Boom… boom. The door to the Commander’s chambers in Castle Black shuddered as if it were about to fly off its hinges. From the outside, Stark soldiers threw their full weight against the heavy black ironwood.

  Inside the room, a dozen men of the Night’s Watch struggled to hold the door shut. Standing behind them, Ser Artek Caron, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, gripped his sword with a ferocious expression. He was as massive as a bear, a man who truly lived up to his name, Artek. At the desk, Maester Donell was hunched over, frantically scratching a letter.

  “Is it done?” Artek urged. The men at the door trembled with every strike from the outside, their boots sliding against the floor.

  “Almost… almost,” Maester Donell stammered, his hands shaking so violently the ink smeared across the parchment.

  Donell flung his goose-feather quill onto the table; it bounced and rolled to the very edge, teetering precariously. Donell didn't care, though he was a man who cherished his instruments. With withered, trembling hands, he held the letter out toward Artek. “Do you… do you wish to read it over?”

  “No time! Send it!” Artek snapped, his eyes never leaving the door. The pounding continued, followed by a muffled shout from the corridor: “Artek, you bastard, open this gods-damned door!”

  “Shut your mouth!” Artek roared back, his entire frame quivering with rage.

  Donell stumbled toward the rookery, fumbled with a cage, and pulled out a raven. He tied the message to the bird’s leg, then rushed to the window and shoved it open. The freezing wind rushed in, carrying the metallic stench of blood. Below the Wall, the courtyard was a graveyard. Stark cavalry rode back and forth, their horses' hooves trampling the fallen men in black cloaks.

  Donell held the raven aloft and tossed it into the sky. By instinct, the bird beat its wings, banking south.

  Whiz—Caw! Black feathers exploded against the sky, mingling with a spray of blood. An arrow pierced the bird’s body, dragging it through the air and pinning it firmly to the watchtower. The raven gave a final, pathetic flutter and went limp.

  Donell gasped, looking down. Below, Kenvin held a polished black greatbow, a mocking smirk on his lips as he reached for another arrow from his saddle. “No need to send ravens to the capital, old man. Bran surely knows exactly what we’re doing here,” Kenvin called out. He drew the string to his ear and squinted at the window.

  Donell tried to pull back in terror, but he suddenly felt as if his right eye had exploded. He let out a choked scream and collapsed backward onto the wooden floor. An arrow had entered through his eye and punched straight through the old Maester’s skull.

  Artek and the remaining guards stared in horror at Donell’s corpse. The Lord Commander stood frozen for a moment before cautiously creeping toward the window. From below, Kenvin’s voice drifted up, almost melodic, like a haunting song: “Artek… where are you hiding, Artek?”

  Hearing that sing-song voice made Artek’s knees go weak. He felt like a child hiding from a demon in human skin. “You monster!” Artek hissed. He gripped his sword and risked a glance downward.

  In that split second, the instincts of a veteran of a thousand battles saved his life. Like a bolt of lightning, he yanked his head back. An instant later, he felt a wet streak across his temple. Had he lingered a heartbeat longer, he would have shared Donell's fate. Artek pressed his back against the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stared at the arrow now embedded in the ceiling, still quivering. Below, he heard Kenvin curse. “Damn, I missed. How pathetic.”

  Kenvin slung the bow over his horse's flank and leaped down. He looked up and bellowed, “Artek! Come down and fight like a man! Don’t hide like a common whore!”

  Artek ground his teeth so hard they clicked. Does this whelp truly think he can best me in single combat? he wondered. Despite his age, Artek was one of the finest blades in Westeros. In his life as a knight, his steel had claimed the lives of many famous men.

  “You want a duel, boy?” Artek yelled back. He kept his back to the stone, fearing another arrow the moment he spoke. Donell was proof enough of Kenvin's aim.

  “Come now, old man, show some courage! Don’t bring shame to the name Caron. If you win, I’ll let you and what’s left of your crows go free.” Kenvin’s voice echoed through the window.

  Artek took a steady breath and looked at the dozen men left. They looked back at him with desperate hope. They all knew Artek’s skill. A sword was more than a weapon to him; it was his soul.

  “Fine! Tell your Stark dogs to stand down, and I’ll face you one-on-one. Man to man,” Artek called down.

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  Kenvin laughed with genuine delight. He waved a commander over and ordered the men to pull back, allowing Artek and the survivors to descend into the courtyard.

  As the Stark soldiers retreated, Artek and his men opened the door and made their way down. As he stepped into the open air, Artek felt a strange, cold calm. In a duel, he estimated he had an 80% chance of winning. Yet, a gnawing doubt remained—what if this was a trap?

  The old knight pushed the thought aside. Castle Black was already crawling with Starks. His life was measured in minutes anyway.

  In the center of the courtyard, the Stark soldiers formed a wide circle. Kenvin stood in the middle, radiating arrogance as he watched Artek approach.

  Artek closed the distance. He had met Kenvin Stark a few times before; the boy was reckless, brimming with a pride that clearly hailed from the Wull bloodline: wild and haughty. The Stark blood seemed to have thinned to nothing in him.

