In the forge of Mormont Keep, the faint, rapid rhythm of hammer strikes echoed against the walls. The sound was sharp, crisp—a high-pitched clang that cut through the thick air like the ringing of a bell. It was a sound one might not expect in a blacksmith's forge, where most blows were deep, resounding thuds, but this was different. The hits were quick, almost delicate in their precision, and their pitch revealed a craftsman focused, intent on his work. The repetitive clangs seemed to fill the forge, bouncing off the stone walls as though they too were holding their breath, waiting for the next strike.
Each strike of the hammer was met with a slight sparkle of metal, the bright sheen of the surface catching the light of the forge's fire. Rick worked with steady determination, his eyes locked on the metal in front of him. The iron was stubborn and unyielding, but Rick had learned, over many moons of practice, to coax it into submission. A soft hiss echoed through the room as he plunged the piece into the cold water, tempering it. The sudden splash sent steam rising in thick clouds, the contrast between the searing heat of the forge and the chill of the water almost electric.
"Alright, lad. Let me see your work," Oleg's voice broke through the mist of steam. His tone was gruff, but there was a hint of something else—an appreciation, perhaps, for the work he was watching unfold before him.
Rick, sweat dripping from his brow, stepped back and reached for his tongs. Carefully, he lifted the tridecahedron from the cooling water, its form now solidifying under his careful hands. It was a complex, twelve-sided shape, a challenge he had set for himself. The weight of it, heavy and dense in his grip, was a satisfaction in itself. He turned the piece in the light, inspecting the smoothness of the surfaces, the angles of the corners. It was flawless, at least in his eyes, though he knew that the true test was still ahead.
Oleg's gaze was sharp as he took the tridecahedron from Rick's hands. The older blacksmith's practiced eyes turned it over, his fingers tracing each face, each corner. He gave a grunt of approval as he examined the work, though his expression remained unreadable. After a long moment, he nodded slowly. "Good work, lad. Good work. Completely flawless. Now, you just need to make a hole on each face. Not that difficult."
Rick shook his head slightly, a small smile curling his lips. "Thank you, but no. With the exception of the one on the edge for putting the shaft in, it won't be difficult," he said, his voice calm, though the challenge before him was far from easy. He already knew what Oleg didn't—the next step would be the hardest of all.
Oleg raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Ah! I wonder how you're going to do that," he muttered, a spark of curiosity flickering in his eyes. He set the tridecahedron down on the anvil with care, stepping back to observe the young man's next move.
It had been nearly eighteen moons since Rick had first come into Oleg's forge, eager to learn the ways of the blacksmith. Rick had grown tired of working with wood and wanted something more permanent, more tactile. Oleg had agreed to take him on, and the older blacksmith, with his gruff manner and centuries of experience, had quickly put Rick to work.
In the beginning, Rick's knowledge had outpaced his skill. He had read books on blacksmithing in King's Landing, so he understood the theory—the heat, the metal, the hammering technique—but that knowledge didn't prepare him for the reality of the forge. He had been eager, impatient even, to get his hands on a hammer and start shaping metal. But Oleg had other plans for him. "Watch, lad. Learn," he had said. And Rick, though eager to leap ahead, had watched. He had assisted—fetching tools, measuring metals, organizing the forge—but he had learned more than he could have ever anticipated. The weight of the hammer, the rhythm of the strikes, the feel of the metal as it changed beneath his hand—it was all far more nuanced than he could have understood from a book.
Three moons later, Oleg had handed him his first hammer, and Rick had eagerly started hammering away at simple metal pieces, learning to feel the metal in his hands. Only by the fourth moon had Oleg allowed him to make his first arrowheads, and those had been a struggle. Yet Rick had persevered, taking each lesson to heart, and soon he had mastered the creation of small weapons: daggers, throwing knives, and finally, after a year's hard work, a sword. The sword was not perfect, but it was usable—and that in itself had been a huge accomplishment.
But Rick's true challenge, his true test, had come in the form of a gift—something he had set his mind on making for Maege, something that would be a true testament to his growth as a craftsman. Maege had never asked for anything. This was his gift to her, a surprise, and it had to be something special. Something that spoke of both his craft and his care. For the younger Mormont she-bear, a brooch or a dagger would suffice, but for Dacey and Maege, it had to be something unique.
