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POV: Dagmer Black-Tide
Location: Frozen Shore
The salt wind screamed across the deck of Black Tide as Dagmer watched the wildlings haul crates of dragonglass weapons across the ice. Each blade had been forged with care—not the crude spears of savages, but proper daggers, arrowheads, axes. Black glass, sharp as ice, lethal in the dark.
It had taken months to move them this far. Bribes. Ships. Deaths. But now it came together.
The gods moved in tides, not waves.
Hrok approached, his breath fogging in the cold. Behind him, his warriors grunted as they passed crates down a broken ramp to sledges waiting on the shore.
"Your steel cuts well," the wildling king said, testing an axe's edge with his thumb. "But why? The krakens never shared before."
Dagmer smiled, salt crusting the edge of his beard.
"The Drowned God wakes. The wolves have ruled too long."
He passed Hrok a skin of sour ale and leaned closer.
"We strike the Flint Cliffs in three days. You draw Stark's scouts north—hit them fast, bleed them hard. My ships land south and take the coast."
Hrok's eyes narrowed faintly.
"And Winterfell?"
Dagmer's lips curled.
"Left hollow for the tide to claim."
There was a beat of wind between them. Then Hrok smiled—cold and clean as the frost.
"A fair trade."
Dagmer nodded once and turned to bark orders at his men.
Behind him, Hrok let the axe drop into the snow, watching the kraken banners flap from the sails.
He said nothing more.
POV: Arthur
Location: Rimehall Ruins
Arthur crouched beside the dead scout.
The man's black cloak was stiff with frozen blood, his fingers still curled around a snapped dagger—dragonbone, not steel. Around him, tracks led east toward the mountains. Too many to count.
Lyanna knelt beside him. "Night's Watch?"
"A ranger. Fresh kill." Arthur turned the body, revealing the Shadow Tower insignia sewn into the tunic. "He saw something worth dying for."
Maelen's voice was hollow. "The seal I just warged saw ships. Ironborn. Unloading weapons."
Vaeren picked up a broken crate lid, the wood charred but still legible:
"Bloody krakens," Garron growled.
Arthur stood. "They're arming the wildlings. For an attack."
Thom paled. "On the Wall?"
"First?" Arthur's hand rested on his sword. "No. On us."
POV: NIGHT'S WATCH POV - COMMANDER MALLISTER
Location: Shadow Tower
The Shadow Tower's hall reeked of smoke and sour wine.
Commander Mallister stared at the ragged message in his hands—the one the wildling girl had delivered, her fingers frostbitten, her eyes terrified.
Iron sails feed the wild. Rimehall broken. Prepare for teeth.
No seal. No signature.
Mallister tossed it into the fire. "Another wildling trick."
Ser Denys frowned. "The girl said it came from a crow—"
"And where is this crow?" Mallister snapped. "If Stark's bastard wants to play at war, let him. The Watch holds the Wall, not the North."
In the corner, a young ranger—Olyvar's brother—clenched his fists. That night, he would sharpen his sword twice.
And watch the trees.