Six moons had passed since Rick had started his new project, and in that time, much had changed. He had turned three-and-ten without anyone knowing, but that suited him just fine. He hadn't celebrated his name day since he was four, and he saw no reason to start now. Life had given him little cause for celebration, and he had long since stopped expecting it.
On the training grounds, however, he had something to take pride in—he had finally begun to best Dacey in sparring. Not every time, not even most times, but more and more, he was holding his own, landing blows, and even taking her down once or twice. The first time it happened had felt glorious—at least in his own head. Dacey had taken the loss in stride, of course, laughing it off and doubling her efforts in the next bout, but Rick had caught the glimmer of surprise in her eyes before she masked it.
He didn't know why, but he truly enjoyed the relationship they had—a strange mix of friendship and rivalry. He was under no illusions that she saw it the same way, but he found himself looking forward to their time together nonetheless. Whether in the yard exchanging blows or in the forest tracking prey, he preferred her company over anyone else's. There was an ease in it, a comfort he couldn't quite put into words.
But his project was what occupied most of his thoughts. After moons of meticulous planning, carving, assembling, and adjusting, it was finally done. Now, all that remained was the test. He had chosen the archery yard for it, where he could set everything up properly.
First, he placed the three-legged stand onto the ground, a necessary support for the weapon's upper portion, which was too large and unwieldy to hold at arm's length. Next, he secured the upper part itself—the section where arrows and bolts would be nocked and stored, where the intricate mechanisms he had painstakingly devised would allow for rapid firing. Finally, he mounted the bow in a horizontal position, securing it in place.
That part was simple. Now came the real test. He gathered as many arrows as he could, loading them into the quiver section.
"So this is what you've been working on in your little corner of the keep," came a familiar voice.
Rick turned to see Maege watching him with her arms crossed, her sharp gaze assessing. Beside her stood Dacey, grinning with interest.
"Maege?" he said, slightly surprised.
"Don't mind me," she said. "Keep going. I want to see what it can do."
Rick nodded and returned to his contraption. He positioned himself behind it, gripping the fixed handle with his left hand while his right rested on the lever. Taking a deep breath, he pulled down the lever, setting the mechanism into motion.
A vertical wooden wheel with large teeth along its edges turned forward, its movement seamlessly meshing with a second wheel, which rotated in the opposite direction. As it turned, it pulled back a long horizontal piece—one that drew the bowstring into firing position.
Rick exhaled and pushed the lever forward with speed.
An arrow shot out with a sharp twang, striking its target.
He grinned.
He pushed again—another arrow loosed. Then again. And again. Each push of the lever sent another arrow flying, the speed of his movements dictating the rate of fire. With his left hand, he adjusted the aim, shifting the weapon left, right, up, and down. The bolts struck true, peppering the targets at various angles and distances.
The quiver emptied quickly. When the last arrow flew, he released the lever and stepped back, breath slightly ragged. He turned to inspect his results.
He was impressed.
It worked. And it worked well.
Maege and Dacey stood in stunned silence, their gazes flickering between the battered straw targets and Rick, who was wiping the sweat off his brow. In less than a minute, he had loosed no fewer than thirty arrows—all with nothing more than the push of a lever. The efficiency, the sheer speed of it, was unlike anything they had ever seen.
"Gods…" Maege muttered.
"What the hell did you make?" Dacey asked, eyes wide with disbelief.
Rick exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he stepped back from the contraption. "A way to deal with any group of enemies charging our way," he explained. "Foot soldiers would be cut down before they ever reached our lines. If they're not heavily armored, cavalry could be crippled as well—warhorses brought low mid-charge. Though, with the strength of the bow, it's best suited for taking down infantry. Dealing with knights in full plate or heavy cavalry… that's a job for the other one."
"The other one?" Maege's brow furrowed.
"You made another?" Dacey asked, curiosity sharp in her voice.
Rick nodded. Without another word, he moved to disassemble the first setup, removing the quiver and unfastening the bow. In its place, he secured a different one—shorter, thicker, and far stronger. Maege and Dacey exchanged glances; the shape of it reminded them more of a crossbow than a traditional bow.
Rick then retrieved a second quiver, this one smaller but packed tightly with fifty thick bolts. He hesitated for a moment, then turned to the Mormonts.
