A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and don't hate me for the ending 😈
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Year 300 AC
Winterfell, The North
The guards dragged the northern prisoners through the great hall's doors in chains. The iron links scraped against stone, each metallic shriek cutting through the tense silence. Aemon watched them shuffle forward—lords who'd bent the knee to Bolton rule, men who'd chosen survival over honor. The firelight caught on their shackles, throwing dancing shadows across faces pale with fear.
All except one.
Lady Barbrey Dustin walked with her spine straight, her grey-streaked hair still pinned in its severe style despite her imprisonment. Where the other prisoners kept their eyes downcast, she stared directly at him, her lined face twisted with a hatred so pure it seemed to heat the air between them.
"Bring the Ironborn as well," Aemon commanded the guards without looking away from Barbrey's glare. "All of them."
More scraping chains, more shuffling feet. Theon emerged first, his shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. His fingers, at least what remained of them, twitched constantly at his sides. Behind him came Asha, her chin raised in defiance despite the tremble from her jaw. Dagmer Cleftjaw followed, his scarred face unreadable.
They lined them up before the high table like cattle at market. The Ryswells huddled together, Rodrick's weathered face grey as old snow. A handful of Freys—those that escaped Stannis'—stood apart from the others, as if their proximity might prove contagious. Hother Umber, the lesser lords of Houses Locke, Slate, Whitehill, and a dozen minor holdings filled the gaps, their fear thick enough to taste.
Aemon rose from his chair. The hall seemed to inhale collectively as he descended from the dais, each footfall deliberate. He stopped within arm's reach of the prisoners, close enough to smell the dungeon-stink clinging to their clothes—piss and terror and unwashed bodies.
His gaze found Barbrey first. She hadn't moved, hadn't flinched. The skin around her eyes had gone tight with age and bitterness, but her eyes weren't any less fierce.
"Lady Dustin." His voice carried no heat, only curiosity. "What reason could you have had to betray the Starks?"
Her laugh came sharp as breaking glass. "Betray?" Spittle flew from her lips. "Your uncle betrayed the North first. My husband, my William—died for what? To save a woman who spread her legs for a dragon prince? Who birthed a Targaryen bastard while northern blood soaked southern fields?"
The temperature in the hall dropped as several prisoner took a few steps back.
"You speak of my mother without restraint." Jon's cold voice words were measured. "As if the manner of you do not care if you live or die."
Barbrey's laugh rattled like bones in a cup. "Dead is dead, dragon." She thrust her chin forward, grey hair catching torchlight. "Whether your blade takes my head or your flames char me to ash, what difference does it make? I'll be no less a corpse." Her cracked lips pulled back from yellowed teeth. "So why should I grovel? Why should I lie? You want truth? Brandon Stark rode south for his sister's honor," Barbrey continued, her voice rising to fill the space. "Rickard Stark burned alive for it. Thousands of northmen died for a lie. And precious Ned?" Her mouth twisted the name like spoiled meat. "He couldn't even bring my William's bones home. Left them to rot in some Dornish sand while he carried his sister's corpse back for a proper burial. While he brought back her dragon spawn to raise as his own."
"My father—" Sansa's voice cracked through the hall from her seat, sharp with fury. "My father stood on that block in King's Landing and lied about Joffrey's legitimacy. Called him the rightful king while Ilyn Payne sharpened his sword. He threw away his honor, his life, everything—just to keep me breathing." Her hands gripped the table's edge hard enough to whiten her knuckles. "What do you know about honor, Lady Dustin? What sacrifices have you made besides nursing your wounded pride for twenty years?"
Barbrey's jaw worked, but before she could respond, Aemon tilted his head, studying her with an expression that might have been pity.
"Ah." The single syllable carried weight. "I see."
He began to pace, slow steps that took him along the line of prisoners. "Your anger isn't truly about William Dustin, is it?" He paused, glancing back at her. "I remember something Robb told me once. Years ago, when we were boys. A rumor about the Lady of Barrowton. Hmm… it makes more sense now."
Barbrey's face had gone rigid.
"This grudge you carry, it was never about my uncle Eddard. Not really." Aemon stopped directly before her again. "It was about my other uncle. Brandon. Is it not?"
She flinched. Just barely, just a tightening around her mouth, but enough.
