Five smallfolk and three soldiers lost their lives at the hands of the wildlings. Sixteen were wounded but would recover. Twenty-seven wildlings had been killed, and remarkably, no one had been taken. Given the savagery of the raid, the numbers were better than anyone had dared hope.
Rick couldn't help but notice that Dacey seemed pleased with the outcome, her posture taller, her gaze unwavering, as though she had won a battle against fate itself. The only flaw in her satisfaction was the broken arm she now had to contend with, the fracture clearly more inconvenient than it was painful. Still, it was a blow. She was already too active to remain idle for long, and this injury would keep her from any real training or strenuous tasks for at least a moon.
Despite this, Dacey managed to keep a relatively good mood, though Rick could sense the frustration in her eyes when she couldn't take charge the way she usually did.
Rick, on the other hand, found himself constantly on his toes. He hated feeling like a servant. And though Dacey never asked him to do anything petty or unreasonable, there were moments when he was sure she enjoyed teasing him. Whether intentional or not, he couldn't always tell. What bothered him more, however, was that he didn't know how to help without feeling like he was underfoot. But he did it, and he never complained.
Her orders had him coordinating the woman archer who had used his new crossbow to great effect during the battle. The woman's skill with the weapon was undeniable, and Rick had taken the time to show her how to shoot, load bolts, and change quivers—skills that would undoubtedly serve her well in the future. He also introduced her to his quiver for the bow, explaining how it was designed differently and why it was suited to his personal style of archery. They worked together as a team, and by the end of it, Rick found that teaching her had been a welcome distraction from helping Dacey manage the keep and the island.
But one duty still remained: looking after Dacey's younger sisters.
Lyra, at ten years old, could handle most things on her own, but Jorelle and Brenda—at eight and five respectively—still needed guidance. Rick found it surprisingly fulfilling to help them with Maester Tibol's lessons, especially when he could come up with ways to explain concepts they didn't quite grasp. It felt good to spend time with them, and the joy they took in learning made him forget, even for a moment, how much he missed his own family. Of course, it did come at the expense of any free time for himself, but he didn't mind. He loved the little she-bears, and he would gladly sacrifice a hundred moments of solitude for them.
One evening, after another full day of lessons and keeping Dacey company while she rested her arm, she caught him off guard with a question.
"Are you alright?"
Rick blinked at her, momentarily thrown off balance by the sudden shift in tone. Her eyes were soft, a little too searching, and he wondered what brought this on. He felt a strange heat rise in his chest at the thought of someone actually caring about how he was feeling.
"I… am. Why?" he asked, feeling a bit sheepish.
Dacey didn't seem to be satisfied with his answer. "It was your first real battle, wasn't it? First time you've killed someone, too."
Rick took a slow breath. He hadn't really thought much about it. The battle had been all about survival—fight or die. There hadn't been any room for second-guessing.
"It was," he confirmed. "What about it?"
Dacey's gaze remained fixed on him, searching his face like she was looking for something. "You're not bothered by taking a life?"
The question hung in the air like a weight. Rick paused, letting the meaning sink in. The truth was, no, he wasn't bothered. Not by the wildlings.
"I admit, I never really thought about it," he said slowly. "I was more focused on... well, stopping them, so the people would be safe. And helping you afterwards. But no, I'm not bothered. I didn't know these men. They were just… monsters, really. The big guy we fought together…" Rick hesitated, his voice growing quieter as he thought back to the wildling who had almost killed them both. "Him… I felt relief. Relief that he wouldn't kill me, then turn on you."
Dacey studied him with a strange expression, her lips pressed into a thin line as she absorbed his words. After a long moment, she nodded.
"I see," she said softly, as if weighing the meaning of his answer.
Rick shrugged, trying to make light of it. "I guess… I drew a line. Me and mine, or them. I made my choice, they made theirs. No point in feeling sorry for the life of a man who wouldn't hesitate to slit my throat. If it was someone I knew, someone I cared about…" He paused, letting the thought settle. "Then I'd be more than bothered. But you'll have to forgive me if I don't go verifying that theory." He added a light laugh at the end, trying to ease the tension that had crept in.
Dacey snorted, the tension breaking. "No, please don't. I'd rather not be left to deal with that kind of mess."
