"Castle Black was not the wildlings' first battlefield," Baelon said, his voice even, almost mild.
He stood near the shattered gate, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other brushing the stone as if he were merely thinking aloud. Snow stirred around his boots, carried by a wind that smelled faintly of blood and smoke.
"This place lies far too close to Last Hearth," he continued. "With no walls on three sides, it was never suited for long occupation. The wildlings stripped it of what little they could use and moved on."
The words settled over the yard like falling ash.
Cregan Stark did not answer at once. Neither did the Northmen gathered behind him. They stood in silence, their breath fogging the cold air, eyes fixed on the young prince as though seeing him for the first time.
Cregan's gloved hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
Was this truly the prince's first time here?
Had he stood upon this very ground before, unseen, while the wildlings attacked?
The thought unsettled him more than the corpses at their feet.
At last, Cregan inclined his head, slow and deliberate. Awe crept into his voice despite his effort to restrain it.
"No wonder you are called Prince Baelon," he said. "With only a handful of traces, you have drawn conclusions most men would never reach. The wildling bodies outside the gate and the fact that it was opened from within prove they have already crossed the Wall and entered the North."
He took a step forward.
Then another.
Before anyone could stop him, Cregan Stark went down on one knee, his great cloak spreading across the snow.
"I, Cregan Stark of Winterfell, obey the will of King Viserys," he said, his voice steady, carrying clearly across the yard. "As commanded, I submit myself and the strength of the North to Prince Baelon, supreme commander of this war."
The Northmen stiffened. A murmur rippled through them, quickly silenced.
"Prince," Cregan finished, lowering his gaze. "What are your orders?"
Baelon turned fully toward him then. For a heartbeat, he simply studied the kneeling lord. Snow clung to Cregan's dark hair. His shoulders were broad, his posture proud even in submission.
Baelon reached down and caught Cregan by the forearm, his grip firm.
"Rise, Lord Stark," he said.
He hauled him to his feet with surprising ease.
Strictly speaking, a Lord Paramount owed no such deep kneeling to any prince. Yet theory mattered little when a dragon circled above, its shadow sliding across the snow like a living thing.
And Baelon was no ordinary prince.
There was a gravity to him that could be felt rather than seen. He did not shout. He did not posture. He simply stood, and men listened.
Cregan straightened, jaw tight. He did not pull his arm away at once.
"Tell me something," Baelon said, releasing him. His gaze drifted toward the fallen brothers of the Watch beyond the gate. "I examined the bodies outside. The Watch was fully armed and armored. They knew the wildlings were coming."
He turned back to Cregan.
"So why were no ravens sent to Last Hearth or Winterfell?"
Cregan frowned.
"At raven speed," Baelon added quietly, "word should have reached Winterfell within the hour."
The question struck like a hammer.
Cregan's breath caught. His eyes flicked instinctively toward the rookery towers.
Yes.
Why had they not?
The Lord Commander had been a veteran ranger, a man hardened by decades beyond the Wall. He would never forget the ravens.
"Come," Cregan said sharply, already turning. "The rookery. Now."
They moved at once.
Baelon followed a step behind, his eyes roaming the yard. He studied the dead as they passed. Twisted limbs frozen by cold. Faces slack with exhaustion, caught between grief and a strange relief.
It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
They reached the rookery.
The doors stood open.
The cages inside were empty.
Every raven was gone.
Two black-clad brothers lay slumped beside the wall, blood dark against the snow.
Baelon knelt without hesitation. He brushed frost from one man's throat, his expression sharpening.
"One clean strike each," he said. "The cuts are precise. No signs of struggle. No defensive wounds."
He rose slowly.
"Whoever killed them was either a seasoned warrior," he continued, "or an assassin."
Cregan stared down at the bodies, disbelief plain on his face.
"Assassins?" he said. "From Essos? The wildlings do not train killers like this."
Baelon met his gaze.
"That is the problem."
Either the wildlings had changed far more than anyone realized, or someone else was guiding them from the shadows.
Neither possibility sat well.
"Lord Stark," Baelon said sharply.
Cregan straightened at once, all doubt swept aside. He waited in silence.
"As supreme commander, I order you to muster every force the North can raise," Baelon said. "Send ravens to Harrenhal. The garrison there is to embark via the fleet at Crab Bay and assemble at Last Hearth."
"Yes," Cregan replied without hesitation.
Northmen cared little for titles, but obedience spoken so plainly meant everything.
"You will return to Winterfell and raise the banners," Baelon continued. "I will ride the Wall and locate the wildling host."
He glanced northward, toward the endless ice.
"They are too many to hide. Somewhere along the Wall, their presence will be written plainly."
With his commands given, Baelon turned, already preparing to depart.
"Be careful," Cregan said.
There was no ceremony in it. No flourish. Just a blunt statement, heavy with meaning.
Only a dragonrider could do what Baelon intended. Both men understood that.
They parted soon after.
Cregan led his host south, while Baelon took to the sky, flying east along the Wall.
To the east lay Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
The only southern path the wildlings possessed besides the Wall itself.
From Seal Bay, ships could sail south and land directly beneath Eastwatch's towers.
Baelon suspected the wildlings' main force had come by sea, striking the Nightfort first.
In all recorded history, the Wall had never been breached head-on.
The eastern route made far more sense.
As Cregan Stark rode south at the head of Winterfell's army, he glanced back once. High above, Baelon's dragons dwindled into the pale sky, their shapes soon lost to cloud and distance.
A chill crept into his chest.
"Could the prince be ambushed?" he muttered under his breath. "What force could threaten a man with three dragons?"
The unease would not leave him.
"March faster," he ordered.
Only when they reached Umber lands did he allow the pace to ease.
"Send word to House Umber at once," he said. "Use their ravens. Summon every lord who can bear arms."
He was deep in planning when the forest answered him.
Whissh.
Whissh.
Arrows tore from the treeline.
His horse screamed once as a shaft punched clean through its heart. The great shaggy beast collapsed, throwing Cregan hard and pinning him beneath its weight.
"Damn it," Cregan roared. "Ambush. Form ranks."
Even trapped, his command cut through the chaos.
The men of Winterfell wavered only a heartbeat before discipline snapped into place. They dismounted, shields raised, steel drawn.
All eyes turned toward the dark roadside brush.
Toward where the arrows had come from.
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