Wind howled. Needles of ice bit into exposed skin. Beryk Moon braced himself, the weight of Winter's Kiss familiar in his gloved hands. Ahead, a ragged line of Wildlings surged, their guttural shouts swallowed by the northern gale.Steel scraped against steel. A crude axe arced, aiming for his head. Beryk twisted, the heavy greatsword a blur of ancient metal, deflecting the blow with effortless precision. His breath plumed white, instantly lost to the frigid air.Another raider, wild-eyed and heavily bearded, lunged, a rusty spear thrusting low. Beryk sidestepped, letting the spear point graze his leather-clad arm. A quick pivot, and Winter's Kiss swung, its flat impacting the man's ribs with a sickening thud. The Wildling collapsed, wheezing.Years of training had honed his reflexes. Years of cold watch, patrolling the unforgiving lands south of the Wall, had hardened his resolve. Eighteen years old, and already a veteran of countless skirmishes.Memories flickered. Seven years old, watching the flames consume everything he knew. The cries. The blood. His parents, gone. That day, a boy had died, and a warrior was forged in the stark lands of the North.Silence reigned for a moment, save for the wind. Then a roar erupted, closer this time. A hulking Wildling, scars crisscrossing his face like ancient maps, charged. This one carried a greatsword, as rough and unrefined as Beryk's was elegant.Moonlight glinted off the ancient runes etched into Winter's Kiss. Each symbol whispered of forgotten battles, of ancestors who had wielded it through a thousand winters. The blade was more than steel; it was a legacy.His opponent bellowed, swinging his own crude blade in a wide, desperate arc. It was a move born of brute strength, lacking any finesse. Beryk met it, Winter's Kiss ringing as it parried the wild swing.A jolt ran up his arms. Not just the impact. A familiar, terrifying surge of cold power pulsed from deep within him, threatening to unravel his control. It felt like the very heart of winter, raw and untamed.This was the power he suppressed. The destructive force that had scarred his early memories, a forgotten moment of terrible, uncontrolled might. His jaw clenched, a vein throbbing at his temple. He pushed it down. *Control.*Muscles screamed with the effort. He channeled the raw energy, not letting it explode outward, but tightening it, focusing it into his parry. The wildling's massive sword shuddered, then flew from his grasp with a shriek of displaced air. It spun, embedding itself in a snowdrift twenty feet away.Stunned, the Wildling stared at his empty hands. Beryk didn't hesitate. With a swift movement, he reversed his grip on Winter's Kiss, bringing the hilt down sharply on the man's temple. The raider crumpled, unconscious before he hit the snow.His breath came in ragged gasps. The cold power receded, leaving behind a chilling exhaustion. He hated it. Hated the way it threatened to consume him, to turn him into something monstrous.Around him, the skirmish continued, though the Wildlings' morale was clearly breaking. Lord Commander Mormont's rangers, a grim company of hardened men, were steadily pushing them back.Beryk moved, a blur of motion through the snow. He cut down a man attempting to flee, his blade a clean, swift arc. He blocked a desperate dagger thrust from another, then disarmed him with a flick of his wrist.Nine years old, he had saved Ser Barristan Selmy from a similar ambush. A small boy, wielding a practice sword, somehow moving with an instinct that defied his age. It had earned him his knighthood, a rare honor for one so young.Now, at eighteen, that instinct was sharper, more refined. But the underlying power, the one that had manifested in that pivotal moment, remained a terrifying burden. It was a secret he guarded fiercely, even from Lord Eddard, the man who had taken him in, raised him, and treated him like his own.He plunged into the fray again, a silent, deadly force. A Wildling warrior, wielding a clumsy club, aimed a crushing blow. Beryk ducked, Winter's Kiss sweeping low, severing the man's hamstring. He fell with a shriek.More fell. The Wildlings, never truly organized, began to scatter, their ranks thinning quickly. Some tried to fight to the last, driven by desperation and the harsh realities of life beyond the Wall.Beryk moved with deadly grace. His movements were economical, each strike purposeful, designed to incapacitate or kill swiftly. He felt no joy in the slaughter, only a grim necessity. This was his duty. To protect the North.A sudden flash of movement caught his eye. A particularly large Wildling, roaring defiance, swung a massive, jagged axe at one of the younger rangers. The ranger, barely more than a boy himself, fumbled his shield.Quick as thought, Beryk intercepted. Winter's Kiss met the axe head with a deafening clang, deflecting it wide. He spun, his blade a silver arc, and the Wildling’s arm, still clutching the axe, went limp.The ranger stared, wide-eyed, then nodded his thanks. Beryk simply grunted, already moving to the next threat. The fight was almost over. The North would be safe for another day, for another hour.Only a handful of Wildlings remained, cornered against a rocky outcrop. They eyed the rangers, then Beryk, their faces etched with despair. One, a woman with braided hair and fierce eyes, let out a defiant scream.She charged, a small, wickedly sharp knife in her hand. Beryk met her, his movements fluid. He blocked the knife, then expertly disarmed her, sending the blade skittering into the snow. He brought the flat of Winter's Kiss against her head, knocking her senseless.Last, a tall, gaunt man, his face painted with crude symbols, stood alone. He held no weapon, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. But his eyes, deep-set and dark, held a flicker of cunning."Please," he croaked, his voice raw. "We meant no harm. Only hunger."Beryk studied him. He had seen this before. Lies. Desperation often bred cunning. His hand tightened on Winter's Kiss. He did not trust the man's gaze. This one would return, given the chance, to raid again.Suddenly, the gaunt man lunged, not at Beryk, but at the nearest ranger, a small, concealed dagger appearing in his hand as if from nowhere. It was a desperate, final gamble.Years of anticipating deception, honed by a harsh world, served Beryk well. He reacted instantly, a flash of steel preceding the man's intended victim. Winter's Kiss met the man's chest with a sickening crunch.His eyes widened, a gurgle escaping his lips. He stumbled back, a dark stain spreading across his rough tunic. The gaunt man collapsed into the snow, motionless.The last raider fell.Silence descended once more, heavier this time, broken only by the panting of men and the mournful groan of the wind. Snow began to fall again, soft, silent flakes covering the fresh blood.A cold calm settled over Beryk. The fight was done. He exhaled slowly, watching his breath ghost away. His gaze drifted north, toward the jagged peaks of the Wall, a sentinel against the unknown.Then, from far beyond the colossal ice barrier, a sound drifted on the wind. It was faint, almost imperceptible, yet it resonated deep within him. Not a roar, not a shriek, but a low, chilling, almost melodic whisper.It was a sound that made the ancient runes on Winter's Kiss glow with a faint, internal light.

Chapter 1: Snow-Kissed Steel