Rick grinned, but his smile faltered as Dacey's eyes narrowed, a teasing glint flickering in them.
"'Me and mine'... Hmm?" she said, her voice a mix of amusement and challenge.
Rick raised an eyebrow. "You didn't know? You're all mine, my lady. Enjoy your few years of freedom left."
He didn't have time to react before Dacey smacked him lightly on the upper arm, an easy motion that made him wince in surprise.
"As if!" she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I'm not interested in little boys."
Rick smirked, unbothered. "We're only four name days apart. That's why I said a few years." He grinned again. "And I may not be a man grown yet, but I'm no little boy either."
Dacey shot him a side-eye, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. "You're right. Very few boys of two and ten name days would fight an opponent twice their size without soiling themselves. You were very brave, Rick."
Rick puffed out his chest in mock pride. "Aye, here I stood," he said, his voice dramatic.
Dacey rolled her eyes again, but the smile she was trying to suppress couldn't quite be hidden.
"What?" he asked innocently. "Wasn't it good enough? I guess I'll have to practice more. Those are the words of my future House after all. Can't mess them up..."
Dacey chuckled, shaking her head, and pointed to the door of the solar with an exaggerated gesture. "Go away before I smack you upside down with my morningstar, boy."
Rick laughed, holding his hands up in surrender, but he was grinning, knowing that the teasing was just their way of showing how much they cared. In some strange way, it felt like this—these small moments—was what made everything else bearable.
Once out, she simply shook her head in amusement.
'At least he's funny.'
___________________________________________________________________
Near a moon turn later, Maege and Alyssane returned to Bear Island, just in time for supper. The island's wind whipped around them as they approached the hall, the scent of salt and pine filling the air. When Maege, the Lady of House Mormont, caught sight of Rick attempting to coax food into her youngest she-bear, who was stubbornly refusing, a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips. It was a fleeting moment of warmth, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a concerned frown when her sharp eyes noticed her eldest daughter's arm, now wrapped in a sling.
"Welcome home, Mother, sister," Dacey greeted, her voice warm with affection. With a quick motion, she released her younger sisters, Lyra, Jorelle, and Brenda, to rush into their mother's embrace. Maege, though not one to be easily moved, wrapped her arms around her daughters with a fierce sense of protection, her usual stoicism melting into something far more tender. Alysanne, ever the quieter of the two, made her way to Dacey, exchanging a brief but heartfelt hug.
Maege welcomed them all back, her eyes flickering briefly over the group. Alysanne, the more thoughtful of the pair, surveyed the room with a quiet smile. The reunion, though warm, was brief, and soon they all found their places around the table. Rick caught sight of Brenda sitting on the far end of the table, keeping a noticeable distance from him. His lips quirked into a small, knowing smile at her aversion—he'd made no effort to endear himself to the youngest Mormont.
"What happened to your arm?" Maege asked, her voice sharp with concern but tempered by the unspoken understanding of a warrior's mother.
Dacey glanced at her arm, the sling resting awkwardly against her chest. "There was a wildling raid a moon ago. The day I received your raven, actually." Her tone was casual, but the undercurrent of the story was evident.
"And?" Maege prompted, leaning forward.
"Killed them all," Dacey replied matter-of-factly. "Lost five smallfolk, three guards. We killed them all, though. One big guy broke my arm, but I took him down."
Rick, standing by the side, couldn't resist adding his voice. "That's not inaccurate, though it's a bit literal." He raised an eyebrow, his dry humor causing Maege to look at him with a raised brow, a silent invitation for further explanation.
Dacey's lips curved slightly, as if acknowledging Rick's penchant for understatement. "Alright, the hit threw me to the ground. Without his intervention, I would've died. Though I did pierce the back of one of his knees, making him fall. Rick took his life quickly after that."
"You fought?" Maege asked, a note of disbelief in her voice. Her daughter, an accomplished warrior, rarely left much to chance.
Rick shifted slightly, his eyes glinting with something wry. "As an archer," he clarified. "I ran out of arrows, and Dacey needed help. I was one of the last standing, so I didn't really fight, not in the traditional sense."
