Varamyr sat cross-legged on his saddle while the blue-gray eagle wheeled overhead, then streaked north.
His wolves trotted back with severed heads in their jaws and began circling the horse. The animal had seen it all before and barely flicked an ear. The shadowcat stayed close, licking blood from its whiskers.
Varamyr's eyes went glassy. "Something in the trees," he muttered. "Lots of them… moving fast…"
Then he jerked upright and screamed.
"Ironborn—no—knights! A whole host of them! They're circling us—they're coming out of the Haunted Forest right now!"
"Flags… I see golden flags… a king… no—"
The skinchanger threw his head back and let out a sound that wasn't human—high, raw, and full of agony. He toppled sideways off the horse and hit the snow convulsing, thrashing, clawing at invisible flames.
His wolves turned on each other in a snarling frenzy. The shadowcat bolted for the distant trees.
Lynn's head snapped up. High in the northern sky, framed against the white clouds, the blue-gray eagle was burning—brighter than any star. It twisted and beat its wings in a blaze of gold-red and orange, climbing desperately as if it could outrun the fire.
Higher. Higher. Higher.
Then it simply vanished in a puff of white smoke.
Mance came galloping in, axe still dripping. He had charged with the riders, thrown the axe into one man's chest, and taken another's head with his sword.
"What the hell happened to Varamyr?"
"His eagle's dead," Lynn said grimly. "Something burned it out of the sky. He said there's an army coming from the north. I have to see it."
He slipped into Weeping Blood's mind, took three running steps, and launched.
The ground fell away. The camp boiled beneath him—horns blaring, people shouting, the whole sprawling mess of tents and wagons turning into a single panicked roar. Some wildlings saw the dragon and cheered, thrusting spears skyward. Others froze in terror and went quiet.
Lynn climbed higher. From above he spotted the Hardfoots scrambling into loose ranks, giants calming their mammoths, Frozen Shore men whipping their white-dog sleds around. Farther east he caught a glimpse of Harma Dogshead's riders chasing the last Eastwatch stragglers.
Then he saw what Varamyr had seen.
They poured from the trees in three perfect columns—north, northeast, and due east—heavy cavalry in shining steel plate and bright wool surcoats, horses armored in iron-rimmed leather. Each column numbered two hundred, maybe three. The ground shook under the weight of steel and hooves.
These were not Eastwatch rangers. This was real war.
Lynn's stomach tightened. A single heavy-cavalry charge had already terrified him back at the tent. Facing this many was something else entirely.
Then a banner broke from the trees—huge, bright as a bedsheet. Yellow field, a red heart wreathed in flame on one side; on the other, a black crowned stag worked in gold thread.
Baratheon.
Stannis.
The Night's Watch had begged every king and lord for help. Maester Aemon said no one answered. Ser Denys claimed the kings didn't care if the Watch lived or died.
Apparently one of them had listened.
And he was late.
Lynn knew the Free Folk were finished if they stayed scattered. Tens of thousands of people crowded the camp, but most were women, children, and old men. The fighting strength was split—half the Thenns south of the Wall watching Last Hearth, Tormund's Red Hall clan all the way at Eastwatch trying to build giant rafts and hunt seals.
War drums began to beat. Wildlings tried to form hasty shield walls, but the lines were ragged and slow.
More men spilled from the forest now—mounted knights, light horsemen in short jacks and round helms, archers, foot soldiers. Banners snapped in the wind: a seahorse on pale green (Velaryon of Driftmark), a flock of birds, a ring of flowers on yellow. Dozens more he didn't recognize.
The heavy cavalry advanced at a deliberate walk, picking their way through roots and rocks, honey-slow but unstoppable. The wildlings rushed forward anyway—shouting, swinging clubs, bronze swords, stone axes—anything to keep the steel tide away from their families.
A mammoth trumpeted and charged. Its trunk snatched a knight from the saddle and hurled him forty feet into the air. Mag the Mighty's bull mammoth led the rest of the herd straight into the center column, scattering horses and men.
But the other two columns simply closed like pincers. They punched clean through the Hardfoot spear wall and the makeshift lines of the smaller clans, leaving a red trail of crushed bodies behind them.
Fires bloomed as southern outriders began torching tents. Some soldiers broke ranks to loot, chasing down women and children. Lynn saw one man lift a screaming wildling boy on the point of his lance like a trophy.
They didn't see the Free Folk as people at all.