A lively banquet was held that night at Last Hearth.
Though excessive drinking was forbidden by strict order, nothing else was spared. Long trestle tables bowed beneath roasted aurochs, venison glazed in honey, and loaves of bread carried steaming from the ovens. The great hall rang with voices and laughter, banners of the North stirring as cold wind slipped in through the high stone arches.
Baelon did not drink. He observed.
At dawn, horns sounded across the frost-whitened yard, and the assembled nobles divided into three forces.
The first to depart was Cregan Karstark, commander of the western front. His route was the longest and most unforgiving, cutting through frozen forests and across half-buried rivers. Only men hardened by cold and hunger could survive there. Lord Whitefrost was assigned to ride with him, his endurance and keen eye making him ideal for raiding and reconnaissance.
The western front was settled without dispute.
Baelon had already scouted the eastern approach himself. No wildling camps. No signs of movement. With that in mind, he assigned Grey Ghost, newly recovered from his wounds, to command the eastern front.
The second host departed soon after.
Cregan Stark rode at its head.
With Tyraxes, he led the Bloodflame Legion alongside banners of House Stark, House Glover, and sworn men from the surrounding lands. They marched north along the Kingsroad toward the Wall, snow crunching beneath thousands of boots.
Castle Black soon rose before them.
The timber structures had long since burned, leaving only blackened frames and ash-choked ground. Yet the stone towers still stood, dark and grim, looming against the pale sky like the ribs of some dead giant.
From the air, Baelon circled once.
Nothing.
Then Tyraxes descended.
The moment Baelon's boots touched the frozen ground, his expression tightened. His gaze fixed on the Black Gate.
It stood open.
The door opened inward, its black iron swallowed by the tunnel's shadow. From above, it was easy to miss. From the ground, it was unmistakable.
Baelon raised a hand, halting the men behind him.
"Something is wrong."
Before the words had fully settled, a voice rang out from the flank.
"Milord!" a noble shouted, pointing at the snow. "Footprints. Giants."
The prints were enormous, pressed deep into frozen earth, far larger than any man's stride.
Baelon crouched, gloved fingers brushing the edge of one print. His jaw set.
"Do not panic," he said, rising smoothly. His voice was calm, but his eyes were cold. "Form a perimeter. Ring formation. Search the castle carefully."
The Bloodflame Legion moved at once.
Units broke apart into squads, shields locking together as they advanced. They covered blind angles, secured corners, and swept corridors with silent efficiency.
The northern soldiers watched in stunned silence.
They were warriors themselves. They knew what they were seeing.
This was discipline forged through blood.
The nobles, however, exchanged glances filled with barely concealed desire.
Dragons. Soldiers. Gold.
These were the three things every lord in Westeros craved.
Baelon dismounted and walked toward the Black Gate.
Inside, iron chains lay severed along the passage.
He knelt and lifted one.
The cut was smooth. Too smooth.
His thumb traced the edge, then stopped.
"Such a blade," he murmured. "Only Valyrian steel could cut iron like this."
His eyes narrowed.
Ice.
Cregan Stark's greatsword had been lost beyond the Wall. Lost to the one the wildlings whispered of in fear.
The Bone-Armored King.
Baelon straightened, expression hard.
"He has withdrawn beyond the Wall."
He turned sharply.
"Seal the Black Gate," Baelon commanded. "Split the Legion. Five hundred men east, five hundred west."
His gaze swept over the officers before him.
"Reconnaissance only. No prolonged engagement. Speed above all."
Fists struck breastplates in salute.
"As you command."
The Bloodflame Legion divided cleanly, marching out with precision toward the King's Back Gate and Oak Bridge.
The remaining northern forces were set to work. Repairs. Reinforcements. Supplies hauled and stored.
Across the Wall, the pattern repeated.
At the eastern front, Grey Ghost found nothing. He secured Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and sent scouts along the coast toward the Bay of Seals.
On the western front, Cregan Karstark followed Baelon's orders to the letter. Garrisons were left behind. Passages sealed. Defenses raised. Only then did he lead the rest onward.
One by one, every Night's Watch castle along the western front was brought back under control. Gates were sealed, garrisons established, signal fires restored. What had once been abandoned and silent now bore the mark of men once more.
Baelon did not advance on the central castles until he was certain. Again and again, he took to the sky, Tyraxes' shadow sweeping across the Wall and the frozen lands beyond. Only after repeated reconnaissance confirmed the enemy's withdrawal did he give the order to move.
Of the three commanders, Cregan Stark was the slowest.
His men were brave and loyal, but they lacked the speed and coordination of the Bloodflame Legion. Where Baelon's soldiers advanced like a blade drawn cleanly from its sheath, the northern levies moved with caution, securing each position before pressing on.
In the end, it mattered little.
All nineteen castles of the Night's Watch were reclaimed.
The commanders regrouped at Castle Black, banners snapping in the cold wind as northern nobles gathered in the yard. Snow crunched beneath boots as Baelon dismounted, removing his gloves before turning to the others.
His gaze moved from face to face.
"So," he said quietly, folding his hands behind his back, "none of you encountered signs of a wildling host?"
Cregan Stark shook his head. "Nothing but old camps and broken trails."
Cregan Karstark crossed his arms, breath misting before him. "They fled in haste. No rearguard. No challenge."
The reports were compared. The conclusion was unmistakable.
The Bone-Armored King had led his people back beyond the Wall.
Strategically, it was the wisest choice.
The Night's Watch had fallen, but the North had rallied. Three dragons now loomed over the Wall, and beneath them stood the Bloodflame Legion. Even with giants at his command, the Bone-Armored King could not hope to face such strength in open battle.
So he withdrew.
Baelon felt no urge to pursue.
It was not fear. It was reason.
Those creatures of ice and snow were monsters beyond common war. Ordinary blades barely slowed them. Even disciplined soldiers would fare little better.
To chase them north would be folly.
Thus, he let the wildlings go.
What Baelon did not know was that the "creatures of ice and snow" that later slaughtered the retreating wildlings were not enemies at all.
They had been summoned by the wildlings themselves.
Baelon stepped forward, raising his voice so it carried across the yard.
"Gentlemen," he announced, his posture straight, his expression composed, "the wildlings have chosen their path. This victory belongs to all of us."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"I will keep my word. The first man to scale the Wall during the assault shall receive the promised reward. A full suit of plate forged at Harrenhal."
A murmur swept through the crowd, swelling quickly into excitement.
"And in addition," Baelon continued, lifting a hand for silence, "Harrenhal will bear the full cost of this campaign's supplies, as a token of my gratitude."
As commander, he understood morale better than most.
He also understood opportunity.
Winning the loyalty of the northern lords was worth far more than coin. And coin, at least, he had in abundance.
"Thank you, Prince Baelon!"
The nobles answered as one, voices echoing off stone and ice. Though they had taken little plunder, they had suffered no losses. And fortune, with a single stroke, might yet grant one of them armor fit for legend.
Baelon smiled in response.
Yet beneath that calm expression, unease lingered.
The campaign had not fulfilled its original purpose, but it had ended cleanly enough. The Wall was restored to the realm. The wildlings were driven back beyond it.
A neat conclusion.
And still…
Baelon could not shake the feeling that something remained unfinished.
Those creatures of ice and snow would not remain silent forever.
Sooner or later, they would return.
And when they did, the North would bleed for it.
---------
A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
There are 35+ advance chapters on Patreon,
If you've enjoyed the story so far, this is the moment you don't want to miss.
www.patreon.com/Baelon
Send the stones this way. Okay???