In the year 283 AC of Aegon's Calendar, the frozen wasteland Beyond the Wall lay beneath a dim sun, its pale light doing little to warm the Frostfangs Mountains.
Within this frigid wilderness, a sprawling encampment of countless hide tents claimed the snowy ground.
The wind gusted constantly, erasing any footprints and making it hard to traverse, yet for these Free Folk, such hardships were ordinary.
But today was different for those who were outside, most just stood blankly looking at the sky in a daze, while others were uncertain what it meant.
A scream shattered this calm, as their eyes darted from the sky towards the largest tent, nearly three times the size of a common dwelling on top of the perched hilltop.
Inside, Frida, a tall and sturdy woman, with long flowing black hair lay on a floor of soft polar bear pelt fur,
"Ahhhh" Frida screamed through the pains of childbirth.
A spearwife hovered near her feet, arms open ready to receive the child.
"I can see the head," her voice anxious but steady, as she carefully supported the emerging child.
Frida's husband, Odin a towering man of seven feet, with wild-red hair and a braided beard winced as his wife's grip nearly crushed his hand.
Their two grown sons stood close by, Tormund, with long slick-backed hair, and a red shaggy beard and Kormunn with curly red hair with a clean shave looking tough and reserved.
Both wore heavy pelts and looked on with worry and pride
"If this wee little fucker kills my mum, I'll kill him right after," Tormund blurted, anxiousness spilling into crude humour.
"Tormund, enough," rumbled Kormunn in a deep voice. "Mother wouldn't want that. If she dies, then the Old Gods would have taken her from childbirth, how could the babe possibly kill our bear of a mother."
Odin, feeling his hand go numb, barked at his sons: "You two! Come hold your mother's other hand before she breaks mine. Frida, easy...ah, gods, Kormunn is right you bear-woman!" his face contorted.
Frida, despite her agony, managed a grim smile. "Shut it, Odin! Ahhh... Tormund is right! This little fucker's trying to kill me, and what did you mean bear!?" Her words, though harsh, carried a small jest and familiar warmth. She knew Tormund wouldn't truly harm the child.
She had raised them better than that.
Then came the baby's first cry, piercing the chill air.
Frida's eyes filled with relief and motherly love. "Quickly, show me my child," she urged, voice weak but determined.
The spearwife flinched at something unusual. "He… he has a mark on his face!"
She almost dropped the babe but caught herself and, calming down, handed the newborn to Tormund who was next to her.
In an instant, Tormund's earlier bravado vanished, replaced by a broad grin as he gazed upon his baby brother.
"Eh? There is a large mark on his forehead! Dad, have you lost your touch?" Tormund turned so everyone could see, as he passed his new baby brother to Kormunn not forgetting to jab at his father.
Odin's face darkened. "Bring him here. Now.
Frida's expression grew concerned.
Kormunn, now holding the baby with careful ease, laid the child in Frida's arms.
Frida searched her husband's face. "My baby boy… what's wrong?" She looked down at the sleeping infant, panic and love mingling in her eyes.
Odin stared at the mark in silence.
Outside, muffled chatter rose as people noticed something extraordinary.
Odin stepped out for a moment, and his voice reached inside: "What's going on out here?"
A young child's voice answered, "Chieftain, look."
Moments later, Odin rushed back in, heavily breathing, but his excitement couldn't be contained. "By the gods… he's sent from the gods!" Odin shouted, lifting the baby and smothering him in kisses until Frida slapped his thigh in protest.
He ignored the love taps from his wife, and just laughed giddily, forcing Tormund and Kormunn to step in after getting a look from their mother and restoring order with a light smack to Odin's head.
This worked as he sobered up placing the child back with Frida with extreme care.
"What did you see?" Frida asked, amused and curious. She had never seen him this gentle before. She remembered that when Tormund was born, he started tossing the baby up and down as it cried, almost dying of fright that he would drop him.
"A second sun in the sky," Odin said, with awe. "A bright, burning ball just like the one we know. But now two!" He explained holding out his clenched hand, then showing his index and middle finger.
Tormund and Kormunn after hearing this also ran outside the Tent.
When they returned, they bore the same astonishment. "It's a miracle," said Tormund. "Pops, do you think it has something to do with our new brother?"
Odin folded his arms, serious and wise eyes seemed to travel to a distant past as he looked at the sleeping child. "I'm not sure, but an old witch foretold I'd bring forth a child full of warmth to banish darkness. I thought she meant one of you two. We can never trust a witch's riddling words, but this… this is no coincidence."
