Bear Island was a shithole – rather in keeping with the rest of this miserable fucking continent.
An underdeveloped, underpopulated, pissant little speck of rock caked with moss and trees, snow-capped mountains towering over the interior, I'll concede it was nice enough to look at – pretty in that 'untamed wilderness' sort of way – but damp and cold, harsh and windy, it certainly wasn't the kind of place where you'd actually want to live. Northern glaciers and whistling gales crawled and coiled south from the Lands of Always Winter, into the aptly named Bay of Ice, bringing with them a perennial chill – even at the peak of summer, as our ship swayed across the roiling whitecaps, men's breath fogged in the brisk morning air, and scattered ice floes bumped against the hull.
No industry or exports, arts or learning, the closest thing the island had to civilization, Bear's Cove – barely above a hamlet, fairly below a village – squatted along the side of a small coastal hill, at the top of which, ringed by an earthen palisade, lay the Mormont's rickety log keep. A muddy trail ran between thatched hovels, walls of unmortared stone demarcated plots of wheat and cabbage, and the settlement's couple dozen families, leather-skinned fishermen and their sinewy wives, gathered around the pier (little more than some warped planks nailed atop knobby tree trunks) as we steered closer to the shoreline.
Seeing as they lived in the asscrack of nowhere, our lone ship's arrival must've been a welcome novelty.
The Night's Watch, you see, short-staffed and ill-equipped, hadn't much in the way of naval strength; and those few craft they did possess – boards rotting, hulls thick with barnacles, lines frayed and sails tattered – were far too busy patrolling the coastlines for smugglers and poachers and slavers, and the usual stream of wildlings on makeshift rafts trying to break for warmer weather. Recruits and provisions, therefore, unless lugged overland, were typically (and increasingly rarely) sailed up north in private ships, distinguished from regular trade by hoisting stark black sails. Alongside kinslaying and breaking guest right, plundering, seizing, or otherwise harassing such a vessel was one of Westeros' great taboos – the utility of the Watch as a neutral refuge far outweighed any potential material gain.
And to the Northerners, who still saw the Watch as an honorable brotherhood (rather than the dumping ground for human refuse that it actually was), they served as profound symbols of duty and sacrifice.
A carrack from the Royal Fleet had, accordingly, been set aside to ferry a couple hundred Ironborn nobles to the Shadow Tower, the westmost of the Watch's three remaining strongholds. From there, one or two dozen left behind to strengthen the garrison, the condemned would trudge along the Wall to Castle Black, then further still to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
"Events compel me," I explained, "to venture beyond the Wall," and Ned – not exactly keen on having the scary goddess lady galumph about his kingdom, yet fully aware that he couldn't actually stop me – begrudgingly gave us his blessing to hitch a ride.
So blowing Robert a kiss, and coyly grinning as he blushed and squirmed, I made my way back towards Lordsport, trotting over the great stone bridge, and then through the vast encampment that spilled out into the surrounding fields. Thoros rode beside me, while Ed, having filched a horse from … somewhere, ambled sedately at the rear – "I've got nowhere else to go," he muttered, absent-mindedly picking at his prosthesis. Smallfolk shot us evil eyes as they rummaged through the ashes of their homes, and sentries waved us through the cordon they'd erected around the dockyards; we shortly arrived at the harbor, and quietly boarded the ship – Stormchaser, it was called.
Hardly the most comfortable accommodations, I supposed, but undoubtedly more convenient than schlepping there on foot, and the captain, sweating and trembling, bent over backwards to stay on my good side; he scraped and bowed and averted his eyes, yielded his spacious cabin to me, and allowed my hangers-on to tie their horses down in the hold, right beside the cramped and shackled cargo.
But I digress.
At the front of the crowd, arms crossed, stood a stout, stumpy, severe-looking lady in a grungy bearskin cloak, and her retinue of scruffy amazons in brigandine and ringmail.
As a warrior woman myself, I can't say the Mormonts much impressed me. Oh, sure, with their knotted scars and missing teeth and hairy lips, the welcoming party looked most fearsome indeed, and undoubtedly knew their ways around the swords and maces dangling at their belts, but far from laudable, they really just struck me as sad and gross.
Frankly, the famous shield-maidens of Bear Island were hardly more than impoverished bumpkins, the unfortunate products of necessity and desperation – what happens when you've quite so many enemies and only so many options.
"Jorah warned us we might have visitors." the short one croaked, narrowing her dark eyes. "Queen Marika, yes?"
With a flourish, I propped my hands on my hips and plastered on my friendliest grin. "Indeed. I am the Embodiment of Order, the Mother of Peace, and She Who Sways the Golden Boughs: Marika the Eternal, Empress and Autocrat of All the East and the West."
The full list of titles occupied some seven volumes.
A pause.
"Maege Mormont."
Had she not been caked in dirt like a Hollywood cliché, I'd have offered her a handshake.
"Charmed."
Honestly, would a little hygiene have killed her?
Lips pursed, she scrutinized the departing passengers and crew, and the token handful of Watch recruiters – 'wandering crows,' in the local parlance – who'd come along for the ride. "You have a rough trip?"
The question slid right off them; fussing and cringing, they hobbled down the gangway, indifferent to pleasantries in their single-minded pursuit of dry land. The ship's captain, meanwhile, a gruff old salt with a wiry beard, his eye bruised shut and arm folded in a sling, just sort of numbly stood there until some jittery part of him erupted into hysterical laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks.
My companions – relatively acclimatized – seemed to have fared a little better than the rest, but their shudders and winces still betrayed a certain disquietude.