Dacey's mace had been a triumph in its own right—a beautifully balanced weapon, its handle just the right length, the head perfectly weighted. But Maege's gift would be different. A morningstar, but not a simple one—a weapon that was a work of art. Rick had chosen a tridecahedron for the head, a twelve-sided figure that would require the utmost precision to craft. Each face had to be perfectly flat, each edge sharp and crisp. But it wasn't just about the shape—it was about the balance, the weight, and the way it would feel in Maege's hand.
Rick had spent countless hours shaping the tridecahedron, hammering each corner into place, folding the metal at exactly the right angle, ensuring that the shape would be perfect. He had made the twelve spikes separately, thick and lethal, each one forged to match the weight and balance of the tridecahedron. He had known that the hardest part would be hollowing the interior, making sure there was enough room for the shaft to fit securely. And he had been right—this was the part that had nearly driven him mad.
But Rick was determined. He had seen the shape come together, each strike of the hammer adding to the complexity of the piece. The hollowed center had taken time, each adjustment made with painstaking care. It was a tedious process, and each step forward felt like a small victory. With Oleg's watchful eye on him, Rick had pressed on, unwilling to let the challenge defeat him.
The final product was something he was proud of—a weapon that was not just functional, but beautiful. A gift, not asked for, but given from the heart. He knew Maege would never expect it, but that was what made it all the more special. It was a mark of his effort, of his growth in the forge, and of his respect for the Mormont family.
As Oleg inspected the tridecahedron, his lips curled into a rare smile. "You've done well, lad. Well indeed." And for the first time, Rick allowed himself a deep breath, satisfied with his work, knowing it was the best gift he could give.
Maege and Dacey moved briskly toward the yard, the air still tinged with the early morning chill. They had risen earlier than usual, spurred on by Rick's mysterious request to meet them before their daily training. Dacey, with her usual impatience, had pressed him repeatedly for details, but Rick had only offered a teasing smile, refusing to reveal what was in store. Maege, on the other hand, walked in thoughtful silence, wondering what new contraption or idea he had come up with this time. The last time it had been the ballistae—a set of immense crossbows that Rick had designed and built, which proved so effective that they had repelled any wildlings attempting to make their way across the northern shores. Those weapons were deadly accurate, striking down thieves and marauders from beyond the Wall before they even set foot on land. It was a testament to Rick's knack for inventing, and to Maege's growing wariness of what the young man might come up with next.
She had spent the past year and a half watching him work in the forge, his craft growing more refined, more ambitious, and more… unpredictable. Part of her was excited to see what he had created, while another part—a much more cautious part—wondered if it would be yet another one of his wild ideas, something she would have to either endure or endure until it failed spectacularly.
When they arrived in the yard, they found Rick hunched over, carefully sharpening a set of throwing knives near an old table, its surface littered with worn tools. A pair of large cloths covered something at his side, each bulging slightly, hinting at the shape of something long and substantial. Maege raised an eyebrow.
"So," Dacey said, her tone light with mock reproach, "What did you make that I have to wake up early for, Rick?"
"Gifts," Rick replied, his smile playful but cryptic.
"'Gifts?'" Dacey echoed, clearly unconvinced. "For what reason?"
Rick shrugged, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Taking me in, making me feel like I have a home somewhere, being good to me. Whatever, pick one. Anyway, the one on the left is yours, Maege. Dacey, the one on the right."
The two women exchanged a glance before Dacey, ever the more curious of the two, took a step forward. She pulled the cloth off the right side, revealing a massive mace that gleamed in the early morning light. Its long shaft was etched with intricate runes in Old Tongue, each character flowing like a whisper of ancient power. The pommel, however, was what truly caught Maege's eye—a white bear, sculpted from bone, its fierce gaze locked in eternal vigilance. It reminded Maege of Longclaw, the Valyrian steel sword once belonging to her brother, a weapon he had taken with him when he'd joined the Night's Watch all those years ago.
Rick chuckled, watching Dacey's reaction. "Now, when you bash the head of any fool who comes your way, you'll do it with the class of a highborn lady of the North."
Dacey snorted in amusement, her eyes flashing with mischief. "Watch out, I might test it on you."
Maege smiled at the exchange, but her heart swelled with something softer as she stepped forward, her hands reaching for the cloth covering her own gift. When she uncovered it, she gasped softly. The morningstar in front of her was the most beautiful weapon she had ever seen. Dark steel gleamed with a polished luster, its ominous hue almost blending into the early light. The shaft was tightly wound with braided leather cords, offering both grip and elegance. As her gaze moved to the pommel, her breath caught—it, too, was a white bear carved from bone. The craftsmanship was impeccable, and though it was not Valyrian steel, Maege knew this weapon was something her brother, and even the Lords of the North, would envy.
