Chapter 59 - Chapter 59: Mormont's Ancestral Blade

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Every eye focused on the ancient human-skin map. That blood-red eye symbol—an omen of ill fortune—was carved not just into the map, but deep into every man's heart.

Mormont's gaze returned to Lynn. No longer just gratitude and trust. Now, reliance.

"Lynn, if this is true, you've done us great service." Mormont's voice regained its steady authority. "You're right. We can't sit idle anymore. Passive defense will only grind us down to extinction."

He stood, walked to the map, weathered fingers pressing against it. "From today, the Night's Watch's strategy changes. Wildlings remain a threat—we must know what they're doing."

"Bowen." He looked at the portly steward. "Organize men immediately. Reinforce Castle Black's defenses. Send ravens to Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower—highest alert."

"Yes, my Lord!"

"Thorne."

"Y-yes..." Thorne's voice was weak.

"Your task: double the recruit training." Mormont's tone was harsh. "I don't care how you do it. Within one month, I need those recruits able to hold swords and stand on the Wall."

"I... obey." Thorne answered through gritted teeth.

Finally, Mormont's gaze settled on Lynn. He fell silent, as if making a momentous decision. Everyone's eyes followed.

"Lynn." Mormont finally spoke. "You will command the Night's Watch's first expedition force."

Thunder in their ears. Such a young commander? Unheard of!

Alliser Thorne shot up from his chair, face full of disbelief. "Lord Commander! This breaks protocol! He's not even a proper ranger! How can you—"

"Protocol?" Mormont turned, icy gaze pinning Thorne. "Right now, survival is our only protocol. Lynn proved his capability through action. He understands our enemy better than anyone here. This decision isn't up for debate. It's an order."

Thorne's body swayed. He collapsed back into his chair, defeated.

Lynn looked at Mormont, mind racing. He didn't expect such decisiveness—direct command of a force. Better than I'd hoped.

"As for your hundred Northmen," Mormont continued, "they'll form your expedition's core. Additionally, I'll select fifty elite rangers from the Watch. Weapons, supplies, horses—you get priority."

Mormont stepped before Lynn, sharp eyes locked on him. "I have one requirement. Find that location on the map."

Lynn met his gaze, nodding solemnly. "Yes, Lord Commander!"

The meeting ended. Officers filed out carrying heavy thoughts. Only Mormont remained.

He sank wearily into his seat, rubbing throbbing temples. That decision drained everything. I know the controversy it'll spark. But I have no choice. Against the White Walker threat, all old rules must break. I need someone like Lynn—unconventional, miracle-working—to carve a path for the Watch to survive.

But to make Lynn give his all...

Mormont slowly stood, walking to the room's corner. There sat a dust-covered wooden chest. He blew off the dust, opened the rusted copper lock.

Inside lay a longsword. Black leather scabbard inlaid with silver. At the pommel's end—a silver-carved bear's head. The bear's eyes: two small dragonglass stones.

Longclaw.

The Mormont family's ancestral sword. A blade forged entirely of Valyrian steel.

Mormont reached out, gently stroking the cold scabbard. A young man's image surfaced in his mind. Golden hair. Handsome face. Always tinged with melancholy.

Jorah. My son.

The son who once filled me with pride, who ultimately brought me unspeakable shame. For a woman—to satisfy her extravagant desires—Jorah sold slaves. When judgment came, he fled across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities. He betrayed his house, betrayed honor, became an exile.

Mormont's heart felt knife-cut. I took the black, came to the Wall, tried to wash away the shame my son brought our house with this frozen wasteland.

Jorah had some conscience. He didn't sell this sword. Left it behind. No letter. No words. Just this blade representing House Mormont's honor—Longclaw.

"At least he had that much conscience," Mormont murmured bitterly. He knew: abandoning this sword meant abandoning his inheritance. Abandoning his place as a Mormont.

Since then, this blade's been locked in this chest. It shouldn't gather dust here.

A thought crystallized in Mormont's mind. It should belong to a true warrior. Someone brave, fearless, who understands honor and duty. Someone who can wield it against the coming Long Night.

Another young face surfaced. Calm. Decisive. Eyes always burning with unquenchable fire.

Lynn.

Mormont's gaze hardened with resolve. He closed the chest, lifted it, and walked out of the council chamber.

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