The dragon egg is stirring... it will hatch soon.

It was a good fucking thing that I got that message, because I'd honestly forgotten I'd been carrying around a freaking dragon egg and that would've been such a waste. I also couldn't remember if living creatures could survive within a [Bag of Holding] or if they'd just be violently ejected out of it. Either way, I appreciated the head's up. But, truth be told, I wasn't particularly excited about hatching a nuke lizard. For one thing, I had no idea if the dragon that came out of the egg would be an ASOIAF dragon or a DnD dragon – both had their ups and downs, but I'd much prefer a DnD dragon, because I'd be able to communicate with it, at least. ASOIAF dragons were little more than animals that just so happened to breathe fire – walking natural disasters – whereas DnD dragons, if my memory was at all correct, were intelligent and sapient and became god-like beings when they got old enough.

Either way, it was going to be a hassle. Depending on when I was in, walking around with a pet baby dragon would either end well, badly, or really badly. Hopefully, it wouldn't draw too much attention. My one advantage was that Bear Island was relatively isolated from the rest of the continent. So, if the peasants here saw my nuke lizard, it seemed highly unlikely that knowledge of that would reach the mainland in a timely manner or at all. But, more than that, having a dragon would more or less legitimize my claim to power. After all, in this world and in any world, the rule of 'might makes right' applied. My law teachers would disagree with me, but no one was going to disagree with a three hundred feet tall murder fire lizard if I started wearing a crown and demanding taxes and unpaid internships from everyone.

So, there were plenty of cons, but also just as many pros.

Whatever the case, I'd cross the bridge when I actually got to it. Hopefully, it wouldn't hatch within the next ten minutes or some shit like that because that would just be annoying and I didn't need to be annoyed right now.

Sighing, I watched, briefly, as Lysa Mormont finally opened her eyes, revealing onyx-black irises.

It'd been... almost two days since she arrived, bleeding and unconscious. The village suffered no further attacks, fortunately. And, with nothing much to do, I spent a lot of that time using my undead to help people around. Both Tamara and Halga stood guard over the unconscious noble lady, because I sure as hell couldn't be fucking bothered to do that crap and the both of them were willing to do it anyway. The villagers eventually came to accept my presence and the presence of my Wights, becoming far less weary than they'd been the first time, which was good. This meant they were more willing to cooperate with the Wights, who pretty much did most of the heavy lifting – repairing roofs, salvaging usable wood and metal from the crashed Wildling ships, digging furrows for the farms, and building fishing boats.

They still feared me, but they became a lot better at hiding that little fact nugget and, more than that, the villagers must've also realized that they very likely needed my help.

I also learned a bunch of more things about how I interacted with my Wights during this time. For instance, I found that I could split my consciousness between several bodies at once, kind of like assuming direct control. It was not a pleasant experience. Being a disembodied consciousness inside a freezing corpse was not something I was going to do again if I could help it. But, the ability itself was useful and welcome. I also discovered that my Wights did not rot or decay, but I wasn't sure if it was because of some magical bullshit or simply because it was cold, though it could've easily been a combination of both.

Not much happened in that time, honestly. I kind of almost wished for a bunch of Wildlings to attack so that I wasn't so bored, but I also wasn't stupid. Boring was good. It meant no one was dying or getting hurt. And I honestly didn't think the village could survive another full-scale attack, even with my help. So, life continued as normal.

Once the boats were finished, I sent my Wights out to sea to try and catch some fish, under the guidance and direction of the local fishermen. I also sent a bunch to accompany the trappers and gatherers; a large population of hares and rabbit apparently boomed in the nearby woods and hunting and trapping them was not considered poaching by the local lord – not that they cared much about the technicalities of the law, to be honest. There were also plenty of mushrooms, wild berries, and fruits in the surrounding woods, which were gathered by the villagers with some help from my Wights, who mostly carried the wooden containers.

On the first day, we caught about a dozen rabbits and five hares, and nearly twenty kilos of gathered mushrooms, berries, and fruits. A good haul, I'd say. And that wasn't even including the fish we'd caught – not a lot, just a few salmon and some trout, but good enough to feed a lot of people.

All in all, I figured I helped a lot. The village wouldn't be getting hungry anytime soon and they were safe under my protection. But... I knew I'd have to get moving soon. Helping these people was good and all, but this wasn't entertaining or amusing and I did not want to face backlash from the bored ROB who sent me here, because I'd gotten boring. My original goal of taking over the island would continue. But, with the Lady Mormont here with me, I figured I'd make a bunch of changes.

First of all, I didn't want to kill her. In fact, I'd much prefer that I didn't kill anyone. But I would if I had to. I'd done it already, after all. But no, my plan was to try and sway the Mormont girl to trust and back me up. This would lend plenty of legitimacy – at least, as far as the small folk were concerned. I needed legitimacy because I didn't have a dragon just yet and I was still very much a normal human being, who could die from a single stray arrow if I wasn't careful. I also didn't have a lot of Wights. So, I had to tread really carefully. The Mormonts were sworn to House Stark; so that was going to be a problem. But, if they were weakened enough by thee recent Wildling raid, I'd probably be able to take over pretty easily.

