Chapter 261 - The Arrival of the Brotherhood Without Banners
Tormund sat at the table, chewing on flatbread. "So that wight we went through all that trouble to catch — is it useless now?"
Dolorous Edd rubbed his frozen, reddened hands together. His breath misted in front of his face and dissolved.
"Either way, we achieved what we came for."
"The Seven Kingdoms were at war. They barely had enough grain for themselves. Now that the fighting's stopped, at least they'll have surplus to send our way."
Jon gave a slight nod.
The war of the living was over. The thought turned over and over in his mind, from the snowfields north of the Wall to the Red Keep in King's Landing, every man who had been clawing for power had finally laid down his arms.
"It's time to turn our attention to the war against the dead."
A dull thud from the far end of the table.
Tyrion Lannister brought his wine cup down hard on the wood. A few drops jumped and ran along the grain.
His voice came out through clenched teeth, carrying a fury that had been sitting under pressure for a long time.
"The joys and sorrows of men do not speak to each other. My family has been destroyed, and you sit here discussing grain supplies."
Jon looked at him.
That dwarf's face was half-lit, half-swallowed by the firelight. Rage and exhaustion were wound together in it, indistinguishable from each other.
Jon knew that look. He had worn it himself, enough times in front of enough mirrors.
He let a moment pass, then kept his voice level. "I understand what you're feeling. When I learned that Robb Stark died at the Red Wedding, I was in worse shape than you are right now."
"But the Night's Watch takes no sides. I offered you help back then for one reason — to end the war sooner."
Tyrion Lannister said nothing.
He stood and walked toward the hall door, boots crossing the stone floor, one step at a time. The two remaining Lannister soldiers fell in behind him.
Tormund's voice chased after them. "What about the wight? You taking it? That thing was stitched together from two Lannister soldiers — do their families want it back or not?"
Tyrion Lannister stopped.
He stood at the doorway with his back to the room.
Wind-driven snow pushed through the gap in the door and found his face.
The Mountain turned, fixing his gaze on Tormund. Impatience and anger pressed behind his eyes.
Tyrion Lannister said, "Burn it. I want to burn it myself."
It didn't take long. On the open ground outside the walls of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the stake was already standing.
The wight was lashed to it, ropes coiled around four haphazardly assembled arms and two heads pointing in different directions, pinning that twisted body to the post. A Night's Watch brother upended a bucket of oil over it. The oil ran down through the fabric and dripped into the snow, spreading in a dark wet ring.
Tyrion Lannister stood before the stake with a torch in his hand.
The wind came off the north. It pressed the flame flat, nearly horizontal.
A crowd had closed in around him, Night's Watch brothers and free folk, shoulder to shoulder, watching.
Most of the free folk brought down from Hardhome had stayed at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Only a handful had been sent to other castles. But the ones who remained were enough to make the fortress feel packed.
Tyrion Lannister took a step toward the pyre.
A commotion broke out at the back of the crowd.
The Night's Watch brothers had their hands on their hilts.
A cluster of unfamiliar faces had appeared outside Eastwatch-by-the-Sea with no warning, no announcement. At a moment like this, that was enough to put every man on edge.
Bronn came along the snowy path at the edge of the crowd, pace unhurried, boots caked with mud.
The torch nearly dropped from Tyrion Lannister's hand. "Bronn? What are you doing here?"
Bronn didn't answer straight away. He turned and gestured behind him.
Tyrion Lannister looked. More than a dozen people were coming up from the rear.
The one at the front was bundled from head to foot in thick layers, only a narrow slit left uncovered. Tyrion Lannister narrowed his eyes and held the figure a beat. A woman.
Behind her, another woman walked with a boy in tow, five years old, maybe. He wore a thick grey-blue coat. The wind had plastered his hair flat against his forehead.
The face was familiar. Tyrion Lannister had seen it somewhere. He couldn't place it.
Jon had already moved forward.
He stared at the boy. His grey eyes went still for a moment, then widened all at once.
"Rickon."
The connection landed in Tyrion Lannister's mind a beat late. Eddard Stark's youngest son. The boy everyone said Theon Greyjoy had killed when Winterfell fell.
Jon walked quickly. He raised a hand as he went, signaling the Night's Watch to stand down.
Rickon let go of the woman's hand and ran.
Jon crouched. One hand went to the boy's shoulder, the other to the top of his head. He looked him over, then looked again.
He stood and turned to the woman who had been holding Rickon's hand. "What's your name? Have you been the one taking care of my brother?"
"Osha." Short. No decoration.
A man's voice came from the crowd. "We're men of the Brotherhood Without Banners."
Jon nodded toward him.
Tyrion Lannister recognized the voice. He stepped forward two paces, torch still in hand.
"Thoros? What happened to you?"
Thoros stood in the snow. His cheeks had hollowed out and his whole frame had shrunk a size from what Tyrion Lannister remembered.
He didn't answer. He glanced sideways at the person standing next to him.
That person wore a grey-black cloak, hood drawn low. The only thing visible beneath it was a burn scar along the chin.
A hand came up and pushed the hood back.
Sandor Clegane. Half his face a shriveled ruin of burned skin.
"The Hound," Tyrion Lannister said. "What are you doing with the Brotherhood Without Banners?"
"None of your damn business," the Hound said.
His gaze moved past Tyrion Lannister's shoulder and settled on the Mountain, standing not far off to the side. Whatever was in those eyes sat like banked coals in the back of a furnace, dark and slow and burning.
The Mountain looked back at him.
They held each other's gaze across the gap in the snow for several long breaths. Neither of them said a word.
The bundled woman stepped forward.
She opened her mouth. What came out was a broken, rasping series of sounds, garbled and hoarse.
The Brotherhood Without Banners drew their swords in the same instant. Steel clearing leather rang out clean and sharp in the cold air.
Jon's hand closed around his hilt. He didn't draw.
His eyes stayed on the woman's face for 2 seconds, then swept across the Brotherhood members around her, their expressions wound tight. He couldn't make sense of it.
Tyrion Lannister looked at Thoros. "What is she saying?"
"The Lady wants us to seize you. And hang you."
Tyrion Lannister stood frozen. Grease dripped from the torch and hit the snow with a faint, persistent hiss.
The woman raised her hands. Slowly, she pulled back her hood, then unwound the wrapping that had covered most of her face.
Jon's pupils shrank.
Wind and snow moved through her hair. A few brittle yellow strands pressed flat against her pallid cheeks. Her eye sockets were sunken deep. Her skin was grey, ashen, bloodless, drained of everything.
"My lady." The words caught in his throat like something had blocked the way out.
Tyrion Lannister's torch wavered.
"Lady Catelyn? How is this possible?"
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Chapter 262: The Death of the Hound
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➤ Next: Chapter 262