Maege studied the amount of salt harvested and allowed herself a rare, satisfied nod. Investing in that big iron pot had proven to be one of her better decisions. It had been only a moon, and already they had fifteen pounds of salt, gathered with minimal effort. A small bounty, but a valuable one. Their meals had more flavor now, a luxury in a household that often made do with simple fare. It was a small thing, but she couldn't deny she appreciated it.
She found herself wondering what would come next from the mind of her ward. She knew he was working with wood—she had seen him whittling and measuring in the yard—but what exactly he was building, he had yet to share. She had asked once, curious, but he had only given her that measured look of his and said, "I don't want to get your hopes up for nothing."
That had only made her more intrigued, but she let it be. She'd find out soon enough.
There was no denying she was impressed by the boy. He had a sharp mind, sharper than she had first assumed, and he had a way of picking up slack where others failed. It was clearest when it came to her daughters' learning. Maester Tibol was not a bad man, nor was he entirely useless, but the truth was he struggled to teach certain things—particularly arithmetic. Jorelle, her little she-bear, had been struggling with her sums for some time, frustrated with the rigid way the maester explained them.
And then Rick had stepped in.
He had sat with Jorelle one evening, calmly showing her another way to approach numbers, breaking them down into simpler forms. Maege had overheard just enough to make her pause, and curiosity had driven her to listen more closely. When she asked for an explanation, Rick had obliged without hesitation.
"Everything can be broken down," he had said. "Separated into twos or, if the number is bigger, into tens. Look—" He scratched a simple example into the dirt with a stick.
"Let's say you want to multiply five by three. Instead of just memorizing it, think of it as five by two, plus five by one. Of course, knowing five by three outright is faster, but when the numbers are bigger, this method makes it easier. Take nineteen by thirteen. That's hard to do in your head, right? But if you split it—nineteen by ten, plus nineteen by two, plus nineteen by one—it's just a series of simple calculations you already know. You add the results together at the end, and that's it. Jorelle already understands addition well, so this way, she's less likely to make mistakes."
Maege had been impressed. It was a practical, straightforward method—one that made sense. More sense than the blunt, rigid way Maester Tibol taught. From that day on, she had taken to checking her own sums using Rick's approach, and it never let her down.
And it wasn't just Jorelle he had helped.
Brenda was now of age to start learning her letters, and Rick had taken a different approach with her as well. Instead of simply drilling her on shapes and sounds, he had drawn pictures—objects, plants, and animals—each corresponding to a letter. A was for acorn, B for bear, C for crow. With each new letter, he made her repeat the sound, linking it to the drawing until it became second nature.
By the end of it, he had compiled all his drawings into a small book just for her.
Maege had seen the way Brenda clutched it to her chest, flipping through the pages with a quiet reverence, as if it were some priceless tome from the Citadel.
It was the kind of care that could not be faked. The kind that spoke of a boy who had grown up with little, who knew the value of learning and of being taught with patience rather than strictness.
She had taken him in at her brother's request, expecting nothing more than another mouth to feed. Instead, she had gained something far more valuable.
"Mother!"
Maege looked up from the parchments spread before her, her fingers still smudged with ink from tallying stores and supplies. Dacey and Rick strode toward her, their boots caked in dirt and pine needles, dragging a freshly killed stag between them. The rich scent of blood clung to the air, mingling with the crisp northern wind that seeped through the keep's open doorway.
"I see your hunt was fruitful," she remarked, setting down her quill.
"It was," Dacey replied, chin lifted with satisfaction.
"You say that like you had anything to do with it," Rick interjected, his tone flat and unimpressed.
"I did!"
"Dragging it back doesn't count."
"It does!"
"No, it doesn't."
Maege couldn't help herself—she laughed, a deep, throaty sound that filled the chamber. Seeing her fully grown daughter bickering with her far-too-mature-for-his-age ward like a pair of squabbling children amused her greatly. Their argument came to an abrupt halt, both turning identical scowls on her. She merely smirked and shifted the conversation.
"There is a gathering of the lords in Winterfell in two months."