But, again, I didn't have all the variables so I was pretty much just bullshitting.

Lysa Mormont awakened on the afternoon of the second day, when I'd walked into Tamara's tent to check on her for what must've been the hundredth fucking time. And also to find some solace and rest. While I couldn't rightly say that Tamara was my friend, she had grown on me. She was also probably the most intelligent person in the village, knowing quite a lot about basic medicinal practices and, more importantly, she knew a lot about the local food and how to cook them. She was mostly quiet and shy. But I felt as though I could be myself around her, mostly because her presence was calming, which was further accentuated by her features. She was quite pretty, actually. Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, freckles, wide lips, and a button nose; she looked like the main character of a highschool romantic comedy about a nerdy girl who didn't know she was pretty, gets a crush on the local football athlete, but ultimately falls in love with her childhood friend.

Or something like that. Rom-coms were a guilty pleasure of mine; so, I knew a lot of tropes.

Tamara also spoke with a cute accent – almost Irish. Weird, because everyone spoke English with a somewhat light British accent.

Halga was someone I considered a friend; she was opinionated and confident, always speaking her mind. It's just that she knew too little about the world to have opinions that I'd actually enjoy discussing. I couldn't blame her, of course; there was no educational system in Westeros or Essos, save for oral traditions. The rich folk could afford a Maester or something like that, but I was pretty sure that practice was only for the nobility.

Still, I enjoyed both of them companies. Halga did most of the talking. Tamara listened and occasionally spoke her mind, but mostly just did the cooking. It was nice. And the both of them seemed to enjoy my company as well. It was something I could have with the other villagers, unfortunately. I couldn't connect with them or their opinions. I suppose it didn't matter. It wasn't as though I cared to, anyway.

I sat on a wooden stool, staring at the cackling flames when I heard a low groan and a soft moan behind me. I didn't recognize the voice. I turned and our eyes met. Lysa Mormont. Black eyes and a piercing cold stare. Her cracked lips parted and she whispered something muted. I stood up and raised a brow. Halga and Tamara still hadn't noticed her, busy as they were with preparing a spice paste of some kind or our evening meal. I walked towards her and leaned closer, just enough so that I heard her.

"Water..." She said, almost begging. Her voice was weak. Lips parched. Throat dry. It was impossible to force water down a sleeping person's throat – not without a rubber hose, at least. Lysa Mormont's eyes were unfocused. I then turned to Tamara.

"She's awake." I said, catching their attention. Both Tamara and Halga turned, gasping at the sight of the awakened Mormont girl. "Get her some warm water. The poor girl's parched."

"Hide in the stables." Her mother said. "When you get the chance, grab one of the horses and get as far away from here as possible. The future of House Mormont lies with you, my sweet child. You must live. The rest of us old folks have seen too many winters."

"Mother, noooooo!'

Lysa's eyes snapped open. She saw a black ceiling... shadows and silhouettes dancing at the edges of her vision. She didn't know where she was. But she was alive. She wasn't bound in chains. And she hadn't been stripped bare and exposed. The Wildling barbarians hadn't been able to catch her. Thank the Old Gods for that. She turned her head and saw a man there, staring at a fire. Curly locks of dark hair, cut short and neat. A warrior, perhaps?

She spoke something, but no words escaped her lips, only sounds she hadn't been intending to make at all. But that seemed to be enough. The man turned and, if this had been any other situation, Lysa would've blushed. He was... tall and handsome beyond words, like knight out of the fairy tales. His eyes had the same color as the sky. Soft and gentle features. The lack of a beard made him appear beautiful. He surely must've been a nobleman. And there was an air of melancholy about him, an unspoken sadness.

But, she couldn't quite focus on his features, even if she wanted to. No, her throat hurt and her mouth felt absolutely terrible. She spoke again. But, as before, no words escaped her lips. The man leaned towards her. And Lysa forced herself, even when it became painfully difficult, to speak.

"Water..." That was all she managed to say before it became too painful. But, fortunately, the beautiful man heard her. He said something to a bunch of other people, but she wasn't listening anymore. She couldn't.

She closed her eyes. And in the darkness of her own mind, Lysa watched – again and again – as her home burned, her mother, her friends, and everyone she knew and loved still inside, stalling the enemy so that she had time to escape. And she wept. Her home was lost. She didn't know where she was or who the people around her were. She was the last Mormont.

And from that sorrow came a flicker... a flicker of rage.

Her eyes snapped open once again when she felt a pair of hands pulling her up. She saw the same man, holding her, presenting a cup of steaming water to her lips. Tea, by the look and smell of it. She stared at his eyes for a moment longer, before finally taking a sip. Was this a dream?