Frida held the babe close, murmuring "Yoriichi. Yoriichi Giantsbane."
They all looked at her with the same questioning look, only Odin looked thoughtful. She smiled looking at her two sons. "I'm from beyond these lands, from a place called Sunspear. My time spent there wasn't wasted though, I learned a word that means 'Fate' or 'Sun God.' That's Yoriichi. It suits him, doesn't it?"
The two sons just looked at Frida in surprise. Tormund asks "Then how did you meet Dad?"
Frida smiled meaningfully, as Odin stood as tall as a statue behind her. "Let's just say when we first met he thought I was beautiful and bluntly stated he wanted children with me, even going as far as saying he would do everything for me. So I simply agreed, and now here we are."
Tormund whistled, Kormunn looked away awkwardly, and Odin grunted, somewhat embarrassed at Frida's mention of how he "conquered" her heart.
This tender moment, warm in the cold North, was only the beginning of this child's fate.
One that would dance with Ice and Fire.
Yoriichi Giantsbane had come into the world, awakening conspiracies and those long forgotten in time.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Far north of even the Free Folk camps, beyond understanding or mercy, lay the Land of Always Winter. A place where warmth had long since fled.
Beneath shifting glaciers and snowdrifts that never thawed, a humanoid figure sat frozen on a throne of ice, silent and still as the endless cold.
Its form was tall and spare, limbs encased in a thick shell of frost. For ages uncounted, it had not stirred. A faint light pierced the gloom, and something within that icebound king awakened.
The figure's eyes snapped open... bright blue, colder than the deepest winter night. Its rickety head tilted slightly, brittle ice crackling at the movement. Its gaze penetrating the icy mountain it slumbered in towards the sky right at the coming of the second sun.
Its mouth opened as a shriek, ripped from his throat, broadcasting miles away from him, shaking the very mountain. Winds stirred as the snow started to fall lightly on the dead entombed around him in their icy glaciers.
In response the ice that held them grew spiderweb fractures, splintering with soft, insidious pops.
Twenty Entities that all looked identical crawled out standing in front of the being sitting on the throne. Each one placed their hands on the ground as a large amount of magic poured into the ice, A ripple coursed through the ice, searching for all undead trapped in this mountain.
A legion of once-men or animals, their faces lifeless and rotting, opened ghostly blue eyes.
From the sky, the mountain was glowing.
Soon, something would move in this frozen graveyard, and the world would shudder at what emerged.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Far to the south, where red brick towers and gilded armour reflected a different sun entirely,
King's Landing burned with turmoil.
The screams of the dying and the clang of swords rose along the streets, as Tywin Lannister's soldiers carried out his will.
Amidst this chaos, Tywin removed his ornate helm. He stood amidst a scene of dreadful order civilians fleeing, guards shouting, a city shaped by fear and steel.
Then, for an instant, his gaze drifted skyward, and he saw it, a second sun fading from view. Its presence had been brief, but impossible to ignore.
Tywin narrowed his eyes. He had no patience for omens or mystic signs, his world was shaped by power, gold, and sharp minds.
Yet the vanishing orb left him unsettled.
He recalled half-forgotten whispers from a Maesters rambling, prophecies he had always dismissed. Tywin steeled his resolve. He would not be swayed by superstition.
Whatever gods or forces conjured that second sun, he would meet them as he met all things... on his terms.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Across the Narrow Sea, in a temple devoted to the Lord of Light, shadows danced against crimson walls.
The air smelled of incense and old promises. Flames flickered in braziers, their embers casting strange shapes on carved stone icons.
A priest, robed in red leather and silks, knelt before a stained glass window, half-drunk from cheap wine and weary from endless prayers.
He had raised his cup to drink again when something brilliant pierced the coloured glass. An uncanny radiance that did not belong. The priest froze, trembling hands still holding the flask.
His eyes widened as the glow of a second sun pressed through the tinted panes, scattering wild hues across the floor. Shadows shaped into terrifying monsters and a lone swordsman.
Heart pounding, he fumbled for a scrap of parchment and a quill, scratching down the date and a hasty description of the phenomenon.
His script wavered, ink blotting unevenly, but he persisted.
This was no mere trick of light.
He believed This was a sign of R'hllor's will stirring in distant lands, of the great struggle between light and darkness tilting in some unknown direction.
Finishing his note, he set the quill aside, wiping sweat and spilled wine from his beard. His faith, often tested, now felt alive with possibility.