"I'm staying!" Dacey declared without hesitation, too quickly for it not to be deliberate.
Rick quirked a brow. "Isn't that an opportunity to secure a betrothal for you?"
Dacey's expression soured instantly. "It is."
"It isn't," she corrected herself a heartbeat later, her voice laced with distaste. "Not when the most likely pretenders are Smalljon Umber and one of the Karstarks."
Rick tilted his head slightly. "Aren't they among the most powerful houses in the North?"
"They are," Dacey admitted, crossing her arms, "but they're also insufferable."
"Nothing a threat of a morningstar to the head—or the stones—can't fix," Rick said dryly.
Maege snorted loudly at the offhand remark, while Dacey blinked in momentary surprise before breaking into a savage grin.
Rick only shrugged. "I'm just saying."
"And I'm your heir," Dacey reminded her mother, though amusement lingered in her eyes. "I am to rule Bear Island after you."
"You would still need a husband," Maege pointed out, tapping a finger against the table. "The lords tolerate me ruling without one because of your cousin, but they won't be so forgiving with you."
Rick hummed. "So it's open season for Dacey, then. Good for me."
The two Mormont women turned to him with matching blank expressions.
"It was a jest," he added after a beat, his face as unreadable as ever.
Silence.
"You have no humor," he muttered before hauling the stag toward the kitchens, leaving Maege and Dacey to stare after him.
Dacey scoffed, shaking her head as if to dismiss the entire conversation, but Maege remained still, her thoughts lingering.
The old She-Bear contemplated the consequences of such a marriage. On the surface, it was an absurd notion, but the more she turned it over in her mind, the more the idea took root. Rick was intelligent, resourceful, and already had a mind for governance, running parts of the keep's affairs as if he had been raised for it. But then there was the undeniable complication—his lineage. The fact that he was a prince, however unacknowledged, could bring problems neither of them were ready to face.
"I'm not going," Dacey said again, her voice firmer. "Take Alysanne with you instead. Besides, someone has to rule in your absence."
Maege studied her for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Alright. I'll take Alysanne."
But even as she moved on, the thought of Rick as a match for Dacey refused to leave her mind.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
"Lady Maege, are you busy?"
Maege Mormont looked up from her work, rolling the tension from her shoulders. Stacks of parchment covered the heavy wooden table before her, filled with inventory lists, supply counts, and other tedious but necessary records of ruling Bear Island. She had been at it for hours, her ink-stained fingers a testament to the effort.
"At the moment, I am not," she replied, setting aside her quill. Her keen eyes settled on Rick, who stood at the doorway, his expression as serious as ever. "What do you want?"
"I finished my project," he said, a rare flicker of excitement breaking through his usual reserved demeanor. "I was thinking of showing it to you."
"Oh?" Maege arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "I'd love to. What did you come up with this time?"
"You'll see," he answered, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "We'll have to go to the yard, though."
She gave a short nod and rose, following him outside. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. To her surprise, Rick led her toward the archery range rather than the usual forge or workshop where he often tinkered. A small wooden table stood there—clearly his handiwork—laden with a bow, a crossbow, quivers of arrows and bolts, and two peculiar wooden constructs. One was long and slender, while the other was shorter, thicker, and wider.
"I created a modification for the crossbow," he explained, stepping up to the table. "It makes it easier to use and draw."
Maege folded her arms, watching as he picked up the crossbow and held it as if preparing to fire. The bowstring was slack, not drawn. Then, with a sharp, practiced motion, he flicked his wrist downward. A section of the crossbow's lower half moved with the motion, accompanied by a soft click. With visible effort, he returned the piece to its original position, and the bowstring followed, pulled back into place, ready to shoot.
"It's a bit difficult for me," he admitted, flexing his fingers. "I'm only two-and-ten, after all. A grown man or woman would have the proper strength to do it without struggling."
To prove his point, he slid a bolt into place, took careful aim, and loosed it. The projectile struck the target with a solid thunk. Without pausing, he repeated the motion—resetting the bowstring with the same swift maneuver and firing another bolt within moments.
