"The guards told me you were spending time at a small firecamp you made outside… What are you doing exactly?" Maege Mormont asked her ward, her voice laced with curiosity as they walked side by side toward the training yard.
Rick shifted his gaze slightly but kept his pace steady. "I'm trying to see if I can make salt, my lady."
"Salt?" Maege raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but also slightly skeptical.
"Yes," Rick nodded, his tone thoughtful. "Salt is expensive, and if it's possible to make some without too much difficulty, it could help with preserving food or even generating some income. Both would do Bear Island good." He paused before adding with a small, almost proud grin, "It could also provide a luxury to improve the food we have."
"First a rabbit den, now salt-making," Maege said, amusement creeping into her voice. "You're full of ideas, aren't you, lad?"
Rick chuckled softly. "Without ideas, we'd still be living in caves instead of homes. And I'll have you know, my lady, that with one bucket of sea water, I can make more than half a pound of salt in a day." He spoke as though it were a triumph, as if he'd uncovered something that could change everything.
Maege said nothing in response at first, choosing to study him instead. His words came with a quiet pride, as if the very idea of making salt from sea water was a revelation. Half a pound wasn't much, she knew, but it was a start. And there was potential. Selling even that modest amount could bring in fifty silver stags—nearly a quarter of a gold dragon. That wasn't a small sum.
Her thoughts turned inward, considering the implications. Bear Island, with its cold, harsh lands, was far from rich. Any boost to its economy—no matter how small—could make a difference. If Rick could figure out how to produce salt efficiently, it could help with food preservation. And with a bit of luck, it could even make Bear Island some coin.
'It's worth seeing if it's practical or not,' she thought, her gaze softening slightly as she regarded her ward.
In Westeros, salt was a rarity. Despite the old saying, "bread and salt," which invoked guest right, salt wasn't always shared. Maidenpool was the only place where salt was produced in any significant quantity, and even then, it was limited. Most salt in the realm was imported from Essos, and the prices reflected that scarcity.
She couldn't help but be intrigued by the idea, even if it seemed like a small endeavor. Rick was talking about producing salt in substantial quantities—18 pounds a day from 36 buckets of seawater. He was already thinking of the logistics: the need for a large iron pot, plenty of firewood, and a few people to help stir the pots. Selling the salt would take more investment, but using it to preserve food first would be more practical.
Maege considered it, her mind working through the possibilities. "Once the cellars are full, any surplus could be sold or traded for grain to fill the stores," she mused aloud. "The investment is small, and the loss, should it fail, would be minimal—just time and firewood."
Rick turned to look at her, his expression open and earnest. "But there's another reason for all of this. It's not just about the House," he said quietly, almost as if it were a secret he had kept from her. "I'm repaying a debt. Mostly."
Maege's brow furrowed as she processed his words. "Mostly?" she repeated, her tone skeptical.
"I owe it to the old grumpy bear for finding me a place to live. I owe it to you for taking me in as a ward, despite the situation here. But beyond that…" He hesitated, eyes glancing to the horizon as if gathering his thoughts. "Despite the bruises left on my body from your mace and your daughter's, you've shown me more kindness in the three weeks I've been here than I've received in my whole life."
Maege stopped in her tracks for a moment, her expression unreadable. Rick's words lingered in the air, and her gaze softened ever so slightly. She had always thought of herself as a pragmatic woman, someone who gave only what was needed to keep the family together and strong. A roof over his head, food to eat, and the basics of training—was that not enough? Yet here he was, speaking as if it had been more than that, as if her actions had meant something to him.
Her lips tightened in a frown, but her thoughts betrayed her. A roof, food, and a bit of training, she thought bitterly. For a prince, it's nothing. But for him… it's everything? Her mind turned, seething with the unspoken words. Curse you, Lyanna Targaryen. Curse you! May the Old Gods give you your rightful punishment.
"Alright, let's get to work," Maege said, shaking herself from her thoughts. "Enough talk, lad. Time for some swordplay."
Rick gave her a small smile, sword in hand, and walked toward the training yard. Maege followed, her steps measured and purposeful, but the thoughts of her ward's words still swirling in her mind.
Picking up her mace, Maege stepped into the yard, rolling her shoulders as she faced Rick.