He raised his eyes back to the flames, searching for meaning in the shifting embers, but was left with silence.
Perhaps soon, he or another servant of the Lord of Light would uncover what fate the gods had chosen to kindle beneath that strange, fleeting sun.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Ten years had passed since the strange birth and the omen of a second sun.
It was now 293 AC.
In the bitter cold beyond the Wall, a light snowfall fell softly like a blanket onto the large encampment still within the Frostfang mountain range, Yoriichi Giantsbane stood ankle-deep in snow, his wooden sword held at a measured angle.
Opposite him, Skirl a stout, broad-shouldered hunter who prided himself on his prowess gripped two hatchets with white-knuckled intensity. The metal's sharp edges glinted off any light that had come from the sky.
Surrounding the two was a crowd of Free Folk, their breath rose in misty plumes, and more than a few had crooked smiles.
A hush fell as Skirl circled Yoriichi, testing his footing on the uneven ground, muttering low curses at the lad who'd made a fool of him more than once about Hunting advice.
"Skirl, go easy on the lad," called an older man, though his grin and the glint in his eye showed he was eager for a show rather than concerned for Yoriichi's safety.
"Easy?" another snorted. "The boy's dropped him three times already, should he start tying a hand behind his back?" Several onlookers laughed, and a few spearwives teased their husbands about how a child could bring down a grown man so easily.
They watched Yoriichi with curiosity, some with lingering disbelief. He was just a well-taken slim boy, but he carried himself like a seasoned warrior. He did not pace or flex his fingers nervously, he simply stood there, posture straight, head slightly bowed, dark hair with red-tipped ends brushing his cheeks. His wooden sword carved simply, with no ornament was steady in his grip, as if an extension of his arm.
Skirl lunged first, charging in with a wild roar meant to intimidate. His hatchets swiped at shoulder height, cutting through the air with a whistle.
Yoriichi pivoted on one foot, moving so fluidly that the snow barely scattered off him. So light his footsteps barely imprinted. He brought his wooden sword up to meet one hatchet, the dull thud of wood against steel lost in the snap of winter wind. In the same breath, he twisted his body, batting aside the second hatchet with the grace of a dancer, leaving Skirl off-balance and open.
The crowd gasped.
To them, it seemed impossible that a boy could move so quickly, and could read each swing before it landed.
But Yoriichi understood Skirl's movements as if they were painted on the air. He saw the tension in Skirl's shoulders, the subtle tremor in his arms signs that told him exactly where the attacks would come.
With calm precision, Yoriichi struck Skirl's wrists lightly, forcing him to drop one hatchet into the snow. Another quick blow to the back of the knee buckled the man's stance.
Before Skirl could even grunt in surprise, Yoriichi pressed forward, delivering a final, well-placed strike to the back of the neck, Skirl fell to his knees. The hatchet that was still in Skirl's grip even when kneeling, slowly fell out of his hands as he lost consciousness with no strength to hold it.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then laughter and cheers erupted like a breaking dam. A spearwife jabbed her husband in the ribs, smirking at the shock on his face. Others called out Yoriichi's name, voicing disbelief and pride. Among them, a few warriors tapped their blades against their thighs in respect.
Yoriichi stood in front of the unconscious Skirl and brushed the snow from his face, ensuring he still breathed. Satisfied that the man would wake soon, he moved away without flourish and slipped through the crowd.
No showboating, no grins of triumph. He simply left, letting the spectators gossip and marvel among themselves.
As he made his way through the encampment, Yoriichi offered quiet suggestions and guidance to those he passed.
He paused at a smith's makeshift forge, remarking on how the man's hammering angle could be improved to strengthen the metal's integrity. He showed a young hunter how to tie a snare more securely so hares wouldn't slip free. His voice remained gentle and calm, unassuming despite his recent display of abilities.
Many who heard him nodded gratefully, taking his advice to heart. In a world of chaos and hardship, any edge was welcome and Yoriichi's insight was uncanny. It was as if he could see into the very core of things, discerning how a muscle tensed before a strike, how breath faltered at the wrong moment, how a trap's knot weakened if pulled from the wrong direction.
This strange gift and his otherworldly demeanour had earned Yoriichi a place of quiet respect among the Free Folk. Some spoke of him as a blessing from the Old Gods whilst others merely saw a boy wise beyond his years.
Yoriichi moved on, he would help like this almost daily, and the tribe was slowly progressing in a better direction because of it.
Suddenly, a small fist lashed at the back of Yoriichi's head.