Aemon changed course with the swiftness of a blade thrust. "Tell me, Lady Dustin—why did Roose kill his own son?"
The question caught her off-guard. For a heartbeat, confusion flickered across her features before a slow, vicious smile spread across her face.
"Because I told him to." The words dripped satisfaction. "I had spies in that creature's camp. Knew every sick game he played, every servant girl he destroyed. When Ramsay started making noise about his father getting old, getting weak... well." She shrugged, chains rattling. "All I had to do was whisper in Roose's ear. Let him know his bastard was sharpening knives for patricide. Then sit back and watch them devour each other like the animals they were."
"But why?" Jon's questioned.
"My beloved nephew." The words tore from Barbrey's throat, raw as a fresh wound. Her shoulders sagged, the chains singing a mournful note. "Domeric. My sister's boy."
The venom drained from her face, leaving something worse—naked grief. "That monster killed him. Slowly. All because Domeric had the audacity to seek out a brother." Her knuckles whitened against the iron. "Roose knew. Of course he knew. Did nothing because he needed an heir, even a bastard one."
Jon let the silence stretch, watching tears cut channels through the dirt on her cheeks. "Ramsay could have won," he said finally. "Could have come for you next."
"You think I didn't know that?" A bitter laugh scraped past her lips. "You think I gave a damn? Let him come. At least then I'd have had my chance to gut him myself." Her eyes blazed with the terrible clarity of someone who'd already accepted their own destruction. "Every night I dreamed of it. My hands around his throat. Watching the life leave those ugly pale eyes."
Barbrey steadied herself and continued. "That was a gamble I was willing to take. Roose was just... collateral."
Aemon studied her for a long moment. "You still would have been content with Roose's rule, though. If Ramsay hadn't existed."
Her silence was all the answer Aemon needed.
"House Dustin is hereby attainted by House Stark. You'll be stripped of the Dustin name and revert to Barbrey Ryswell." He didn't raise his voice, but it carried to every corner of the hall. "You'll live, but you'll live as what you are—a bitter woman who chose vengeance over duty."
Rodrick Ryswell lurched forward in his chains. "Your Grace, please, you already killed Roger. Show mercy—"
"This is mercy, Lord Ryswell." Aemon's gaze could have frozen blood. "Tell me, what would the Boltons have done if our positions were reversed? Would Roose have let any male Stark live? Would Ramsay?"
The old lord's mouth worked soundlessly.
"All male Ryswells of fighting age have a choice. The Wall or the block." Groans erupted from the Ryswell men, quickly silenced by Aemon's look. "Choose now."
"The Wall," Rodrick croaked immediately. His sons echoed him, voices hollow with defeat.
"House Ryswell's lands will be overseen by a steward until a suitable arrangement can be made." Aemon moved down the line of prisoners, his attention shifting to the other northern houses.
Wyman Manderly's massive bulk shifted as he stood. "Your Grace, if I might speak?"
Aemon nodded.
"Most of these houses weren't truly Bolton allies." Wyman's chins wobbled as he gestured at the prisoners. "They were part of my deception. Mors Umber kept faith while his brother Hother played the turncloat. The Hornwood forces split by design—half with Bolton, half hidden with Larence. Houses Locke and Flint of Widow's Watch, the Slates... they all knew the plan. We needed Bolton to believe he had support while we prepared the knife for his back."
Several prisoners straightened at this revelation, hope flickering in their eyes.
"Except the Whitehills," Wyman added with distaste. "Those opportunistic curs jumped to whichever side seemed strongest."
The Whitehill men paled. Their lord, a reedy man with thinning hair, fell to his knees. "The Watch, Your Grace. We choose the Watch. All of us."
"So be it." Aemon's voice held no sympathy. "Your lands will be redistributed."
He turned to the others Wyman had named. "Those that Lord Wyman mentioned, step forward."
They shuffled forward in their chains, eyes bright with desperate hope.
"Kneel and renew your oaths to House Stark."
They dropped as one, voices overlapping in their eagerness to swear fealty. The guards unlocked their shackles, the freed lords rubbing their wrists as they returned to their places among the northern nobility.
"The Karstarks who followed Arnolf are already dead," Aemon announced. "Lady Alys Karstark and her husband Sigorn, the new Magnar of Thenn, have sworn to House Stark. They'll deal with any remaining traitors in their lands."
