With the arrival of the Bloodflame Legion, the temper of the battlefield changed in a single breath.
Sheepstealer came down hard upon the frozen earth, its talons gouging furrows through snow and stone alike. The great dragon's chest heaved. Its jaws sagged open, breath tearing in and out in ragged gusts that steamed white in the cold air. After the endless flight and the savage hours of fighting, there was nothing left to give. Its wings trembled as they folded, and the beast lowered its massive head, utterly spent.
Baelon tightened his grip on the saddle straps, feeling the tremor run through the dragon's body. He leaned forward, pressing a gloved hand against the hot, scarred scales of Sheepstealer's neck.
"Hold fast," he murmured, voice low and urgent. "Just a little longer."
For now, Sheepstealer could only rely on the Bloodflame Legion to shield it while its strength slowly returned.
Fortunately, the Bloodflame Legion lived up to its name.
They hit the wildlings like a falling hammer. Hardened men in scorched armor surged forward in disciplined ranks, blades flashing red with reflected fire. The shock of their sudden arrival tore a wound straight through the giant host. Giants bellowed in pain and fury as axes and spears found flesh. Wildlings stumbled back, stunned by the ferocity of the charge.
A wildling war leader scrambled onto a broken mound of ice, raising his weapon high. His beard was matted with frost and blood, his eyes bright with hunger and desperation.
"All of you, charge!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. He pointed with his axe toward the dragons. "Those two are spent. I swear it by the King Beyond the Wall. Whoever slays even one shall be named Dragonslayer!"
A ripple of sound ran through the horde. Men shouted. Spears beat against shields.
"And more than that," the leader bellowed, voice cracking with feverish promise. He spread his arms wide, as if offering the world. "The castles atop the Wall. Choose any you like. Gold and silver. Women fair as you please. Take what you want and take it now!"
Greed lit their faces. Fear was swallowed by hunger. With a roar that shook the frozen ground, vast numbers of wildlings surged toward Baelon's position.
The Bloodflame Legion held, but only just. They were mighty, yet they were still men of flesh and bone. Fighting giants alone had already pushed them to the edge. Now an entire wildling horde crashed against them, wave after wave.
Steel rang. Men screamed.
Gradually, the red-cloaked ranks began to thin.
At the castle gate, Cregan watched the distant struggle, his jaw clenched so tight that the muscles in his cheeks twitched. He had come out to assess the field, but what he saw made his stomach sink.
"This will not do," he said sharply, turning to those around him. His hand closed into a fist at his side. "The prince's dragon is exhausted. Even with reinforcements, they will not hold for long. If Baelon falls, the field is lost."
He strode toward Whitefrost, boots crunching through snow, and laid out his judgment in terse, urgent words.
Whitefrost listened in silence. His breath fogged the air. When Cregan finished, the Umber lord shut his eyes for a brief moment, as if gathering himself. When he opened them again, they were hard with resolve.
"All right," Whitefrost said. His teeth ground together as he spoke. Weariness lay heavy in his shoulders, but he straightened them all the same.
The old saying rang bitterly true. The first charge carried force. The second wavered. The third broke. Even a Northman born to battle felt dread at the thought of charging once more into that slaughter.
Whitefrost drew his sword and lifted it high. "Rally the troops," he barked. His voice cut through the noise. "All of them. We move to support Prince Baelon. We link up with him or we die trying."
He forced himself forward, stalking through the ranks, gripping shoulders, meeting eyes, barking curses and promises in equal measure. Slowly, stubborn courage stirred again.
From within the castle, remnants of other units gathered. Men with bandaged arms and blood-soaked mail limped to the gate. Able-bodied smallfolk came too, clutching spears and axes with white-knuckled hands. Alongside the few dozen soldiers Cregan had brought from Winterfell, they scraped together several hundred fighters.
Cregan stepped to the fore. In his hands was a greatsword taken from House Umber's armory. It was heavy and unfamiliar. His ancestral blade, Ice, was gone, lost in a wildling ambush days before. The absence weighed on him, but there was no time for grief.
