Despite the crisp chill air and the summer snows drifting over the frost-crusted shore of Long Lake, the warriors of the North stood unfazed as steel clashed in a brutal symphony. The faint crack of ice echoed from the lake’s edge, mingling with the scent of pine and blood that hung heavy in the air. Artos Stark, brother to William Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, gazed out upon the chaos. His long face was stoic, grey eyes hard as the granite cliffs beyond, unflinching before the bloody work unfolding. The Wildlings, led by Raymund Redbeard—the self-proclaimed king-beyond-the-wall—had ravaged the vast lands of the New Gift, the mountain clans, and the Umbers for months. Somehow, he and his force of 5,000 raiders—clad in patchwork hides and wielding crude spears—had slipped past the Night’s Watch, a failure that gnawed at Artos like a splinter under a nail.
A frown twisted the corner of his lips at that thought. There’d be a reckoning with the Lord Commander, but first, he and William would crush these savages daring to defile Stark lands. He spurred his horse forward, clumps of bloody mire spraying from its hooves. The field was a quagmire of snow, mud, and gore, the thick slurry nearly toppling his mount. He cursed, regaining his balance, and charged anew. The Wildlings—a ragged swarm of men and women, their faces painted with woad and sporting bone piercings—fought with a ferocity that belied their numbers. Yet their furs and leathers parted like wheat before the honed edges of northern steel.
The battle raged, steel clanging and screams saturated the air, a cacophony rolling over the lakeshore like a howling winter storm. Amid it all, Artos was steady as stone, born for this—the crush of bodies, the dying gasps fitting him like a broken-in boot. His sword hewed through wildlings with deadly precision, carving through the raiders. Ahead, he glimpsed William, armor battered but unbroken, wielding Ice—the ancestral greatsword of House Stark. Its Valyrian steel edge sang as it cleaved through flesh and bone, unobstructed by the crude defenses of the foe. For a heartbeat, Artos saw their boyhood in William’s stance—sparring under their father’s stern eye in Winterfell’s courtyard, snow dusting their cloaks.
But Raymund Redbeard was a different tale altogether. A giant of a man, his fiery beard blazed like a halo in the pale morning light, with an aura the radiated death and competence: as any man who could bring together the warring tribes beyond the wall must be. He hefted a massive greataxe, its blade crusted with the blood of countless Northmen, and carved through Artos’ lines with a strength that earned begrudging respect.
The fight reached a fever pitch. Artos battled toward his brother, but the press of bodies held him back. He saw William and Raymund clash, their weapons ringing out—a storm of steel and fury. The armies parted, as if by unspoken pact, granting space for the duel. Then came the moment that seared itself into Artos’ soul: Raymund’s axe bit deep into William’s shoulder, a sickening crunch cutting through the din. William’s scream reached Artos’ ears, sharp over the battlefield’s roar, as he crashed to the gore-streaked snow. The Wildling towered over him, chest heaving, and raised his axe. Artos’ eyes were locked onto the bloody blade and a shout built in his throat as it fell, sending William’s head rolling through the sludge, his brother's face frozen in a rictus of pain in death.
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The world slowed. Artos’ stoic mask shattered, a guttural snarl ripping free. He hacked through the Wildlings in his path— these fools who dared block him—his sword singing vengeance. Raymund stood over William’s corpse, and Artos’ vision narrowed to that bearded figure. With a wordless roar, he charged.
Their clash shook the air, steel clanging as they traded blows. Rage surged through Artos’ limbs, his measured strikes giving way to raw fury. Raymund was formidable, but Artos’ grief was a forge, his fury a roaring flame. His sword struck true, and Raymund’s head rolled to join William’s in the mire. Artos seized the Wildling’s matted locks, thrusting the head skyward with a primal cry that silenced the battlefield.
The Northmen roared, their attack surging anew. The Wildlings, leaderless and broken, faltered. The cravens began to turn tail and run, but just then a horn split the air, heralding a wave of black-cloaked figures from the pine-thick forest—the Night’s Watch, late but merciless, their armor glinting dully under the weak sun. Caught between two forces, the raiders fell, no quarter given, their cries swallowed by the frosty wind.
Artos stood amid the carnage, chest heaving, a numbness creeping over him like winter’s frosty bite. He knelt by William’s body, lifting Ice from the gore, its blade smeared with blood and snow. The North had won the day, but at what cost? He knew the memory of his brother’s bouncing head would haunt him forever. His thoughts churned with grief and anger as squelching steps approached. He turned to see Jack Musgood, Lord Commander of the Watch, bowed low, his black cloak mud-stained. “My lord Stark, I offer my condolences.”
As the black brother rose to meet Artos’ gaze, molten with fury, he flinched back, as if physically struck. “How did they slip past you?” Artos’ voice was low, but the menace cut sharper than Ice.
“We… uh… that is to say my lord—” Jack stammered, freezing as Artos shoved Raymund’s head inches from his face. The lifeless eyes of the dead wildling piercing into him.
“This savage killed my brother and raided our lands, unchallenged by those sworn to defend us from his ilk,” Artos boomed, rage exploding forth. “While you and your brothers were asleep at the watch.” He tossed the head at Jack’s feet. “Dispose of the bodies. Be thankful I don’t take your head for this failure,” Artos sneered.
As he walked away, Artos gathered himself, setting aside his anger and grief. He would avenge William, he would lead a host to end those savages north of the wall, but that was for later, for now he must ensure the North’s security.
He turned, calling for a messenger. “Ride to Winterfell with haste,” he said, handing a hastily scrawled note. “Deliver this to Maester Rodrick.”
He watched the rider gallop off, vanishing into the snow-dusted pines. Aye, ride swift, Artos thought, for a new lord rises in the North, and my nephew must be prepared, for Winter is coming.