Chapter 46 – Old Debts
In the Gateworld, half a month had passed —
yet in the World of Ice and Fire, not even a moment had gone by.
The scene was exactly as it had been when Charles left "half a month ago."
To everyone else, nothing had changed.
But for him, everything had.
He had changed.
The world simply hadn't noticed yet.
As the lingering feeling of weightlessness faded, Charles lifted his gaze toward the dusky sky outside the tent.
It was still twilight.
The camp was alive with the noise of men at work — soldiers clearing away the wreckage and corpses from "last night's" disaster.
Charles picked up the longsword hanging beside the tent pole. After a moment's thought, he crouched down and began to carve into the packed earth.
He was preparing for the operation — the final rehearsal before attempting the real thing.
He had practiced this countless times in the Gateworld, but now that it mattered, he couldn't afford even the smallest mistake.
The woman's condition was critical. Every second mattered.
Her life was already slipping away — second by second, heartbeat by heartbeat.
This had to be done perfectly.
---
As the blade moved, strange lines began to take form.
Before long, two intricate pentagrams were etched into the ground.
Each star was encircled by a wide ring, and within the blank spaces, he carefully inscribed strange symbols — crescents, squares, triangles, jagged mountain-shapes — and clusters of obscure runes that defied language.
There were faint skull markings, twisted like vines across the lines of the circle — signs of death woven into geometry.
From each point of the first pentagram extended a dark line, winding with countless sigils like a chain of black iron.
They reached toward the second pentagram, identical in shape but subtly different in pattern.
From above, it looked like five conduits linking two vast, mirrored gates.
And that was precisely what they were — channels between life and death.
The spell Blood for Blood was far more complex than anything Charles had practiced before.
It wasn't really a spell at all.
It was a ritual.
He had poured endless effort into mastering it.
Without the aid of his Eye of Insight, he doubted he could have learned it at all.
For an untrained apprentice to understand the ritual on his own — that would have been madness.
---
When the design was complete, Charles examined it closely, mentally checking each line and sigil.
Then, satisfied, he wiped it all away and began again.
Precision mattered more than speed.
He didn't know how long he worked before a servant ducked into the tent and interrupted him.
"Is something wrong?" Charles asked without looking up.
The servant glanced nervously at the strange markings scorched into the dirt, his voice low.
"Sir Cranston… Lady Maege has finished the preparations. She wishes to know when you will begin."
Charles's tone was cool and distant, still locked in focus.
"Now," he said simply.
The servant instinctively lowered his gaze. There was something in Charles's eyes — a quiet, spectral intensity that unnerved even seasoned men.
Charles sheathed his blade, slung it over his shoulder, and followed the servant out into the twilight.
---
"Lady Maege," came the deep voice of Eddard Stark, "I grieve for your daughter's suffering… but think carefully. To save one life by taking another — do you not find that cruel?"
The air in Maege Mormont's tent was heavy.
Eddard's face was drawn and pale, exhaustion visible from his long, hurried ride from the Vale.
He had heard of the Bear Island lady's desperate actions, and as soon as he returned to the northern camp, he came straight here — without rest, without delay.
"To me," Maege replied, her voice rough but steady, "it's a small price to pay."
She did not shy away from her liege lord's disapproval.
Her eyes, fierce and weary, held not guilt but grim resolve.
Eddard's voice grew lower, colder — the tone of a man long accustomed to command.
"You should weigh this decision carefully," he warned. "This kind of act… stains the soul."
But Maege no longer cared about souls.
"If Dacey can live," she rasped, "I'll consider anything. And with respect, my lord — she is not one of your northern subjects. If you believe this would sully your honor… then by all means—"
She did not finish her sentence.
But her meaning was clear.
Even the old wolf fell silent for a moment.
The flickering light of the brazier threw long shadows between them —
one cast by grief, the other by duty —
and neither would yield easily to the other.
"The mountain clans will never thank you for this, my lord," Lady Maege said flatly.