Maege's brow furrowed. That was fast. Faster than she had ever seen a crossbow reloaded. Normally, a crossbowman had to set their weapon down, draw the string with brute strength or a cumbersome pulley system, and then reload. This? This changed everything.
"Impressive," she muttered, unable to keep the admiration from her voice.
"That's not all, my Lady."
Rick set the crossbow down and picked up the smaller construct from the table. He turned it in his hands before showing her its contents—a row of neatly stacked bolts.
"It's… some sort of quiver?" she guessed, studying the design.
"Something like that," he confirmed. "It attaches to the crossbow… like this."
He secured it in place atop the crossbow, then took his stance again. Without hesitation, he fired. Once. Twice. Again. And again. The bolts flew so fast Maege barely had time to register them before another was sent downrange.
By the time he stopped, eighteen bolts had embedded themselves in the target.
Maege Mormont was of the North. She had seen war, had commanded warriors, had fought alongside men twice her size and lived to tell the tale. Few things truly shocked her. But as she stared at the crossbow, her jaw slack, she realized she had just witnessed something that could change the face of battle forever.
'By the gods… A dozen men with these could cut down an advancing force before they ever got close enough to retaliate.'
"I more or less did the same for the bow," Rick continued, as if he hadn't just shattered her understanding of ranged warfare.
This time, he picked up the longer construct and affixed it to the bow. It looked awkward, impractical—until he demonstrated its purpose. Instead of drawing the string back in the traditional way, he pulled the attached mechanism forward, then back, dragging the bowstring along with it. With this, he fired arrow after arrow in quick succession, sending eight shafts into the target in less than ten seconds.
Maege stared. Not at the targets, not at the bow, but at him.
The boy was a bloody genius.
She suddenly wondered if the royal family had any idea what they had lost by casting him aside. If he had been given proper instruction, resources, and time, who knew what else he could have created? What else he would create?
"...Dy, Maege?"
She blinked, shaking herself from her thoughts. "Aye?"
"You… didn't say anything."
She exhaled sharply, gathering herself. "It's amazing, lad. This could change everything—especially your crossbow."
"I'm still trying to find a way to fire even faster," he admitted, rubbing his chin.
"Are they difficult to make?" she asked, her mind already racing ahead.
"The 'quiver' for the crossbow isn't. It takes maybe half a day to put one together. The bow attachment is more complicated—harder to make, and it takes longer."
"How did you fit eighteen bolts into it?"
"Oh? That!" He brightened, as if she had asked the most obvious question in the world. "That was an accident. I realized that instead of stacking them directly on top of each other, if I staggered them slightly—one to the left, one to the right—I could fit more in the same space."
To demonstrate, he loaded the quiver with bolts, showing how the offset positioning allowed for tighter packing. Maege suddenly understood the implications: a crossbowman wouldn't need to reload each bolt individually. Instead, he could fire until the quiver was empty, then simply discard it and attach another.
'That makes it even deadlier. The squids and the wildlings won't know what hit them.'
"Could you make a dozen of those crossbows, with at least two quivers each?"
Rick tilted his head, considering. "Sure. It'll take time, though. I still have my chores."
"Forget the chores," she said briskly. "Focus on this. When you're done with the crossbows, make six of the bow attachments."
"Yes, my Lady."
She hesitated for only a moment before adding, "Lad…"
"Yes?"
"Enough with the 'my Lady' nonsense. You don't hear me calling you 'your grace,' do you?"
"Well, no, but that's because—"
"I don't care," she interrupted. "Call me Maege from now on."
Rick stared at her, then let out a relieved breath. "Oh, good. I hated talking like that. Reminds me of the Red Keep." He shuddered. "Bleh."
Maege chuckled and, with one last glance at the terrifyingly brilliant weapons on the table, headed back inside the keep.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Dacey set the raven's message down with a satisfied nod. "They arrived at Winterfell."
Rick glanced up from the chair he was lounging in, one boot propped against the table's edge. "Safe travels?"
"Yes," she confirmed, stretching her arms behind her head. "Mother joined the Glovers on the way. With a group that size, any bandits would have thought twice before trying anything."
