The camp was quiet under the starry sky, the cold night air pressing down on the soldiers gathered around their fires. The sound of murmured conversations and the crackling of flames filled the air, but in front of the Young Wolf’s tent, there was only the steady rustle of leather armor and the occasional shuffle of boots on the damp earth. Dacey Mormont stood, tall and unmoving, her eyes scanning the surrounding woods, alert to any sign of danger.

Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, the morningstar hanging by her side. The camp was well-guarded, but as one of Robb’s trusted companions, it was her duty to be watchful, always. She knew better than to relax—especially as they advanced on the Crag. This was enemy territory, and they were far from home.