No one could truly fault Cregan Karstark for his fear. In the old songs of the North, anything bound to the legends of the White Walkers belonged to the same dark tapestry as demons and living nightmares. Ice that walked. Cold that killed the soul before the flesh.
"They were not White Walkers," Baelon said at last.
He shook his head slowly as he spoke, silver hair brushing the collar of his cloak. His voice was steady, but his eyes were hard with memory.
"They looked like beasts you would find in any forest. Eagles, wolves, bears. Yet their flesh was ice through and through. Solid, unyielding. When my blade struck, it shattered as if I had hit stone."
He raised two fingers and tapped his chest where pale scars crept beneath his tunic.
"This frostbite was their doing."
The hall had gone quiet. Even the crackle of the hearth seemed distant as Baelon recounted the fight in careful detail. The ice-eagle had descended from a cloudless sky, its wings spreading a killing cold that numbed limbs and slowed thought. Men had fallen before they ever reached it. Others had frozen where they stood, eyes wide, breath stolen from their lungs.
"It was not merely their bodies," Baelon said. "Their presence itself was a weapon. The cold gnaws at you. Weakens you. Breaks your will."
He folded his hands behind his back and paced a step before stopping.
"Only Valyrian steel could endure such creatures. Steel forged in fire strong enough to defy their ice."
Baelon turned toward Cregan Stark, who sat stiff-backed at the high table.
"Lord Stark," he said, his tone respectful but firm, "where is your ancestral sword? Where is Ice? If we are to face beasts of ice and lightning, we will need it."
The words lingered in the air.
Only then did Baelon truly look at the greatsword strapped across Cregan Stark's back. Its shape was wrong. The balance unfamiliar.
It was not Ice.
Cregan Stark's jaw tightened. His broad hands clenched against the armrests of his chair, knuckles paling before he forced himself to speak.
"You have my apologies, Prince Baelon," he said heavily. "Ice was lost during our retreat from the savage host. By all accounts, it now lies in the hands of the one they call the Bone-Armored King."
The admission seemed to weigh on him like lead.
Baelon's brows rose, genuine surprise flickering across his face, but he did not press. After a moment, he inclined his head.
"Then we will reclaim it," he said simply. "I will see to it myself."
His calm certainty drew a few quiet breaths of relief from the gathered lords.
After a brief pause, Baelon continued, his gaze sweeping the hall.
"This Bone-Armored King. Who is he truly? I have heard whispers that he commands giants and bends those ice-creatures to his will."
At the name, Lord Whitefrost stepped forward from the shadows near the pillars of the hall. His expression was carved from stone, eyes cold and watchful.
"I learned what I know from the savages we took captive after the last war," Whitefrost said. "They proved… talkative."
No one asked how.
"Bone-Armor's true name is Hargen," he went on. "He was once nothing more than a tribesman from the small Valley, high in the Frostfangs. Two years past, he found something that changed everything."
Whitefrost's lips thinned.
"A horn. An ancient thing. One that can command giants."
A low murmur spread through the hall.
"With giant strength at his back, Hargen shattered rival tribes and forced the rest to kneel," Whitefrost continued. "He united the lands beyond the Wall and was crowned at the Ancestral Peak. There, he named himself King of Bone Armor. A King Beyond the Wall."
"A horn," Baelon murmured.
His fingers curled slowly, and the warmth seemed to drain from his eyes.
One name echoed unspoken in his thoughts.
The Horn of Winter.
The name alone carried the weight of old terror.
According to the oldest Northern legends, that horn could wake giants sleeping beneath stone and snow. Worse still, it was said to possess the power to bring down the Wall itself. Not crack it. Not weaken it. Bring it down.
If the Wall fell, the final barrier standing between the North and the creatures of ice and snow would be gone.
That would not be a defeat. It would be collapse.
Baelon exhaled slowly, fingers tightening against the carved arm of his chair.
"How long ago was my request for aid sent to King's Landing?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Lord Whitefrost stepped forward, his heavy cloak whispering against the stone. He inclined his head slightly.
"A day or two past," he replied. "If the roads remain clear and the skies fair, help should arrive soon."
Baelon's lips pressed into a thin line. He knew well what that help was meant to be.
Not banners. Not marching hosts.
Dragonriders.
From King's Landing, they would fly faster than any army could hope to move.
"Good," Baelon said quietly. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. "Until then, we rely on Tyraxes and the others to hold the line."
No one questioned him.
Baelon leaned back once more, eyes drifting toward the rafters as a faint unease settled into his chest.
This world felt wrong.
In the stories he remembered, there were no ice beasts. No true Horn of Winter. Giants were half-forgotten relics, and only the White Walkers had ever been real.
And yet now, the ice could fly.
Several days later, the banners of the North converged upon Last Hearth.
Men poured in from every road and frozen track. The white merman of White Harbor marched beneath snapping sails of cloth and steel. The black fists of House Glover arrived from Deepwood Motte. Riders came from the Barrowlands, their shields marked with the Dustins' sigil. Tallhart spears formed neat ranks beneath pine-green banners from Torrhen's Square.
And, inevitably, the flayed man of House Bolton flew above a grim column from the Dreadfort.
With more than five thousand soldiers gathered, Last Hearth became dangerously overcrowded. Camps sprawled beyond the walls. Fires burned day and night. The smell of sweat, horseflesh, and oil hung thick in the cold air.
Yet beneath the shadow of three dragons, and nearly two thousand Bloodflame Legion soldiers standing in ordered formation, no lord dared stir unrest.
Tyraxes roosted beyond the walls, vast and watchful, coils shifting like molten bronze beneath his scales. Farther off, Grey Ghost remained half-hidden against the pale sky, silent as mist, his presence felt more than seen.
Fear kept the peace where honor might have failed.
"Your Highness."
Baelon turned as the man approached and dropped to one knee. The northern officer's breath fogged the air as he bowed his head.
"All Northern forces have assembled," he reported. "Total strength stands at five thousand three hundred men."
Baelon rose slowly from his chair, the movement measured.
"The Tallharts brought seven hundred," the officer continued. "The Manderlys, six hundred. The Boltons are close behind in number."
Baelon nodded once, his expression unreadable.
"Good," he said.
He stepped toward the map table, one hand resting briefly on its edge, when a sound rolled across the sky.
A dragon's roar.
Not Tyraxes.
The sound was sharper, unfamiliar, and close.
The air itself seemed to tremble as the cry echoed over Last Hearth. Conversations died mid-sentence. Men froze where they stood. Helmets tilted back as every head turned upward in unison.
Baelon straightened slowly, eyes lifting to the sky.
Someone had arrived.
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