Aemon caught the subtle exchange between Alys and Sigorn as they turn in unison to nod at him.
He paused before the Bolton men-at-arms, soldiers who'd served at the Dreadfort and the few Frey's there. Some wept openly. Others stood rigid with the fatalism of men who knew their fate.
"The common soldiers of House Bolton," Aemon's voice carried across the hall, each word deliberate as falling snow. "Those who held no rank beyond man-at-arms will take the black."
A ripple passed through the chained men. Some sagged with relief, others straightened as if the words were a blow.
"But not you." Aemon's gaze fixed on the Bolton officers, the men who'd worn mail beneath their pink cloaks, who'd commanded others at the Dreadfort. "Not those who led. Not those who gave the orders. Those who participated in the Red Wedding will not be offered the Wall." The words fell like headsman's axes. "Guest right is sacred. Men who break it cannot be trusted with any oath, even one to the Night's Watch."
"Please, Your Grace—" one soldier started.
"Furthermore," Aemon continued as if the man hadn't spoken, "I cannot trust men loyal enough to House Bolton or House Frey to serve in this coming darkness through their atrocities. They followed Roose knowing what who is was. They have made their choice."
He turned to the guards. "Take them outside. And fetch a block."
The condemned men's cries echoed off stone as they were dragged away. One young soldier, barely more than a boy, screamed for his mother. Another prayed to the old gods, words tumbling over each other in his panic. Asha, Theon, and Dagmer remained in their chains, forgotten for the moment as they were pulled with the Boltons and Freys.
Aemon turned to face the assembled lords, Sansa, the entire hall. His grey eyes held something ancient, something that had nothing to do with the boy who'd once dreamed of ranging beyond the Wall.
Without a word, he strode toward the doors, following the condemned men out into the cold. The northern lords rose as one, filing after him. Even the Vale knights stood, drawn by some invisible pull.
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The cold felt like a lover's embrace for Aemon as he stood before the block. Wind whipped across Winterfell's courtyard, carrying the stench of piss from where Bolton and Frey men had soiled themselves. Thirty-eight condemned soldiers huddled together, chains rattling against each other like chattering teeth. Their breath misted in the frigid air, some weeping, others staring with the hollow eyes of men already dead.
Slightly apart, Asha Greyjoy stood straight-backed despite her shackles. Theon hunched beside her, his remaining fingers twitching in that constant dance Aemon remembered from their confrontation at Last Hearth. Dagmer Cleftjaw tested his chains with subtle movements, calculating odds that didn't exist.
The block itself was a simple thing, just an old stump from the godswood, its surface darkened by old blood. Guards had dragged it out and set it in the mud while various lords formed a half-circle to witness justice. Vale knights pressed closer, their polished armor catching what little sunlight pierced the grey clouds. The Free Folk clustered together, muttering in their harsh tongue about kneelers and their bloody games.
"Your Grace." Mors Umber's gravelly voice cut through the wind. The old warrior stepped forward, his one good eye fixed on Aemon. "Let me handle these turncloats. You shouldn't have to dirty your hands with these traitorous filth."
Aemon turned to face him, Longclaw's weight familiar at his hip. "My uncle raised me to believe that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." His words stirred a deep melancholy. How many times had he heard those words? "I pass the sentence, and I will swing the sword."
Mors Umber inclined his head, respect flickering across his scarred face. "As you say, Your Grace."
Aemon drew Longclaw in one smooth motion. The Valyrian steel sang as it cleared the scabbard, its rippled surface catching the light like dark water. He approached the first Bolton man, a sergeant with greying stubble and a scar that split his upper lip.
"Kneel."
The sergeant's legs gave out before Aemon finished the word. He collapsed beside the block, shoulders shaking.
"By the laws of the Seven Kingdoms," Aemon's voice carried across the courtyard, steady as northern granite, "and as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, I find you guilty of treason against the crown and House Stark."
"Please, Your Grace!" The sergeant's voice cracked. "I got children! Three daughters in Barrowton. I was just following orders, I swear it by the old gods and the new!"
Aemon positioned himself, feet planted firm in the churned mud. The sword rose.
"The Freys made us!" the sergeant babbled, spit flying from his lips. "Lord Roose, he said we had no choice after the Young Wolf broke his vows—"
The blade fell. Clean. Quick. The sergeant's protests ended mid-word as his head rolled into the mud. Blood pumped from the stump of his neck, steaming in the cold air before it soaked into the frozen earth.