  It makes sense, Artek thought bitterly. Since the days of Sansa Stark, placing women on the Northern throne had effectively ended the "Wolf Blood" line. The Queens of the North married, and their children took the mother’s name—Stark—to maintain the dynasty, but the true lineage was gone. This had long galled the traditionalist houses, but the shadow of the capital and the Old Gods had kept them silent.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Artek began, his hand moving to his hip. He drew his blade, Screamer. It was a sword that had made many foes howl in agony, earning its name.

  “Exterminating the rot of the North,” Kenvin laughed. “Killing the lackeys of that cripple Bran.” He drew his own sword slowly, holding it level with his face. He tossed the scabbard to an aide and gave the blade a series of casual, mocking flourishes.

  “You would defy all of Westeros? Defy the Old Gods?” Artek roared like a bear. His massive frame lunged forward. He swung Screamer high and brought it down with bone-shattering force.

  Clang! Kenvin was as quick as a squirrel. He parried the blow and danced backward. The sheer power of the strike made the sword vibrate in his hand. “Ooh, spicy!” Kenvin mocked, though he stumbled slightly from the impact.

  Screamer had hit Kenvin’s parry and glanced off, the momentum pulling Artek’s heavy body to the side. The blade struck the stone floor, sending sparks flying and carving a deep groove into the ground.

  Artek spat on the dirt and glared at Kenvin. He ripped off his black cloak and threw it aside. Underneath, his black plate armor was as solid as an iron fortress.

  “I’m not defying Westeros. I’m doing this land a favor,” Kenvin said, lunging forward. “A monster like Bran shouldn't sit on the heights of power for so long.”

  Steel shrieked against steel as the two clashed. After a flurry of exchanges, Artek felt a cold spike of fear. This "whelp" was pressing him with suffocating speed. Screamer was silent now, forced into a desperate, defensive rhythm.

  Artek faltered, his lungs burning. His age was betraying him in this test of endurance. He realized with horror that Kenvin hadn't even been trying his hardest; he was playing cat and mouse.

  Clang! Screamer flew from Artek’s trembling grip. It was too much for his aging joints. The knight lost his balance and sprawled onto the ground. The Night’s Watchmen turned pale, watching their commander huddle like a wounded old bear. A few began to pray for the mercy of the gods.

  Kenvin stopped. He walked over to where Screamer lay and picked it up, admiring the edge. “Good steel. Valyrian, isn't it?” Kenvin noted with a whistle of appreciation.

  “You’ll pay for this, boy,” Artek spat, half-crawling, half-sitting, his eyes full of hatred.

  Kenvin smirked and walked slowly toward him.

  With a sudden, guttural roar, Artek summoned his remaining strength. He lunged at Kenvin’s legs when they were only a few paces apart. He had calculated it perfectly—he would take the boy down with him.

  Artek’s steel-like hands reached out for Kenvin like a vice. Swish. Artek hit the ground face-first. His nose slammed into the stone. He had grasped at air; Kenvin was simply too fast.

  Before the knight could turn, a sickening, wet crunch of metal through bone echoed in the courtyard. Screamer was driven through the back of Artek’s skull, emerging from his mouth and pinning him to the stone. Artek’s face was frozen in a mask of shock. He didn't even have time to scream. Blood surged from his mouth, pooling around the blade.

  Kenvin looked down coldly at the massive corpse and yanked Screamer free. From now on, he had a proper Valyrian blade.

  “Kill them,” Kenvin ordered.

  In an eye-blink, the remaining Night’s Watchmen had their throats slit. One man, however, managed to dodge a guard and threw himself at Kenvin’s feet, sobbing. “Prince Kenvin! Please, spare me! I can be your messenger!”

  “Messenger? To whom?” Kenvin asked, his eyebrows shooting up as if to say, “What the hell is happening?”

  “To the capital! To the Septon! You must need someone to carry the word?” The man babbled, tears and snot matting his thick beard.

  “Oh!” Kenvin said, as if suddenly remembering something. He leaned down and whispered, “I don’t need a messenger. He already got the word.”

  Before the words had even left Kenvin's lips, his sword was through the man’s chest. The soldier’s eyes went wide; he spasmed once and slumped to the dirt. Kenvin knelt, grabbed the man by the hair, and forced his dying gaze toward a hitching post a few yards away. “He’s been watching from the beginning,” Kenvin whispered into his ear. “I don't need you.”

  The dying man saw nothing but a single raven perched on top of the post.

  The raven took flight, but a silver flash cut through the air. The bird's head was severed, falling to the ground while its body tumbled aimlessly into the dirt.

  Kenvin sheathed his new sword and walked over to the raven’s carcass. He ground the bird into the dirt with his heel, hissing through bared teeth: “Have you sat there so long that you’ve grown bored, Bran? Do you know what the most terrifying thing in the world is? It is watching death slowly approach and being utterly powerless to stop it. I am your death.”

  “Lord Stark, we’ve found the Night’s Watch records,” a soldier reported, interrupting Kenvin’s rhythmic stomping on the bird.

  Kenvin looked at the soldier lazily, patted his shoulder, and leaned in close. “Pass the word. From now on, do not call me Lord Stark. Call me Wull. Kenvin Wull.”