Cregan Stark reached Last Hearth with what remained of his escort, bloodied and half-frozen, their banners torn and stained. The stronghold of House Umber loomed above the frostbitten hills like a clenched fist, its walls already bristling with watchfires.
The lord of the castle, Whitefrost Umber, was a giant of a man, broad as a bear and packed with corded muscle beneath his furs. When word reached him that the Lord of Winterfell had been ambushed by wildlings, he wasted no time. The castle's only maester, the sole man with any learning in healing, was summoned at once.
After a long examination, the maester delivered his judgment. Lord Cregan had suffered several broken ribs and a moderate concussion. Painful, dangerous, but not mortal.
That was small comfort.
Whitefrost soon learned the rest from the survivors.
"A full wildling host?" he demanded.
"And Prince Baelon himself rode against them on dragonback?"
With every sentence, his face darkened further. By their account, the wildlings numbered several thousand at least, and no man could swear that what they had seen was the full strength of the horde. In years past, mere raiding bands beyond the Wall could reach such numbers. If the free folk had truly come south in force, it was folly to think their host was small.
"Give my orders," Whitefrost said at once.
"Summon every bannerman. Tell them to bring all the men they can muster, and every grain sack they can spare. They are to assemble here, at Last Hearth."
"Open the armories. Press the townsfolk into service. We must be ready for an attack from the north at any hour."
"And send ravens in Lord Cregan's name. Call the North to arms. The wildlings are invading."
House Umber stood closer to the true North than any lord save the Night's Watch, and Whitefrost knew the free folk well. If they came in full strength, no single house could hope to break them in open battle. All he could do was prepare and pray the rest of the North answered his call.
The prayer went unanswered.
Before the ravens had time to fly far, patrols and messengers returned in haste, fear plain upon their faces.
They had seen the wildling host.
"Old gods," Whitefrost swore. "How could they come so quickly?"
Then his gaze fell upon the wounded men who had brought Lord Cregan here, and understanding struck him like a hammer.
"Wait," he said sharply. "You said you fought your way out of their encirclement?"
"Aye," one of the soldiers said, pride still clinging to his voice despite his wounds. "We cut straight through them. We would not leave Lord Stark behind."
Whitefrost closed his eyes.
So that was it. They had not escaped unnoticed. They had carved a road through the enemy, and the enemy had followed it straight to his gates.
"So be it," he muttered. "Ready the walls."
The men had done no wrong. Lord Cregan had been unconscious and dying. They had needed shelter, and Last Hearth was the nearest refuge. Still, the truth was bitter.
What troubled Whitefrost more was this. From the ambush onward, every move the wildlings had made spoke of discipline and coordination. That was new. That was dangerous.
When the horns sounded, Umber soldiers climbed the walls, and the sight before them stole the breath from their lungs.
The wildling army stood in ordered ranks beyond the walls, stretching across the frozen fields. Men and women alike filled the host, young and old together, clad in hides and leather, their faces hard and feral.
"They are forming lines," Whitefrost said in disbelief. "Since when do wildlings march like soldiers?"
This was no mob. This was an army.
At a signal from the King Beyond the Wall, the Bone-Armored King, the host began to advance.
They carried no proper siege engines, only crude ladders of lashed timber. Even so, every step they took tightened the defenders' grip on spear and shield.
Whitefrost had fewer than six hundred men on the walls. Three hundred were seasoned Umber soldiers. The rest were guards and watchmen, men meant to keep the peace, not hold against an army. The North was wide and cruel, and even a great house could not keep a large standing force.
"Men of House Umber," Whitefrost roared. "Hold fast. The North is coming. Fight for your homes. Fight for your families."
Hatred between northman and wildling ran too deep for mercy. The Umbers boasted the blood of giants in their veins, and Whitefrost would die before bending the knee to the free folk.
The ladders slammed into place. Two of the strongest wildlings braced each one while others swarmed upward, boots thudding against the rungs.
"Loose stones," Whitefrost commanded.
Frozen earth and rock rained down. Skulls cracked. Bodies fell screaming. The hides and leathers of the attackers offered little protection, and for a time the assault faltered.
Then the Bone-Armored King grew weary of delay.
At his gesture, a new force advanced. Warriors in bronze helms and mail, iron blades at their sides, longbows in hand. Thenns. The most dangerous of the free folk.
They moved with grim precision, stepped into range, and loosed.
Arrows flew thick and true. Few missed. Men cried out and fell, wounded or dead. Soon the defenders dared not show their heads above the parapets.
Whitefrost cursed and tore an arrow from his own arm. Snatching a hand axe, he hurled it with all his strength. The blade struck a Thenn square in the helm, crushing bronze and skull alike.
"You see that?" he shouted. "They bleed like any other men. Take up your axes and javelins. Hurl them. Do not hold back."
His fury steadied them.
The defenders rose and answered the archers with every missile they had. Their aim was poorer, but their numbers told. Soon the ground beneath the walls was littered with the dead of both sides.
The battle settled into a savage stalemate, steel and stone locked against bone and bronze, while the fate of the North hung trembling in the cold air.
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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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Send the stones this way. Okay???