"Next."
They brought them forward one by one. Some cursed him by calling him a oathbreaker, pretender and an abomination. One young Frey soldier, barely old enough to shave, whispered prayers to the Stranger until the moment steel met flesh. Another tried to run, only for Hugo Wull to plant a boot in his back and send him sprawling before the block.
The northern lords cheered each stroke. "The North remembers!" someone shouted after the fifth execution. Others took up the cry, their voices rising like wind through the mountains.
Blood spattered Aemon's face, warm against his cold skin. It soaked into his cloak, stained his boots, turned the ground beneath the block into red mud. His arm never wavered. Each swing precise, merciful in its efficiency.
The last Bolton man met Aemon's eyes as he knelt, a grizzled veteran with grey in his beard. "You think you're different from us, boy? You think that dragon magic makes you noble?" He spat blood-tinged saliva at Aemon's feet. "We're all killers here. Least we were honest about it."
Aemon said nothing. The sword fell. The head rolled.
Thirty-eight corpses littered the courtyard. Thirty-eight pools of cooling blood. The smell of iron and shit hung thick in the air. Aemon stood among them, Longclaw's blade dripping, and turned his attention to the three ironborn.
He didn't clean the sword. Didn't move from where he stood. Just planted Longclaw point-first in the mud with one hand on the hilt and studied them with those grey eyes that held flecks of purple if you looked close enough.
The silence stretched. Wind howled between the towers. Asha's jaw worked, but she held her tongue. Cleftjaw shifted his weight, chains clinking. Theon stared at the blood pooling around Aemon's boots, his face the color of old parchment.
"When I heard Theon was sent to treat with his father," Aemon finally spoke, his voice carrying that strange resonance it had gained since his resurrection, "the Iron Islands already had him back. Your prince. Your heir." He tilted his head slightly. "So why attack the North?"
Aemon paused as the silence stretched taut.
"Why not the Westerlands with their gold mines? The Reach with their grain and wine?" Aemon's grip on Longclaw's hilt tightened, knuckles white beneath the blood. "Was it because we were an easy target? Our men gone south, our castles undermanned?"
Asha cleared her throat, the sound harsh in the silence. "I..." She straightened, finding her voice. "I didn't agree with attacking the North. Told my father it was a waste of good ships and men. But he was king." Her dark eyes flicked to Theon, then back to Aemon. "We all did what Balon commanded."
"And why did Balon command it?"
She hesitated, weighing her words. "Officially? The North stood undefended. All your strength rode south with the Young Wolf." Her mouth twisted. "Unofficially? I think… I think becuase he hated Eddard Stark. Hated him for taking Theon. Hated him for making us kneel after our first rebellion. The old man could hold a grudge deeper than the waters of the Sunset Sea."
Aemon stood still as stone, blood dripping from Longclaw's blade in a steady rhythm. Plop. Plop. Plop. The sound seemed to echo in the silence. His eyes never left the ironborn, and something in that stare made even Asha want to step back.
Theon's voice came out as barely a whisper. "Kill me."
Every head turned to him.
"Kill me," Theon repeated, louder this time. His ruined hands spread wide, chains rattling. "But let them go. Asha, Dagmer—they're no threat to you. They could help. Against the dead. Against the winter that's coming." His voice cracked. "I'm the one who betrayed Robb. I'm the one who burned those boys. Let me pay for it. Just me."
"Theon, you stupid—" Asha started.
"Shut your mouth, boy," Dagmer growled at the same time.
"Please," Jeyne Poole's voice rang out from among the northern lords. She pushed forward, her scarred face pale but determined. "Your Grace, please. He saved me from that monster. Give him the Black at least. Let him take the Black."
Aemon's gaze never shifted from Theon. The man before him bore little resemblance to the cocky youth who'd trained in Winterfell's yard, who'd saved Bran from wildlings, who'd stood beside Robb at feast and battle. This creature was all sharp angles and twitches, aged decades in a handful of years. The smile that had charmed serving girls was gone, replaced by a permanent grimace. The proud Greyjoy swagger had become a perpetual hunch, as if expecting a blow.
"Why did you save her?" Aemon's question came soft, almost gentle. "Was it to atone for betraying Robb?"