He moved his hand at an angle to catch the fist without dodging, as he slowly turned to find Ygritte glaring at him, her fiery red hair framing a fierce, youthful scowl.
"Yori, you sly bastard!" she snapped, though her lips curved. "I've been looking for you all day, and here you are advising every dullard with half a brain. Are you actively avoiding me?"
Yoriichi sighed, a slight smile on his lips. "Avoiding you, Ygritte? If I meant to avoid you, I wouldn't stand here catching your punches." He released her fist gently. "You've quite the welcome."
She pushed a finger into his chest. "I saw you slip away from the tents where I was waiting. Don't deny it. You're always off somewhere, helping someone fix a tool or find the best spot to dig a latrine."
"It's not that I'm avoiding you," Yoriichi said calmly. "I was called to a meeting later tonight, you know this is the fourth full moon gathering. I need to prepare."
Ygritte narrowed her eyes. "Aye, did you know the other kids call you the quiet one, the odd one? Some say you don't belong here. They think your clever words make their lives harder, claim you twist their parents 'round your finger."
"Then they would say you look too kind, too gentle like a southern milk-drinker. I tell them they're fools, that you're stronger than any of 'em." her fist raised in defiance.
Yoriichi's expression softened. "They're children, Ygritte. They'll learn one day that my advice is only there to help, not harm. Besides, do you think so little of me?" he put on an acting look of grievance.
Her fiery gaze faltered. "No… I just want to know why you never stay put. You're always running off." She crossed her arms and glanced aside.
Yoriichi offered a small, reassuring smile. "I appreciate that, Ygritte. Truly. As for slipping away, I have my reasons. The tribe trusts my judgment, and I have to attend the meeting tonight. It's getting colder, and we need to think of moving south."
She lifted her chin, her voice strangely distant, "Your smile…"
"What?" Yoriichi asked, puzzled by her sudden shift.
"Your smile," Ygritte repeated more clearly, "Don't waste it on just any pretty face in this camp. Promise you'll keep it for me."
Yoriichi, a bit thrown off, still managed a soothing tone. "All right, I'll smile only for you."
"Stop treating me like a child," she huffed, "I have also seen ten name days too."
He didn't argue, a small silence came over the two, the sounds of winds whistling blowed their hairs, allowing Yoriichi a moment to look even more handsome in Ygrittes eyes as she soon changed track, pouting slightly. "I started calling you 'Yori,' but you never gave me a nickname. That's hardly fair."
Yoriichi blinked. "You want a nickname?"
She stepped closer, crossing her arms. "Want it? I demand it. I've chosen you, Yori. Aunt Brusha says a spearwife picks early, before another lass snatches someone worth having."
He laughed gently. "Chosen me for what, exactly? We're still children."
Ygritte puffed her chest out. "We're Free Folk. We can choose when and what we like. Maybe I'll choose you to hunt with me, to fight by my side... or more, when we're older. But don't you go smiling at every girl that looks your way, or I'll chase them off."
Yoriichi found her earnestness surprisingly endearing. After a moment's thought, he said, "All right, how about 'Itte'? It's the last part of your name, just as you shortened mine."
She scrunched her nose in distaste. "That's just lazy. You chopped off the first letter and called it done."
"You took most of mine," he countered, eyes glinting with amusement. "If 'Yori' is fair, then 'Itte' is fair."
Her cheeks reddened. "You're impossible. First, you keep away from me, now you mock my name."
Yoriichi raised a hand in surrender. "Peace, Ygritte. I won't call you that if you truly hate it. But I can't promise to only smile at you. That seems beyond my control."
She looked away, fighting a grin of her own. "Fine. Keep your ridiculous nickname. Just remember who picked you first."
"Picked me first," Yoriichi echoed, amused. "An honour indeed."
"Don't forget it," she teased, her attempt at menace softened by warmth. "Now come on. You have this meeting, yes? Let's not keep them waiting."
Surprised she wanted to join, Yoriichi paused. But of course, Ygritte would come her aunt led the spearwives and it was natural she'd want to see what was going on. "All right," he agreed, turning toward the meeting tent.
Ygritte fell in beside him, grumbling half-heartedly under her breath, pleased to have caught him this time. He quickened his pace a fraction, forcing her to speed up, and she stuck her tongue out at him, determined not to lag behind.
Their voices drifted into the cold air as they walked, two young Free Folk, bound by curiosity, respect, and something else that neither fully understood.
Their laughter and easy banter kindled a fragile ember of warmth, but it would not be long before they discovered that the night is dark and full of terrors.