions to show. She merely stared ahead at the thrones, lips flat and expression passive. "I have none, except to ask to get on with it."

"Very well." Sansa cleared her throat. "The prisoner stands accused before us of the crimes of treason, murder, and conspiracy to commit murder. What do you have to say for yourself…" She drew out a long silence, allowing her eyes to fall upon the true prisoner. "...Lord Baelish?"

It took several moments for it to sink in. Still leaning on the wall, Littlefinger's expression registered confusion. "My sister asked you a question, my Lord," Daenerys said, flatly. Implied was the command to answer - and no one denied the Dragon Queen's commands.

"I'm sorry? I don't understand."

"Which charge do you not understand, my Lord?"

Pushing himself off the wall, Baelish now sported incredulity. "The Lady Baratheon is under trial here, not me." Arya merely smirked at him, no trace of worry in her expression. "I wrote the warrant for her trial myself."

"The announcement for a trial contained no names, so therefore the Lady Baratheon was not scheduled for trial. It is you that is on trial today, my Lord. Since you are Master of Laws at well, it would be ridiculous for you to try yourself, hence my presence." Sansa gave the court an innocent look. "I hope that clears the confusion."

Jaw dropped in the pure gall, Littlefinger looked to the throne. "You said, sire, that Arya needed to be tried by her sister."

"I recall no such conversation, my Lord." Jon's expression was hard, like ice. "Do you recall such, Daenerys?"

"I do not."

He cast his eyes back to Littlefinger. "Do you wish to claim the Father and Mother of Dragons as liars?"

Cast into an unwinnable fight by the Emperor, Littlefinger shook his head, resolved to play and beat Sansa at her little game. Wordlessly, he stepped into the well of the throne room. "The trial of Lord Petyr Baelish of Harrenhal shall begin." She smiled sweetly. "Where should we begin?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Lady Sansa." Littlefinger's arms were up in shock and incredulity, mirroring his swashbuckling prosecutorial style. "I have no idea why I'm here!"

"Allow me to start, you murdered your wife and my aunt Lysa Arryn by throwing her out the moon door at the Eyrie." Previously bored, Robin Arryn looked up in shock, gazing at Baelish with new eyes.

Littlefinger merely rolled his. "We've been through this before…"

"You also gave my aunt Lysa tears of Lys to poison Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, and then advised King Robert the Usurper to journey north to ask my father Ned Stark to be his next Hand."

"What!" The moment was paused as Lord Harrold Hardyng calmed down his cousin, Robin.

The pause allowed Littlefinger to compose himself. "Your aunt Lysa was a weak woman, plagued by demons that both of us witnessed. What she must told you is not reliable in the slightest." No one interrupted either, allowing the drama to play out in front of them.

Unfazed, Sansa flipped over a sheaf of parchment for another below it. "Alright, you also conspired with Joffrey Baratheon and the Lannisters to betray our father, Ned Stark. To gaslight war between the Lannisters and the Starks by ordering the assassination of my brother Brandon. To ensure that war broke out between Joffrey and my brother Robb."

"Your majesties, this is ridiculous!"

"Is it?" The Young Wolf stood, walking into the well. In his hand was a Valyrian steel dagger. The one Bran had given to Arya. "You told my mother that this belonged to Tyrion Lannister. She told me of this, which is why she arrested him at the Vale - leading to my father's crippling at the hands of Jaime Lannister. It is your dagger, is it not?"

Unease began to creep on Littlefinger, as if something was brewing. Brewing to trap him before he could escape. But he could only react for now. "Aye, it was mine. But I gave it as a gift to Lord Tyrion, as a token for being my best customer at my house of pleasure." Normally many would laugh, but no one was laughing today. 'None of you were there! You have no witnesses."

"No one parts with Valyrian steel." The Lord of Winterfell looked up at the Imp. "Lord Tyrion, were you ever given this knife?"

Tyrion glared at Baelish. "I have never seen it before today. Much as I appreciated Lord Robin's accommodations, it was based on false pretenses."