"It's beautiful," Dacey murmured from the side, her voice awed. Her eyes were locked on the morningstar, and Maege could see the appreciation in her daughter's gaze.
Maege took the weapon in her hand, her fingers brushing the smooth leather of the shaft before she swung the morningstar experimentally. It felt perfect—well-balanced, neither too heavy nor too light, the weight just right for her. The spikes on the head of the weapon were thick and formidable, and Maege could already imagine the carnage they could bring. The runes carved into each of the six faces of the spikes seemed to hum with ancient power, lending the weapon an air of deadly purpose. At 39 inches in length and weighing 13 pounds, it was a tool of both beauty and brutality.
"Aye," Maege agreed, her voice low and filled with appreciation. "It is." She met Rick's eyes, her expression softening. "Thank you."
Both women tested their new weapons on the straw dummies placed around the yard. Dacey, as expected, threw herself into the exercise with enthusiasm, her mace whistling through the air before striking the dummy with a brutal force. The poor target hardly stood a chance against the savage blows. Rick winced, glad it was only the straw that was suffering, not him. The two she-bears, mother and daughter alike, wore satisfied smiles as they finished, clearly enamored with their new toys.
"I hope you have gifts for my sisters, too," Dacey said with a sly grin, her hands still gripping the mace. "You come out of this unharmed if you don't."
Rick smirked. "Of course I do. I don't play favorites."
With a theatrical sigh, Rick drew out a short sword and a dagger from his hip, presenting them with a flourish. Both weapons had the same distinctive features as the mace and morningstar: runes engraved in Old Tongue and a white bear pommel, though the craftsmanship was more practical than ornate. They were beautiful, but lacked the fine elegance of the earlier gifts.
"Not playing favorites, huh?" Maege asked, raising an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.
"Those are earlier works," Rick explained with a shrug. "I wasn't as skilled when I made those. More focused on practical than aesthetics. The sword is for Alyssanne, the dagger for Lyra. Jorelle and Brenda get a different bear necklace each. They're too young for weapons and will outgrow them soon enough."
He pulled out the necklaces, each one a small but meaningful token of his affection. As he handed them over, he met Maege's gaze, his expression more serious.
"I guess you'll live, then," she teased, her voice filled with affectionate exasperation.
Rick only shrugged again, his tone flat. "Joy, yay."
With that, the two women laughed softly, the tension of the morning breaking as they marveled at their gifts. The she-bears of Bear Island, now armed with the finest of weapons, were ready to face whatever dangers lay ahead.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
With his last project finished, Rick found himself at a crossroads. After spending eighteen moons in the forge, he felt a growing need for a change. The forge, though a place of learning and self-discovery, had begun to feel like a cage. Small, hot, and stuffy, it reminded him too much of the chamber he'd once occupied in King's Landing—stifling and confining. For so long, he had endured the heat and labor, working tirelessly to meet the needs of the Mormonts. But now, he was ready for something else.
'No more indoors.'
The thought struck him like a lightning bolt, and he couldn't ignore it. There had to be more to life than the confines of the forge. A new activity, a new project, something to channel his restless energy.
Remembering the old woman in Bear Town who had mastered the craft of bone carving, he set out to visit her, hoping she would share her skills. However, she refused, her hands too old for the intricate work, her patience worn thin with the years. But she gave him advice, the kind that only a seasoned craftsman could provide. Rick didn't mind. He had always learned best by trial and error, and he wasn't afraid to start from the ground up. The real benefit, however, was the extra time he spent outdoors, hunting in the forest. The vast expanse of nature, the freedom of the open land, it was the antidote to the suffocating forge. And, of course, Dacey was there with him. Always.
In the two years they had spent together in the wild, something had changed between them. What started as a simple friendship—his first true friend, in fact—had grown into something deeper, something more complex. Rick had always admired Dacey, but now, he began noticing things he hadn't before. How her dark brown hair shimmered in the wind, how her smile made his heart race and his body flush with warmth. The way her body moved, the curve of her hips, the roundness of her backside that he couldn't help but fantasize about. She was lean and lanky, but to him, she was perfection, and the thought of her in any other form seemed unimaginable.