I offered a shrug. "There's been a few bumps in the road, but we've managed well enough, I like to think."
The bowsprit was missing, as was the jib, and the figurehead had been snapped at the waist; the anchor, somehow, at some point, had smashed through the aftercastle, then wedged itself in the deck between the cockpit and mizzenmast; the hull's outer shell was pocked with dents and cracks and sucker marks as wide as a torso, with shimmering grace patching the holes where it'd been gouged and peeled away.
Maege gave herself a moment, comfortingly stroking the nape of the shaggy sheepdog that cowered and whimpered by her side.
"Bad weather?"
Poor woman couldn't even afford a complete sentence.
"Among other things."
For the first three weeks of our month-long voyage, as we puttered up the pine-forested coastline, the waves billowed and whirled and surged; foam sprayed the bulwarks, the hull creaked and sails buffeted, and the ship would periodically lurch, bow pitching upward into the sky, before slamming back down onto the water with a great, groaning crash.
One afternoon, while I was nose-deep in The Testimony of Mushroom – pure filth, captivating read – a particularly steep one sent my wine glass spilling out onto the cabin floor. I sighed, sparing a glance at the rivulets trickling down the water-smeared windows, then strode up topside to interrogate the captain, making sure to latch the cabin door shut behind me. His jerkin drenched, he shivered beneath an overhang, and goggled like an idiot as I approached him.
"Your Grace, get back inside! It's not sa – "
A wall of water then swept across the deck, sending those crewmen who hadn't trussed themselves in the rigging tumbling into the deep; a few beads sprinkled my face – they stunk of wrath and decay.
The chop, from then on, only worsened, and by the time we swung around Sea Dragon Point, the Drowned Abomination abandoned any pretense of restraint. Krakens whipped from the depths, their tentacles lashing around the Stormchaser and squeezing, while hooked beaks stabbed into the keel; monstrous whales breached right alongside us, intent on crushing the ship with their bulk; even some smaller fauna, sharks and eels and the like, circled around to snatch up anyone unlucky enough to fall overboard.
Finally, the entity itself decided to manifest, an abhorrent mass of brackish water and rotten flesh raging and roaring as thunderbolts streaked across a stormy midnight sky.
Always something, isn't there?
Ears pressed flat against its scalp, the sheepdog yelped and growled at me some more, before quailing behind its mistress' legs.
"We don't mean to impose, but the men would appreciate some rest before we set out again. They're still a little shaken, you see."
If they'd been mine, we'd have just kept going, bellyaching be damned – but anxious mortals are stupid ones (well, stupider), and I didn't want to have to break any of Robert's toys.
She bobbed her head towards the ship. "What about repairs?"
I waved her off. "I'll handle them myself."
Eventually.
When the captain's horrified stares at the sorry state of his vessel stopped being quite so amusing.
It's the little things, when you're as old as I am.
"And we will, of course, compensate you for your troubles."
Her bookends nervously clutched their weapons, but Maege remained unflapped, and kept on regarding me with that same gruff composure, head slightly tilted in consideration. She knew, obviously, what I was capable of – I can't imagine Jorah didn't tell her – so she weighed the costs, considered the drawbacks, and probably gleaned some implicit threat of what I'd do if she refused.
As if I actually wanted to be here.
"Fine."
While the passengers and crew might not have cheered, their collective mood did palpably lighten, and they wandered into town to eat and drink and fuck – the typical pastimes of sailors on furlough – with the enraptured villagers tagging at their heels.
"Good timing, on your part." Maege shot me a glance and motioned me to follow, tromping back towards the keep. "We were just about to start dinner."
It'd been beaten into my head, over the course of my travels, that Westeros's nobility put great stock in hospitality.
Though I can expound, at length, on the myriad cultural, historical, and theological reasons for this, it ultimately boils down to a predictable blend of self-interest and paranoia – a desire by tribal warchiefs, then petty kings, then blue-blooded lords (utterly shameless, the lot of them) to be able to safely flaunt their wealth and status. After all, the prospect of astonishing their rivals with their blackamoor manservants and spiced peacock gizzards and other exotic crap absolutely tickled the average aristocrat pink, but the inherent risks of inviting others into your home demanded certain assurances.
Hosts, society thus collectively agreed, were sacrosanct, protected from harm at the hands of their guests, on whom they would shower eager magnanimity; in return, guests would be afforded reciprocal protections, so long as they conducted themselves with relative decorum, and received their hosts' generosity with gracious humility.
That was the ideal, at least.
And over time, these mutual obligations, and all the associated rituals and formalities, matured into a core facet of social and political life.
Declining an invitation to a feast – the centerpiece of that Westerosi hospitality – certainly without damn good reason, would therefore have entitled the Mormonts to respond, if not outright violently, with all the obnoxious pettiness that a slighted highborn could conceivably muster.
"Oh, wonderful."
My patience only went so far – best not test it too much, I reasoned, and settle for a lesser evil, one I knew I could at least tolerate.
So I hiked up my dress, draped the hem, as usual, over my forearm (impractical, perhaps, but I've always loved that Roman look), and strolled over in her direction.
The sheepdog nipped at Maege's hand, fearfully gawking at my approach, until, after a few more plaintive whines and one last snarl, it bolted off into the woods.
We drew to a halt, and watched as it barreled through the treeline, disappearing into the leaves.
"Don't think he likes you," Maege grunted.
"It's a rare animal that does." I clicked my tongue. "Shame, that – I find they're better company than most people. No guile, just honest instinct."
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Pardon me for the delay – law school is a lot of work. I'm planning on making the chapters a little shorter, and releasing them a bit more often.
