The High Heart was a tall hill in the Riverlands, a sacred place of the Children of the Forest, lying southeast of Riverrun. The summit was a safe place; its height made it impossible for anyone to approach unnoticed.
The group rode toward the High Heart with Soros leading the way, Tyrion behind him, then Brienne with the two Stark girls sharing a horse. After them came Greatjon Umber and Blackfish Brynden Tully, and at the rear rode Podrick and Edric with thirty Lannister horsemen.
Once they left Harrenhal and the Gods Eye behind, the morning mist thinned. Shafts of bright golden light filtered through the chestnut branches, catching Tyrion's blond hair. He noticed Podrick's little pony nosing through dead leaves for chestnuts while the soldiers murmured quietly behind them.
There were ghosts ahead.
At last he saw the northerners—the same ones from his first meeting with Lady Stoneheart—one, then two, then more appearing until the road was full of them.
Tyrion glanced at Greatjon.
"Do you know them?"
"Looks like the Glover folk," Jon Amber said, though he didn't sound sure. Last Hearth was far from Deepwood Motte.
The mountain trail grew rough. Surrounded by the northerners, they dismounted and continued on foot until they reached the summit. Thirty-one weirwood stumps stood arranged in a ring, and in the center stood a grey-robed lady.
"Cat," Brynden Tully muttered, frowning. Even without seeing her face, he knew it was the Tully girl. "Gods… are you living or dead?"
"Seven hells," Greatjon breathed, jaw hanging open.
"Is that Mother?" Sansa looked back at Tyrion. He nodded. Arya broke free from Brienne and tried to run forward, but Thoros blocked her.
"You may go only when she summons you," the red priest said.
Lady Stoneheart stood unmoving. Were tears leaking from the hollow shadows under her hood? Tyrion couldn't tell. Beside her, a northerner held a linen cushion stuffed with what looked like straw. The Bronze crown rested quietly upon it.
"Who comes?" the northerner called out. "Is there a Stark among you?"
Sansa and Arya both stepped forward, visibly nervous.
"Come closer," the northerner said, acting as the Lady's voice.
"Go on. Go," Tyrion urged from behind.
"Silence, Lannister," the northerner snapped. "This is not your place to speak!"
Fine, Tyrion thought. He had no desire to argue here.
Lady Stoneheart lifted a hand—pale, dried, dead. Tyrion thanked the gods he wasn't required to kiss it; he truly might have retched. The hand brushed Arya's cheek. The horse-faced girl shrieked and darted back behind Brienne.
"That's your mother, Arya," the knight murmured to her.
"I know… but her hand is so cold."
Lady Stoneheart's trembling hand moved toward Sansa's hair. The girl shook uncontrollably, but unlike her sister, she didn't flee.
Brave girl, Tyrion thought, standing straight as he watched. Lady Stoneheart began to hiss softly.
"Kneel, child," the northerner said.
Sansa obeyed, sinking to her knees before her mother among the dead leaves. Lady Stoneheart lifted the Bronze crown with both hands, her hissing never stopping. The High Heart was said to hold the ghost of a Child of the Forest, and she was that ghost now.
"No! We swore an oath!" Greatjon stepped forward, but was blocked by Thoros and Blackfish. "Jon Snow is Robb Stark's heir! We signed and swore! Lady Catelyn was there!"
True enough, even if she had been present, she wouldn't have crowned that bastard Snow she believed him to be, Tyrion thought.
"I never swore any oath, nor did I sign any paper," Blackfish said. "That was your business, lords. What concern is it of mine? Leave my niece alone."
"Ha! Brynden, you slippery black fish," Greatjon's face flushed crimson. "You think I don't know what you're up to? Jon Snow is Lord Eddard's bastard, with no Tully blood in his veins!"
"Nonsense." Blackfish snorted. "I see only Sansa Stark about to be crowned. This is a sacred ceremony. I will not allow anyone to disturb it."
Greatjon opened his mouth to argue again.
"Enough." Tyrion's voice was low. "Arguing here? Want Lady Stoneheart to hang you?"
"Ha, you Lust Demon." Greatjon turned on him. "Got what you wanted, did you? The Riverlands, the North—are they all yours now? Is that your goal? To toy with the living and deceive the dead?"
"Where is Jon Snow?"
"What?" Greatjon froze.
"I asked you, where is Jon Snow?" Tyrion repeated.
"He… he's at Castle Black, by the Wall," Greatjon answered. "He's a Night's Watchman in black."
"He's a Night's Watchman in black," Tyrion said slowly. "Why not summon him here for his coronation?"
"You…"
"Castle Black is over a thousand leagues from here," Tyrion continued. "By the time he reaches the Riverlands, the Long Winter will have swallowed us whole. Besides, you claim you have signed documents—where are they?"
"You doubt my word?" Greatjon seized on the chance to flare up.
"Not at all, my lord." Tyrion saw right through him. "The lords of the North may swear to whomever they choose. But a legitimized bastard requires the documents to be seen. Without them, how does Snow become a Stark? Do you plan to snatch him from the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?"
"If you see the documents, you'll acknowledge it?" Greatjon's eyes were sharp and doubtful.
"Quite so. I can acknowledge Jon Stark's claim before Sansa's, but not Jon Snow's," Tyrion said. "And likewise, you and the lords of The North must acknowledge that Sansa ranks only after Jon Stark."
"I hope you're not a liar."
"In all the time you've known me, have I ever broken a promise?" Tyrion snorted. "Can you swear on behalf of the lords of The North?"
"I can swear for the lords who signed," Greatjon said. "Lady Sansa's claim comes only after Jon Stark." He repeated it clearly.
Never mind how Jon came back to life—even if he did, they could just make him a Targaryen, Tyrion thought.
The coronation ceremony was nearing its end. The bronze crown rested on auburn hair as Lady Stoneheart's northern guards knelt, swearing fealty to their queen.
"Kneel, lords," Tyrion said. The Blackfish was already on one knee.
Greatjon followed, then looked at Tyrion. "Why don't you kneel?"
"That's funny," Tyrion said. "I'm a man of the Westerlands. What binds me is a sacred vow. Why should I bend the knee to some so-called Queen of the North?"
...
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