But Styr hated the south. It was a loathing that seeped into his very marrow.
It was not merely because of the traditions passed down by the First Men, etched into the flesh and blood of every member of the Free Folk-the stories of how the southern nobles had betrayed their word, how they had used towering walls and laws to drive their ancestors Beyond the Wall.
It was also born of a deeply personal anguish. His child, little Torik, whose smile had been like the thawing of spring's last snow, had died at the hands of a man of the Night's Watch.
It had not been a fair fight. During an attempt to scale the Wall and gather supplies for the winter on the other side, a crossbow bolt fired from the shadows had pierced his chest.
Styr had been at the foot of the Wall then. Holding his son's shattered body after it fell, he had felt as though that iron bolt had nailed his own heart to the ice of the Wall.
And the savage scar that slashed diagonally down from his left brow, all but tearing half his face apart, had been left when he led an ambush outside the Wall to avenge his son after learning where that man of the Night's Watch would be.
The man's swordplay had been as showy as a dance. He must have been some southern noble or knight, but his final blow had been vicious, and it was that strike that had wounded Styr.
Styr had killed him, smashing his skull with an axe, but the scar, along with the far greater void his loved one's death had left in his heart, had remained forever-an indelible mark the south had left upon him.
Now, before the shadow cast by