"The Children of the Forest… why?"
The cry broke from a Northman's throat, raw with disbelief. Others echoed it, voices cracking as leaf clad figures stepped from shadow and snow.
For a heartbeat, the field fell into stunned silence.
The Night's Watch had never counted the Children among their enemies. In all the long memory of the Watch, stretching back into legend and half remembered song, there had been no tale of open hostility between them.
The old chronicles spoke of the Age of Heroes, when the Children walked freely among men and gifted the Watch a hundred daggers of dragonglass each year. In those days, to be issued an obsidian blade was an honor greater than silver or steel. Even now, the Lord Commander and a handful of the oldest officers carried dragonglass daggers at their belts, more symbol than weapon, a reminder of an ancient bond.
And since the coming of Aegon the Conqueror, the Children of the Forest had not shown themselves before mankind for more than a thousand years.
It was said that after the Dawn War, they had withdrawn from the world of men. They had retreated deeper into the forests, beyond the Wall, fading into myth and half believed memory.
So why now.
Why return at this hour of ruin.
And why stand against humanity.
The Children offered no answer.
They only raised their pipes.
The sound drifted across the battlefield like falling snow, thin and sweet and impossibly old. It wormed its way into the ears and hearts of the black cloaks upon the Wall. Men stiffened. Swords faltered in their grips. Eyes glazed as if caught by some distant memory they could not name.
One by one, brothers of the Night's Watch lowered their weapons. Their shoulders slumped. Their wills drained away as though poured out upon the ice.
The wildlings did not hesitate.
They came screaming up the slopes, crude blades flashing. Helpless men were cut down where they stood, expressions frozen in dazed confusion.
High on the Wall, an archer ground his teeth until his jaw ached. His fingers trembled as he nocked an arrow, then deliberately turned his aim away from the charging wildlings.
He sighted on one of the Children of the Forest, fingers fluttering along the flute.
"Enough," he muttered, breath ragged. His shoulders tightened. He loosed.
The arrow cut the air with a sharp hiss.
Before it could strike, a massive shape burst from the snow below. A direwolf with fur as white as fresh fallen frost leapt impossibly high. Its jaws snapped shut around the shaft, splintering wood between its teeth.
The archer swore aloud, stumbling back a step. His free hand clenched against the stone parapet.
"Beast binding," he spat, dread creeping into his voice.
The Watch's oldest records spoke of such powers. The Children could command animals, they said. Some claimed they could even fight wearing the shapes of beasts.
With the Children's aid, the thin black line of the Night's Watch finally broke. Wildlings poured through the breach like meltwater through cracked ice.
The archer turned and ran for the inner gate, boots slipping on frost slick stone. His breath burned in his lungs. If he could just close it, just buy a little time.
A sudden storm of wings descended from above.
Ravens by the dozens swarmed down, their bodies slamming into him. Beaks tore at his face and hands. Talons raked across his cloak.
He fell to his knees, raising his arms too late.
"It's over," he whispered, blood dripping from his brow.
The last thing reflected in his eyes was a frenzy of black feathers and flashing claws.
The Wall had fallen.
Queen's Gate fell first.
Then Icemark.
Nightfort.
Deep Lake.
Greyguard.
One by one, the ancient castles of the Night's Watch were overrun. Fires burned where black cloaks once stood. Wildlings swarmed the yards, dragging down banners and planting their own crude standards. Under the watchful eyes of the Children of the Forest, they began raising defenses with surprising speed, piling timber and stone, reshaping the conquered Wall into something new.
A broad shouldered wildling strode through the snow, chest bare despite the cold, blood drying dark against his skin. He wiped it away with a fistful of snow as he approached his king.
"My king," he said, bowing his head. His breath came fast, eyes bright with fierce triumph. "Most of the Wall is ours. Should we begin moving the elders and the children of the clans? The days grow short. We cannot linger."
