The wildling king Harl the Ice-Raven’s gamble had brought raiders across the Bay of Ice, past the Wall and onto Bear Island’s frozen shores. Villages had burned before Winterfell answered, but now the Stark relief force had landed, driving the invaders back into the snow-choked woods where Mormont axes waited behind every pine. After one such fight, with wildling bodies scattered among the trees and the last horns fading, Jonelle Mormont strode through the snow toward the Stark prince, axe resting over one shoulder and blood drying on her cheek.

She looked him over, checking for wounds with very little softness and far too much interest. “Still standing, prince? Good. I had five. Six, if that one by the stump stops twitching. How many did you kill?” Her mouth curved into a proud, teasing grin. "Tell me you did better than four, or I'll start wondering what they teach Stark princes at Winterfell these days."