"So I fought that fucker for nothing?" Bronn's comment drew errant chuckles, but the mood darkened once again.

"The evidence is there for charging you with conspiring to begin the War of the Five Kings, just as it is there for the crown's other charges of planning the Red Wedding with Lord Bolton and Lord Frey, not to mention the burning to death of Myrcella Baratheon being your idea." Tyrion's glare descended into near-homicidal at the fact. "But I shall focus on one other charge." Blinks of surprise came from all around - except for one. "You, Lord Baelish, are charged with treason against the Targaryen crown for conspiracy to instigate Robert's Rebellion, among other associated crimes."

Gasps resonated through the room. Jon's icy composure fell into shock, Daenerys stiffening beside him at the news. Sansa hadn't briefed any on that charge, nor did any expect it. Least of all, Littlefinger. "What is meaning of this?"

Setting her papers to the side, Sansa looked directly at Littlefinger, blue eyes dark with hate. "You hated my uncle Brandon for stealing my mother from you, so when you found out that Robert Baratheon lied about Lyanna being kidnapped, you went to King's Landing and told lies to ensure my uncle's death."

Littlefinger's jaw fell, gaping at the audacity of Sansa's accusation. "What kind of ridiculousness is this?!"

Sansa narrowed her eyes at Baelish. "So you deny these accusations?" Her gaze flickered to the side of the dias, a signal.

"Of course I deny it!" Inwardly trembling with fear, outwardly he shook with a righteous fury. "You stand here, making false accusations, with no basis in reality! I stand here, Master of Laws and Lord of Harrenhal, and I will not tolerate this!"

"You spoke to the Mad King." All eyes swiveled to Bran, except for the Empress, who watched Littlefinger like a hawk. She didn't overlook the slight hitch in his breath, the slight widening of his gaze. "He was in one of his rages, all guards and courtiers banished from the throne room. You gained access, and informed him of Robert Baratheon and the Starks marshalling forces against him." The stories of Bran the Greenseer had spread far and wide, trained by the warlocks of Qarth and able to see things others could barely remember. If he referred to a past memory, no one doubted him. "When you said that Brandon Stark was approaching to assassinate him, he replied 'Burn them all.' Lord Varys died trying to get this information to me, after you directed the Faceless Men to go after our Empress."

The tension in the throne room was so thick, one could cut it with only the thickest of Valyrian steel blades. When Jon finally turned to Littlefinger, the aristocrat stepped back involuntarily. His grey eyes were so dark to be indistinguishable from black. "It was you that convinced the Mad King to imprison my uncle Brandon? Who paid the faceless men?" He rose, only the deepest strain of his wolf ancestry keeping the blood of the dragon from burning uncontrollably. "To burn my grandfather alive. That started the war that resulted in my father's death. My siblings. My…" He couldn't finish, everyone watching as their Emperor forced back hot tears.

Panic began to set on Littlefinger. "Your Majesty, I…"

"YOU TOOK MY MOTHER AWAY FROM ME!" Jon's thundering roar felt as if it shook the entire castle, followed by six earth-shattering cries that literally shook the entire city. Growing up motherless, cast into the hell of being a mere bastard, denied the love of a mother's embrace… all for the ambitions of an unctuous cunt. "YOU TRIED TO KILL MY FAMILY!" For the longest moment, it seemed as if Jon would personally hack Littlefinger to death… until Daenerys placed a comforting hand upon him. Thumb stroking his palm, informing him of her understanding, her sharing of his pain, his anger.

For once it was the Empress calming her Emperor from his rage. Jon sat back on his throne, only now his face contorted with barely disguised rage. Daenerys was quiet, but her eyes said everything.

Looking upon the Empress, upon Robb Stark, upon the Lords of the Vale, Littlefinger saw no sympathy in any. Most mirrored the murderous look of Gendry Baratheon, realizing that his life had been each of seven hells simply as a power play. Thus, he threw himself upon Sansa's table. "My Lady, I have protected you and your family for generations…"

"Protected? By selling me to the Boltons? By selling out my uncle to the Mad King?"

