Year 8,798 Before Conquest
The screaming had stopped.
That was the first thing Brandon Stark noticed.
Not the light.
Not the cold.
The silence.
He stood upon a low rise of frozen earth and broken shields. The wind tore across the land, moving every branch, tattered banner, and torn cloak as though trying to show there was still life yet.
Dawn's light slowly crept across the valley, revealing more and more of the carnage from the battle the night before — the light doing very little to warm the land.
The view in front of him showed the chaos of the last few days.
The field was not scattered with bodies like most battles.
The land was layered.
In many places, three or four men deep.
Men, women, and children lay in piles. Broken spears and torn banners twisted in the carnage, mixed with mud, blood, and snow.
They would say they had won.
They would sing songs and tell stories for generations of how they beat back the dead.
From where Brandon stood, the North had bled out just to pull this off.
Out of seventy-odd houses and clans that answered the call, only thirteen remained.
He could name them all now with ease.
The fallen — he had long since lost count — but he made up his mind to have a list written of every house that had perished.
There in the snow lay a boy of maybe thirteen or fourteen name-days, clutching a spear made for a grown man. He had saved Brandon a few hours ago.
Now he lay nearly split in two.
Another house extinct with him, the last of his line.
The North would remember.
There was not enough left to forget.
At the bottom of the slope lay a giant on his side, half of his body shattered from the frostfire used against him. One massive hand still gripped a bronze axe.
"Rest well, Grundar. You held the line on your shoulders," Brandon muttered, bowing his head for his fallen friend.
There had once been thousands of giants.
Now there were perhaps one or two hundred left.
The Children of the Forest were worse.
Perhaps two dozen remained, and all of them were wounded in one way or another.
An age ended here.
Brandon was not certain that was a good thing.
His hands rested on the handle of his war axe, the weapon battered and chipped. His entire body shook with exhaustion.
They were already calling him the Breaker.
He had broken nothing.
All he had done was bust a hole in the line for monsters on their side to rip through.
His gaze moved to the center of the valley where the mist wall had been thickest.
The Night King.
No mortal had been able to reach him.
When the White Walkers locked the line and allowed no one near the mist wall, Brandon had done the only thing that made sense in the heat of battle.
He charged.
With everyone who was left able to charge.
When they punched a hole in the line, they came through.
The Gloamkin.
They came like the old gods had descended for war.
Three and twenty of them fought through the breach. Each wore dark armor, black as night, with a faint red tint when the light struck it.
At their head rode the Gloamwood King.
Twelve hundred years he had ruled his kind — longer than most bloodlines could be traced.
He led the push into death himself.
He had not sent anyone in his place.
Brandon had seen the look on his face as they passed — the look of someone who had made peace with death and chosen to take as many with him as he could.
Then they disappeared into the storm.
No one knew what happened inside that wall of mist.
Only what came back.
Twenty-three went in.
Four returned.
One died shortly after from the wounds he had taken.
The Gloamwood King was not among them.
The dead had fallen back.
But it felt wrong.
They would not sing of him.
They would sing of Brandon.
But not of the Gloamwood King who had lived twelve centuries and died in the breach for the North.
Brandon's fists tightened at the thought.
"You gave us an opening… Breaker."
An old voice called from behind him.
Brandon turned to see one of the oldest beings left alive.
The father of the fallen Gloamwood King.
A being who had lived nearly five thousand years.
He had fought in the breach.
He was one of the three who returned.
He stood tall, looking toward Brandon with the gaze of someone who had seen too many wars. His armor was covered in frost, dents, and jagged scars. Dark blood coated the shaft of his polearm — a long weapon that appeared half-sword, half-spear, its curved blade wicked and stained.
He did not lean.
He still stood straight.
"We killed him and his generals," the elder said without pride.
"All but three of my family are gone."
A pause.
"The magic of ice is still there. They will return."
"What would you have of me?" Brandon asked.
The ancient one looked at him for a long moment.
"Remember who died for this dawn. For my family will be long gone when they return."
The wind shifted.
Brandon felt something settle in his chest — not grief.
Something colder.
If they would be gone when the dead returned…
Then the North would stand alone.
The elder turned and walked down the slope toward the remaining two of his kind.
Brandon remained where he stood.
The sun rose higher.
It did not feel warmer.
Dawn had come.
But winter had not yielded.
It had only stepped aside.