《A New North - Revival》
Prologue - Spring 226 AC
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¡ªthe self-proclaimed king-beyond-the-wall¡ªhad 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¡ªclad in patchwork hides and wielding crude spears¡ªhad 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¡ªa ragged swarm of men and women, their faces painted with woad and sporting bone piercings¡ªfought 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¡ªthe 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¡ªthe 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¡ªsparring 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¡ªa 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¡ª these fools who dared block him¡ªhis 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¡ªthe 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¡ª¡± 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.
Chapter 1.1: A Strangers Skin
Waking in Winterfell - Spring 226 AC
I woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding like I¡¯d just outrun an IED blast. The nightmare clung to me¡ªtoo damn real. I¡¯d been limping through the USDA halls, prosthetic clicking on tile, just another ordinary day at the office. Jake waved a baby pic, Sarah swung by with donuts¡ªhell, even the carpets were that cheap government crap. I¡¯d just sat at my desk to check emails when gunfire erupted¡ªsharp bangs that sent my pulse into overdrive. I leaped up, dread sinking into my gut, and reached for the doorknob as screams tore down the hall. Shirley, the middle-aged receptionist, sprinted toward me, eyes wide with terror, glancing back. I raised a hand to beckon her in when a shot rang out. Warm blood splattered my face, and where her kind eyes had been, a gaping hole stared back. Her body slumped¡ªlimp and lifeless¡ªto the ground, and I saw him¡ªthe gunman, sleek black rifle smoking. Our gazes locked. My brain screamed, Close the fucking door! but my arm crawled like it was stuck in tar. The barrel swung my way. A flash¡ªand nothing.
Suddenly I was in a snow-covered glade, a massive tree looming over me. Its white bark gleamed like bleached bone, blood-red leaves rustling in a wind that carried whispers of pine and fresh snow. A carved face gaped from the trunk, sad eyes leaking red sap that dripped onto the frozen earth. At its base lay two wolves¡ªone headless, the other wheezing pitifully, its breath fogging the chill air.
Bang¡ªUnbidden, I sank to my knees beside the dying one, hand resting on its flank. As my palm touched soft fur, its grey eyes snapped open, fangs bared, a low growl rumbling. I should¡¯ve yanked back, but some instinct held me and our eyes locked. Blood hacked from its jaws, staining the snow crimson, and its gaze went glassy, chest stilling. Wet heat trailed down my cheeks¡ªI didn¡¯t know why it hit me so hard, but it did. I had felt some strange connection to the dead beast before me.
Bang¡ªMy eyes traveled upward and I gasped. Hundreds of ravens filled the branches above, their black eyes pinning me in place. A loud caw jerked my gaze to the largest, perched atop the weeping tree, wings flaring. Three red eyes glared down, unblinking. Before I could contemplate what the hell was happening, the flock surged past me, talons and beaks tearing mercilessly into my flesh.
Bang¡ªA bone-chilling cold raced up my spine, the blood oozing from my wounds freezing atop my skin, and my lungs stung from the icy air. Bang¡ªThe three-eyed raven cawed¡ªa high, grating knell¡ªand dove, claws aimed for my eyes¡ªBang¡ªI jolted awake.
Banging¡ªreal banging¡ªdragged me out. I shook my head, trying to ditch the haze, and froze. No quilted blanket¡ªskinned furs. No memory foam¡ªrough logs, a lumpy sack itching like it was crawling with lice. ¡°What in the hell?¡± I rasped, voice scratchy, throat dry, like I had been yelling into a dust storm. My eyes darted around¡ªstone walls, no home office, just a dying fireplace losing to the frosty air seeping in. A stout door, iron-banded, rattled with each knock. ¡°Lord Edwyle, it¡¯s Maester Rodrick¡ªmay I come in? I bear grave news.¡± Lord? Edwyle? Maester? The words buzzed, familiar but off¡ªlike a half-remembered briefing.
I tossed the furs aside, stood, and¡ªholy shit¡ªtwo feet hit the stone. Two whole, wiggling feet. My brain stalled. ¡°What¡ what in the hell is going on?¡± I murmured, flexing toes that shouldn¡¯t be there. Fifteen years with a prosthetic¡ªgone. I stared, half-expecting the aluminum to flicker back into place, but they stayed¡ªflesh, blood, mine. The door burst open before my mind started spiraling out of control¡ªtwo grizzled guards, chainmail gleaming under fur, swords ready, scanned the room. Pockmarked with bushy beards, their faces were tense as they scanned the room¡ªbefore relaxing. ¡°Ren-faire rejects?¡± I thought, swallowing a laugh that¡¯d sound unhinged.