"Allow me to speak with you and their Majesties alone. I'll explain these lies."

She leaned forward. "Sometimes I play a little game. Assume the worst in people, assuming the worst for you wanting to have my sister executed as leading a conspiracy for making Gendry King." Her eyes mirrored those of her brother upon the throne. "Putting you in a place of power, appearing to trust you, your motives and desires spilled forth for all to see. With a threat to all humanity before us, you wish to instigate civil war within the Imperial family - kill off every last Targaryen till all that is left is you to rule." Whispers began to drift through the throne room. Whispers for Littlefinger's head. "That is what you do, isn't it? Pit family against family. Sister against sister. My mother and aunt. Stark against Targaryen. You destroy all bonds of peace, simply because you know no other way to gain power for yourself."

"Please, allow me to defend myself. I deserve that."

Sansa fell back in her seat, crossing her arms. Waiting for what Littlefinger would say - not that it would matter.

Green eyes shifting, mind whirring for any words or actions that could protect his hide from the danger he was in, Littlefinger suddenly stormed towards the cluster of Vale Lords and knights. "I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I demand you safely escort me to the Eyrie!"

"I think not." Lord Royce was full of indignation, and did not easily forget how close he had come to death at the hands of Lord Baelish.

Littlefinger looked to Royce's left, at young Robin - now a gangly teenager. "Sweetrobin. I am your father by marriage…"

"You killed my mother!" Long an brash, spoiled child, now he spoke with a steel that reminded the Vale Lords of his father. "You are no father of mine."

"Please, Sweetrobin…" He grabbed his collar, pleading. "Don't believe the lies…"

"Get your hands off my liege lord, Baelish," Royce demanded, sword drawn.

Stepping back in the face of Vale steel, Littlefinger booked for the middle of the floor. "My Lady," he fell to his knees in front of Sansa. "I beg you." Tears - crocodile tears - welled in his eyes. "I've loved your mother since I was but a boy."

"And yet you betrayed her." Sansa stood from her post, black skirts swaying as she looked like the female incarnation of Edmyn Tully, Aegon the Conqueror's greatest supporter in the Riverlands and his second Hand. Just as Sansa was to Aegon's descendants. "It is thanks to your schemes that she lies in her bed, clinging to life by but a thread."

His grief turned into a tearful smile. "But I love you, Sansa. More than anyone."

Podrick, fists clenched, found himself in the same situation as Gendry - instead of Davos it was Bronn, stopping him with an outstretched arm. "Easy lad. Cunt'll get what's coming to him." Honestly, the former sellsword feared his wife's potential outburst more than his friend's. Tyene shook quietly, eyes ablaze. Littlefinger's schemes had nearly destroyed her family as well.

"Sansa." He pushed towards her, arms out. "You can't deny my feelings..."

A slap echoed through the hall. For the first time, anger seethed from Sansa Stark. "I love Podrick Payne, my intended." Sandor Clegane stepped between Sansa and Littlefinger, ready to knock the Mockingbird's teeth in should he try anything else. Sansa didn't let his presence - protecting her from evil, once again - stop her rant. "Your very touch disgusts me, knowing it wrote the letters that led my father to his death in this city. Your voice disgusts me, knowing that the lies it spun took my brother's family away from him. Sent my sister to live on the run like an animal." Her fists clenched. "You will never get mercy from me, Lord Baelish. Not for all the gold or power in the world."

Scrambling towards the throne, falling to his knees once more atop the steps, Littlefinger clasped his hands together in penitence. "Your Highness, do not believe these lies." He began to ramble, words tumbling from his mouth in a frantic plea. "I am loyal to House Targaryen. I opened the gates and ensured your army entered the city without bloodshed. My fealty was proven on that day."

