After listening to Tako in silence, Baelon began to understand, at least in part, what truly stirred within the hearts of the Children of the Forest.
Their motives were not layered with schemes or hidden malice. In truth, they were painfully simple.
They stood on the edge of extinction.
For generations uncounted, their numbers had dwindled. Forests had fallen. Sacred groves had been burned. Their songs had grown fewer, their greenseers weaker, until at last only remnants remained, scattered like embers after a dying fire.
If disappearance was inevitable, then they would rather wager everything on one final attempt.
Even if hope amounted to no more than a single fragile thread, even if the chance of success was barely one percent, they would seize it with both hands and refuse to let go.
That was the nature of survival.
All living beings clung to it. The Children of the Forest were no different.
Now that a faint glimmer of hope had appeared before them, how could they turn away?
Baelon exhaled slowly. His fingers rested against the hilt at his waist, tapping once, then stilling. At last, he inclined his head.
"I will accept you," he said.
Tako's dark eyes brightened at once, but Baelon raised a hand before the Child could speak further.
"Do not mistake acceptance for trust," Baelon continued calmly. "That must still be earned."
He reached inside his cloak and drew out a badge, cold iron worked with sigils of authority. It glinted faintly in the dim light as he held it between two fingers.
"Take this."
He extended it toward Tako.
"Follow the Kingsroad south and bring all of your people with you. If anyone bars your path, show them this. The nobles will not interfere."
Tako accepted the badge with both hands, bowing deeply, her long fingers curling around it as if it were something sacred.
Baelon's gaze hardened.
"Prepare a few of your people," he added. "Those already dying. Those cast aside."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"You took part in the Wildling assault on the Wall. You must show where you stand."
He did not elaborate further.
He did not need to.
Tako straightened slowly. her expression did not change, but her shoulders drew inward, as if bracing against a cold wind.
"Be assured," Tako said after a moment, her voice steady. "We sent more than a dozen beast tamers into this war. They went knowing they would not return."
Baelon's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Ten is too many."
He shook his head once.
"Choose two or three."
Tako blinked in surprise.
Baelon continued, his tone even.
"The Night's Watch are already dead. Killing more of your kind will not bring them back. It will only satisfy the living. Blood as spectacle."
He looked away briefly, gaze drifting toward the treeline.
"There are too few of you left in this world. I will not waste more than necessary."
Tako lowered her head again.
"As you command," she said quietly.
She did not argue. She did not plead.
Before the tribe's final greenseer had died, they had left behind one last prophecy. The Children of the Forest were to obey Baelon without question.
And beyond prophecy, Tako wished only one thing.
That as many of her people as possible would survive.
"All right," Baelon said. "I am leaving. You should depart as well."
He turned and laid a hand against the scaled neck of Sheepstealer. The dragon rumbled softly, feeling his intent, and crouched before launching skyward. Its wings beat once, twice, sending dust and leaves scattering.
Grey Ghost rose alongside it, its darker form cutting through the air in silent tandem.
Tako remained where he stood, head bowed low. Only when the dragons had vanished into the distance did he straighten, turn, and begin quietly issuing instructions to his kin.
There was much to prepare.
While Baelon had been delayed, the assault on Last Hearth had reached its breaking point.
The Bone Armor King stood before his host, fingers tightening around the great horn slung at his side. His patience had been ground thin by time and resistance.
At last, he raised the horn to his lips and blew.
The sound tore across the battlefield, deep and ancient.
Along the walls, Umber soldiers stiffened as the stone beneath their boots began to tremble.
"No," one man shouted, scrambling down the battlements and dropping to a knee. He pressed his ear to the ground, eyes widening. "It is not the wall. It is the earth itself."
Another soldier swallowed hard, his knuckles white on his spear.
"Gods," he whispered. "What is that?"
Their understanding of the world shattered as the source revealed itself.
Marching toward Last Hearth came giants.
Fully formed. Armored. Countless.
They stood three to four meters tall, their massive bodies covered in coarse brown and black hair. Bronze armor protected their chests, shoulders, and knees. In their hands they carried enormous warhammers and greataxes, each forged on a scale meant for monsters. Vast packs were strapped across their backs, heavy enough to bend trees beneath their weight.
The Bone Armor King lifted the horn once more and gave a sharp blast.
At once, the giants shrugged off their packs. They struck the ground with heavy thuds and burst open, revealing crude wooden war engines bound with sinew and iron.
Wildlings rushed forward, shouting as they drove iron pegs into the frozen earth to secure the frames.
Once stabilized, logs and massive stones were hauled forward. The giants loaded them with practiced movements, prying open the frames until netted slings of aurochs sinew were exposed.
"First formation," the Bone Armor King roared in the Old Tongue. "Prepare!"
Each giant dragged back a sling with raw strength. Wildlings clung to the bases, boots skidding as they strained to keep the machines from ripping free.
A smaller Wildling woman perched on each giant's shoulder, clutching fur and shouting directions into massive ears. The giants squinted, following their guidance. Their sight was poor, but the Bone Armor King had planned for that.
"Fire!"
The slings were released.
The sky filled with death.
Logs and boulders screamed through the air. Stone walls exploded. One entire section of Last Hearth was blown apart, the gate shattered into splinters. Men were struck and erased in an instant, bodies crushed beyond recognition.
"Second formation!" the Bone Armor King barked, satisfaction flickering across his scarred face. "Smaller stones!"
This time the ammunition came like rain.
Stones the size of human heads fell in a whistling storm, crashing down upon the defenders. Helmets cracked. Bones shattered.
The Umber soldiers broke.
They screamed and fled from the walls, terror overwhelming discipline, no matter how fiercely White Frost Umber shouted himself hoarse trying to rally them.
"How are we supposed to fight this?" someone cried.
Whitefrost Umber clenched his jaw, then turned and ran with them. Even he did not wish to die beneath falling stone.
Volley after volley followed.
At last, the gates were gone. The walls lay in ruins, one entire section collapsed into rubble.
The Bone Armor King raised his blade.
"Free warriors," he roared. "Charge!"
Wildlings surged forward, weapons raised, howling as they rushed the broken castle.
Whitefrost Umber planted his feet. His chest heaved as he tightened his grip on his axe.
"Dog bastard Wildlings," he shouted, veins standing out in his neck. "If I die, I am taking some of you with me."
He turned, eyes blazing.
"Any man willing to fight, come with me. If you would rather wait here and piss yourself to death, then crawl away now."
His voice cracked, but his resolve did not.
"I am not afraid," he bellowed. "I am no coward."
Something stirred.
Fear remained, but it was pushed down, replaced by fury. One by one, Umber soldiers straightened, gripping their weapons tighter.
The odds were hopeless.
Their walls were gone. Their defenses shattered.
Yet they were men of the North.
Even in death, their families would remember them with pride.
With a final roar, White Frost Umber charged.
"…This…"
Supported by Stark soldiers, Cregan Stark staggered to his feet. Pale and unsteady, he leaned against the window frame and watched the charge unfold.
A few hundred men rushing thousands.
Marching into death.
His breath caught in his throat.
Fear was not shameful. Facing it was courage.
"Get me a weapon," Cregan said hoarsely. His fingers curled as if already grasping a blade. "I am joining them."
Before another word could leave his mouth, a familiar voice echoed from above, carrying heat and confidence.
"Looks like I arrived just in time."
Cregan looked up.
"Not bad," Baelon's voice continued, calm and assured.
"Sheepstealer. Grey Ghost."
The air ignited.
"Dracarys."
---------
A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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Send the stones this way. Okay???