Beyond the Wall, Baelon pressed on with his investigation, ranging ever farther into the frozen wilds in search of lingering traces of the unknown creatures.
Months of relentless pursuit had yielded no clear quarry, yet the fragments he had gathered were enough to form several deeply unsettling conclusions.
For one, these beings could not be called living creatures in the common sense of the word. They belonged to the same unnatural order as the White Walkers, sharing that cold, deathless presence that bent the air around them. Yet unlike the Others, they were closer to beasts than commanders, incapable of raising the dead or spreading their curse. Whatever will guided them was instinctive, not calculating.
Their origins remained a mystery. Baelon suspected they had once dwelled far beyond the reach of men, either beneath the lightless depths of the sea or across the endless ice fields of the far north, places untouched since the Dawn Age.
What troubled him most was their path.
The creatures had gathered along the southern edge of Bay of seals, yet they had ignored the closer landing at Grey Cliffs. Instead, they had turned north, choosing to make landfall beyond the Wall of Despair itself.
That decision stirred an old unease in him.
Baelon remembered the ancient accounts of the Wall. Not merely stone and ice, it was said to be bound with spells woven by forgotten hands. Enchantments meant to bar the passage of unnatural beings, creatures that existed half within the world and half beyond it.
That alone lent weight to his growing suspicion. These things shared the same state of existence as the Others.
Another question gnawed at him all the same.
How had they crossed the sea?
According to Cregan Karstark, the ice storms stretched across Bay of Seals and into the Trembling Sea north of Grey Cliffs. That region was nearly empty of land, the nearest island being Skagos. No creature could swim such a distance through frozen waters.
Which left only one possibility.
They had crossed upon ice.
Baelon recalled the drifting floes he had seen earlier, grinding together like slow-moving teeth upon the dark water. As the memory settled, a plan began to take shape, cold and deliberate.
"The trail ends here," Baelon murmured, crouching as his gloved fingers brushed the snow. He straightened slowly, scanning the land ahead. "What place is this?"
After following the tracks for most of a day, he found himself beyond the Wall, standing at the edge of an unnamed valley. The air within lay strangely still, the snow untouched by wind.
He had intended to have Tyraxes carry him inside to survey the terrain from above.
The dragon refused.
Tyraxes lowered his head, wings half-spread, a low rumble vibrating through his chest. Through their bond, Baelon felt it clearly. Not defiance, but warning. The dragon's instincts screamed caution.
Then the cold deepened.
It was not the honest bite of winter, but something sharper, creeping across Baelon's skin like fingers of ice. The valley seemed to drink the warmth from the air itself.
Baelon's jaw tightened. He rested a hand against Tyraxes's scaled neck, feeling the tension beneath.
"We leave," he said quietly.
Tyraxes snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils as his golden eyes remained fixed on the valley below. For a heartbeat, Baelon feared the dragon would resist. Then, with visible reluctance, Tyraxes drew back and leapt into the sky, his wings beating hard against the freezing air.
This was no act of fear. It was judgment.
Tyraxes was still young, far from his full strength. Whatever dwelled in that valley was dangerous enough to give a dragon pause. Pressing deeper would have been folly.
When Tyraxes reached his full growth, the balance would shift. Until then, the north would keep its secrets.
"ROAR!"
The sound echoed across the ice as Tyraxes climbed higher, carrying Baelon away from the unseen threat.
Far to the south, beneath torchlight and carved stone, rage found its voice.
Inside the Black Sable Hall, the Bone Armor King hurled his wine cup across the chamber. It shattered against the floor, crimson liquid soaking into the thick carpet.
His chest heaved as he paced, clawed gauntlets scraping against his armor.
"You swore they would obey," he snarled, rounding on his attendants. "You swore they would answer my call. They devoured the offerings, and the moment the summoning was complete, they fled."
No one answered.
Since his defeat, his power had waned sharply. What remained of his strength he had gathered here, in this lesser fortress, guarded by only his most loyal warriors. Beyond these walls, the Free Folk were already fracturing, old rivalries resurfacing like cracks in ice.
He had never ruled by unity. Only by fear, by his title as Magnar of the Thenns, and by the giants who once answered his call.
Now even that authority was slipping through his grasp.
The Bone Armor King clenched his fists, knuckles whitening beneath bone and steel.
Something had changed in the north.
And whatever it was, it no longer bent easily to his will.