"That's a relief," Rick replied, though his smirk gave away his teasing tone.
Dacey narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Really?"
"Oh, absolutely," he said, leaning forward, his grin widening. "If something happened to your mother, who knows what you'd do to poor old me?"
Her glare was swift and sharp. "I'll tie you to a pole—"
The ringing of the bells cut her off. Both of them froze for a heartbeat before Dacey shot to her feet, snatching up her morningstar in one fluid motion. Rick was right behind her, sword flashing into his hand. The bells meant trouble. Maege had drilled it into his head from day one—always have your weapons on you. Whether it was the ironborn or raiders from beyond the Wall, Bear Island was never truly at peace.
They burst through the doors and into the open courtyard, where three dozen guards were already assembled, weapons drawn and eyes locked on the keep's entrance.
Dacey's voice rang out, clear and commanding. "WHO DARES?!"
"Wildlings, Lady Dacey! Northern coast," a soldier reported, his breath sharp with urgency.
Dacey didn't hesitate. "Let's move! Archers, take a cart and join us when you can. The rest—horses or on foot! I want five of you guarding the keep. Close the gates behind us."
Rick slipped away from the gathering warriors, making straight for the armory. He wasn't a fool—he knew he wasn't ready to be swinging a sword in the chaos of battle. Sparring in the yard was one thing; real combat was another beast entirely. But he could still be useful.
Grabbing a sturdy bow and a quiver brimming with arrows, he slung them over his shoulder before jogging toward the cart where the archers were preparing. No one stopped him. No one questioned his presence. He exhaled in relief. He hated being coddled.
As he climbed onto the cart, his sharp eyes caught sight of something promising—one of the archers had armed herself with his modified crossbow. A pleased grin tugged at his lips. Smart woman. This would be the perfect chance to test his creation in real combat.
Settling into position, he rolled his shoulders and steadied his breath. The battle was coming. And this time, he was ready.
When they arrived at the village, chaos reigned. The air was thick with the cries of battle and the acrid scent of smoke. Villagers scrambled in all directions, some defending their homes, others fleeing the wildlings who had descended upon them. The raiders, bloodthirsty but not indiscriminate, were focused on one thing: taking the women. There was no time for the wildlings to linger—only to plunder.
Rick had no time to assess the full scope of the attack. He saw the archers already positioning themselves atop rooftops, behind crates, and against the village walls. They loosed arrows almost immediately, and Rick nocked an arrow in swift unison, his muscles already coiling with instinct. His first shot took a wildling in the throat—his target dropped instantly, an easy kill.
The second arrow flew, striking another raider in the chest, but this one staggered, the force of the blow pushing him back only a few steps. The wildling's eyes locked on him in fury as he gripped his crude stone axe tightly.
Rick's next shot didn't find its mark, but the following one buried itself in the wildling's shoulder, throwing him off balance and rendering his weapon arm useless. With a snarl of rage, the wildling kept coming, even as he dropped his axe, drawing another from his belt.
That's when Rick saw her.
Dacey, surrounded.
She was already swinging her morningstar with deadly precision, smashing the weapon into the skull of the first wildling who dared get too close. But the odds were stacked against her. Three raiders closed in, the largest towering over her, his eyes wild and bloodshot.
Rick drew another arrow, aimed, and released.
The first arrow hit the wildling who was closest to Dacey in the eye, sending him crashing to the ground with barely a sound. His body hit the earth, twitching slightly in the throes of death. Rick didn't pause to watch. His next shot struck another wildling in the shoulder, just as he tried to swing an axe at Dacey. The wildling grunted in pain, but his grip remained tight on his weapon, even though his arm was useless.
But the third shot—Rick's third arrow—missed entirely, sailing past the target and burying itself in the dirt. His fourth was better, striking the man in the chest, right through the heart. The raider crumpled, gasping, his lifeblood spilling out into the dirt.
Dacey's focus remained on the final wildling—an enormous brute, towering over her. She was pushing back with everything she had, but she was already clearly exhausted, her breaths shallow and ragged.