He had already assumed a defensive stance, sword held steady, his eyes sharp and calculating. She waited, watching, testing to see if he would make the first move. Ten seconds passed. Nothing. The lad was patient. Good.
Deciding to break the silence with steel, she stepped forward and swung her mace downward in a controlled arc. He sidestepped with ease, his sword darting toward the open space at her left side, aiming for her kidney. Quick, but predictable. Pivoting counterclockwise, she redirected her momentum into a diagonal upward swing, aiming for his sword arm—not to hit, but to force him left, right into her path.
Only, he didn't go left.
Instead, he weaved right, barely dodging her mace, slipping into her blind spot with a swiftness that caught her completely off guard. Clever bastard. She felt rather than saw his next move and had only a heartbeat to react. Instinct kicked in, and she leapt left, just as his blade sliced through the space where her face had been.
That was close. And new.
Before she could recover, he overextended—just slightly—but it was enough. Seizing the opportunity, she swung her mace back from left to right with all the force she could muster. It collided with his sword, knocking it away and sending him stumbling to the side. Victory was nearly hers.
And then, pain.
A sharp impact struck the back of her left knee, and before she fully processed what had happened, she was on the ground, kneeling, a dagger pressing against her throat.
"Yield?" Rick's voice was calm, almost teasing.
Maege exhaled sharply, catching up with the events that had unfolded in mere seconds. Seven hells. She hadn't even seen the dagger coming.
"...Aye. Yield."
Rick withdrew the blade immediately, offering his free hand. She took it, grunting as he pulled her up, her mind still turning over the last exchange.
"What just happened?" she asked, more baffled than frustrated.
"I won our bout, my lady. Though I assume you're asking why?" he replied with an amused glint in his eye.
"Aye." She crossed her arms, her right eye ticking in mild irritation, though not at him. It was annoyance at herself. She had years—decades—of experience, and the boy had still managed to put her on her arse.
Rick, to his credit, didn't gloat. Instead, he explained.
"I used your own strength against you," he began, his voice steady and composed. "When you knocked my sword away, I went with it. Your focus was on my upper body and my weapon, but not my feet. The force of your strike gave me momentum, and I used it. Pivoting on my left foot, I struck the back of your knee with my right heel—hard enough to make you fall. Then, while still moving with the momentum, I let go of my sword to maintain control of my movement and drew my dagger with my free hand."
Maege blinked, processing his words.
"Damn. That was good thinking. And fast," she admitted begrudgingly.
"Thank you, Lady Maege."
She tilted her head slightly, still mulling over what had just happened. "I'm surprised you went for my head at the start. That's not your usual style."
"No, it isn't," Rick agreed. "But the opportunity was too tempting to pass up. And even if I'd miscalculated, the worst that could have happened was a glancing hit—not lethal. It was an acceptable gamble." He gave her an appraising look. "Though I must say, I'm amazed you avoided my strike despite the element of surprise. Experience truly is the greatest advantage."
Maege smirked. "Aye. The more experience you have, the sharper your instincts become."
Rick grinned, a playful glint in his eyes. "Then let's test them again, my lady. A rematch?"
She let out a chuckle, hefting her mace back into position. "Let's."
As she stepped forward, ready to engage once more, she found herself thinking, I'm really starting to like you, lad.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
After watching Rick produce salt with a method she'd never seen before, Maege had to admit—begrudgingly—that while it might not be the most lucrative trade, it could be invaluable for preserving meat. However, tending to thirty-six pots was a fool's errand. It wasn't practical. After carefully calculating the effort versus the yield, she decided that investing in a single, large cooking pot—twice the depth of a regular bucket—was the smarter choice. It would allow them to produce just over two pounds of salt per day, enough to stockpile a substantial reserve before winter. One person could handle it alone, meaning no unnecessary drain on their labor force.
Still, one thing puzzled her. How did Rick know how to make salt? More importantly—why did he know?
"As I'm sure you already suspect, since you're asking why instead of how—I read about it in a book." Rick's voice was casual, but there was an undertone of something deeper beneath it. "That was the only thing I could do besides training my footwork and my skill with a dagger."
Maege noted the phrasing—"only thing I could do." She stored that away in the corner of her mind.
"But why salt, specifically?" she pressed.
"I…" Rick started, then hesitated. His gaze shifted, his expression briefly flickering with something akin to pain. "I was curious about the world. How things worked. And my… associate trained me to be the best king possible."