"True," Dacey added, her tone easy. "The new crossbow proved itself quite valuable in that fight. One of our guards, Lara, she took down eight of them who were rowing away with prisoners. I tasked her with training the others alongside Rick in handling this new... type of weapon."
Maege nodded approvingly, her expression softening. "Good call. You did well, both of you."
"Thank you, Mother," Dacey replied, her tone respectful but not without a hint of pride.
"Thank you, Lady Maege," Rick added with a polite bow of his head, though his smile remained light.
The conversation turned then, as Dacey, eager to shift the focus, asked, "How was Winterfell?"
This question sparked a chorus of inquiries from the younger girls, who had remained on Bear Island with Dacey. They were curious, wide-eyed, and full of the energy only children could possess, their voices overlapping as they bombarded Maege with questions about her travels. Rick, for his part, felt no particular interest in the details. Politics, feasts, lords—it was all distant from the winds of the North that he had come to know.
Maege spoke at length of the grand feasts, the sparring between lords, and the subtle tensions between heirs. But it was the talk of betrothals that seemed to take center stage. Lords had attempted to offer their daughters' or granddaughters' hands to Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, but despite the offers, nothing had come of it. The fact that Robb, though an earnest worshipper of the Old Gods, had turned to the Seven had created unease among the noble houses. There was reluctance to give their daughters to a man who adhered to the teachings of two conflicting faiths. Worse, Robb didn't look like a Stark. In fact, his appearance was more Tully than Stark, especially when compared to his sisters.
Maege's lips tightened as she spoke of the second Stark daughter, whose face seemed to carry more of the Stark blood than the Tully. The girl, though, seemed to share the same wolfish spirit as her brothers, causing a brief flash of tension in Maege's eyes. As she spoke, she mentioned that a sept had been built in Winterfell—the heart of the North, once so devoted to the Old Gods. The fact that the Stark daughters were being taught by a septa had left many lords, Maege included, furious. The old ways seemed to be under threat, even in the heart of Winterfell. Maege, however, had to concede that the second Stark daughter, despite her reluctance, had done her best to escape the lessons of the septa.
Still, Maege's thoughts darkened as she mentioned the youngest Stark daughter. The girl, so full of wolf blood, reminded her of Lyanna Targaryen. It was a reminder that Maege did not share with her daughters or her entourage, especially not with Rick present. Lyanna Targaryen's ghost, though never spoken of aloud, still cast a long shadow over the Stark children. Maege's frown deepened briefly before she forced herself to steady her expression. The last thing she wanted was for her daughter to catch the undercurrent of her bitterness.
'Should I talk to him about her?'
Maege had asked Eddard Stark in a rare private moment, her voice low and thoughtful. She had asked if there was any news from his nephew and niece in the south. Ned, ever the stoic figure, had answered with a quiet confidence that every month, without fail, he received a letter from the second queen. Her letters were always filled with details of her life in the capital, stories of herself and her daughter's place in the heart of the realm. It was clear from the way Ned spoke that he was not deeply invested in those letters, at least not as much as one might expect from an uncle concerned for his kin.
Maege had refrained from pressing further on the topic of his nephew. Ned's silence on the matter had spoken volumes. But Maege, ever sharp, had understood. What Rick had told her, though initially met with astonishment and anger, seemed less fantastical with time. Her emotions had subsided after hearing his story, and now, with the perspective of distance, she wasn't so sure it was as exaggerated as she had once thought. In fact, the more she turned it over in her mind, the more it made sense—too much sense, in fact, that it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
But she wasn't one to dwell on such matters for long. The private conversation with Lord Stark had provided her with an opportunity to broach a different topic—one that was far more practical and, to her surprise, piqued his interest. Maege had mentioned her small venture into salt production, a project that had started as a mere curiosity and was now growing into something far more profitable. To her surprise, Ned had been intrigued, his usually reserved demeanor showing signs of genuine interest. They struck a deal quickly: The Wolves would finance the smithing of large iron pots for House Mormont, and in return, the bears would provide the salt—free of charge—until the cost of the pots was repaid. Once the pots were paid off, House Stark would be the primary buyer, securing the salt at a slightly discounted price.
