"Roger! Get over here!" A rough, booming voice Jon didn't recognize echoed from the distance.
"Coming!" Roger called back. He turned to Jon, his expression firm. "Come with me. I can't leave you out here in the reeds alone."
Jon had no reason to refuse. He followed the Sunwalker out of the marsh and onto a patch of higher ground.
"Hey, Roger. Who's the whelp?" A tall man in a heavy yellow cloak pointed at Jon.
"Jon Snow," Roger introduced. "One of the Lightbringer's students."
"One of three," Jon corrected, nodding to the man Roger called Lem. "The little smith you sent to the monastery—Gendry—has been taken as a disciple as well."
Lem Lemoncloak shrugged. "Lucky lad. Hope he catches the Light better than he caught the hammer."
"Where is Lord Beric?" Roger asked. "Jon was at the Twins. He saw the slaughter. The Lord might want to hear what happened."
Lem jerked his chin toward the far end of the reeds. "Over there. Harwin fished something out of the river. Something... troublesome. They're arguing over it now."
Roger frowned. "Troublesome? Robb Stark?"
At the mention of his brother's name, Jon's heart skipped a beat. But Lem shook his head. "A woman. Go see for yourself."
Jon followed Roger to the bank where a group of outlaws stood in a circle. On the grass, amidst the silt and weeds, lay a pale, bloated corpse covered by a ragged coat.
The hair was brittle and white as bone, the skin a mottled grey-green with patches of brown rot. Strips of flesh hung from the face, and jagged gashes ran from the eyes to the jaw. Some were clotted with dark blood; others exposed the yellowed bone beneath.
Jon felt as though he had been plunged back into the freezing river. His throat tightened around a lump of lead. It was his stepmother, Lady Catelyn.
"Thoros, I beg you! Save her!" Harwin was on his knees, pleading with the Red Priest. He hadn't noticed Jon or Roger. "She is Lord Eddard's wife! Hoster Tully's daughter! The Mother of the Young Wolf! Look at these wounds—look at what she suffered before they threw her in the water!"
Harwin's voice broke. "We took the King's banner from Lord Eddard's hand to bring justice to this land. Can we truly stand by while his wife is murdered in such infamy?"
Thoros of Myr looked down at the body, his face etched with a weary sorrow. "Harwin... she has been dead too long. Look at her face, her hair. There is nothing of the living left in her. Even if I brought her back..."
He caught sight of Jon and stopped mid-sentence. "Jon..."
Harwin turned, his brow furrowing. "Jon? You're supposed to be at St. Maur's."
Jon stared at the remains of Catelyn Stark. "I heard of the danger at Longwave Castle. I took leave from my teacher to help Robb. I went to Riverrun first..." He gave a brief, hollow account of the Red Wedding. "...Robb is dead. And his mother is here."
Harwin looked as though he had been punched in the gut. "The Freys... how could they? The Guest Right is sacred to the old gods and the new. Has the Lord of the Crossing gone mad?"
Beric Dondarrion, the Lightning Lord, stepped forward. His voice was a thin, dry rasp. "He isn't mad. He is cold. If the Boltons joined the plot, the North is lost. To avoid Tywin's wrath, Walder Frey needed a blood-offering. What head is more valuable than a King's?"
Harwin slammed a fist into the mud. "Cursed be the Freys! Cursed be the Boltons! Cursed be the Lannisters!" He looked up at Jon. "Jon... your Light. Can you bring her back?"
Jon shook his head. "If a soul is flickering, I can fan it back to life. But Lady Catelyn has been gone for days. I have no power over the grave."
"I will try," Beric said.
Thoros surged forward to stop him. "My Lord, no! It will kill you!"
"Thoros... look at me. What is the difference between this and death?" Beric pulled away his scarf, revealing a neck that had been hanged and slashed, wounds that refused to knit. "The pain never sleeps. My soul is a tattered rag. I eat, but I taste nothing. I lie down, but I never sleep. You call me Lord Beric, but I cannot remember my home, or if I have a wife, or a son. Am I even the man you say I am?"
"You are!" Lem shouted. "The Lord of Blackhaven! The leader of the Brotherhood!"
"I am a ghost," Beric said, his eyes empty. "And I am tired, Lem."