He looked toward the King Beyond the Wall.
Derik stood apart from the noise and celebration, bone armor streaked with frost and blood. His face was calm, almost cold, as he studied the towering Wall that had stood against his people for generations.
"Begin the migration," Derik said at last. His voice carried without strain. "At once."
The wildling straightened, relief flickering across his face.
"The Thenn warriors," Derik continued, turning his head slightly. "They will press the remaining castles. The crows will never accept us holding their land."
His hand curled slowly into a fist.
"Only by killing them all do we become the true masters of this territory."
The wind tugged at his cloak as he looked south. With the Children of the Forest at his side, the fall of the Wall was no longer a question of if, but when.
Next would come the great crossing. Every clan. Every hearth. South, into the lands of the kneelers.
At his silent signal, the wildlings beat their chests and threw back their heads.
"AOOO!"
The cry rolled like thunder across snow and stone.
Far away, beneath the red spires of King's Landing, King Viserys slept uneasily.
In his dream, he stood before the Iron Throne, its jagged blades looming behind him like accusing fingers. His hands clutched a sword far heavier than he remembered. Each swing was clumsy, desperate.
Before him loomed a massive direwolf, its jaws slick with blood and torn flesh. It circled him slowly, pale eyes fixed upon his throat.
Viserys staggered back, boots scraping on cold stone.
Beyond the throne room, the world burned. Dragon roars shook the air, mingled with a harsh, alien bellow that set his teeth on edge. Smoke poured through shattered doors. Screams echoed from unseen halls.
The direwolf lunged.
Pain exploded across Viserys's chest. He cried out, stumbling, sword slipping in his grasp. He felt warmth spreading beneath his robes as claws tore into him again and again.
Nearby, he saw smaller direwolves lying still upon the floor. Their coats were of many colors. Grey, brown, black. All lay broken, torn apart not by blades, but by savage teeth.
He did not understand. He did not think to question.
All that mattered was the monster before him.
"Where are the Kingsguard?" he shouted hoarsely, panic shaking his voice. "Where are the guards of the Red Keep?"
No one answered.
Viserys had never been a warrior. Even in his youth, arms and armor had held little appeal for him. That he still stood at all was only because the Iron Throne loomed at his back, its cold presence lending him borrowed strength.
Another blow sent him reeling. His legs buckled. His vision blurred.
Sorrow flooded his chest, vast and crushing. Despair followed close behind.
Just as his strength failed, a piercing cry split the air.
The direwolf faltered.
A blast of blood red flame washed over it, engulfing fur and flesh alike. The beast collapsed in a spray of steaming blood.
Viserys fell to one knee, gasping.
"Who," he whispered, lifting his head with trembling effort. "Who saved me?"
Through the haze of pain and smoke, he saw a figure standing before the throne. Behind them burned dragonfire, red as fresh blood. Upon their head rested a radiant crown.
"Hah. Hah."
Viserys jolted awake.
He bolted upright in his bed, clutching his chest. Sweat soaked his nightshirt. His heart thundered as if it would tear free of his ribs.
He pressed his palm against his breast, half expecting to feel torn flesh.
"It was only a dream," he murmured, voice unsteady.
There was no wound. No blood.
Yet the ache lingered, faint but unmistakable. The stench of smoke and iron still seemed to cling to the air.
"Direwolves," Viserys said softly, staring into the darkness. "The North. House Stark. And those smaller wolves."
His brow furrowed. His fingers tightened against the sheets.
"What were you trying to show me?"
Viserys knew himself to be one of House Targaryen's rare dreamers. Years ago, he had foreseen the birth of his heir. The Dream of the Heir, the maesters called it.
This dream was different.
Darker.
And the crown he had seen, gleaming in dragonfire, felt unsettlingly familiar.
Its shape and its splendor.
"…Baelon."
The name escaped him in a whisper, heavy with uncertainty, as the darkness pressed close around the king.
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