Chapter 42 – Lady Mormont
"It happened around the fourth bell of dusk," the ragged soldier stammered, voice hoarse from smoke and fear. The flickering brazier cast long shadows across his blood-streaked face as he spoke to the gathered northern lords, with Robb Stark at their head. "The enemy came fast—too fast. We didn't even hear their horses until they were nearly upon the camp. There was no time to form ranks, no time to defend. I saw Ser Dustin surrounded and cut down. They knew exactly where to strike. This was planned."
Robb's jaw tightened. "And the sentries? Where were they?"
"No alarms were raised, my lord. None."
"How does an entire cavalry charge get that close without notice?"
"Their horses' hooves were wrapped in cloth. They moved near-silent until it was too late."
"No one organized a defense?"
"Commanders tried—but most were killed in the first charge or fled to rally the men."
The soldier's voice trembled, and a long silence filled the tent. The gathered lords looked grim, faces etched with exhaustion and anger.
"The Imp's bolder than I thought," muttered one, slamming a gauntleted fist against his knee. "Marching out at night with so few men—he's either mad or desperate."
"Mad or not, he succeeded," another growled. "We underestimated him."
"The crossroads army can't stay idle any longer," said Lord Cerwyn, frowning. "We need to fall back to the Bay of Crabs and guard the northern crossings. Otherwise, we'll face more raids like this."
"If we abandon this post, our rear will be unguarded. What if the Imp strikes again while we're rebuilding the bridges?"
"Then we march from the bay and crush him head-on."
"Hah! Easier said than done. Do you know what kind of men fill his ranks? Half are wildling sellswords. By the time we form up, they'll already have vanished into the hills!"
The debate devolved into frustration and muttered curses.
"Has Lord Arryn returned from the Vale?" someone asked, attempting to shift the topic.
"Who knows? That harpy of a woman's probably still clinging to him."
"Seven damn that Lysa Arryn!"
———
"If only Ser Cranston's skeleton warriors were greater in number," one of the lords remarked suddenly. "The battle would've gone far smoother."
"Bah," said Ser Helman Tallhart with disdain. "Dark magic is not the way of the righteous."
A snort followed from across the tent. "Righteous? Tell me, Helman—since when did you start praying to the Seven instead of counting your coin? If dark magic keeps our men alive, I say let the gods look away."
"Indeed," another chimed in mockingly. "Wasn't it you, Ser Tallhart, who called the Targaryens' dragons 'divine gifts' just last winter?"
"Ha! The most pious of men—until faith gets in the way of victory!"
Laughter rippled through the tent, until one voice cut sharper than the rest:
"The pious King Baelor's wife bedded his brother and bore him a bastard. If holiness leads to that, perhaps Ser Tallhart aspires to sainthood?"
The tent erupted in muffled chuckles. Even the usually reserved lords smirked behind their hands.
Tallhart's face turned crimson, but he quickly understood the shift. His outburst had offended the wrong people. A fellow bannerman leaned close and whispered, "Careful. The Lord's son is here, and that sorcery you mocked just saved his father's life."
Tallhart swallowed hard, realizing his mistake. The tent fell back into uneasy silence.
"Regardless," said one of the senior lords at last, "we need to find this Cranston fellow. If he has any methods to counter these raids, we could use them."
"Has anyone sent for him?"
"The page boy says he's nowhere to be found."
"I saw him after the attack—but not since," said another.
"And what of Lady Maege Mormont? She should be here as well. It's one thing for a wizard to skip council, but a sworn vassal refusing to attend a war meeting?"
"You should save that question for her daughter's funeral," someone muttered coldly.
"That's right," another said sharply. "Show some damned sympathy. If your own son lay dying, would you care about strategy?"
The tent grew quiet again.
———
Outside, the ruins of the camp were slowly being rebuilt. Smoke still drifted from the burned tents, rising to the pale moon like ghosts ascending to the gods. Soldiers carried bodies to pyres or shallow graves, their faces hard with numb exhaustion.
Under normal circumstances, Charles might have been curious enough to linger. But now, he had no such luxury.
He stood at a nearby stream, frowning at the pile of pale fragments drifting downstream.
"What the hell is this—molting?"
His whole body still tingled, a phantom itch crawling just beneath the skin. He could remember the agony vividly—his flesh tearing and peeling in layers, replaced by something unnervingly smooth. It had hurt like hell… yet there was a strange euphoria in it too.
After the reinforcements arrived, Charles had slipped away from camp and gone down to the creek to wash. Ordinarily, he wouldn't be insane enough to bathe in the dead of night—especially not after surviving a battle. But what was happening to him wasn't ordinary.