It was an excellent arrangement. Maege had felt the weight of it settle comfortably on her shoulders. With the iron pots, Lord Stark had promised five, and with those, Maege's production would soar. Six pounds of salt a day, with 540 pounds over the course of three moons—far more than enough to cover the cost. This was a win for both houses, and Maege felt a rare sense of satisfaction.
When Ned had asked about how she came to produce salt, Maege had shared the tale of the young servant who, in a kitchen mishap, had accidentally stumbled upon the secret of salt-making. It was a curious story, one that seemed almost too whimsical to be true. But Maege didn't mind. Sometimes, it was the small, unexpected moments that turned out to be the most profitable.
She didn't, however, mention the new crossbow she had acquired. She wanted to see it in action first—experience its effectiveness in battle before singing its praises. She wasn't a fool, after all, and she didn't trust in untested things, no matter how promising they seemed.
As for her daughter, Maege hadn't found a suitor for Dacey, but that was fine by both of them. Dacey wasn't a girl to be shackled by the expectations of others, and Maege had long since come to terms with that. They both had their own strengths and interests, and a marriage could wait. But what really mattered, what Maege could appreciate in the moment, was the very good deal they had struck with House Stark. There was no denying that.
"Please, tell me I'm not on salt duty for the rest of my life?" Rick's voice was full of dramatic desperation. "I'd rather be Brenda's nanny forever…" He trailed off with a playful grimace, though the exaggerated tone he used suggested he was only half-joking.
Before anyone could respond, Brenda—the youngest of Maege's daughters and the very picture of mischief—suddenly took her opportunity to launch a bowl of hot soup directly at Rick's face. The suddenness of the action left everyone momentarily stunned, the room going silent for a heartbeat before erupting in laughter.
Rick wiped the soup from his face, his eyes wide with mock horror as he turned toward the little bear, who was glaring at him with icy contempt.
"I hope you know," Rick croaked, his voice filled with exaggerated seriousness, "This. Means. War, little bear." And with that, he pounced, his fingers wiggling like claws ready to attack.
Brenda's protests were immediate, her small body twisting and turning as she tried to escape. "Help! Mother, help me!" she cried out, her voice high-pitched in a mix of panic and laughter.
Maege, unfazed by her daughter's cries, called out in a calm, collected tone, "If you apologize and don't do that again, Rick will stop."
Brenda, stubborn and fierce as a little bear, held out for a solid minute, refusing to give in. But in the end, the tickling proved too much, and she capitulated, gasping for breath between giggles.
Once free from her tormentor's grasp, Brenda's glare shifted from icy fury to something even more intense—downright murderous. Her small hands balled into fists as she glared at Rick, who only grinned wider, unfazed by the wrath of the tiniest Mormont.
Thankfully for Rick, no one had ever died from a glare—though he wouldn't have put it past Brenda if anyone could.
After the chaos subsided and supper was finished, the family retreated to their respective beds
___________________________________________________________________
Despite Maege having returned to rule and Dacey resuming her usual duties, Rick still assisted with most matters until her arm had fully healed. He didn't mind—it kept his hands busy, and he learned much about how the island was governed. Besides, even with her usual responsibilities restored, Dacey wasn't one to sit idle, and neither was he.
When he wasn't handling tasks for the ruling Lady of Bear Island, he buried himself in his crossbow project.
After weeks of trial and error, he had found a way to make it fire faster—faster than anything that currently existed. The issue, however, was that the force required to draw the mechanism was far beyond what any ordinary man could manage. Even if someone possessed such unnatural strength, the wood itself might not hold, snapping under the immense strain. The weapon was simply too small to handle the power he wanted.
So, he made the decision to go bigger.
Instead of modifying a crossbow, he turned his attention to something larger—a mounted bow, a crude scorpion of sorts. It would not have the sheer force of a true war scorpion, not even close, but speed had its own kind of power. A longbow that could be loosed in rapid succession could wreak havoc on an open battlefield, sending volley after volley into charging foes before they ever reached the line.
There were, of course, limitations. The weapon would have to be stationary, leaving the operator vulnerable if not properly protected. The problem of drawing the bow with enough force remained, but he had managed to solve the issue of material durability—at least partially. He had ideas, ways to distribute the tension, ways to use counterweights, but everything depended on whether he could craft or acquire the right components.
