After a simple meal prepared by Cregan Stark, Baelon swung himself into the saddle upon Tyraxes and turned his dragon north. Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost rose with them, the three dragons settling into a measured formation as they cut across the cold sky.
Winterfell lay at the heart of the North, so their course followed the Kingsroad straight toward the Wall.
Below them, the land grew harsher and more barren. They passed Long Lake, its dark waters rimmed with ice. By the time Last Hearth came into view, the sun hung low and pale. Patrols of House Umber were the first to spot them. Horns were raised, then hastily lowered.
Three dragons wheeled overhead, their shadows sliding across the snow. Beneath them rode Stark banners, silver grey direwolves snapping in the wind.
The Umbers did not ride out to bar the road. Instead, they halted at a respectful distance. Men dismounted. Helms came off. They bent the knee in silence, honoring both the Warden of the North and the blood of Old Valyria that flew above them.
Beyond Umber lands, the Kingsroad ended.
Ahead lay their destination.
Castle Black.
The ancient stronghold stood beneath the Wall, long and low, dwarfed by the ice that loomed above it. It was the seat of the Night's Watch, where the Lord Commander ruled and the black brothers kept their eternal vigil.
Something was wrong.
Cregan Stark reined in his horse so sharply that the animal snorted in protest. He leaned forward in the saddle, eyes narrowing as he studied the ground ahead.
"Where are the ranger patrols?" he asked.
His voice was low, but edged with iron.
As Warden of the North, Cregan had visited the Wall many times. He did not know every stone of Castle Black, but he knew its rhythms. Castle Black was no true castle. It had no walls to the east, south, or west. Its only defense was the Wall itself to the north.
For that reason, ranger patrols were always posted outside the fortress. They rotated constantly, watching for wildlings who slipped past the Wall and sought to strike at the Watch's heart.
A force of this size would never be allowed to approach unchallenged.
Not even one led by a Stark.
Cregan's hand tightened on his reins as he stared ahead.
Above him, Baelon guided Tyraxes down in a slow, controlled descent. The dragon's wings beat once, twice, then folded as he landed with a hiss of steam rising from his nostrils.
Baelon swung down from the saddle, boots crunching against frost hardened ground. His jaw was set, his expression grave.
"The place is a charnel house," he said. His gaze flicked briefly to Cregan before returning to the ruins beyond. "Night's Watch corpses everywhere. Wildlings too."
Cregan's face darkened. He said nothing at first. His eyes moved, cataloging details with a commander's instinct.
Broken timber. Scorched beams. Bodies half buried in snow.
A conclusion took shape in his mind, cold and unwelcome.
"The Wall has been breached," he said at last.
As Warden of the North, Cregan understood the Free Folk better than most. To southerners they were little more than savages, but he knew the truth. Under a capable King Beyond the Wall, they could become a disciplined and terrifying force.
They were forged by cruelty from birth. Stronger. Harder. Less forgiving.
Among the Free Folk, war was not a season but a way of life. Men were warriors. Women were spearwives. Even the young were raised with blade and bow.
Entire raiding hosts had marched under the command of spearwives alone.
Cregan straightened in the saddle, decision hardening his features.
"We must investigate Castle Black," he said. "Prince Baelon, I ask that you and your dragons provide aerial reconnaissance and cover."
Baelon met his gaze without hesitation. He inclined his head once.
"Of course."
He had brought no army north with him, and the Bloodflame host he carried was unsuited to such terrain and secrecy. Whatever happened here would have to be answered by Stark steel and Watch valor, if any yet lived.
Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost climbed higher, circling wide and silent.
Tyraxes stayed low, wings half spread, Baelon seated once more and watching the ground with a predator's patience.
Cregan dismounted. He drew his sword in a smooth motion, the steel catching pale light.
"Five man teams," he ordered. "Spread out from the main gate. Search for survivors. That is the priority."
His gaze lingered on the bodies scattered across the yard. His mouth tightened. Hope was thin, but he would not abandon it.
"Yes, my lord," his men replied.
Castle Black still stood. The towers remained upright, blackened but unbroken. It was the wooden structures that had suffered most. Barracks lay collapsed, crow roosts reduced to charred frames.
A soldier approached after the sweep, helm tucked beneath his arm. His face was drawn.
"My lord," he said, swallowing. "No survivors found. Only fallen brothers of the Watch. A handful of wildling dead among them."
Cregan did not interrupt. His eyes never left the ruins.
"The armory and storehouses are stripped bare," the man continued. "Even the library has been looted."
Cregan's jaw clenched. His hand curled slowly into a fist.
Then realization struck him like a blade.
"Damn it," he growled. "I knew it."
He shoved past his men and strode toward the northern end of Castle Black, boots crunching hard. This was one of the Wall's two great passages, the tunnel that cut through the ice itself.
The gate stood open.
Every iron portcullis within the passage had been raised.
Cregan stopped short, staring at it in disbelief that quickly curdled into fury.
"Where did they come from?" he snarled. "From where did such a host of wildlings appear?"
He drew Ice, the ancestral Valyrian steel blade of House Stark. With a sharp cry of rage, he hacked through several chains, the metal ringing beneath each blow.
A voice spoke behind him, calm and steady.
"The gate was opened from within."
Cregan froze.
Baelon stood a few paces back, his posture relaxed but his eyes keen. The soldiers straightened at once.
"Prince."
"Your Grace."
Cregan exhaled slowly. He sheathed Ice and turned.
"Prince Baelon," he said, voice controlled once more. "Why did you come down here?"
Baelon glanced upward briefly, as if listening for something only he could hear. Then he allowed himself a faint smile.
"In case someone approaches," he said. "Tyraxes will warn us."
He stepped past them and entered the tunnel beneath the Wall. His hand brushed the ice smoothed stone as he walked, his gaze lifting upward.
"So this is the Wall's interior," he murmured. Awe softened his voice for a heartbeat.
Then his expression sharpened. He crouched, studying the mechanisms with care.
"Look closely," he said, gesturing with two fingers. "The bars and chains were never forced. No bends. No breaks. That alone tells us the enemy did not breach Castle Black from the north. At least not here."
He straightened and turned back to the group.
Cregan frowned, his brow furrowing as he followed the logic.
"Then from where?" he asked.
He was no blunt instrument. A Stark did not earn renown across generations without a keen and disciplined mind.
Baelon folded his hands behind his back, considering the carnage outside, the stripped stores, the orderly dead.
"I believe Castle Black was not the first to fall," he said. His voice was quiet now, thoughtful. "And judging by the bodies, fully armed, fully armored, the Watch knew the wildlings were coming."
He met Cregan's eyes.
"They were warned."
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