It wasn't just her body, though. It was the way she carried herself, the elegance with which she moved in a dress, the grace she displayed while dancing. He learned that her dancing had been taught to her by Lynesse Hightower, a woman who had once been married to her cousin Jorah. Rick, ever the critic, believed the marriage had been doomed from the start. Jorah Mormont, a man of the North, should have known better than to marry the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in the Reach. Lynesse's inability to adapt to the harsh realities of the North had nearly torn her family apart. Rick saw the sadness in Dacey's eyes whenever she thought about her. There was love there, but also bitterness. He could understand the conflict—how could you not care for someone who had cared for you, but also nearly destroyed everything you held dear?
Despite the complexity of their relationship, something had shifted in Rick's heart. The playful japes about marriage, which he had once made lightly, had become more serious. He found himself enamored with Dacey, wishing with all his heart that it wasn't the case. She was older, a woman who had already blossomed into maturity, while he was still growing into himself, into the man he would become. He knew she saw him as nothing more than a good friend, maybe even a little brother. The thought stung, but he buried it deep, far from the surface where it could do any damage. He had to.
But then, things changed. Dacey started seeing a young man from Bear Town, a new guard who was a few years older than Rick. When he found out, it felt like the ground had cracked beneath him, threatening to swallow him whole. His mood darkened, his usual sharp wit and teasing silenced. He became quiet, withdrawn, no longer the same Rick that had laughed and joked with her. Dacey, engrossed in her new relationship, hadn't noticed at first, but after a moon, she began to sense the shift. She tried to get him to open up, but it was like trying to talk to a stone wall. He gave nothing away.
In desperation, Dacey sought her mother's counsel. Maege, ever the wise woman, offered a simple, if cryptic, explanation.
"Rick has reached an age where all boys on the verge of becoming a man do one thing more than any other. Brooding. It will pass, give him time."
Except the more time Rick was given, the farther he distanced himself. He had long known rejection from his family and blood, and he didn't want to go through it again. He had been abandoned before, and that loneliness was something he couldn't bear to repeat. So, he withdrew from Dacey, from the warmth and the connection she offered, not wanting to complicate things any further. It was easier this way, keeping a distance, keeping a cool head. His main excuse was that he was working on a new, difficult, and very secret project—something that demanded his full attention, something that couldn't be shared with anyone, not even her. It was a lie, of course. Maege saw right through it. She had known him long enough to recognize the pattern in his behavior since he had arrived on Bear Island. The excuses, the sudden desire for solitude—it all fit. But Maege said nothing. She understood, or at least pretended to, and left him to his own devices.
In the silence that came with this distance, Rick had time to think. Time to reflect on what he wanted out of life before his inevitable responsibilities found him. Varys had told him that the time to rule was fast approaching—probably a couple of years, at most. When it came, he knew the weight of the Iron Throne would be unbearable, and the prospect of being chained to it for the rest of his life was a thought he couldn't bear. He wanted to see the world, experience freedom, before that weight fell upon him. He wanted to be more than just a king, more than just a pawn in the game.
But that freedom was fleeting, and he knew it. Aegon, in all his arrogance, would screw it up somehow. Rick could feel it, a sense of inevitability. Aegon, much like his forebear, was lazy, entitled, and spoiled. He had inherited all the arrogance of his family without understanding the burden of their crown. Aegon would get himself killed or, worse, start a war—another conflict that would fracture the realm even further. Rick didn't have any illusions about the boy. He might sit on the throne, but he would never truly control the kingdom.
Rhaegar Targaryen may have sincerely endeavored to heal the wounds of the realm after Robert's Rebellion, but the grudges left in its wake ran deep and were not easily mended. Aside from the Reach, where allegiances were more pragmatic than emotional, House Targaryen had managed to alienate nearly every other kingdom in Westeros.
In Dorne, the pain was acute. Rhaegar's decision to dishonor his first wife, Elia Nymeros Martell, by abandoning her in favor of Lyanna Stark—whom he took as his second wife—was an unforgivable act in the eyes of the Martells. It was not just an insult to Elia, but a wound to Dorne's honor itself. The Martells had long been loyal to the Targaryens, but this betrayal soured their relationship irreparably. Dorne's bitterness would endure for generations, and their allegiance to the crown was forever severed.
