It soon became plain that Cregan Karstark had not ridden south to answer a summons from Lord Cregan Stark, but to beg for aid of his own.
He stood before the high table of Last Hearth, cloak still crusted with frost, his beard stiff with cold. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if weighing each word.
"Your Highness should know," Cregan said, inclining his head toward Prince Baelon, "that my family's lands, Karhold, lie along the southern edge of Bay of seals. Only yesterday, a raven reached me from the coast."
His fingers curled at his side, leather creaking softly.
"A great ice storm has fallen upon the bay."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Men shifted on benches. A cup was set down too hard.
Cregan drew a breath and went on, his voice lower now. "The storm was no common squall. The winds howled like living things, and the cold… men say it cut through fur and mail alike. Worse still, there are reports of shapes moving within the snow."
Baelon watched the Karstark closely. The man's jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed.
"Some claim they saw a wolf," Cregan continued. "Others swear it was a horse, tall and pale as bone. And some," he hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to the hearthfire, "some say they glimpsed the dead themselves, walking within the storm. White Walkers."
The hall fell silent. Even the crackle of the fire seemed suddenly loud.
Cregan straightened, squaring his shoulders. "I rode to Last Hearth to seek House Umber's aid. I would borrow ships, gather what fleet I can, and sail into Bay of seals to learn the truth of it."
In the northeastern reaches of the North, power lay in the hands of only a few great houses.
House Umber ruled from Last Hearth, their longships anchored at the mouth of the Last River.
House Karstark held Karhold, their vessels sheltered beneath the Grey Cliffs.
And House Bolton commanded the Dreadfort, with ships that ranged near the Weeping Water.
Each kept its own fleet, small but hardy, built to survive northern seas.
Cregan had come because part of his own fleet had been patrolling Sealskin Bay when the storm struck. The ships had not returned. No wreckage had washed ashore. No survivors had come stumbling back through the snow.
With grim necessity, he had ridden through the night, changing horses until his legs trembled, driven by the hope that House Umber might lend him the hulls and oars he lacked.
"Has the storm broken?" Baelon asked at last.
Cregan shook his head. "I cannot say. When I left Karhold, the gale still raged. Such storms seldom linger long, but…" His mouth twisted. "Had I delayed even a few hours more, I doubt I would have reached Last Hearth alive."
He fell silent for a second, then added, more quietly, "I learned of the wildlings only upon my arrival here. My own troubles can wait. The Wall cannot."
He looked around the hall, meeting the eyes of Umber men one by one. "I have already sent riders to Karhold. My banners will march within days."
The meaning was plain. Bay of seals could wait, but the Wall could not be allowed to fall. No lord of the North would ever argue otherwise.
Baelon understood that instinct well. It was carved into the bones of the North itself.
Yet the talk of the storm would not leave him.
Nor the pale shapes said to walk within it.
Others might dismiss such tales as fear-born fancy, the nonsense of sailors staring too long into snow and dark.
Baelon could not.
He knew too much.
In this world, the White Walkers were no children's terror. They were real. It was true that the time of their open return was not yet upon the world, but history held no account, no song or chronicle, of the wildlings ever launching a full assault on the Wall without cause.
Something had driven them south.
Baelon rested a hand against the table, feeling the worn grain of the wood beneath his palm. Once before, he had paid dearly for trusting foreknowledge too blindly, for assuming the future would unfold exactly as he remembered.
He would not make that mistake again.
The North demanded caution.
Always.
The arrogance of those who believed themselves beyond the reach of fate was intolerable.
Baelon let the silence stretch before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was steady, unhurried.
"I will ride Tyraxes and see for myself," he said. "Bay of seals is not far. I can fly there and return swiftly."
The suspicion that had lingered in his thoughts had hardened into resolve.
Cregan Karstark stiffened. "Your Highness?" He took a half step forward before catching himself. "This is only a natural disaster. There is no need to trouble yourself with it. I would not dare ask-"
"That is not how it works, Lord Karstark," Baelon replied, his tone calm but unyielding. "Yes, the storm itself may be natural. But the men caught within it are subjects of the Seven Kingdoms."
He turned slightly, letting his gaze pass over the gathered lords.
"How could I look away?"
"If I go now," he continued, "there may yet be survivors. If I delay, they will freeze to death. Alone. In the dark."
Baelon looked back at Cregan Karstark, meeting his eyes without flinching.
"Tell me. If it were your fleet trapped in that storm, would you still say this was not urgent?"
The hall went utterly still.
No one spoke.
Cregan Karstark's jaw tightened. After a long moment, he exhaled and stepped back, then dropped heavily to one knee.
"…I spoke without thinking," he said, head bowed. "I beg Your Highness's forgiveness."
Baelon descended from the dais and placed a hand on the Karstark lord's shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.
"I would have made the same choice as you," he said quietly, "had I no dragon."
"For those of our station, defending the realm and its people must always come first. The difference between us is not principle. It is merely that I do have a dragon."
He gave a small shake of his head. "Perspective, not fault."
The tension in the hall eased, like a bowstring finally unstrung.
The faces of the assembled lords softened, some with relief, others with something closer to respect.
Even Whitefrost, who had remained distant and composed until now, looked toward Baelon with open admiration in her eyes.
Only Cregan Stark remained silent.
The Warden of the North did not rush to speak, nor did he rise. His gaze rested on the prince, sharp and measuring. He had dealt with Baelon before. Better than most, he understood what sort of man stood before him.
Baelon was not one to sacrifice his own interests lightly. If he chose to act, it was because he believed the cost of inaction would be greater.
As if sensing the Stark's scrutiny, Baelon turned.
Their eyes met.
Baelon smiled faintly and inclined his head.
From Cregan Stark's perspective, the gesture carried an invisible weight, like the sudden press of a storm front. An old, half-forgotten sensation surged up from memory.
Once, as a boy, he had traveled south with his father, Rickon Stark, to King's Landing. During the reign of King Jaehaerys, he had glimpsed Vermithor, the Bronze Fury.
Their eyes had met for only a handful of heartbeats.
Yet in that brief moment, Cregan had felt the presence of a creature standing at the pinnacle of the world.
Vermithor had turned away and taken flight, indifferent.
But that single glance had filled the boy with fearless resolve. From that day on, Cregan Stark had believed himself unshakable.
Not in battle. Not in ambush. Not with death a blade's length away.
And now-
That long-buried fear returned without warning.
His strength deserted him.
With a dull thud, Cregan Stark slid from his chair and dropped to one knee.
"Lord Stark!"
"My lord!"
"Warden of the North!"
Voices erupted as men surged toward him, hands reaching to steady his shoulders.
"It is… nothing," Cregan said, forcing a strained smile as he waved them back. "An old injury. I lost my balance, that is all."
Only when he lifted a hand to his brow did he realize the truth.
His palm came away slick.
Cold sweat beaded across his skin.
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