The scream tore through the trees like a wounded animal.
"RAAAAHHH!"
The northern soldiers had only just begun to dismount when the forest erupted on both sides of the Kingsroad. Men burst from the undergrowth in a howling tide, half naked despite the cold, faces streaked with ash and blood. Wildlings.
They came from left and right at once, pouring out from between the black pines, their numbers so great that the eye failed to measure them. Many carried weapons unmistakably wrought by the Night's Watch. Black iron spears. Castle-forged swords. Some even wore the dark cloaks of sworn brothers, though the cloth hung from their shoulders like stolen skins.
A murmur of disbelief rippled through the northern ranks.
"They're the ones who attacked the Watch's castles."
"Gods be good. How many are there?"
Before fear could take root, a voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding.
"Warriors of the North," Lord Cregan Stark roared, wrenching himself free from beneath his fallen horse with the help of two men. His breath came hard, his chest burning as he pressed a gauntlet against it, testing the pain. He hissed, then straightened. "With me. Kill the enemy."
His grey eyes were clear. There was no fear in them, only cold resolve.
As Warden of the North, he would not turn his back on the battlefield. Least of all against wildlings.
Five hundred men had ridden south from Winterfell with him. Only five hundred. Yet they were Winterfell's best, seasoned soldiers wrapped in thick fur, mail glinting beneath leather and wool. Veterans all.
Axes came up as one. Shields slammed together. A roar rose from northern throats, raw and feral.
They charged.
Steel met flesh. Iron cracked bone. The forest filled with screams and the wet sounds of killing. Snow churned beneath boots, quickly stained dark.
The wildlings had surprise and numbers. The Northmen had discipline and fury.
For a time, it was enough.
They fought like cornered beasts, driving into the press with savage strength. Axes rose and fell. Shields battered ribs. Men died choking on blood and pine needles. Every step forward was bought with lives.
But no man could fight forever.
The press never thinned. Arms grew heavy. Breath burned. The wildlings kept coming, wave after wave, shrieking as they threw themselves onto northern steel.
An arrow punched into Cregan's side, slipping between plates. He grunted, tore it free, and kept fighting. Another struck his shoulder soon after, spinning him half around. His teeth clenched, lips drawn back in a snarl.
Is this how it ends?
The thought came unbidden as he swung Ice in a wide arc, the greatsword cleaving through a wildling's neck. The head fell away, eyes still wide.
The Warden of the North, cut down by savages in the snow. A bitter jest.
He did not see the club until it struck him.
THUD.
The impact crushed the breath from his lungs. Pain exploded through his chest as he was hurled backward. Ice slipped from his fingers, landing in the snow with a dull thump.
Cregan hit the ground hard. The world tilted. Sound dulled to a distant roar. His limbs refused to answer him.
"Lord Stark!" someone shouted, voice breaking.
"Get him up. Gods damn you, get him up."
Northern soldiers surged toward him, hacking and shoving their way through the melee. One man threw aside his axe, dropped to a knee, and hauled Cregan's limp form over his shoulder with a grunt of effort.
"Shield him," another barked.
They closed around their lord, bodies pressed tight, shields overlapping. Step by bloody step, they forced a path through the wildlings. Men fell screaming. Others took their place without a word.
Faces were split open. Mail hung in tatters. Still they moved.
Perhaps the gods were watching. Or perhaps the wildlings had finally bled enough.
The pressure eased.
Ahead, a gap opened in the enemy line. The wildling commander raised an arm, barking orders. The killing slackened, just enough.
"Now," someone shouted. "Move."
They ran.
Nearly four hundred men lay dead by the time they broke free of the forest. Those who still stood stumbled onward, boots dragging through snow and blood.
"Last Hearth," the man at the front gasped, coughing crimson into the snow as he staggered. "Go. Get him to Last Hearth."
He took two more steps before collapsing.
Others fell soon after. Adrenaline had driven them beyond mortal limits. Once it faded, death came swiftly.
A soldier lay on his back, staring at the sky. His hand twitched weakly at Cregan's cloak as they passed.
"My lord," he whispered. His lips trembled. "We leave him to you."
Those still able to walk wiped blood from their eyes and faces. One by one, they bowed their heads.
"By the Old Gods," a man swore hoarsely. "We'll see him safe."
They had been raised at Winterfell. Fed, clothed, given wives and land by House Stark.
Now they gave everything in return.
They lifted Cregan again and moved on, leaving the dead where they lay. There was no time. The wildlings might already be following.
Speed was all that mattered.
Far to the east, Baelon Targaryen cut through the sky astride his dragon.
Eastwatch-by-the-Sea appeared beneath him, its walls crouched low against the frozen shore. The castle was silent. Too silent.
Baelon narrowed his eyes, leaning forward in the saddle as the wind tore at his cloak. His jaw tightened.
"No banners," he murmured. "No smoke."
He did not land. Instead, he pressed his knees against Tyrraxes' sides and gestured downward. The dragon responded with a low rumble, banking as Baelon guided it closer.
With a snap of wings, Tyrraxes tore open a rooftop, sending splinters flying. Baelon peered down through the breach, eyes scanning every shadow.
Nothing.
No bodies. No signs of battle. No looting.
His fingers curled slowly around the saddle horn.
"So they did not come from Seal Bay," he said quietly. The words tasted wrong.
He lifted his gaze toward the Wall, its vast white bulk looming in the distance. A chill crept along his spine.
"Did they truly cross it?"
The thought unsettled him more than he liked to admit. Even climbing the Wall took a full day for trained men. Wildlings should not have managed it.
Unless they had help.
Baelon urged Tyrraxes westward, passing Greenguard, then Sable Hall. The abandoned towers slid by beneath him, empty and broken. Nightfort came next, its vast ruin yawning like a wound.
At last, the Queen's Gate.
Baelon descended, boots crunching softly as he dismounted. The air was stale inside the tunnel. He crouched, running a gloved hand over cold ashes.
Fire pits. Carelessly dropped bottles. Scraps of food. Furs laid out for warmth.
His mouth tightened.
"So this is where you came through."
He straightened slowly, eyes lifting to the narrow passage north of the gate.
"The Queen's Gate fell first," he said, voice low. "The others were sealed."
Anger flickered across his face. His nostrils flared.
"What in the Seven Hells was the Watch doing."
The pieces slid together with dreadful clarity.
"They went south."
The realization struck like a blade. Baelon sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders going rigid.
"The lords will not have time to muster. A hundred trained men will not stop them."
His hand clenched into a fist.
"And the closest stronghold is…"
He did not finish the thought.
"Last Hearth."
Baelon turned sharply, striding back toward the dragons. Tyrraxes was already sagging with exhaustion, chest heaving.
"You rest," Baelon said, voice firm but gentle, laying a hand against the warm scales. "Follow when you can."
He mounted Sheepstealer in one smooth motion. Grey Shadow wheeled above, screeching softly as it fell in behind them.
Baelon leaned forward, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Fly," he whispered.
Speed was everything now.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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