The North, too, suffered grievously. It wasn't just the loss of Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon, murdered at the hands of Aerys II, the Mad King, but the even more profound betrayal that came when it was revealed that Lyanna Stark had willingly left with Rhaegar. The North had rallied behind Robert Baratheon, believing that Lyanna had been kidnapped and that her life was in danger, only to learn that she had abandoned her family and her home to elope with the prince. The true horror of her defection left a bitter aftertaste for those who had lost fathers, sons, and brothers in a rebellion fought for a lie. Lyanna's name was now synonymous with dishonor, and she would never again be seen as the Stark daughter who had once been beloved by all. The war had claimed ten thousand northern lives, all in vain, and the North would never forgive her for it. They would never forget the deaths of their own at the hands of a rebellion based on a falsehood.
The Stormlands, too, had lost much. Robert Baratheon, the late Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, had been the flame that had lit the rebellion. His fury at Rhaegar's treatment of Lyanna had ignited a war that swept through the kingdom and devastated its people. The death of Robert in the rebellion was a blow to his lands, and his people mourned their fallen lord with a vengeance that would last for generations. His name, once revered as the hero of the rebellion, would now become a symbol of the kingdom's grief and the price of war.
Meanwhile, the Vale and the Riverlands had also borne the brunt of the conflict. The Vale, though not as directly involved as the other regions, had nonetheless found itself divided. With the Baratheons claiming the throne and the North rising up in revolt, the Vale had been forced to take sides, and the tension between factions had created a fracture that would never quite heal. The Riverlands had suffered terrible destruction, as their lands had been ravaged by the war. The rebellion had turned these once-proud regions into little more than battlefields, and many in the Riverlands had seen their hopes for peace dashed in the wake of such great loss.
As for the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister had long been a thorn in the side of the Targaryens. The Mad King had insulted and slighted Tywin time and again, but Tywin himself had remained conspicuously neutral throughout the rebellion. He neither supported nor opposed Robert Baratheon's cause, preferring to remain detached from the war until its outcome was more certain. As a result, Tywin's position was strengthened, but it came at a cost—he gained nothing from the rebellion. His family emerged from the conflict with their lands intact, but no great reward came from his choice to remain aloof. Despite the insult of the Mad King's reign, Tywin had played a cautious game and found himself without any meaningful benefit.
Six kingdoms out of Seven were deeply dissatisfied with House Targaryen, and that did not bode well for the House of the Dragon. The Targaryens, once the undisputed rulers of Westeros, now found themselves with no true allies except for the Reach, whose loyalties had always been somewhat pragmatic. The rebellion had fractured the realm, and the wounds were still fresh. It was clear that a radical change was needed—something to reforge the royal house's influence and restore stability to the kingdom. Rick had come to believe that Varys saw himself as the key to that change, believing that the cunning eunuch could shape events to ensure the Targaryens' survival.
To Rick, however, that seemed somewhat presumptuous. Varys could indeed shift the pieces on the board, but could he truly fix two centuries of misrule and folly from the Targaryen kings? In Rick's opinion, it was a fool's errand. Even if the eunuch could help shift the tides, the weight of history would not be so easily overcome. The damage was already done, and the realm's discontent would not vanish overnight. The Targaryens had lost their power long before the rebellion had even begun, when they lost their dragons. The fire and blood that had once kept them on the throne had slowly withered, and the absence of their mighty dragons had exposed the House for what it truly was: a dynasty relying on fragile strength rather than inherent power.
Despite the succession of weak kings, the Targaryen dynasty had managed to maintain control of the Iron Throne, but the rebellion had brutally exposed just how impotent they had truly become. Rhaegar's tragic efforts to restore the realm came too late, and his reign had been a pale shadow of the glory of his ancestors. Ironically, it had been Aegon IV, the Unworthy, who had unwittingly prolonged the survival of House Targaryen by sowing chaos across the realm. His indulgent and reckless reign had left a legacy of division, yet it had also united the realm in a peculiar way, as the Blackfyre Rebellions, born from Aegon IV's numerous shortcomings, had galvanized both support and opposition from across the kingdoms.
House Blackfyre, founded by Aegon IV's bastard son Daemon, had been the result of the king's reckless behavior. The southerners, fiercely loyal to the traditions of the Andals and devout in their worship of the Seven, had been deeply resistant to the idea of a bastard aspiring to the Iron Throne. Even though Daemon's name had been changed from Waters to Blackfyre, the people of Westeros had been unwilling to accept a common-born man as their rightful ruler, regardless of his claim. The Blackfyres had further divided the realm, but they had also sparked a new wave of support for the Targaryens, as the very idea of a bastard vying for the throne had rallied many who remained loyal to the traditional royal bloodline.
