The air inside Lord Rickard Stark's tent smelled of damp wool, old leather and the faint smoke that always clung to northern men even in the south. The canvas walls shifted a little with the warm breeze outside, and the light coming through the seams was the soft yellow of late afternoon. A long table of rough-hewn wood took up most of the space, scarred from years of use and still bearing the marks of knives and tankards. Maps lay rolled at one end. A jug of weak ale and a few cups sat in the middle, mostly untouched.
Around the table stood the greater part of the North's strength that had come south. Greatjon Umber's bulk filled one side, his red beard already stained from the drink he had taken earlier. Lord Roose Bolton stood a little apart from the others, pale eyes half-lidded, saying nothing yet. Lord Rickard Karstark kept his arms crossed tight over his chest. Willam Dustin leaned on the back of a chair, restless. Wyman Manderly had claimed a sturdy stool that creaked under him whenever he shifted. Brandon Stark stood near his father's right shoulder, tall and dark-haired, jaw set. Beside him Ned watched the older men with the quiet attention he always carried.
Rickard Stark himself sat at the head of the table. His grey eyes moved from face to face, measuring them the way he always did before he spoke of hard things.
Greatjon was the first to break the silence, as everyone had expected.
"Lord Stark, I still don't understand why you heeded the call for this tourney," he said, voice rolling like distant thunder. "It is summer. We ought to be working our harvests instead of these bloody southern games. Grain doesn't store itself."
A few of the other lords grunted in agreement. Even Karstark gave a short nod. None of them had ever cared much for the soft lands below the Neck, and the idea of leaving fields half-tended to watch southern knights knock each other off horses sat poorly with them.
Rickard looked at them hard. He could not argue the point. The Greatjon was right, and every man in the tent knew it. They should have been home, seeing to the stores against the winters that always came. Yet here they were.
"I did not call you south for nothing," he said, voice low and rough. "There have been recent developments. Urgent ones. Necessary ones."
The men frowned. Brandon's brow tightened. Ned glanced at his brother, then back at their father.
Lord Dustin shifted his weight. "What do you mean by that, my lord?"
Rickard's gaze dropped for a moment to the scarred wood of the table. When he spoke again the words came slower.
"There are whispers that the King grows a little madder with every passing day."
Silence settled heavy over the tent. No one spoke at first. The knowledge was not new—ravens had carried darker and darker tales for months—but hearing their liege lord name it aloud still made the air feel colder. Not one of them called it treason. They simply looked at one another with grave faces.
Rickard let the moment stretch, then continued.
"You all know by raven that Skagos has a new lord now."
Karstark's frown deepened. "So what about him, my lord?"
"The problem is him," Rickard answered. "He bought his lordship, true enough. Gold and certain… understandings. But he has also done something unprecedented. Something done on my command."
He paused, choosing the next words with care.
"He went beyond the Wall. He managed to bring back the Children of the Forest. Giants. Mammoths. A retinue of them travels with him even now."
The reaction was immediate and loud. Voices rose all at once. Greatjon's shout nearly shook the tent poles. Bolton's pale eyes narrowed sharply.
"Have you lost your wits, Stark?" Bolton said, voice soft and cold. "The Children are gone. Have been for thousands of years."
Others demanded to know if such creatures still lived at all, and if they truly rode south with this new lord. Questions tumbled over one another until the noise became a single roar of disbelief and alarm.
Rickard brought his fist down hard on the table. The wood jumped. Cups rattled. The shouting cut off at once, though the tension remained thick enough to cut with a knife.
"They are real," he said, each word flat and certain. "I have seen them with my own eyes."
Lord Dustin stared at him. "Are they real, my lord?" he asked again, as if needing the confirmation twice.
"They are."
Wyman Manderly leaned forward, the stool complaining under him. "If they are real, why bring them south at all? Surely they could have been kept secret in the North. The King grows madder by the day. If he hears even a whisper of this, there is no knowing what he might do."
Rickard's face stayed stony. "Better to present it to the realm ourselves. There are still houses who carry the blood of the First Men. They will believe what they see. Besides…" He drew a slow breath. "Some of the Children themselves wished to come. They want to settle near the God's Eye. That was part of the agreement."
Brandon's voice cut in, sharp with frustration. "Why did I not know of this, Father? Why keep it from your own sons?"
Rickard turned his head toward him. "Because the matter was delicate. The fewer who knew before it happened, the better. That is all the reason you need for now."
He took another deep breath. His eyes grew harder still.
"There is something else. I wish to share it with you, but this is not the time or the place. If word of it leaked before we can present it properly, there would be chaos. Not only across the realm."
Bolton's dry voice rose. "In the whole realm?"
Rickard looked at him coldly. "Not only the realm. All of Essos. Anywhere men still live and breathe."
Brandon stepped closer. "What is it, Father?"
"You will see for yourself soon enough," Rickard answered. "May the Old Gods give us strength against it, for I do not even have the right words yet. Just know this for now—terrible times are coming. We must stand together against them, or we will fall."
Before anyone could press him further, a horn sounded outside. Then another. Shouts rose in the distance, growing louder and more urgent by the second. The sound of running feet and startled horses carried through the canvas. Somewhere close by a man cursed in the northern tongue.
Rickard closed his eyes for a brief moment and sighed.
"Lord Slytherin is here," he said. "Come. See it with your own eyes."
The lords of the North filed out of the tent in a tight group, some already reaching for the hilts of their swords. Brandon and Ned stayed close to their father's sides. The late sun of the false spring struck their faces as they stepped into the open.
What they saw stopped them cold.
A line of mammoths moved across the trampled grass of the tourney grounds, each one larger than any beast the northern men had ever imagined. Thick armour of dark leather and iron plates covered their sides and heads, the metal catching the light in dull flashes. On the broad backs of the great creatures sat Giants—towering figures of muscle and bone, their faces half-hidden by rough beards and long hair. Smaller shapes moved among them or rode lower on the mammoths' flanks: slender, dark-eyed beings with skin the colour of old bark and large, luminous eyes. No one who looked upon them could doubt what they were. The Children of the Forest had returned.
The northern lords stared. Some swore under their breath. Others simply stood frozen, mouths half open. Greatjon muttered a curse that would have made a sailor blush. Bolton's expression did not change, but his hand rested openly on his dagger now.
Among the column rode a single man on a black horse. His armour caught the eye at once. The metal was dark and somehow fluid, the surface marked with shifting patterns that looked like oil on water or the grain of ancient steel. Ripples moved across the plates as he rode, catching the sunlight in strange ways. His hair fell past his shoulders in a pale, silvery gold that no northern man possessed. His face was sharp and almost unnaturally fine, the kind of beauty that did not belong among the hard features of the North. Purple eyes swept the gathered lords without fear or haste.
Soldiers in the colours of House Whent and a few northern men-at-arms tried to push the staring smallfolk back, clearing a path. The man on the black horse raised one hand. The mammoths slowed and then stopped in a neat line, the ground trembling faintly under their weight. The Giants shifted but remained still. The Children watched everything with those large, quiet eyes.
The rider swung down from the saddle in one smooth motion. His boots struck the earth. He walked forward without hurry, the strange armour whispering softly with each step. Every eye followed him.
He stopped a few paces from Rickard Stark and inclined his head with clear respect.
"Lord Stark," he said, voice even and carrying just enough to reach the men behind the northern lord. "I have come as agreed."
The lords of the North stood in silence, staring at the man, the armoured mammoths, the Giants, and the Children of the Forest who had not walked the lands of men in thousands of years.