Maege's brows drew together in suspicion. "Careful, lad. Some may think your words treasonous."
"And they would be right." Rick let out a humorless chuckle. "My associate wanted me to be ready to rule the realm when the crown prince inevitably proved himself to be The Unworthy all over again. Not that I ever had an interest in ruling, or the Iron Throne for that matter. If the South burned to the ground because of the king's—or more likely, the crown prince's—failings, I wouldn't shed a tear." His voice was cold, detached, but there was no mistaking the weight behind his words. "But I had little choice. Go along with my associate's plans… or die."
Maege crossed her arms. "You're a prince of the realm. I doubt anyone could threaten you with impunity, let alone kill you, not with the Kingsguard, the knights, and all the soldiers in the Red Keep."
Rick gave her a sideways glance, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Unless you're the king."
Maege stiffened slightly. Rick noticed and continued, his tone even, almost matter-of-fact.
"The king doesn't see me as his son. A bastard, at best. And I don't see him as my father. That's about the only thing we've ever agreed on." He exhaled through his nose. "There was an… incident. The crown prince started it. I defended myself. He got hurt. The king didn't take it well."
Maege narrowed her eyes. "What kind of punishment are we talking about?"
Rick snorted, but there was no humor in it. "Punishment? No, that would imply effort. This was something else entirely. The king ordered me locked in my chambers. No food. No water. Just left there to waste away. I was seven at the time."
Maege's jaw tightened. Seven?
"Letting a child die of thirst and starvation isn't a punishment," he continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "That's murder. And considering the circumstances, kinslaying."
Maege struggled to keep her expression neutral. She had always heard rumors about the Mad King's cruelty, but this?
"So how did you survive?"
Rick's lips twitched slightly. "My associate struck a bargain. He would smuggle water and food into my room, on one condition—I had to learn everything a king should know to rule and rule well."
Maege was silent for a long moment, absorbing the weight of his words. "Are you saying the king tried to get rid of you?"
Rick gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "I doubt it was intentional. He just… forgot I existed. I'm useless to him. A disgrace. So he doesn't think about me. And neither does the realm, really. From the smallfolk to the lords, most blame me for Robert's Rebellion. They couldn't care less if I lived or died. They have more important things to worry about."
Maege frowned. "And your mother?"
A sharp, bitter laugh escaped Rick's lips. "She stopped acknowledging me the moment she gave birth to the Visenya the king wished I had been."
Maege clenched her fists. She couldn't understand it. How could a mother abandon her own child like that? She may not hold much fondness for Lyanna Targaryen, but even she had never imagined the woman to be so monstrous. Her mind wandered to the Starks.
Would they have been different?
Despite the fallout between Eddard Stark and his sister, Maege knew the Warden of the North well enough to believe he wouldn't have blamed his nephew for his mother's sins.
Or perhaps, she thought grimly, it's the lad who doesn't trust the Starks, given who his mother was.
Shaking the thoughts aside, she returned to the conversation. "Is the crown prince truly that bad? You called him The Unworthy come again."
"I did." Rick leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed. "He's entitled. Lazy. No consideration for anyone but himself. That was when he was eight, mind you. And from the reports my associate provided over the years, nothing changed. If anything, he's only gotten worse. Of course, those reports could have been false, but I doubt it. The man risked his life every time he came to see me."
Maege eyed him carefully. "And now?"
Rick inhaled deeply, stretching his shoulders. Then, to her mild surprise, he smiled—a genuine, content smile. "Now? I'm free. Free of them all. And I intend to enjoy my life as much as I can."
Maege studied him in silence before nodding. Then, with no more words, she handed him his list of chores.
The tasks weren't many. Check the stock of firewood and replenish it if needed. Inspect the weapons in the keep—sharpen what needed sharpening, be it swords, daggers, or arrowheads. Finally, make some arrows and crossbow bolts.
Rick didn't mind making arrows. He found them efficient, precise. But crossbows? Those he loathed. Too slow, too restrictive. The damage they could inflict wasn't worth the time wasted reloading. He often wondered if the only reason someone had invented them was because they didn't want to bother practicing archery.
You spend more time reloading than shooting, he thought with irritation. And at best, you get two shots before someone charges you down and kills you while you're still fumbling for another bolt.