Daenerys, casting a sidelong look to her husband, smiled when Jon nodded. "Of course I remember that gesture, Lord Baelish." All attention was on her for the first time that night. "House Targaryen will be forever grateful for your actions that day, and for that I grant you your pardon…"

Relief coursed through Littlefinger, his face softening and tension leaving his body. "Thank you," he blubbered - quite pathetically. "Thank you, Empress."

It was then that Daenerys leaned forward, violet eyes a shade so dark as to appear black. "...for the murder of Lysa Arryn." Her smile widened malevolently as Littlefinger's face grew white. "As for all other charges leveled against you." Dany - still leaning forward as if to converse with a dear friend - spoke in a sinister whisper, but it still echoed throughout the throne room. "I, Daenerys of House Targaryen. First of my Name, Empress of the Targaryen Empire, find you guilty on all counts."

Whatever hope he had rushing out of him, rather than acceptance, the ashen look only made Littlefinger appear more desperate. "Your Majesty, please." He looked at Jon, pleading.

While Daenerys gave off a simmering heat, Jon's was a blazing dragonfire. "You robbed me of my family, Lord Baelish." The memory of his mother and father, embracing him in the afterlife. That would have been his entire childhood if not for this monster. "I, Jon of House Targaryen, First of my Name. Emperor of the Targaryen Empire, find you guilty on all counts."

"For the crimes of treason and murder, I believe the sentence is death." Leaning back on her throne, Daenerys still had the sickly sweet smile on her face. "Lady Sansa, proceed."

Hearing a low growl, Littlefinger turned to see a young Catelyn Stark with the Emperor's white direwolf by her side. Her hair was a blazing inferno, untouched by age or weariness. The direwolf's fangs were bared in a menacing growl, one as fierce as even a dragon's. "You told me once that the only justice in this world is when we make it." Her hardened scowl curled up into a ghost of a smirk. Satisfied. Victorious. "Thank you for your many lessons, Lord Baelish. They were quite useful in protecting my family, and I will never forget them."

Pallor the color of chalk, trembling violently, Littlefinger let out a penitent hand. "Sansa…"

Sansa cut him off with a single command. "Ghost."

With a growl that echoed through the throne room, Ghost hurtled through the air as he set upon Littlefinger. The condemned Lord tried feebly to block and fight off the beast, but such attempts were in vain. Ghost's paws cut long gashes through his body, jaws tearing chunks from his chest and face as the dogs did to Ramsay Bolton so long ago. Piercing screams shattered the din, bloodcurdling and of the greatest pain. But no one reacted. Lords, Ladies, Knights, soldiers, even the Emperor and Empress just watched with cold, satisfied eyes as the Mockingbird met his fate.

Finally, with a lunge of the jaw, Ghost ripped Littlefinger's throat out in a spurt of blood - deed done, he trotted back over to Sansa, who calmly stroked the fur on his neck. Blood gushing from the fatal wound, Littlefinger pushed himself up slightly, glistening eyes catching one last glimpse of Sansa. It was like Catelyn looking down on him with disgust one last time… then blackness.

No one said a word when the Mockingbird collapsed to the ground, finally dead - blood pooling around his corpse to cover the tile beneath the dias. Clearing his throat, piercing the silence, Tyrion turned to the official scribe of the court. "The record will reflect that the sentence was carried out by their Majesties' direwolf."

"It is so recorded, Lord Hand," the scribe droned.

At one final scruff of his fur from Sansa, Ghost trotted up the dias to curl up in the space between Jon and Daenerys. Nodding to the Throne, Sansa turned to the Unsullied flanking Arya. "The Lady Baratheon may take her place next to Lord Baratheon. The court found no evidence to sustain any charge against her."

Flashing a triumphant smile, Arya confidently strode across the chamber and took Gendry's side, their hands weaving together tightly.

Smiling herself, Sansa curtseyed to the throne. "At your service, your majesties. I present you the last justice for your family."

Daenerys looked down at Littlefinger's corpse with an icy hate. "Winter came for Lord Baelish."

Jon nodded. "Winter brought fire and blood."

