More dragonglass arrowheads

[Illyrio Mo'Parties]

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"Tell me about the children," Bran said. It was important.

-- Bran VII, A Game of Thrones

I've been thinking about those dragonglass arrowheads, and a different though came to mind.

The popular understanding is that someone buried those obsidian weapons to help in the fight against the Others, with the only mystery being exactly who planted them, and what the horn is for.

But what if we're wrong? What if it was buried by an agent of the Children of the Forest - to be used against the Night's Watch by the Children and their necromancied proxies?

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"Obsidian," Maester Luwin insisted, holding out his wounded arm. "Forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. The children of the forest hunted with that, thousands of years ago. The children worked no metal. In place of mail, they wore long shirts of woven leaves and bound their legs in bark, so they seemed to melt into the wood. In place of swords, they carried blades of obsidian."
"And still do." Osha placed soft pads over the bites on the maester's forearm and bound them tight with long strips of linen.

-- Bran VII, A Game of Thrones

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The trees stood beneath him, warriors armored in bark and leaf, deployed in their silent ranks awaiting the command to storm the hill. Black, they seemed . . . it was only when his torchlight brushed against them that Jon glimpsed a flash of green. Faintly, he heard the sound of water flowing over rocks. Ghost vanished in the underbrush. Jon struggled after him, listening to the call of the brook, to the leaves sighing in the wind. Branches clutched at his cloak, while overhead thick limbs twined together and shut out the stars.
He found Ghost lapping from the stream. "Ghost," he called, "to me. Now." When the direwolf raised his head, his eyes glowed red and baleful, and water streamed down from his jaws like slaver. There was something fierce and terrible about him in that instant. And then he was off, bounding past Jon, racing through the trees. "Ghost, no, stay," he shouted, but the wolf paid no heed. The lean white shape was swallowed by the dark, and Jon had only two choices—to climb the hill again, alone, or to follow.
He followed, angry, holding the torch out low so he could see the rocks that threatened to trip him with every step, the thick roots that seemed to grab at his feet, the holes where a man could twist an ankle. Every few feet he called again for Ghost, but the night wind was swirling amongst the trees and it drank the words. This is madness, he thought as he plunged deeper into the trees. He was about to turn back when he glimpsed a flash of white off ahead and to the right, back toward the hill. He jogged after it, cursing under his breath.
A quarter way around the Fist he chased the wolf before he lost him again. Finally he stopped to catch his breath amidst the scrub, thorns, and tumbled rocks at the base of the hill. Beyond the torchlight, the dark pressed close.
 A soft scrabbling noise made him turn. Jon moved toward the sound, stepping carefully among boulders and thornbushes. Behind a fallen tree, he came on Ghost again. The direwolf was digging furiously, kicking up dirt.
"What have you found?" Jon lowered the torch, revealing a rounded mound of soft earth. A grave, he thought. But whose?

-- Jon IV, A Clash of Kings

Perhaps it's a grave for all the brothers of the Night's Watch, shortly to die on that hill.