But, for Rick, the real turning point had been Aegon V, the Unlikely, his great-great-great grandfather. Though Aegon V had possessed a good heart and a genuine desire to better the realm, his reign had accelerated the decline of House Targaryen. The man was ill-suited for the role of king—his lack of discipline, especially when it came to his children, had proven catastrophic. No less than four broken betrothals during his reign—three of them to great houses of the realm—had revealed the soft underbelly of House Targaryen. Rick had discussed Aegon V's disastrous handling of his children in depth with his elder brother, Maester Aemon. While Aemon had always been reluctant to speak ill of his favorite brother, even he had to admit that Aegon V's failure to properly manage his own family had set the stage for their house's eventual downfall.
The Targaryens were no longer the proud, unchallenged rulers of Westeros. Their house was teetering on the edge, and it was clear to Rick that, unless something drastic was done, they would not survive much longer. Rhaegar, despite his best efforts, was barely holding the realm together, and Aegon was on the verge of breaking it apart entirely. This was the conclusion Rick had come to before he left King's Landing, after listening to Varys' reports and reflecting on the state of the realm. The young prince realized that, while he could change the course of events, the task before him was monumental, and the cost might be beyond measure.
If he could, he would simply keep on being on the run but he knew the bald eunuch would find him. One way or another. Not many things escaped the eyes and ears of the master of whispers after all.
The situation with Dacey had shifted irrevocably, and with it, the pull that had kept Rick tethered to Bear Island began to weaken. Dacey had once been the anchor that held him there, the only reason he might consider a future at the island. But now, watching her in the arms of someone else—the guard, no less—made it impossible for him to stay. The night he had overheard them together, the cold wind that woke him from the dream of death, only solidified what he already knew deep down. It was time to leave. He couldn't live his life like that, haunted by the image of her with someone else.
He checked his traveling bag for the last time. The contents were packed with military precision: warm clothes, dried food, a small iron pot tied beneath it all. His crossbow and bolts, ready for whatever dangers might await. On the table, his weapons lay in perfect order—twelve small throwing knives, three daggers, and his sword, all arranged by size, each one a silent promise of self-reliance. The dagger on his right hip, another tucked into his boot, one more at the small of his back. His sword at his left hip. Six knives sheathed across his torso, others fastened to his thighs. Every piece was in place, every tool prepared. He was ready.
"I guess it's time."
The voice caught him off guard. He hadn't heard Maege approach. She stood in the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame, her eyes betraying a depth of sadness that he knew she wouldn't voice. A sad, almost rueful smile tugged at her lips, though her eyes held something far more complicated.
"…It is."
Neither of them moved at first. The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything unsaid, yet fully understood. There was no need for further explanation. They both knew the reason he was leaving—Dacey's absence from his heart, the pain of watching something that should have been his slip away. It didn't need words. Maege's eyes, so familiar and steadfast, spoke all the understanding he needed.
"For what it's worth, I wish things had turned out differently. You would have made a good goodson."
Rick's heart clenched at the words, but he forced himself to respond. He had always respected Maege more than almost anyone else. She had been a mother in every way that mattered to him, even if not by blood.
"…For what it's worth, you may not have given birth to me, but I will always believe you did."
There was no more to say. The truth had been spoken. He reached for his bag and, without hesitation, moved toward Maege. She stood still, letting him pull her into a hug—tight, final, and filled with the weight of years spent together. The soft rustle of her clothes was the only sound, the only confirmation that they were both truly there.
"Thank you for everything."
"No," she said, her voice thick with emotion, but firm. "Thank you. You did so much for my home and my family. Now go, don't make it more difficult than it needs to be. I'll tell the girls."
Rick nodded, his throat tight. He didn't trust himself to speak again. His emotions—grief, gratitude, regret—flooded him, threatening to overwhelm him. But he knew the time had come. With one last lingering glance at Maege, he turned and left the room.
The cold air of the morning hit him as he stepped out into the hall. The sun had barely risen, the sky still dark and heavy with shadows. It was a fitting backdrop for his departure—silent, unnoticed. This was how it had to be. He wasn't looking for farewells or drawn-out goodbyes. He had made his choice, and there was no turning back. The island, the home he had known, faded into the distance as he made his way to Bear Town. The boat was waiting.
He would row out to Shadow by the Tower, and then, from there, to lands unknown. To the wilderness beyond the Wall. There, he hoped to find himself again. Away from the ghosts of Bear Island, away from the pain, from Dacey, and from everything that had held him in place for so long.