He lifted the greatsword, feeling its balance, and drew a long breath.
"Warriors of the North," he shouted, his voice ringing clear. "With me!"
He broke into a run. Whitefrost followed close behind, roaring defiance, dragging every remaining Umber soldier with him.
Most of the wildling army had already surged toward Baelon. That left Cregan's advance cutting into what had become, for a moment, the enemy's rear.
They smashed into the wildling ranks with brutal force. Steel bit. Men fell. The wildlings had not expected the Northmen, whom they believed nearly crushed, to dare sally forth again. Shock rippled through their lines, and Cregan's men carved a bloody swath forward.
Then the wildlings recovered.
They poured in from all sides, snarling, hacking, stabbing. A few hundred men were swallowed by thousands. House Umber's soldiers went down under sheer weight of numbers. Winterfell men, already wounded and exhausted, staggered and fell, unable to hold against fresh enemies.
From Sheepstealer's back, Baelon saw it all.
His heart clenched. He leaned forward, gripping the dragon's neck, then turned his head toward the second dragon crouched nearby.
"Sheepstealer. Grey Ghost," he said aloud, voice sharp with command. "Feed on the fallen. Giants and wildlings both. Recover your strength. Quickly."
The words felt strange on his tongue, but necessity left no room for mercy.
Whether it would work or not, he could not know. But it was worth the risk.
Sheepstealer responded first. With a low, rumbling growl, it lowered its massive head and seized a fallen giant in its jaws. Bones cracked like kindling. It swallowed, then took another, feeding with savage speed.
Grey Ghost, smaller and leaner, darted forward to snatch up wildling corpses instead, gulping them down whole.
The effect was immediate.
"The dragon is eating people!" a wildling screamed, backing away, eyes wide.
"It took Gaff!" another cried, voice breaking.
"Gods," someone wailed. "It is swallowing giants whole!"
Kin were devoured before their eyes. Sheepstealer's casual brutality shattered their resolve. One bite. One giant gone. To a dragon, they were nothing but meat.
Strength flowed back into Sheepstealer's limbs. The great beast lifted its head, eyes burning, and began to crawl forward toward the wildling host.
"ROAR!"
The sound rolled across the battlefield, a thunderous challenge that froze men in their tracks.
Before the echo faded, another roar answered it. This one was distant at first, then rapidly closer. It seethed with fury and hunger.
Tyraxes had arrived.
The blood-red dragon burst into view against the white of snow and ice, its scales gleaming like fresh-spilled gore. Steam poured from its body. Its chest hammered with the strain of the forced march, driving its inner heat ever higher.
Baelon looked up just as Tyraxes reared back and unleashed its fire.
Blood-red flame fell like a storm of meteors, splashing across the frozen ground. Unlike ordinary dragonfire, Tyraxes's bloodfire clung and spread. It struck wildlings and did not burn them to ash at once.
Men screamed as the heat bloomed. They thrashed, rolling in the snow, tearing at their clothes in blind panic. Each movement only spread the living flame.
One became ten. Ten became a hundred. Soon, hundreds of crimson figures ran shrieking across the field, scattering fire with every step.
Only when the accelerants were consumed did the true heat take hold. Bodies collapsed into blackened husks, cooked alive long before the end.
The Bone-Armor King stood frozen, his horn slipping from numb fingers to fall into the snow. Dragons devouring men had not broken him. This did.
Burning was one thing. This was something else entirely.
In that moment, he remembered the terror of dragon rule. He remembered the shame of being driven beyond the Wall.
Under Tyraxes's bloodfire, the wildling army broke. Nearly half lay dead or dying.
"Retreat," someone screamed, voice hoarse with terror. "Fall back. Now!"
---------
A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
There are 35+ advance chapters on Patreon,
If you've enjoyed the story so far, this is the moment you don't want to miss.
www.patreon.com/Baelon
Send the stones this way. Okay???