Rising, Sansa stood straight. "Long may King Jon and Queen Daenerys reign."

The entire gallery repeated simultaneously. "Long may they reign."

With that, the last wounds of begun by Robert's Rebellion had ended. The healing could begin, Realms united fully under the Targaryen Empire.

"Need another cloak, Queenshield?" His new title usually a point of pure pride for Jaime Lannister, among the hardened men of the Night's Watch it was simply another chiding insult. "I'm sure we could find an entire mammoth hide that can cure your cold." Snickers and outright laughs followed from the men around him.

Tightening his own gold-lined crimson cloak around him, Jaime merely stared out at the vast expanse of forest and snow north of the massive wall. Try as he might, he couldn't remember any point along his journey north that matched the cold of these hostile lands. "Brooding, Lord Jaime?" The form of Beric Dondarrion plopped next to him, one eye glistening with mirth. "I'm sure the high winds of Casterly Rock prepared you for the cold more than this lad of the Stormlands."

Jaime looked at Beric incredulously. "Comparing Casterly Rock to this…" He shook his head. "Tyrion was excited to see the wall. To 'Take a piss off the edge of the world.' Frankly he's insane." He shivered, wishing for a stout swig of wine. "Give me the sun of the Westerlands any day."

"Had enough adventure for one life already, Lannister?" Beric chuckled. "I've had six lives. Six resurrections, and still the Lord of Light has one more adventure for me to endure. Same as you, I believe." Looking around, he lowered his voice. "One last adventure so that son of yours can take up your mantle in peace."

Eyes widening, Jaime looked at Beric in shock. "I… I don't know what you mean."

Beric scoffed. "Please. Have you ever heard of a Baratheon with light hair? Even Targaryen blood couldn't fuck with that, and they're fucking Targaryens." The former Lord grinned as Jaime looked like he was about to pass out. "Don't worry, Lannister. I'm not planning to spill your secrets. You've paid the price for your sins."

Gazing down at his missing arm, Jaime reasoned that Beric had a point. Still… he didn't feel any less guilty. 'Live,' a voice that sounded like Rhaegar Targaryen said in his mind. 'For Tommen.'

"For Tommen," he murmured. "Cersei wasn't always mad. Wasn't always like Joffrey. Hells, even Joffrey wasn't always like Joffrey." Jaime ran a hand down his face. "Think I could have done something, anything before all of this shit happened?"

Shrugging, Beric leaned back on the ice battlements. "The Lord of Light conducts his work shrouded in mystery. We can't do much more than be good men and work towards what we can determine to be his will." He smiled softly, looking up at the sky. "All men are flawed, but it is never too late…"

The conversation was interrupted by a blaring horn. Sound echoing for miles upon miles and piercing the howling wind. Jaime's brows furrowed. "We don't have any patrols out, do we?"

"Only warged birds," Beric replied. The horn resounded once more. "There are no wildlings left north of the wall…" An icy feeling settled in his chest, hand slowly drifting to grasp his sword.

The ice spread to Jaime as the horn blared its mournful bellow into the din once more. "Three blasts." One for returning rangers. Two for wildlings. Three for…"

"LOOK!" A man in the red robes of the Fiery Hand pointed towards the treeline.

All those present at the dragonpit meeting, as Jaime had, felt the image of the undead monster snarling and biting was the most inhuman thing that could ever be seen upon the earth. Jaime had been wrong, so very wrong. Before him were tens… hundreds of thousands of the same beasts, spilling out of the trees onto the massive no man's land between the forest and the wall.

"That's not one hundred thousand," Beric breathed. He had seen them before, but not this many.

"Two hundred thousand at least," Jaime gulped. He gazed at the mounted white walkers leading the horde while the shouts and scuffles of hurried preparation were heard from Castle Black and the battlements.

Below, the line of mounted commanders acted in unison. In one fluid move their ice spears dropped flat to point at the wall. And the front line of the army behind them surged in a frenzied charge.

Jaime had seen enough. "To arms!"

Winter was here.