"I… uh… don't have the arm strength to use this one yet," he admitted, glancing at Maege. "Would you mind…?"
The old she-bear snorted. "Alright, lad. I'll do it."
Rick stepped aside, letting Maege take her place behind the weapon. She took her time familiarizing herself with its mechanisms, tilting the upper part from side to side to gauge its range of motion. Once she was satisfied, she grasped the lever with her right hand, took a steadying breath, and began pushing down.
The resistance was immediate. Maege's brows furrowed as she put more power into her arm, forcing the wheel to turn. The first bolt shot forward, burying itself deep into its target. Then, as she adjusted to the movement, she picked up speed. Faster and faster, the bolts flew—one after another—until the last of them had been loosed.
Silence followed.
Maege remained standing behind the weapon, looking at the devastation she had wrought. The straw targets were nearly unrecognizable, riddled with thick bolts that had punched clean through their forms.
"...I don't know where that mind of yours wanders, lad," she said finally, "but it comes back with good things." She flexed her fingers, rolling her shoulder. "However, the strength needed for this one is too high. Most men won't have the arm for it."
"That could change a lot of things," Dacey murmured, still staring at the targets in disbelief.
"Just like your crossbow," Maege added.
Rick exhaled, nodding. "The problem is… it's complicated to make. And time-consuming. Half a moon per unit."
Maege hummed in thought. "I can imagine. But just one of these, positioned atop a rampart or tower… that'd be nasty. Making too many wouldn't be smart, but a few, placed strategically? That's another story."
"There's one more issue," Rick admitted. "The bowstring. Used at this speed, it heats up fast. That weakens it over time, so it'll need replacing more often. It's not difficult to change, but it's something to consider." He paused, then added, "And it's stationary. Can't be moved mid-battle. If we ever do need to relocate it, it'll take at least two, maybe three men to carry all the different parts."
Maege smirked. "That's not really a problem. If we set it in the right position before a battle, it won't need moving."
She turned to him, arms crossed.
"Can you make three more?"
Rick met her gaze, nodding. "Yes."
"Good," Maege said, her expression firm. "Then do so."
___________________________________________________________________
The people of Bear Island were more at peace than usual—or rather, less burdened by worry. Over the past six moons, the new crossbow had successfully repelled two Wildling raids with minimal casualties. No resources had been plundered, no villages burned, and no kin taken. As a result, the island thrived in an uncommon prosperity. The two recent shipments of salt to Winterfell had also brought in a fair sum of coin, which was wisely invested in reinforcing the coastal defenses of several villages. Not all had been fortified, but enough to give Maege Mormont a sense of satisfaction as she reviewed the ledgers. A rare, contented smile graced her face as she traced her finger over the parchment. Taking the boy in as her ward may have been the best decision of her life. If it wasn't, it was damned close. She silently thanked the Old Gods for granting her this opportunity.
More and more, she found herself contemplating a match between one of her daughters and Rick. Not merely out of greed—though she would not deny the advantages of keeping him tied to Bear Island—but because she genuinely liked the lad. He was shaping up to be a fine man, one with a sharp mind and an ever-growing skill in combat. In time, he might even become one of the greatest warriors in the North, perhaps even the realm. He got along well with her daughters, especially her eldest and youngest. Particularly her eldest. Though he and Dacey often bickered like hounds over a bone, there was no malice in it—only good-natured teasing and an underlying sense of camaraderie. They worked well together, whether sparring in the yard or hunting in the forest. Yes, she wouldn't mind calling him son-in-law.
Or son.
She had never borne a boy, and though it had never troubled her much, there were moments when she wondered what it might have been like. Raising Rick had given her a taste of it—a strange mix of mentor, guardian, and companion. It was peculiar, but not unwelcome. The men of the North had never made it easy for her; she had spent a lifetime proving herself their equal, earning their respect through sheer will and steel. With Rick, there had been no need. She had given him a home, and that alone had been enough to earn his loyalty and friendship. So had her daughters.
Yes, a match with Dacey would be ideal. But…
There were complications. He was, after all, a prince of the realm. Neglected, hated, and discarded, yes—but a prince nonetheless. Should it ever be discovered that she had taken him in, it could cause problems. She could claim ignorance, argue that she had believed him to be Brandon Stark's bastard. It was a plausible defense; after all, she had never seen the Targaryen princeling before and had not set foot south since the rebellion's end. But a marriage? That would be another matter entirely. The king could annul it with a stroke of his quill. That would require them to come for him, though, and she doubted anyone outside of her brother and Rick's namesake at the Wall even knew the boy still lived.