The "life energy" he'd absorbed during the fight had built up inside him, until his body began to change. He didn't know how or why, but he felt it clearly: something within him had shed its skin.
His entire body had gone numb, itchy, and then—under his own desperate scratching—his skin began to slough off in ragged flakes, until he'd shed an entire layer.
Thank the gods no one had seen it.
The sight alone would've sparked panic.
Now, under the moonlight, his new skin gleamed unnaturally pale and smooth. He looked almost ethereal—soft, luminous, beautiful.
If anyone saw him now, they might mistake him for a woman.
He grimaced. "Great. I went through all that pain just for better skin?"
Adjusting his torn shirt, he studied his reflection in the water. He didn't feel stronger, faster, or filled with new power. The energy had burned itself out as suddenly as it had come.
"Guess it won't happen again… at least not until I kill someone else."
He sighed, resigned. There were no answers to be found in this world—or any other.
"Maybe I evolved?" he muttered, half-joking.
As he walked back toward camp, he noticed his tent had been reduced to ashes.
Wonderful.
All the notes and magical inscriptions he'd painstakingly compiled—gone.
He rubbed his temples and groaned. "Perfect. Back to square one."
Just as he was about to head for the quartermaster to request new supplies, a shout came from across the camp.
"Ser Cranston!"
Charles turned sharply toward the voice, eyes narrowing in wary curiosity.
Before him stood a short, broad-shouldered woman clad in battered armor, her gray hair a wild tangle beneath a dented helm. Though her stature barely reached his chest, her presence filled the space like a storm cloud.
And yes—she was a woman, not one of the camp followers or healers, but a noble in her own right.
That alone made her stand out. Female commanders were rare enough in the North to count on one hand, so Charles recognized her almost instantly.
"Lady Mormont," he greeted, inclining his head politely. "An honor."
He expected a brief exchange—perhaps a word of courtesy before she moved along—but to his surprise, the lady strode directly toward him, boots crunching against the gravel, her expression taut with urgency.
"I've been waiting for you, Ser Cranston," she said.
If those words had come from a young girl, Charles might've misunderstood the tone. But Maege Mormont was no blushing maiden. She was a mother of five, a seasoned commander, and a sworn vassal of House Stark. Whatever brought her here, it wasn't idle sentiment.
He straightened, wary. "You were looking for me?"
"If you can save my daughter," she said hoarsely, "House Mormont will owe you a debt it can never repay."
Her voice was cracked from sleepless nights and grief—harsh, desperate, but burning with hope.
Charles blinked, taken aback by her bluntness. "I… beg your pardon, Lady Mormont, but I don't understand—your daughter—"
"She was struck down by one of the Lannister bastards," Maege interrupted, her tone suddenly sharp. "An axe cleaved through her shoulder—nearly tore her arm clean off."
Charles frowned. "Then you should have your maester tend to her wounds immediately."
"Maesters can't heal this," she rasped, shaking her head. "They've tried everything—her flesh is rotting, and she's slipping away by the hour. The others are already preparing for her funeral." A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Some loyalty, isn't it?"
Charles fell silent for a moment. Then, softly: "I'm sorry, my lady. But I'm no miracle worker."
Her shoulders sagged. The faint gleam of hope in her eyes dimmed like a dying ember.
"So the Old Gods truly have abandoned House Mormont," she murmured, voice thick with despair.
Charles knew her story well enough.
The Mormonts of Bear Island were few in number. Her elder brother had joined the Night's Watch at seventy to make room for his only son—the same son who later disgraced their house by selling slaves, forcing him into exile after Eddard Stark discovered his crimes.
When her brother left, the title of Lady of Bear Island fell to Maege. She had no sons of her own, only five daughters—five fierce, stubborn girls in a land that respected swords more than sense.
For years, she'd carried the burden of her house alone—hunting, training, ruling, and raising her eldest daughter, Dacey, to inherit the island's future.
And now… that future lay dying on a blood-soaked cot.
Her voice trembled, but her words held steel. "We've endured hunger, war, and exile—but not this. Not the end of our line."
In her tent, Dacey Mormont still muttered deliriously, whispering her family's words through cracked lips:
"Here we stand."
If she fell, Bear Island would fall with her.
Grief, rage, and helplessness warred in Maege's eyes as Charles turned to leave. He'd already shaken his head—his answer clear. But before he could take three steps, her voice cut through the night again.
"If you can save her," she said, breath trembling, "House Mormont will serve you. In life and in death—we are yours to command."
Charles froze.
For a long moment, the only sound was the wind, whispering through the ashes of the ruined camp.
Then, slowly, he turned back to face her.