Tears tracked down Theon's hollow cheeks. He shook his head slowly. "No." The word came out broken. "Can't atone for that. Can't ever make that right. Robb was... was my brother in all but blood, and I..." He choked on the words. "But the farm boys. Those two boys I burned, pretended they were Bran and Rickon. They had names. Parents. Lives I stole." His shoulders shook. "Couldn't let Jeyne suffer under him. Not when I knew what he was. What he did. Couldn't save those boys, but maybe I could save one person from that hell."
"You forget about Maester Luwin."
Theon's eyes squeezed shut. His head bobbed in a jerky nod. "Aye. Put a sword through his belly while he tried to protect those children." His voice had gone hollow. "See him sometimes. In my dreams. He's holding those burned boys, and they're all looking at me."
Aemon's eyes flicked to Jeyne for just a heartbeat, taking in her haunted expression, the way she held herself like she might shatter. Then back to Theon.
The wind picked up, driving ice crystals across the courtyard. Several lords pulled their cloaks tighter. The silence stretched until it seemed to hum with tension.
"You'll take the Black."
The words were a tolling bell, marking a new hour. Gasps and mutters rippled through the crowd. Someone among the northern lords cursed. Another spat.
Theon's head snapped up, eyes wide with shock. "Your Grace?"
"You heard me." Aemon's voice brooked no argument. "The Wall needs men. Even broken ones."
Relief washed over Asha's face. Cleftjaw's shoulders loosened slightly. But the northern lords' discontent grew louder with grumbles about justice, about ironborn reavers who'd burned their homes.
Aemon turned his attention to Asha. "You. Can you bring the Iron Islands to heel under my authority?"
She blinked, clearly not expecting the question. Her mind worked behind those sharp eyes, calculating angles and possibilities. "The islands are a broken thing, with every lord plotting against the others. My uncle Euron holds the Seastone Chair, but half the captains hate him. My other uncle Victarion sailed east with the Iron Fleet." She paused, considering. "Give me ships and men, and aye, I could unite those who'd listen. There's enough who remember me from the kingsmoot, enough who'd rather follow me than the Crow's Eye."
"Interesting." Aemon's voice had gone distant, as if speaking to himself. "Though wouldn't it be simpler to just eliminate the ironborn entirely? Remove their reaving, raping ways from the board before the real war begins?"
"Your Grace—" Panic flashed across Asha's face before she mastered it. "I want to change our ways. The Old Way is dead, or should be. We need to trade, not raid. Farm, not reave. Make something of ourselves beyond blood and salt." Her words came faster, more desperate. "Give me the chance, and I'll prove the ironborn can be more than what we've been."
Aemon studied her for a long moment. The blood on his face had begun to dry, pulling his skin tight. "You'll bring the ironborn to heel. Make them ready to fight the dead." His gaze shifted to Cleftjaw. "You'll help her. Use whatever methods necessary."
"Your Grace, this is madness!" Lord Flint stepped forward, his face red with anger. "These are the same savages who—"
"Who'll be fighting in the front lines when the dead come." Aemon's smile was a cold thing, sharp as winter wind. "Far more terrifying than a clean death here, wouldn't you say?"
Before anyone could respond, boots pounded across the courtyard. A guard from the main gate ran toward them, his face flushed with exertion and something else… panic?
"My Lor—Your Grace!" The man skidded to a stop, nearly slipping in the blood-mud. He'd started to say 'Lord Jon' but caught himself. "There's... there's visitors at the gate. We've had to let them enter, Your Grace."
Aemon frowned. "Visitors?"
"What the fuck is going on here?!"
The voice boomed across the courtyard like thunder. Aemon's head snapped toward the sound, and his eyes went wide with genuine shock.
The Greatjon stood at the courtyard's edge, his massive frame reduced to something that made Aemon sad to look at. The man who'd once filled doorways now leaned heavily on a gnarled walking stick, his left leg dragging through the mud with each labored step. Prison had carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, turned his beard from iron-grey to white wisps that barely covered the raw scar tissue along his jaw and his wrists bore the telltale marks of shackles worn too long. The Greatjon's eyes took in the scene—the corpses, the blood, Aemon standing with Longclaw planted in the mud.
But it was the figure beside him that made Aemon's gaze go stark and still.