Then there were the Northern lords. The moment they laid eyes on him, they would know he carried Stark blood. They might assume he was Brandon's Snow, and if word of his marriage to Dacey spread, it would not be long before Eddard Stark caught wind of it. And if he did, what then? Would he send a letter to the South? Maege doubted it. From what she understood, the Lord of Winterfell received letters from his sister but never sent any in return. It was a gamble.
Of course, none of this mattered unless Dacey and Rick actually wanted to wed. She would not force the matter, nor would she press them. It was their decision to make. Still… she had hope. She was under no illusion that the boy would remain on Bear Island forever. He would leave one day—likely for Essos. But if Dacey bound him to her, if he had a reason to stay…
A loud, familiar bickering broke her train of thought. She glanced up from her parchments just in time to see the pair in question striding toward her, their argument in full swing.
"Shut up! You cheated!" Dacey snapped, her face flushed with irritation.
"I did not! It wasn't on purpose!" Rick shot back, exasperated.
"Oh, sure. You just happened to step on the loudest branch in the history of the North by accident."
"Yes! How many times do I have to tell you?!"
"Say it as many times as you want—I don't believe you! Cheater!"
"For the last time—"
"Alright, enough," Maege interjected, rubbing her temple. "You're in the keep, not the damned woods. What happened?"
Rick let out a long-suffering sigh. "I made a mistake. Stepped on a branch by accident, made noise, and spooked the rabbit. It ran, Dacey missed her shot, and now our competition is a draw."
"A competition I should have won!" Dacey insisted, arms crossed.
Rick conceded with a shrug. "I'm not denying that. You should have won—there was no way you could have missed. But you did. Because of my honest mistake. Still counts." He smirked. "If you were better, you would have hunted it down, noise or not."
"There was nothing honest about your so-called mistake!"
Maege sighed. It was like watching a pair of cubs squabble over the same scrap of meat. "Enough," she said firmly, waving Rick off. "Take the four rabbits and head to the kitchens. Use onions and a bit of garlic for the meal."
Rick grumbled but obeyed, taking his leave. Maege turned to her daughter, gesturing for her to sit beside her. As Dacey dropped into the chair, Maege slid the parchment across the table. "Look at this."
Dacey scanned the numbers. "The island's doing well," she admitted.
"Aye," Maege agreed. Then, smirking, she added, "Now, when are you going to make him yours?"
The reaction was instant.
"What?! Gods, mother! I—no! Absolutely not!" Dacey spluttered, her face burning crimson. "That—he's—ugh! You're impossible!"
Maege chuckled at her daughter's vehement denial. The more Dacey protested, the more certain Maege became that it would happen. Maybe not a wedding, but at the very least… well, some things were inevitable.
One way or another, the she-bears always got what they wanted.
___________________________________________________________________
After a hearty meal—the best rabbit stew Rick could recall ever tasting—he found himself with a rare moment of quiet. Seizing the opportunity, he retreated to his quarters, setting ink to parchment. Writing to his uncle at the Wall had become something of a habit, a small effort to maintain the only true family connection he had. He made it a point to send a raven at least once a month, ensuring that no matter how far apart they were, their bond remained. His last letter had touched upon the Night's Watch and the Wall itself, and today, his thoughts drifted back to that very subject.
"To Maester Aemon,
I cannot shake the feeling that the true purpose of the Wall has been lost to time. We are told that Bran the Builder raised it—a hundred leagues long, seven hundred feet high, a marvel of ice and stone—to keep out a scattered people living beyond it. But that never quite made sense to me. If the wildlings were such a threat, why would the North, with all its might, not simply crush them? If they were too numerous to defeat, how could Brandon Stark have ever completed such a colossal undertaking in the first place?
The only explanation that fits is that the Wall was never meant merely to keep wildlings out, but to keep something far worse locked away. The Others—the White Walkers. That they were not destroyed, but merely driven back. If this were true, then the Wall is not a mere border, but a prison.
