"Cregan Stark."
The murmur among the northern lords quieted at once. With the line of command settled and their resolve steadied, Baelon at last began issuing his final appointments before war.
From among the assembled banners, Cregan Stark stepped forward. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair bound simply at the nape of his neck, he knelt and bowed his head.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Baelon studied him for a moment. This was the wolf the North followed.
"I name you commander of the Eastern Front," Baelon said. His voice was calm, unraised, yet it carried clearly through the hall. "You will lead two thousand men drawn from House Stark, House Karstark, and House Whitehill, together with their sworn bannermen."
He turned and laid his hand upon the map spread across the table. With two fingers, he traced a slow line eastward.
"You will advance from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. From there, you are to take Greenguard, Beacon Tower, Long Barrow, Icemark Gate, and Sable Hall."
Cregan's eyes followed each movement, his expression unreadable, though his jaw tightened slightly as the path became clear.
"This is not a campaign of slaughter alone," Baelon continued. "When the wildlings are broken, every passage through these fortresses is to be sealed. Gates barred. Tunnels collapsed. No road is to remain open."
He tapped the map once, sharply.
"Once a stronghold is secured, you will leave a garrison behind. They will hold it until the war is concluded and my own forces arrive to assume command. Only then may those men be withdrawn."
Baelon repeated the orders, slower the second time, ensuring there could be no mistake.
Cregan Stark placed a fist against his chest and inclined his head.
"My sword, my men, and my life are yours," he said. "Your will shall be done, precisely."
Baelon nodded, satisfied, and turned his gaze across the hall.
"Rodrik Dustin."
An elderly lord with iron-gray hair stepped forward, leaning lightly on his spear. His back was straight despite his years, and his eyes were sharp beneath heavy brows.
"Rodrik of Barrowlands greets you, Your Grace," he said, lowering himself to one knee. "House Dustin stands ready."
A ripple of quiet confusion spread among the gathered lords.
House Dustin was no minor house, yet neither did it stand among the greatest powers of the North. House Stark ruled supreme, followed closely by House Karstark. Beneath them stood houses such as Whitehill, Glover, and Manderly, with others like Hornwood and Flint following after.
Why, then, had Baelon entrusted the strongest hosts to Cregan Stark, only to summon Rodrik Dustin separately?
Baelon's expression did not change.
"Rodrik Dustin," he said, "I appoint you commander of the Western Front. You will command your own banners, along with the forces of House Glover, House Mormont, House Reed, House Ryswell, and House Slate. In total, no fewer than two thousand men."
The murmurs grew louder.
Baelon moved once more to the map, his finger traveling west.
"You will begin from Westbridge. Your objectives are the Shadow Tower, Snowgate, Greyguard, Stonedoor, Frostfang Ridge, and Icespear Hold."
Rodrik lifted his head slightly, and for the briefest moment, something fierce flickered in his eyes.
Baelon allowed himself a faint smile.
Many in the hall knew little of Rodrik Dustin's name. But the name Winter Wolves was remembered throughout the realm.
During the Dance of the Dragons, two thousand old men had marched south under Stark banners, men who had chosen to die in battle rather than in their beds. At the Battle of the Lakeshore, they had charged Lannister pikes again and again, breaking the enemy at the cost of most of their own lives.
Later, what remained of them had struck the Reach host after the first Battle of Tumbleton, fighting at ten to one and cutting down lords of Hightower and Rowan alike.
Rodrik Dustin had led them then.
The old lord pressed his spear into the stone and rose with effort.
"Your Grace," he said, voice steady despite his years, "even if this old body must be spent upon the Wall, I will take these castles for you."
"Good," Baelon replied.
His tone hardened slightly.
"Good," Baelon said. His gaze lingered on Rodrik Dustin a moment longer, hard and assessing. "But remember this. Do not merely take the castles. Occupy them. Strengthen their defenses. Lay in provisions. The Wall itself must be reinforced."
He straightened, turning from the map. When he spoke again, his voice rose, carrying clearly across the camp beyond the pavilion.
"The remaining thousand men will advance with me against the central line of the Wall."
A stir passed through the ranks.
"Lord Whitefrost," Baelon continued, fixing the man with a steady look, "I leave five hundred of the Bloodflame Legion under your command. You will garrison Last Hearth. I will not have wildlings striking at our rear while we press forward."
Whitefrost went to one knee at once, fist pressed to his chest. "By my life and honor, Your Grace. Last Hearth will stand."
Baelon turned to face the gathered lords of the North. The torchlight caught the silver-gold of his hair and the hard set of his eyes, and for a moment the camp seemed to hold its breath.
"Lords of the North," he called, his voice ringing with authority. "Give your all upon the battlefield. As commander-in-chief of this war, I hereby decree-"
He raised his hand, fingers spread.
"For every wildling slain, one silver stag shall be paid. For every giant brought down, one golden dragon."
A murmur swept the crowd, swelling fast.
"The first man to scale the walls," Baelon continued, "shall be granted a full suit of plate armor, forged and fitted at my expense."
Now the camp was alive, men leaning forward, eyes bright.
"And should any man strike down the King in Bone Armor," Baelon said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade, "I will knight him myself, in my capacity as Prince of Harrenhal."
The camp erupted.
Shouts rang out, fists were raised, shields struck with spear hafts until the sound rolled like thunder. Northern lords who had weathered a hundred winters flushed with fierce, boyish excitement, cheering until their voices broke.
Though they ruled ancient keeps and commanded proud houses, their wealth and reach could not compare to the great lords of the south. Glory here meant more than silver. If they distinguished themselves and earned Baelon's favor, they might follow him south when the war was done.
To hold land beneath Harrenhal was far better than clinging to thin soil and frozen stones in the far North.
For who in the Seven Kingdoms did not know the tales now told of Harrenhal?
It was said gold could be found everywhere, that trade flowed without fear, that milk and honey were as common as water. The streets were safe enough that doors went unbarred at night, and Baelon's soldiers did not prey upon the smallfolk.
Some called it exaggeration.
Others called it heaven on earth.
Even those who doubted their own chances saw the value in it. If not for themselves, then for their sons. To send a boy south beneath Baelon's banners meant preserving the bloodline, securing southern holdings, and perhaps earning lasting glory.
The northern lords were rough-spoken and blunt, but they were not fools.
They knew well the prince's standing in King's Landing.
Word had spread that Baelon had been driven from the capital for a second time.
The first exile had come when he was only six years old, named Lord of Harrenhal and sent south to rule alone, far from court and kin.
The second had followed his brief tenure as commander of the City Watch. No sooner had order been restored to King's Landing than Baelon was dismissed and sent back to Harrenhal once more.
All whispered the same name.
Otto Hightower, Hand of the King.
It was said that after Baelon's departure, the Hand had begun to walk the streets of King's Landing openly again, appearing in alleys and marketplaces alike, working tirelessly to erase every trace of the prince's influence from the capital.
Yet here, in the cold breath of the North, Baelon stood at the head of an army, his banners flying, his word law.
And the lords of the North cheered his name.
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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???