Eddard Stark frowned. "The Seven Kingdoms have long been united. Every soul in Westeros is bound under the laws of the realm. And for a thousand years, House Mormont has kept faith with the Old Gods. You of all people should know the worth of life."
"The mountain clans have never sworn to the Baratheons," Maege countered, her voice sharp with bitterness. "As for your 'Old Gods' — I have prayed to them. I prayed for my house to prosper, for Bear Island to be fed and safe. Just last night, I prayed that the gods might spare my daughter's life. But they never answered me, Lord Stark. Not once."
Eddard's reply was calm but unyielding. "Faith lies within the heart. To bargain for reward only shows a lack of it, Lady Maege."
"Easy for you to say!" she snapped.
Her patience finally broke. For days she had fought fear and grief, but now it came pouring out like molten steel. She glared at the tall, grim figure standing in the tent's entrance.
"If it were your child lying there — writhing and screaming in pain — could you still speak so coldly? What of Robb? Sansa? Arya? Bran? Rickon? Or even that pretty bastard of yours!?"
Her voice rose, raw with fury. "Oh, I forgot — in the North, no one dares oppose the great Lord Stark. You do as your honor commands, and the rest of us must live with it!"
"Lady Maege—"
"Don't call me that!" she cut him off, her voice cracking. "You showed no such courtesy when you condemned my poor nephew! Spare me your civility now."
Eddard's tone hardened. "Jorah Mormont broke the laws of the realm and the code of the nobility. You know this."
"Honor," Maege spat. "That's what you men call it — your grand, hollow word! I'm just an old woman, Lord Stark, and I only care about my blood."
Her blue eyes burned as she stared up at him.
"You already executed the only son our house had left. Tell me, do you mean to kill another heir of Bear Island today?"
The words struck like arrows — sharp, unrelenting, and cruelly precise.
Outside the tent, those who had gathered to eavesdrop fell utterly silent. The air itself seemed to freeze.
Eddard Stark said nothing.
He stood in the doorway, his shadow cast long by the flickering torchlight. His two young attendants exchanged uneasy glances but dared not move or speak.
Many northern lords had already gathered nearby, drawn by the shouting. None of them, however, dared intervene.
Everyone knew the truth: House Mormont was on the verge of extinction.
Their line had thinned to a pitiful few.
The patriarch, Jeor Mormont, had taken the black in his old age, joining the Night's Watch to make room for his son.
And that son — Jorah Mormont — had soon disgraced himself, selling poachers into slavery to pay his debts.
It didn't matter that those men were criminals. Under the King's Law, slavery was forbidden in all seven kingdoms.
When the Warden of the North learned of it, he acted as his duty demanded — with cold, unwavering justice. Eddard Stark ordered Jorah's execution.
The last male of House Mormont.
No heirs.
No mercy.
Some had called it honorable.
Others had called it heartless.
---
"House Mormont never forgot that old debt," someone whispered among the lords.
"Aye," another murmured. "Lord Stark's honor commands respect… but sometimes, his honor cuts deeper than any sword."
"He's a just man," said a third, sighing. "But justice without compassion can be cruel. Poor Lady Maege… fate has dealt her nothing but loss."
They spoke quietly, for none wished to draw the old wolf's attention.
All assumed the outcome was decided — that Eddard Stark, the man who had executed his own bannerman's son, would never allow dark sorcery to save another life.
But then something unexpected happened.
The man they all thought unshakable — the Warden of the North, the embodiment of cold honor — stepped back.
After a long, heavy silence, Eddard Stark turned away.
He said not a word.
Without explanation, he lifted the flap of the tent and left.
Lady Maege stood frozen, her grief-stricken face caught between disbelief and defiance.
The lords outside watched, stunned, as the Old Wolf of Winterfell walked away in silence.
"…Did I imagine that?" one man murmured, dazed.
"No," another replied slowly, eyes wide. "You saw it too."
And somewhere in the uneasy quiet that followed, a third voice whispered the thought on everyone's mind:
"What in the gods' name happened to Lord Stark in King's Landing?"