Rick's heart pounded, but he knew what had to be done. He could feel the ice in his veins as his last arrow was drawn, but it didn't matter—there was no time for more shots. He discarded his bow and ran.
Dacey was struggling to block the wildling's brutal blows with her morningstar, but the man's strength was too much. With a swing that had enough force to cleave stone, he knocked her weapon from her hand. She staggered backward, falling to the ground. The wildling raised his axe, a vicious grin spreading across his face.
Rick acted without thinking.
He drew his dagger and hurled it with deadly precision. The blade buried itself into the wildling's shoulder, just enough to stop the oncoming swing, and the man bellowed in pain. It gave Dacey enough time to scramble to her feet, but the wildling wasn't done. With a savage growl, he pulled the dagger out and dropped it to the ground, locking eyes with Rick as he turned toward him.
Rick knew the man was twice his size—and likely four times as strong. His mind screamed to run, but his body wouldn't obey. He was already charging forward, sword drawn.
As the wildling stepped forward, Rick prepared to dodge the brutal oncoming blow. But just then, a sharp scream of pain rang out from behind the man.
The brute's leg buckled beneath him, his knee splitting open as a dagger embedded deep into the joint from behind. The wildling howled in agony, crashing to the ground.
Rick didn't hesitate.
He lunged forward, driving his sword deep into the wildling's exposed throat. The blade sunk in with a sickening crunch, but Rick wasn't finished. He ripped it out and thrust again—this time into the wildling's eye. The man collapsed like a sack of stones, twitching once, and then lay still.
Rick pulled back, panting for breath. Only then did he look up at Dacey, his pulse racing, blood thumping in his ears. She stood, still gripping the remains of her morningstar in her good hand, but her face was drawn tight with pain. She was clutching her arm, her teeth gritted.
"Are you alright?" Rick asked, rushing to her side.
"That fucker broke my arm," Dacey grunted. "But I'll survive. Thank you."
Rick nodded quickly, but he didn't miss the exhaustion in her voice. "Think nothing of it."
He reached out to help her, but her injured arm hung limply at her side.
"Let's finish this," she said, her voice tight but focused.
Before they could move further, the familiar voice of the archer who'd ridden with Rick earlier called out to them.
"All the wildlings on the beach have been dealt with. The ones in the boats too," she reported. There was a sharp grin on her face. "The crossbow worked better than we could've hoped. We didn't give them time to get out of range."
Dacey blinked, incredulous. "All of them? Even those who tried to escape?"
The woman nodded, pulling the crossbow from her back and showing off the remaining bolts in her quiver. "They didn't have a chance. Got them all before they could row far enough to be out of reach." She grinned again, clearly pleased with herself.
Dacey was quiet for a moment, then nodded, a weary but approving look crossing her face. "Good work," she said, turning to face the rest of the village. "Now, gather the wounded. We'll make sure all the wildlings are dead. The prisoners…" She paused, scanning the area. "There are no captives left, right?"
"No," came the soldier's reply. "All dead, ma'am."
Rick saw that the battle was nearly over. A few wildlings still struggled against multiple opponents, but the fight was quickly winding down. With a sigh, Dacey's gaze turned back to Rick.
He took a step closer to her, concern flashing in his eyes as he noticed her arm again. "We need to fix your arm."
Dacey winced. "It's broken."
"I know," Rick said firmly, "but you can't leave it like this. It needs to be set before it gets worse."
She gave him a sharp look, but after a beat, nodded. "Fine. Do it quickly."
Rick worked efficiently, using pieces of wood from a broken fence to brace her arm. He tore cloth from a wildling's tunic, quickly fashioning a sling to support the weight.
"Too tight?" he asked, his brow furrowing.
"No," she said, though her voice was strained. "It's fine."
Rick gave a nod and stepped back. "All set. But we need to get back to the keep."
Dacey sniffed at the air, then wrinkled her nose. "It smells like blood and sweat."
Rick smirked. "Well, you could finish faster, then. The faster we're done, the faster we can go home—and the faster you can get rid of that smell."
Dacey didn't answer. Instead, she turned back to her duties, as the final sounds of battle began to fade into a tense, exhausted silence.