He turned to the archer, Anguy. "Anguy, no more. Lord Eddard gave me a task, and I have carried it as long as I could. But my spirit is dry. I will give this heavy burden—and the gift that keeps me here—to Eddard's wife. If she wakes, follow her. If you cannot... then find Aldric at the monastery. His path is radical, but he has the strength I lack."
The outlaws fell silent. Beric had died six times for them. No one had the right to ask for a seventh.
The Lightning Lord knelt over the body and pressed his dry, cracked lips to Catelyn's.
Beric's body suddenly collapsed, his strength draining away like water into sand. He slumped beside the pale corpse, motionless. The outlaws removed their caps and knelt. Jon and Roger bowed their heads in mourning for a leader who had finally found his peace.
Then, a sound broke the silence—a wet, rattling croak that no one could understand.
Catelyn Stark sat up. Her bloated, white skin was naked to the wind until Harwin rushed forward to wrap her in his coat.
As Harwin tended to her, the others gathered Beric's remains.
"I never knew how much he was suffering," Lem whispered, lifting the body. "He's so light. Like a handful of dry leaves."
"He was a good man," Thoros prayed. "A pure soul. May he find the warmth of the Heavens."
They carried Beric to a high, sun-drenched hill nearby. They dug a deep grave, lined it with their own cloaks, and laid him to rest. Thoros carved a simple inscription on a stone: Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven, Eternal Leader of the Brotherhood.
When they returned to the reeds, Catelyn was dressed in a man's tunic. She looked at the outlaws with eyes that were no longer human.
Thoros knelt before her. "Lady Catelyn... by Lord Beric's final wish, we offer you our service."
Catelyn reached up, her fingers clawing at the jagged scar on her throat as if trying to choke herself. When she spoke, the voice was a shredded, agonizing wheeze—the sound of a soul trapped in a rotting cage.
"Thoros... my son is dead. Good men were butchered for a scrap of parchment. We will have vengeance. On the traitors. On the Lannisters."
Vengeance? Thoros thought. He had hoped for a leader to protect the living, but he saw only a flame of hatred. Yet the outlaws, many of whom had lost everything to the war, felt the fire of her words.
"As you command, my Lady," Thoros whispered.
Catelyn's gaze shifted to Jon. "Jon Snow. Why are you here?"
Jon met her clouded eyes. "I came to help Robb. I saw the slaughter from the gates. The Light saved me from the river." He waited, hoping for even a shred of the motherly warmth she had never given him.
"Robb is dead," she rasped. "The Freys shot him. They put a bolt through his heart."
"I am... more than sorry," Jon said.
"You should have been there," she hissed. "You are his brother. You were his shield. You should have stood before him and taken the arrows, or mended his blood with your 'Light.' But you were not there."
"I was at the gates! The riders blocked me—"
"You should have never left his side!"
Jon went silent. For years, he would have bowed his head and taken her venom. But a year with Aldric had changed him. He was a Sunwalker now. He had seen the truth of the world.
"Is that so, Lady Catelyn?" Jon's voice was cold, vibrating with a quiet fury. "I should have stayed? Where was the place you kept for me at his side? You never acknowledged me. You hated my mother. You wanted me to vanish into the frost. I found a new fate at the Wall, and I swore an oath to fight for all of Westeros, not just one king. Yet I risked my life and defied my teacher to come here for him. And you tell me his death is my fault?"
Jon stepped forward. "Tell me, my Lady—who arrested Tyrion Lannister without proof and started this fire? Who failed to hold the Riverlands and let the Lions burn the fields? If I am at fault for being a bastard, what is your fault for being a Tully?"
Catelyn's body shook. "How dare you—"
"Jon, stop," Harwin warned. "She has just lost her son."
"And I have lost my brothers!" Jon snapped. "And my father! And my sisters!"
"They are not your siblings," Catelyn corrected, her voice a jagged shard of ice. "I have no son in you."
"As you wish, my Lady," Jon said, offering a mocking, formal bow. "Sansa may not call me brother, but Arya always knew I was hers."
"Arya is dead," Catelyn rasped. "Do not speak her name. I will not hear it."
Jon shook his head. "No. She is alive. I saw Sandor Clegane take her from the gates."
Catelyn stood, her pale eyes fixed on him. "You saw her... and you didn't bring her to me?"
Jon stood tall, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "I will bring her back. Not because she is your daughter, but because she is my sister. My last kin."
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