While the soldiers kept their silence, Baelon was already on his way to the maester's chambers.
A servant brought a set of plain woolen clothes ahead of him, intending to change once he arrived. Certain matters, especially those that left no mark upon flesh, were never suited to public corridors or curious eyes. Better they be handled behind closed doors, beneath the scent of herbs and ink.
Lord Whitefrost escorted him personally.
The lord's steps were measured, but his shoulders were stiff, his jaw set hard as stone. He did not speak as they passed through the torchlit halls, though his gloved hand tightened more than once around the pommel of his sword. When they reached the door, he pushed it open himself and gestured Baelon inside, his expression grim.
Almost at the same hour, ravens and breathless messengers reached the other lords still in the city.
At Karhold, Cregan Karstark received the report from one kneeled soldier, mud still clinging to the man's boots.
"What did you say?" Cregan demanded, rising abruptly from his seat.
"The prince, my lord," the soldier said, swallowing. "Gravely injured... And unconscious."
Cregan's hand came down hard upon the table, rattling the cups. "Unconscious?" He leaned forward, eyes sharp. "From what?"
"It's said the prince was in the Neck," the man replied. "and got injured... afterward, Lord Whitefrost personally escorted His Grace to the maester."
"Seven hells," Cregan muttered. He seized his cloak, fastening it with rough fingers as he reached for his sword belt. "If harm comes to Prince Baelon, the North will pay for it in blood."
Baelon had aided him without hesitation, lending his strength in the search for the commander slain at the Bay of Seals. Worse still, Marlon had been wounded shielding him. To remain idle now would be dishonor piled upon dishonor.
"Ready the horses," Cregan snapped as he strode from the hall. "I ride for the maester."
Far to the south, within Last Hearth, Cregan Stark received word of the same tidings.
"Even Prince Baelon?" he said quietly.
The man before him nodded. "They say even Tyraxes could not prevent it."
Cregan Stark exhaled slowly, one hand resting on the back of his chair. For a long moment he did not move. His dark eyes flickered with calculation, then tightened with something nearer to dread.
"Could it be the Bone-Armored King?" he asked at last. "The same host of giants from the last war?"
"No one knows, my lord."
Cregan straightened. "I will see the prince myself."
Baelon alone commanded the Bloodflame Legion, the true steel beneath the North's strength. More than that, he was the sole rider in the North bound to a dragon. If Baelon fell, order itself would fray.
And if Tyraxes lost his rider…
Cregan's mouth thinned. He knew the histories. When a dragonrider died, the bond did not fade quietly. Dragons mourned in fire and madness. Towns burned. Fields turned to ash. Even Grey Ghost, elusive and wild as he was, had once been recorded to spiral into weeks of destruction after the death of his rider.
If Baelon were truly lost, the North would not survive the aftermath.
Cregan closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and bowed his head.
"O Old Gods," he murmured, his voice low and steady, "who watch from root and stone, from leaf and soil… guard the North. Guard Prince Baelon."
The prayer done, he armed himself.
Ice was not at his side.
The absence weighed on him as heavily as armor. During the last battle, he had seen the great Valyrian blade unmistakably in the grasp of the Bone-Armored King. That memory burned still. He had sworn before heart tree and banner that he would reclaim it, or die in the attempt.
That oath echoed with every step as he left the hall.
The maester's chambers lay quiet when the first of them arrived.
Inside, Baelon lay pale against the linens, breath shallow but steady. The room smelled of boiled leaves and sharp spirits. Lord Whitefrost stood near the wall, arms folded, gaze never leaving the prince's face.
When Cregan Karstark entered, he halted just short of the bed. His hands clenched slowly at his sides.
"Still breathing," he said, forcing the words out.
"For now," the maester replied softly.
Cregan Stark arrived soon after. He removed his gloves, laying them aside with care before stepping closer. He studied Baelon's face, the lines of strain, the faint sheen of sweat.
"Hold fast," he said quietly, more command than comfort. "The North still needs you."
When Cregan Stark reached the door to the maester's chambers, he found he was not the first to arrive.
Two men stood waiting beneath the flickering torchlight.
Cregan Karstark.
And Lord Glover.
Karstark turned at the sound of boots on stone, his dark cloak shifting over his shoulders. He inclined his head, formal but tight with strain. "Lord Stark."
Cregan returned the nod, his gaze already drifting to the closed door. "You are here for Prince Baelon as well."
"Yes," Karstark said. His jaw worked once before he continued. "The maester refuses us entry. He claims the prince is in a… particular state. Says His Grace must be properly dressed before anyone is allowed inside."
"Properly dressed?" Cregan repeated.
A faint crease formed between his brows.
If Baelon had been struck down by an enemy, there would be no cause for such caution. Wounds were wounds. Armor could be cut away, linens drawn up.
For the briefest instant, an absurd thought surfaced.
He crushed it at once.
Baelon was scarcely ten. The notion withered the moment it appeared.
Still, unease stirred in Cregan's chest. One possibility after another crossed his mind and was dismissed. A giant attack no longer fit. Nor did any half-formed tale of folly or impulse.
Baelon was not that sort of boy.
"The maester spoke to me," Karstark went on, lowering his voice. "He said the prince suffers frostbite across his chest, and burn marks over much of his body. Beyond that, he would say nothing. Only that he could do no more for now. When the fever worsened, he ordered water and insisted on tending to the prince himself."
Cregan's hand tightened slowly at his side.
Frost and fire.
The words sat ill together.
They waited in silence after that, the corridor heavy with the scent of smoke and dried herbs. At last, the door creaked open.
The maester emerged first, shoulders stooped beneath a gray robe. Behind him stood lord Umber.
As I feared, he thought. The soldiers' tongues had wagged.
He did not allow them time to speak.
"Prince Baelon is not in mortal danger," lord Umber said, hisvoice firm and unyielding. "The maester believes His Grace collapsed from extreme exhaustion. With rest, he will wake."
Relief flickered across Karstark's face, though it did not fully take hold. Cregan Stark remained still, his eyes fixed on him.
lord Umber turned slightly and gestured down the hall. "My lords, come. We will speak elsewhere. The prince must not be disturbed."
They followed him into a side passage, the torchlight dimmer there. Karstark broke first.
"Is he truly safe?" he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "You heard the maester yourself. Frostbite. Burns. That is no small thing."
Cregan said nothing, but his posture was rigid, his attention absolute.
Amber stopped and faced them.
"Do you think I would lie to you?" he asked coolly.
His gaze held Karstark's, then shifted to Cregan Stark.
"I swear this by my name and honor," he said. "Prince Baelon is not dying."
He drew a breath, steady and controlled. "He is unconscious because he has driven his body far beyond what it should bear. Nothing more."
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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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