An unfamiliar dragon's roar rolled across the sky above Last Hearth, deep and resonant, yet it stirred little alarm among the smallfolk or the men-at-arms upon the walls.
After all, it was only one dragon.
They already lived beneath the shadows of three.
Baelon paused mid-step, the parchment still in his hand. A flicker of curiosity crossed his features as he moved toward the narrow window set into the stone. Beyond the battlements, a pale blue dragon wheeled slowly through the iron-grey sky, its wings cutting wide arcs through drifting snow.
"Dreamfyre," Baelon murmured.
He knew the dragon well.
Dreamfyre was not meant to have a rider. Not now.
His brow furrowed. A sharp thought took hold, and Baelon turned at once, striding from the chamber without waiting for his cloak.
"Helaena," he called, his voice carrying across the yard.
The answer came not in words but in wind and flame. Dreamfyre descended in a controlled spiral, frost scattering beneath its downdraft. As the dragon settled, Baelon's eyes found the lone figure seated upon its back, slight against the great blue bulk.
"Baelon," Helaena called, her voice thin from the cold.
She worked quickly, fingers stiff as she unfastened the chains securing him to the saddle. A rope dropped, and with practiced care, Helaena climbed down, boots striking the frozen ground hard enough to jar a wince from her.
Baelon was already there, one hand rising instinctively as if to steady her.
"Why did you fly north on Dreamfyre," Baelon asked, his frown restrained but unmistakable. "I sent word to my uncle. Daemon or Laena would have sufficed."
In his mind, this could only have been reinforcement from King Viserys. That his uncle would allow his daughter to come herself was what troubled him.
Helaena pulled his cloak tighter about her shoulders, teeth chattering despite the thick furs. "Father forbade it," he admitted. "I argued. He yielded."
The wind cut through the yard, sharp as a blade. Even prepared for the cold, Helaena trembled visibly, shoulders drawn inward, breath misting with every word.
Dreamfyre fared little better. Raised in warmth and care, the dragon shifted uneasily, pale hide dulled by frost. This was no Grey Ghost, no Sheepstealer hardened by solitude and cold.
Baelon placed a hand upon Helaena's head, steady and warm despite the chill. "Enough," he said quietly. "You have done your duty. Come inside before the cold takes more than your pride."
Helena did not argue. She followed, steps uneven, leaving Dreamfyre behind.
Baelon had not forgotten the dragon.
At a sharp gesture, Tyraxes lifted from his perch, vast wings beating slow and heavy. He circled once before guiding Dreamfyre toward the basin carved into the rock beyond the walls, where scorched stone and fire pits marked Baelon's attempt at mercy.
It was a crude solution. Hot springs diverted, pits kept burning day and night. A dragon bath, born of necessity and memory rather than knowledge.
Dreamfyre tensed at the sight of Tyraxes. Its head drew back, nostrils flaring.
Tyraxes was no sleek thing. Thick of body, heavy of muscle, his frame bore the marks of strength over elegance. To Dreamfyre, dragons were meant to be graceful. Tyraxes was something else entirely.
Grey Ghost and Sheepstealer had once shared that judgment.
They no longer did.
The memory of Tyraxes driving Dreamfyre into the stone, beating arrogance from bone and wing, lingered in the blue dragon's posture now. Wariness replaced disdain as it allowed itself to be guided.
There was only one habitat.
Tyraxes, Grey Ghost, and Sheepstealer all endured it together.
Grey Ghost's wounds were nearly mended. Just the day before, the dragon had taken to the air in slow, deliberate circles, though the cold soon drove him back to shelter. Even dragons found little kindness in the far North.
Baelon had ordered fires kept alight without cease. Servants hauled wood until their hands bled, Maesters complained of excess, and still it was not enough.
He could feel it in his bones. The longer the dragons remained here, the more their strength waned.
Grey Ghost grew lethargic, feeding and sleeping in equal measure. If this continued, his growth would suffer.
Sheepstealer alone endured without complaint. Wild-born and fully grown, the cold slid from him like rain from stone.
Tyraxes, however, suffered the most. The cold of the North gnawed at him without mercy, magnifying his flaws and slowing the great heart within his chest until even his fire seemed dulled.
Baelon had watched long enough to draw an uneasy conclusion.
Cold itself was a natural enemy of dragons.
If that was true, then there could be no drawn-out war.
The fighting in the North had to be decided swiftly. Every day it lingered bled strength from him, from his dragons, and from the fragile advantage he held.
Back within the keep, Baelon formally presented Princess Helaena to the assembled lords of the North.
The moment they understood who stood before them, cloaked in dragonhide and winter furs, murmurs swept the hall. When word spread that this young girl was the daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, chairs scraped back in unison.
Steel rang as swords were lowered. One by one, the northern lords dropped to one knee.
No herald commanded them. No guard enforced it.
A dragon had done that.
Baelon waited until the last man had risen before striking the table with his knuckles, the sharp sound snapping the hall back to order.
"Enough," he said evenly. "We continue."
He unrolled the map he had prepared long in advance, its edges weighted with stone. Candlelight danced across the black line of the Wall.
"The Night's Watch is gone," Baelon said. "All nineteen castles have fallen. Every one of them now lies in wildling hands."
The words settled heavily.
"Our response will be threefold," he continued, placing stones along the parchment. "An eastern host, a central host, and a western host. We advance along the full length of the Wall and break them before they can regroup."
He did not pause there.
"To that end, I will share what lies beyond."
He spoke of the host led by the so-called Bone-Armored King. Of strange disturbances reported along the Bay of Seals. Of the ice-and-snow creatures haunting the Nameless Valley.
At first, doubt crept into the faces of the gathered lords. Brows furrowed. Whispers stirred.
Then Baelon stepped forward.
Without a word, he tore open his tunic and bared the frostbitten scars scored across his chest. The hall fell silent as he demonstrated the properties of the so-called Unburnt, steel scraping uselessly where fire should have prevailed.
When Cregan Stark spoke in his defense, and Lord Whitefrost followed, joined by Lord Glover and Marlon, skepticism finally gave way to grim acceptance.
Baelon let the silence stretch before speaking again.
"If the wildlings retreat deeper beyond the Wall, do not chase them," he warned. "There is a strong chance of ambush. Wildlings can be slain."
His gaze hardened.
"Giants, or those ice creatures, are another matter."
He swept the room with his eyes.
"Pursuit would only waste lives. Losses without meaning."
The lords nodded, solemn and sober. If weapons shattered upon contact, then prudence was not cowardice but survival.
"Still," Baelon said, straightening, "you need not fear too greatly. I command three dragons."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"Each host will be accompanied by one. If the unexpected occurs, they will see you safely through."
He paused, letting the promise take root.
"Now," Baelon said, voice steady as stone, "I will name the commanders of the three hosts."
The fear that had weighed upon the hall lifted, just enough.
Baelon had chosen his symbol carefully.
In Westeros, dragons meant only one thing.
Victory.
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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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