Most of the parts weren't difficult to make, save for one—a crucial mechanism that required the hands of an expert blacksmith. Such work would not come cheap. The alternative was to attempt it himself, carving the piece from wood. It wouldn't be as durable, but at least the price would only be his time and effort. After weighing the options, he settled for the cheaper approach. If the wooden version failed, at least he would gain experience.
Sitting at a worn wooden table, he took up a piece of parchment and began sketching. Every measurement, every notch, every angle—he meticulously outlined them all. He wasn't about to waste time hacking away at wood only to find that something didn't fit. Precision was everything.
Meanwhile, his sparring sessions with Maege had grown more brutal.
He had no doubt this was her way of expressing her displeasure at his recent stunt—charging into battle against the wildlings, bow in hand, as if he were untouchable. She was right, of course. Anything could have gone wrong. He had been lucky, nothing more. Next time, luck might not be so kind.
And so, she made sure he paid for it.
Rick found himself thrown onto his back more often than not, the cold dirt of the training yard becoming an all-too-familiar sensation. His body ached with bruises, some deep, some fresh. He knew the old she-bear was holding back, but the extent to which she did so was unclear.
It wasn't the beatings that bothered him. What truly grated on him was Dacey's relentless mockery. Every time he was sent sprawling, she had something to say. Every time he grunted in pain, she smirked.
She was enjoying this far too much.
"I swear, if she smirks at me one more time, I might just toss her into the sea," he muttered under his breath as he barely dodged a strike aimed at his ribs.
"Would you mind terribly if you were suddenly short of one daughter?" he asked, his breathing ragged from exertion.
Maege, unfazed, lifted her shield to absorb his next attack. "I would, yes."
"She makes me regret saving her arse."
"Oh?" Maege's tone was far too amused for his liking. "I thought you wanted her hand."
That particular comment shattered his focus.
Before he could recover, Maege delivered a sharp, well-placed kick to his gut.
The air fled his lungs in an instant, and he doubled over, arms wrapping instinctively around his stomach. His breath came in short, gasping bursts as he swayed slightly, feeling every inch of that brutal impact.
Dacey laughed. Not a quiet chuckle—no, a full-bodied, shameless laugh.
Rick groaned, wheezing. "Gods… Don't joke about that," he managed, still bent over at a perfect ninety-degree angle. "Using my own jest… against me… Clever," Rick wheezed, one hand clutching his aching stomach as he struggled to straighten up. Every breath sent a dull throb of pain through his ribs, and he was fairly certain Maege had left a boot-shaped bruise behind.
Maege smirked, utterly unrepentant. "Thank you. May that be a lesson to you."
Rick shot her a tired glare but couldn't find the energy for a retort.
"Alright, let's stop here for today," Maege declared, rolling her shoulders. "It's time for lunch."
Rick exhaled slowly, wincing as he did. "I think… that's the best idea I've heard all day."
Placing their weapons back onto the rack, Rick and Maege made their way inside the keep, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filling the air as they entered the hall. The warmth of the hearth crackled in contrast to the crisp air outside, and the lively chatter of the Mormont women filled the space with an ease Rick found both foreign and strangely comforting.
He watched them—the family of six—gathered around the table. Laughter rang out as Dacey teased Lyra about something, while little Brenda pouted dramatically over a stolen piece of bread. Jorelle joined in, giggling as she nudged her youngest sister playfully. Maege sat at the head of the table, her sharp eyes softened with a quiet fondness as she observed her daughters, allowing herself a rare moment of contentment.
Rick found himself staring, a strange thought creeping into his mind.
Is this what a family is meant to be? Laughing, teasing, smiling…
The image felt both foreign and familiar, like something he had seen once in a dream but had never touched. Had it been like this for him once? Maybe, before Visenya was born. He strained to remember, but the memories that surfaced were colder—shrouded in neglect, whispered insults, and veiled contempt. He had been ignored, pushed aside, reminded in a thousand small ways that he was unwanted.
Yet now, watching the Mormonts, something in his chest ached, a part of him stirring that he hadn't known existed. It was more than the longing for freedom that had driven him for so long.
I want this.
Not just survival. Not just escape. Not just freedom.
He wanted a family.