The disaster at Last Hearth had shattered what little remained of his dominion.
Most of the Thenn warriors who had followed him south now lay dead upon northern soil, their bodies burned or crushed beyond recognition. Nearly half of his giants had perished as well, brought low by fire and terror they could not comprehend. His strength was broken, but worse still was the wound to his name.
Among the Free Folk, power was belief made flesh. And belief, once broken, rarely returned whole.
"I don't understand it either," Wright said at last, his voice rasped raw from sleepless hours. He leaned heavily against the table, fingers splayed as if the wood were the only thing keeping him upright. "The summoning succeeded. You saw them. They answered the call."
He lifted his eyes, bloodshot and dulled with exhaustion.
"But for some reason, they never crossed south of the Wall. Instead, they turned north."
The old man swallowed, throat bobbing. At his age, a night without rest was no small hardship. His shoulders sagged, and the lines on his face seemed carved deeper by the flickering torchlight.
"The true danger," the Bone Armor King growled, pacing before the hearth, "is what comes next. Those southern lords will not sit idle. They will be gathering their strength even now, sharpening steel, preparing to drive us back beyond the Wall."
He stopped abruptly, bone-plated gauntlet tightening into a fist.
"If I had not lost so many men outside Last Hearth, I could have met them blade to blade. I could have broken them."
His fist struck the table with a dull crack.
"But now," he said hoarsely, "it is finished."
This time, he had not brought all the Free Folk south. Only the strongest. The youngest. The ones who could fight. The plan had been simple. Seize the frontier, carve out a foothold, then send word for the clans to follow.
Instead, fire had fallen from the sky.
"What is there to panic over?" Wright said, forcing a yawn that did nothing to hide his strain. He straightened slowly, schooling his expression. "Even now, you still command five or six thousand warriors. The northern border is wide, and thinly held. Even if the Starks summon every man they can, their numbers will not far exceed your own."
"And the dragons?" the Bone Armor King snapped, spinning on him. "Have you forgotten them?"
His voice rose, sharp and uneven.
"I lost to those three beasts. Three! If not for them, I would be drinking wine and bedding northern women in Last Hearth this very night."
At the word dragons, his composure finally cracked.
His shoulders trembled, ever so slightly. His breath hitched, just once.
Before that day, dragons had been no more than stories. Fireside lies meant to frighten children and cow weak men into obedience.
The truth was worse.
Dragons were not tales.
They were judgment given wings.
"If the gods ever grant me another chance," he muttered, staring into the fire, "I will never march south again."
Wright watched him in silence for a moment before speaking.
"They are powerful," he said quietly. "But not immortal."
The Bone Armor King turned, suspicion flickering across his scarred face.
"Before I was cast out of the Citadel," Wright continued, "there were scholars who dedicated their lives to studying the end of dragons."
He folded his hands behind his back, pacing slowly now, energy creeping back into his step.
"They called it the Dragon Extinction Plan. And despite what you may think, those old men were not entirely fools. They made progress."
Something sharp glimmered behind Wright's tired eyes.
To him, the destruction of dragons was not wisdom, but waste.
Power such as that should be mastered, not buried.
"Across the Narrow Sea, in Essos," he went on, "every so-called Free City possesses at least one dragon egg. They fear dragons, yet they covet them all the same."
He stopped walking and looked directly at the Bone Armor King.
"Do you know why none of those eggs have hatched?"
Silence filled the hall.
The Bone Armor King stared back, unblinking.
His world had always been bounded by ice, stone, and the Wall. Essos was a name without meaning. Free Cities, empty words.
"Dragon eggs?" he asked slowly. "What are those?"
Wright exhaled, rubbing his temples with thumb and forefinger.
"According to the Citadel," he said, "dragons are a magical species born in Essos. Their true cradle lies far to the east, beyond Asshai, near the Shadow Lands and the Jade Sea."
He lowered his hands, gaze steady.
"I tell you this for one reason only."
"Dragons are not invincible."
"There are many ways to kill them. Heavy bolts. Falling stone. Other ancient creatures. Even magic itself."
A thin, cold smile touched his lips.
"That is why I despise the men of the Citadel," Wright said softly. "They believe that by erasing dragons, they will cleanse the world of magic."
His smile sharpened.
"In truth, they have done nothing but build a prison of their own fear."
"And locked themselves inside."
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