The host returned to the castle at dusk, their banners hanging in tatters, their numbers thinned to a grim accounting that no victory could soften. Once within the shattered walls, the lords and captains set about the grim reckoning that followed any great battle, counting the living, naming the dead, and measuring loss not only in bodies but in bloodlines broken forever.
Of the five hundred men Cregan Stark had led out from Winterfell, scarcely any remained. Two survived. Perhaps three, depending on whether the man with the crushed leg lived through the night. The rest lay frozen and burned upon the fields south of Last Hearth, or scattered along the Kingsroad where the ambush had first fallen upon them.
House Umber's sworn swords had endured somewhat better. Of their seasoned warriors, a little more than twenty still drew breath. Yet survival had come at a cruel price. Last Hearth itself stood half ruined, its strength broken as surely as its men.
The eastern wall had collapsed inward, stones piled like cairns along the yard. The great gate had been smashed to kindling, its iron bands twisted and torn free. Several towers and halls within the castle lay crushed beneath massive stones, hurled by giants with terrible ease. Smoke still curled from shattered roofs, and the smell of ash and blood clung to the cold air.
Cregan stood amid the wreckage, his cloak stiff with dried blood, his expression carved from stone.
"This ruin is mine to answer for," he said at last, his voice low and heavy. "I never imagined the wildlings would dare an ambush along the Kingsroad. Less still that they would follow my flight and uncover the location of Last Hearth."
He turned his gaze toward the broken wall.
"Had I continued south toward Winterfell, this castle would likely never have been attacked at all."
There was no mistaking the guilt in his tone. Though he had been senseless when his men carried him from the field, the choice had been made for his sake alone. They had brought him here so his wounds could be tended with haste, and in doing so had drawn war down upon House Umber.
By any honest measure, the weight of blame rested heaviest upon his shoulders.
"No," Whitefrost Umber said at once, his great head shaking beneath its shock of pale hair. "To stand against wildling raids is the duty of every lord of the North. Last Hearth has done no more than its part."
He would not accept Cregan Stark's contrition, nor allow it to become a debt repaid too easily. The saving of the Stark lord had bound House Umber to Winterfell in a way no parchment vow ever could. If the Starks were also to shoulder the cost of rebuilding, that bond would be weakened.
Whitefrost was no subtle schemer, but even he could see the shape of advantage when it stood plainly before him. Gold could rebuild walls and gates in time. Favor from the Wardens of the North was worth far more, and far harder to win.
The cost pained him deeply. Yet the chance to forge closer ties with House Stark was a prize beyond coin.
"Enough," Baelon said, stepping forward before the argument could deepen. His voice carried calm authority. "The rebuilding of Last Hearth will be paid for by Harrenhal. I share the blame for what occurred. Our scouts failed, and for that failure many have died."
With those words, Baelon claimed the burden as his own.
He could well afford it. A castle restored was a small price to secure the goodwill of one of the North's oldest houses.
Whitefrost hesitated. Pride warred with necessity, and gratitude with suspicion. At last, he inclined his head.
"House Umber will remember this," he said solemnly. "The eastern wall shall be named Dragonbreath Wall, and the great gate shall be called Dawn Gate. So long as Umbers draw breath, your generosity will not be forgotten."
Far to the north, beyond the ruined fields and blackened corpses, the defeated Bone Armor King led what remained of his host back toward the Wall.
His army had been shattered. Raiders who had once filled the horizon were gone, reduced to ash and scattered bone. Giants lay dead upon the field, their great bodies burned and broken. Of all his strength, barely more than a hundred Thenn bronze riders remained to him.
Still, the Wall itself stood under his name.
Icecrown Gate. Sable Hall. Greenwatch. Shorehold. Sentinel Tower. Frostfang Peak.
Each of those strongholds held near a thousand free folk warriors, men and women hardened by cold and hunger. Only the eastern castles stood empty now. He had stripped them bare to swell the host that marched on Last Hearth.
Those warriors were almost certainly dead.
Who could have foreseen that, when victory seemed within reach, three dragons would descend from the sky?
At Icecrown Gate, the sentries cried out as he approached. The gates were thrown open at once. Confusion flickered across the faces of the guards when they saw how few rode with their king, but none dared speak of it.
"My king," one said, bowing low. "You have returned."
"Where is Light?" the Bone Armor King demanded. "Summon him to me."
Weariness pressed upon him like a weight of iron. He dismounted stiffly, lowering himself onto a stone beside the gate, and waved a warrior off with an impatient gesture.
"Lord Light?" the man echoed, startled. After a moment, he nodded. "I will fetch him."
It was not long before an old man emerged from the shadows.
He wore a dark green robe, frayed and stained. His back was bent, and small animal carcasses hung from cords about his body, bones and claws clacking softly as he walked.
"Well," he rasped. "If it is not the great King Beyond the Wall, sitting in the dirt like a beaten hound."
His voice scraped like iron dragged across frozen wood.
"Spare me, Light," the Bone Armor King replied evenly. "If the gods truly exist, I pray they take you soon. I have endured that tongue of yours for nearly thirty years."
There was no anger in his voice, only exhaustion, and something distant besides.
For a time, they sat in silence. Wind whispered along the Wall above them.
At last, the Bone Armor King spoke again.
"The Dragon King has come. A dragonlord with three dragons. He burned my raiders and the First Giant Legion to ash. I escaped with little more than a hundred riders."
He lifted his hands and removed his crown and bone mask. Beneath them was the weathered face of a man in his middle years, lined by cold and war.
"I warned you," Light said, settling beside him. "Once you crossed the Wall, you had to be ready to face dragonlords. You told yourself they all lived in the warm south, that none would ever dare the frozen North."
He shook his head.
"Reality has proved you wrong."
As he shifted, five chains of different metals slipped into view across his chest, catching the pale light.
"My remaining strength is not enough to conquer the North," the Bone Armor King said. "I need more warriors. The Stoneborn are my best hope. You will send word to them."
Light did not answer at once.
"And I need forces that can stand against dragons," the king continued. "The creatures you spoke of before, those that dwell in the Shivering Sea and the White Waste. I want them brought to war."
The Stoneborn were the people of Skagos. In the Old Tongue, their name meant those born of stone. South of the Wall, they were known more crudely as the Skaggs. Though sworn in name to House Stark, their blood and ways bound them closer to the free folk than to the lords of the green lands.
Light's eyes glittered.
"To call the Stoneborn is easy enough," he said coolly. "But to command those creatures is another matter. The price will be terrible, no different from chaining giants to your cause. Are you prepared to pay it?"
The Bone Armor King's hand brushed the horn at his chest. He hesitated, then clenched his fist.
"I am."
"Then bring me the offerings," Light said, rising slowly. "Without them, no ritual can begin."
There was a fevered note beneath his calm now.
"I understand," the king replied.
A bitter smile touched his lips. As a ruler sworn to protect his people, he was about to drag them toward an abyss of his own making. Whether it was right or wrong no longer mattered.
The storm was upon them.
"Tell me," he said softly, "if the Citadel learned that the archmaester they cast out had become the greatest ally of the free folk, and that his work was true after all, what would they say?"
"Much the same as your people would say if they woke tomorrow riding dragons," Light answered, without turning back.
The Bone Armor King said no more. He rose, issuing orders for the offerings to be gathered.
For him, the sooner it was done, the better.
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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???