It was highly inefficient. There had to be a way to improve it.
With that thought lingering in his mind, he got to work.
Maege spent the day distracted by what she had learned from Rick. So much so that even Dacey, sharp-eyed and ever attuned to her mother's moods, voiced her concern. Maege cursed the Southrons once again, their folly and cruelty, but in the same breath, she found herself offering a quiet thanks to the Old Gods. The lad could have been bitter, sullen, even violent, shaped by the neglect and scorn he had suffered. Instead, he carried himself with an easy resilience, not weighed down by grievances, but propelled forward by a quiet sense of duty.
He never complained. Not about his chores, nor the cold, nor the simpler life he now led. If anything, he seemed eager to prove himself useful, going beyond mere duty to consider the wellbeing of their household. He had even taken an interest in their finances, an oddity for a boy his age, offering practical suggestions that had forced her to reassess how she handled trade and resources. He was perceptive—too much so at times—but never overstepped. And then there was the way he doted on her daughters, particularly little Jorelle and Brenda. He didn't spoil them, which she appreciated, but he had a way of balancing play with learning, weaving stories and lessons together in a way that left the girls enthralled.
It wouldn't surprise her if they started seeing him as a brother.
'Is it the wolf in him that pushes him to seek a pack? A pack of bears instead of wolves or dragons?'
She had no answer to that, and perhaps she never would. The boy was an enigma, and yet, she was glad she had taken him in. At first, she had done so begrudgingly, only because it was her thrice-damned brother who had asked. But now? She would not admit it aloud, but she liked the lad. Even his sharp tongue, insolent as it could be, amused her more often than not.
A voice cut through her thoughts.
"Mother, perhaps we should stop here and do the rest tomorrow?"
Maege blinked, pulled from her musings by her eldest daughter. Dacey had a brow raised, arms folded across her chest. From the way she shifted her weight, Maege knew it wasn't the first time she had tried to get her attention.
Grunting at the notion of stopping, Maege conceded that her mind had been elsewhere.
"Or perhaps I should let you do it alone?" she said, testing. "You're old enough to be left in charge for a few days."
Dacey gave her a knowing look but took the bait. "If you think that's the case, then I'll not disappoint you." Then, after a beat, she added, "Though I do wonder what's been keeping your mind so preoccupied."
"Our guest."
Dacey frowned slightly. "Rick? What did he do?"
"Nothing but be helpful," Maege admitted. "I was just thinking that I'm glad I took him in. Things run more smoothly in the keep with him here."
"I've noticed," Dacey murmured.
Maege glanced at her daughter, weighing whether to pry further. "And? What do you think of him? He's been here for two moons. That's long enough to form an opinion."
Dacey was silent for a moment, considering. "He's… dutiful. Diligent. He has a bit of a cheek, and I wonder how his head hasn't been caved in by your mace yet for his insolence." She smirked slightly before continuing, "But truthfully, I think he's a good boy. He's good with my sisters and takes care of them when he has the time. The other day, I saw him helping Jorelle with her sums. He told her a story about the Targaryens as a reward for getting them right."
She paused before adding, "He's reserved, though. He never talks about himself. Besides probably being a Snow from the Starks, I know nothing about his life before coming here. I don't even know how he came to be fostered here." A beat. "Or why you agreed to it."
Maege exhaled. "Your uncle asked it of me."
Dacey's brows furrowed. "Uncle? He's at the Wall. Why would he ask that?"
"The lad showed up at Castle Black one day, asking to be allowed to cross the Wall and live beyond it."
Dacey's frown deepened. "At two-and-ten? He wanted to go beyond the Wall?"
"There was no way my brother would allow that. So he asked me to take the boy in."
Dacey didn't seem entirely satisfied with that answer, but it was the truth—or at least, part of it.
"That still doesn't make much sense," she muttered. "Why not the Starks?"
Maege gave her daughter a look, one filled with knowing. "Lady Stark," she answered simply.
Dacey understood immediately. "Ah. A Southron. Devoted to the Seven." She made a face. "Would she really—?"
"Who knows?" Maege cut in, not in the mood to dwell on it. "But if she saw him as a threat to her sons, I wouldn't put it past her."
Dacey scoffed. "Southerners and their views on bastards…"
Maege nodded grimly. 'Yes, and the lad has suffered for it.'