Meanwhile, Baelon's host took its rest beneath the walls of Last Hearth.
Using the ravens of House Umber, Lord Cregan Stark sent word throughout the North. Every bannerman was commanded to raise what strength he could spare and march for Last Hearth without delay. The summons was terse and unmistakable. This was not a call for council, but for war.
Baelon did not draw men from Harrenhal. The Bloodflame Legion remained more than sufficient for his needs, hardened by battle and bound to him alone. Additional levies would only slow his movements and strain the already thin supplies of the North.
Instead, he wrote south, sealing the letter with black wax impressed by fire and dragon.
In careful detail, he set down the state of affairs beyond the Neck. The clash at Last Hearth. The death of the giant. The rout of several thousand wildlings who had proven far more disciplined than any tales had suggested. At the letter's end, Baelon made his request.
He asked the king to consider sending one or two dragonriders north, not for glory, but for command.
When he had first crossed the Neck, Baelon had believed the free folk little more than scattered clans, dangerous only in number. Now he knew better. They were fierce, cunning, and unafraid of dragons when desperation drove them.
If he were forced to ride elsewhere, someone capable would need to hold the field.
Someone he trusted.
His thoughts turned, unbidden, to his father.
Daemon Targaryen.
*
At first light the next morning, Baelon turned his full attention to Grey Ghost.
The young dragon lay within a ring of firepits outside the castle walls, its pale scales dulled and its wings folded at an unnatural angle. Steam curled faintly from its nostrils as it breathed, slow and shallow. Baelon approached without haste, boots crunching softly against the frost-hardened ground.
A dragon's wings were its greatest strength and its greatest weakness. For a young dragon whose scales had yet to fully harden, the membranes were perilously vulnerable. Stones hurled by a giant carried more than enough force to shatter bone.
Had it been Sheepstealer in Grey Ghost's place, the blow would have earned little more than a rumble of irritation.
Baelon knelt beside the wounded wing, his expression tightening as his fingers traced the misshapen line beneath the scales.
"The bones are out of place," he said quietly. His jaw set. "If we leave it so, he will never fly true again."
That was not a fate Baelon would permit.
Grey Ghost stirred at his touch, a low sound vibrating in its chest. Baelon rested his palm against the dragon's narrow head, thumb brushing along the ridge above one pale eye.
"This will hurt," he murmured. His voice was steady, but his shoulders were rigid. "You must endure it."
The dragon pressed its head weakly into his hand, as if in answer.
The Umbers' servants had reported that Grey Ghost had barely eaten. A single sheep. A few baskets of live fish. The dragon had been raised on Dragonstone, pampered from the shell. It would not touch carrion.
The corpses beyond the camp had instead fed Sheepstealer and Tyraxes.
Neither of them were choosy.
Baelon straightened and turned his head slightly.
"Sheepstealer," he called. His voice carried authority without force. "Hold him."
The old dragon lumbered forward, massive bulk settling over Grey Ghost with implacable weight. The younger dragon struggled at once, wings twitching, claws scraping earth, but Sheepstealer did not so much as shift.
Baelon met Tyraxes's gaze next.
"Set the bone."
Tyraxes lowered its head, golden eyes intent. Unlike most dragons, its forelimbs ended in long, powerful claws rather than stunted hooks. With careful precision, it placed them along the twisted wing, adjusting its grip until the bones were properly aligned.
For a while, the camp seemed to hold its breath.
Then the sound came.
Crack.
Grey Ghost screamed, a piercing cry that sent servants stumbling back and made horses rear in their tethers. The dragon thrashed, pain driving instinct, but Sheepstealer's weight was absolute, pinning it fast.
Baelon did not look away.
Slowly, the struggle weakened. The scream broke into ragged breaths. At last, Grey Ghost lay still, sides heaving.
Baelon was beside the wing at once, fingers moving with practiced care. He traced the line of the scales again.
Smooth.
Straight.
Grey Ghost gave a tentative flap. The movement was weak and uneven, but it held.
Relief loosened something in Baelon's chest.
"With rest and heat, you will heal," he said softly.
He glanced up at Tyraxes, one brow lifting despite himself.
"…You even know how to set bones," he said. There was disbelief in his tone, and something like reluctant admiration.
Tyraxes snorted, a thin curl of smoke escaping its nostrils.
Baelon rose and turned to the waiting servants.
"Bring more food," he ordered. "Live sheep and fresh fish. And build more fires. Keep him warm at all hours."
The servants bowed and hurried to obey.
Once his commands were given, Baelon left the camp under escort of the Bloodflame Legion and entered Last Hearth's ancient halls, already weighing the next movements of the war to come.
*
"The prince said there were no wildlings in the Night's Watch castles east of the Wall," one man insisted, his voice tight with urgency. "Once our host is assembled, we should march west from Castle Black at once."
"That is folly," another snapped back. "You assume the King-Beyond-the-Wall left no contingencies. Until our full strength arrives, every castle along the Wall must be searched. We cannot afford surprises."
The hall rang with raised voices.
Whitefrost and Lord Umber stood opposite a middle-aged man wrapped in a heavy bearskin cloak, the three of them locked in open dispute. Further back, Lord Cregan Stark sat at the high table, his face drawn and colorless. One hand pressed against his brow, fingers knotted in his dark hair, he stared at nothing, weighed down by the arguments crashing around him.
When Baelon entered the hall, the noise faltered.
Heads turned. Conversations died mid-breath.
"Prince Baelon," someone murmured.
Whitefrost broke away at once, stepping forward. He bowed low, fist to chest, his earlier agitation carefully smoothed away.
"My prince."
Baelon inclined his head in return, his expression composed. "Lord Whitefrost. Lord Stark."
Only then did his gaze shift to the bearskin-clad man. The fellow stood broad and solid as a keep wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes sharp beneath a heavy brow.
"And you are?" Baelon asked.
Kregan stirred as if shaken from a dream and rose to his feet a moment too late. "This is Lord Cregen Karstark," he said, voice hoarse. "Head of House Karstark."
At the sound of Baelon's name, Cregen uncrossed his arms at once and dropped to one knee, bearskin cloak pooling around him.
"I pay you my deepest respect, Prince Baelon," he said solemnly. "Lord of Harrenhal and the Bay of Crabs. The Bloodflame Dragon King."
The title echoed through the hall.
Cregen Karstark was no stranger to tales from beyond the North. House Karstark traded furs, timber, and amber down the Bite, and foreign merchants carried stories as readily as coin.
Crowned at dawn.
Sacker of Tyrosh.
The dragon prince whose fire burned red as spilled blood.
Any one of those names would have commanded attention.
Baelon studied him then, properly. The man was tall and thick-shouldered, beard braided against the cold, long brown hair falling loose about his shoulders. Upon his chest gleamed a white sunburst, stark against dark wool.
"You do me too much honor, Lord Karstark," Baelon said, his tone even. He gestured lightly. "There is no need to kneel."
Cregen rose at once, though his posture remained stiff with reverence.
Once the greetings were done, Whitefrost drew closer, lowering his voice as his earlier impatience returned to his eyes.
"My prince," he said, "Lord Karstark has come to press his counsel upon us."
---------
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