Long Lake, 226 AC

Foolish, Artos Stark thought to himself as he forced himself to his feet. The wildling he’d just killed hadn’t gone down easy, and Artos’s shield had a large crack in it from his opponent’s axe, while his sword felt heavy in his hand. Still, there was no time to rest. The battle was going badly, and there was one person to blame for it. Damn your eyes, brother.

This was all William’s fault, Artos thought bitterly as he looked around the battlefield for his headstrong brother. William had managed to eke out a victory over the ironmen with the help of the Lannisters, and he thought that made him invincible. He’d refused Artos’s advice to gather a crushing force to deal with the wildling army and their so-called King-Beyond-the-Wall, and insisted on marching to meet the Umbers with only the men that had already gathered at Winterfell.

You’re too cautious, Artos, he’d said in that careless way of his. We need to act now, and besides, if we gather too many men to us, the wildlings won’t give us the battle we need to destroy their army- they’ll just slink away until we have to send the levies home. No, we march now, meet Lord Umber, and settle this once and for all.

It had been foolishness, Artos knew it at the time, but there was no way to change William’s mind when he’d made it up, he and Artos were equally stubborn in that way. Their father had told Artos more than once that William, and Donnor too, had the wolf’s blood in them, it ran hot, made them bold, impulsive, and frequently foolish. Donnor’s wolf blood had led him right onto the end of Theon Poole’s sword when the captain of Winterfell’s guards had found his lord abed with his wife, and now William’s had led him and Artos to the shore of Long Lake. They had men from Winterfell and Last Hearth, with smaller numbers from Barrowton, even some Dreadfort men, damn their eyes.

Artos’s eyes snapped to a spot among the battling throng, where a shock of red hair and a matching beard was tilted back, letting out a triumphant bellow. Raymun Redbeard raised his axe and brought it down on a figure laid out on his back, one arm raised in a futile attempt at self-defense. To Artos’s horror, his older brother’s head tumbled from his shoulders, frozen in a look of panic. It might have been the only time in his life that William Stark had ever felt fear, Artos thought numbly, before he was shocked into action by the realization that Ice was laying vulnerable by William’s corpse, and the wildling chief was reaching for it.

Artos barreled towards him, but he was too far away. The wildling’s attempt to seize Ice was interrupted, however, when Jorun Karstark, Artos’s good-brother- a boy, really, even at ten-and-seven- slashed wildly at Raymun, throwing the wildling chief back for a moment. The boy wasn’t going to win that fight, of course, it was surprise that had bought him a moment, but Raymun was going to kill him too, and Artos was not going to explain to Lysara how he’d let her brother die.

“WILDLING! FACE ME!” he bellowed as Raymun rained blows or Jorun’s shield, splinters flying off as the boy was pushed back. Redbeard turned to face Artos, a sneer on his face.

“Is it merely the custom of savages to slaughter boys?” Artos asked, unstrapping his damaged shield from his arm and tossing it aside, taking a two-handed grip on his sword. “Or are you not man enough for more?”

“I was man enough for the Stark,” Redbeard said, gesturing to William’s body with his axe. “And who are you, that’s so eager to join him?”

“Your death,” Artos spat. He charged the wildling without any further bandying of words, swinging his sword in a brutal arc from his waist height upward, putting Raymun on the back foot immediately.

The fight wasn’t anything that could be called noble, or beautiful, or any of the flowery words that southron singers liked to say about a duel between their knights. Artos and Raymun were fighting to the death, axe against sword, and only one of them would walk away.

Artos slashed into Raymun’s arm, Raymun kicked at Artos’s knee, both men bled, but it all flowed together for Artos, such that he couldn’t even say for certain what was happening at any moment. He did know that the smug sneer was off of the wildling’s face, and that was how he knew he was going to win. Raymun Redbeard was frightened, and Artos Stark was not.

It was a hard fight, but Artos managed to slash through Raymun’s wrist and make him drop his axe, then smash him in the face with the pommel of his sword, knocking him to the snowy ground.

Artos kicked him hard in the ribs for good measure, then picked up Ice from the ground as Raymun reeled in pain, walking towards the injured man.

“I suppose… I wasn’t man enough for you then,” Raymun said. “Just tell me something, kneeler. Who’s the man that killed me?”

Artos said nothing. He raised Ice over his head and brought it down, the Valyrian steel slicing clean through and sending his head toppling to the ground, just as William’s had done mere moments before.

The world felt very still for a moment, before he heard the cry go up among the wildlings. “The King!” one of them cried, and it was taken up by another. “The King is dead!”

Artos ignored them as the panic began and grew into a rout, the wildlings fleeing the field pursued by the northmen’s surviving host. He walked to where Jorun was standing, breathing heavily and looking at the dead bodies of William and Raymun with wide eyes.

“Are you hurt, lad?” Artos asked. Jorun shook his head, but said nothing.

“You don’t have to look,” Artos continued, but he knew the boy would. It was the way of the young. Artos hadn’t been able to look away from his father’s body as he’d died. He was sure this memory would be seared into his good-brother’s memory forever, just as it would be in his.

He bent down to pick up Ice’s sheath from William’s body as a horn blew, a horn that Artos knew, and it drew a dark laugh from him.

“Finally, the sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch arrive to aid us, after the day is won,” he said with contempt. He turned to Jorun. “Whoever is leading them, tell them to busy themselves burying the dead. I am bringing my brother home to Winterfell.” With that, he gathered up William’s body in his arms, making a face as he picked the severed head. There would need to be a crypt built, and a statue as well. For all his faults, William had been Lord of Winterfell, and now that title would pass to a boy of eight, one who would need a lot of instruction to make sure he didn’t turn out like his father or Donnor. Artos sighed. Nothing ever ended, one damn thing happened after another. Gods be good.