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A third man stepped forward¡ªolder, grey hair cropped short, chain of mismatched links clanking over his robes. ¡°My Lord? Are you well? You look as if you¡¯ve seen the Others.¡± Concern creased his brow, voice soft¡ªlike every VA doc I¡¯d seen. His chain¡ªwhy did it seem so familiar? My brain was still reeling from my leg¡¯s miracle regeneration and struggled to recall where I¡¯d seen it before. ¡°Um, where am I? Who are you?¡± I croaked, voice shaky¡ªstupid question, but my head was spinning.
His eyes widened. ¡°Out,¡± he barked at the guards. ¡°Fetch my assistant¡ªbring my herbs.¡± The door thudded shut, and he turned back. ¡°My Lord, you¡¯re in your home, the Great Keep of Winterfell. I¡¯m Maester Rodrick, bound to House Stark.¡± Calm, sharp¡ªanalyzing me like a lab rat. Then it hit me¡ªWinterfell, Maesters, Stark, slow and surreal, like recalling a book I¡¯d read years ago. Literally in this instance. But Edwyle? That wasn¡¯t a name I recalled. And wasn¡¯t House Stark¡¯s Maester named Luwin? There were so many other questions zipping through my mind. The first and foremost one being how did I even get here? ¡°Just a nightmare. Sorry, it still has me rattled,¡± I lied, forcing a grim smile¡ªa half-truth, but I couldn¡¯t trust him with the real mess. ¡°There was this tree crying red sap, some dead wolves, and it was cold as hell.¡±
He nodded, stroking a copper link. ¡°Some Maesters¡¯d call these naught but nightmares, my lord, but I keep the Old Gods¡ªThey¡¯ve gifted you an omen.¡± His face fell, sadness pooling. ¡°A rider came from your uncle¡ªand with your dream, it bodes ill.¡± He pulled a scrap from his sleeve¡ªhasty script, not in English, but I still understood it:
Maester Rodrick,
We slew Raymund Redbeard¡ªA king-beyond-the-wall no more. But William has fallen. Prepare my nephew¡ªWinter is coming, and he¡¯s Lord of the North now. We return in a fortnight.
Artos Stark, Shield of the North.
I read it three more times¡ªWilliam Stark, the Lord of freaking Winterfell, and apparently my father, is dead. And now they expected me to rule the North? Panic churned in my gut¡ª¡°Is this actually happening? Am I really here in God-damned Westeros?¡± My brain wanted to discount this all as a delusion, that I was probably frothing in the corner of some mental asylum, and not somehow here in a fictional world¡ªin a new intact body no less. But no, this was real¡ªthe gooseflesh prickling my skin, the thud of my heart against my chest, the faint scent of smoke tickling my nose. Definitely not a delusion.
Rodrick said something else, but I didn¡¯t hear it, pacing to the window. Below, the bailey churned with gaunt folk in ragged furs, mud and shit stinking up the air. "I could help them," I thought idly¡ªI knew farming, at least that¡¯s what the degree in my old office said. Who knew what other ass-backwards things these people were doing? Apparently I¡¯m a lord now anyways, so who better than me to improve these people¡¯s lives? I turned towards the Maester, eyes sharp and unyielding. He flinched when he saw my expression.
¡°Stupid! The man expected to comfort a grieving son,¡± I thought, scrambling.
¡°There will be time to mourn later¡ªas my uncle said, Winter¡¯s coming,¡± I said, as I rummaged through a dark wood dresser. ¡°Wait for me outside, I will join you shortly,¡± the older man bowed deeply and left the room. Afterward I fumbled into a pair of hose, a grey double¡ªstiched direwolf sigil on my right breast, and a sable cloak with a wolf-pelt collar. It took me longer than I cared to admit¡ªtheir laces and buttons a medieval puzzle, but once dressed the clothes warded off the cold. Striding to the door, I pondered my first moves as the lord of Winterfell. I knew the future to come would be hard; I could already feel a headache blossoming just thinking about how I would rationalize my more ¡®unconventional¡¯ ideas, but I believed I was up to the task.
After all, Winter is coming.