I know that to most, they are but ghost stories, nothing more than winter's fables meant to frighten children. But isn't there a tale—one that lingers even now—of the Thirteenth Lord Commander and his pale bride, the one with eyes like blue fire? And if the Walkers were truly wiped from existence, why has the Watch been manning the Wall for eight thousand years? Why guard a realm from a threat that does not exist?
That is what troubles me most, uncle. Eight thousand years is a long time. No sightings, no attacks—nothing but silence. Have they vanished entirely? Or are they simply biding their time? From what I have read of the Long Night, their power is unlike anything men have ever faced. If they can raise the dead, what if they have simply been waiting? Letting the centuries pass, allowing bodies to pile high in tombs and graves, amassing an army of the dead so vast that no force could hope to stand against them?
The thought chills me to my bones.
On another matter, my project is complete, and both prototypes perform exactly as I envisioned—perhaps even better. Lady Mormont was so impressed that she has already commissioned three more. The rate of fire is beyond anything either of us has ever witnessed, and while I should be pleased, I find myself uneasy. I designed these weapons to protect the people of Bear Island, to safeguard them against raiders, whether from the Iron Islands or beyond the Wall. But such destructive power comes at a cost. What happens when men no longer fear death because they believe they can strike first? What happens when these weapons fall into the hands of those who would use them not to defend, but to conquer?
For now, I find solace in the fact that they are difficult to craft, time-consuming to make, and—most importantly—only I possess the knowledge to create them. But I wonder how long that will last.
On a more practical note, our salt production is flourishing. In truth, we now produce more than we need. I intend to speak with Lady Maege about sending some to the Wall. There is little sense in letting it go to waste when your brothers could put it to use. It could, of course, be sold, as the Starks do, but for reasons I cannot quite grasp, Lady Maege seems disinterested in such dealings.
If this letter reaches you late, then let me offer you a belated, but no less heartfelt, seven-and-ninetieth name day blessing. I hope it was a peaceful one.
Be well,
Your grizzled and un-bear-able namesake."
Rolling the letter with careful precision, Rick took a thin piece of twine and wrapped it securely, ensuring the parchment would stay intact. He rose from the sturdy oak table, its surface still marked with ink stains from his earlier writing, and made his way toward Maege's solar. The grand hall was quiet, the low murmur of conversation in the background, as he passed through the high stone corridors of the keep.
When he reached the door of her solar, he knocked softly, but the only answer he received was silence. Frowning slightly, Rick waited for a moment before realizing she was not inside. With a quiet sigh, he turned to retrace his steps, heading back to the great hall. As fate would have it, he bumped into her just as he reached the doorway.
"Maege," he greeted, his voice warm but with a hint of amusement.
"Rick." Maege's tone was as composed as ever, though there was a slight edge to her curiosity. "Do you need something?"
"Yes, actually." Rick met her gaze, his expression thoughtful. "I wanted to talk to you about the surplus of salt. I was wondering if we could send some to the Wall."
Maege raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the suggestion. "We certainly can. Are you thinking of helping the Watch with their food preservation?"
Rick nodded, his tone earnest. "Exactly. They're always in need of supplies, and I thought salt would be a good way to ease the burden. It's simple to store, but it could make their food more manageable, keep it from going to waste."
Maege's lips twitched into a small smile, a rare flash of mischief in her eyes. "I suppose I can always rub it in my brother's face, too."
Rick chuckled, the sound rich with appreciation for Maege's humor. "That too," he agreed, grinning.
"I'll see what we can spare for the Wall," Maege said with a nod, her tone firm but kind. Then, after a brief pause, she added, "Why the sudden thought, though? It's not like you to offer up so much of our stock without a reason."
Rick hesitated, then met her gaze, his voice softening. "Maester Aemon is about to turn seven-and-ninety. I wanted to do something nice for his name day... something that might remind him he isn't completely forgotten. He has plenty of family down south, but up here, he's often left to his own devices."
Maege's expression softened at the mention of Aemon, and her tone became warmer, more approving. "Good, lad," she said, her approval clear.
Over the next half-moon, Maester Aemon received the unexpected gift at the Wall—a welcome change from his usual meager fare. For the first time in years, he savored something beyond the bland stew that had been his only companion for so long. His belly was warmed not only by the food, but by the thoughtfulness of his great-nephew. In that moment, Aemon found his heart stirred by a rare feeling: a quiet contentment, born of the knowledge that he was not truly alone, not entirely forgotten.