Everyone's eyes were fixed on the ancient, eerie human-skin map.
The blood-red eye symbol felt like an ill omen. It wasn't just drawn on the map; it was carved into everyone's heart.
Mormont's gaze returned to Lynn.
It was no longer just gratitude and trust.
There was now a layer of heavy reliance.
"Lynn, if this is true, you have done a great service."
Mormont's voice regained its usual steadiness.
"Indeed, we cannot sit and wait for death."
"Passive defense will only lead to a slow demise through attrition."
He stood up and walked to the map, his wrinkled fingers pressing down on it.
"Starting today, the strategy of the Night's Watch must change."
"The wildlings are still a threat. We must know what they are doing."
"Bowen."
Mormont looked at the plump First Builder.
"Organize your men immediately. Reinforce the defenses of Castle Black."
"At the same time, send ravens to Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower. Order them to go to maximum alert."
"Yes, my Lord!"
"Thorne."
"Here..."
Thorne's voice was weak.
"Your task is to double the training of the recruits."
Mormont's tone was severe.
"I don't care what methods you use!"
"Within a month, I need to see those boys ready to hold a sword and stand on the Wall!"
"I... as you command."
Thorne answered through gritted teeth.
Finally, Mormont's gaze landed on Lynn.
He fell silent for a moment, as if making an extremely important decision.
The eyes of everyone in the room followed his gaze to Lynn.
"Lynn."
Mormont finally spoke.
"You will be the commander of the Night's Watch's first expeditionary force."
This sentence exploded like thunder in everyone's ears.
Such a young commander?
This... this was unheard of!
Alliser Thorne shot up from his chair, his face full of disbelief.
"Lord Commander! This is against the rules!"
He cried out, losing his composure.
"He isn't even a sworn ranger! How can you..."
"Rules?"
Mormont turned, his icy gaze piercing Thorne.
"Right now, survival is our only rule!"
"Lynn has proven his capability with his actions."
"He understands our enemy better than any man in this room!"
"I am not discussing this decision with you."
Mormont's voice carried an authority that brooked no defiance.
"I am giving an order."
Thorne swayed slightly, then slumped dejectedly back into his chair.
Lynn looked at Mormont, feeling a surge of emotion.
He hadn't expected Mormont to be so decisive, handing him command of a unit straight away.
This was far better than he had anticipated.
"As for your one hundred Northern guards," Mormont continued.
"They will form the core of your expedition."
"In addition, I will select fifty of the finest rangers from the Night's Watch for you."
"Weapons, supplies, horses—you will have priority."
Mormont walked up to Lynn, his sharp eyes locking onto him.
"I have only one requirement."
"Find the place on that map."
Meeting his gaze, Lynn nodded solemnly.
"As you command, Lord Commander!"
---
The meeting ended.
The officers left the Shieldhall one by one, their minds heavy with worry.
Only Mormont remained in the room.
He sank wearily back into his seat, rubbing his throbbing temples.
The decision just now had drained almost all his mental energy.
He knew how much controversy it would cause.
But he had no choice.
In the face of the White Walkers, all old rules had to be broken.
He needed someone like Lynn—someone who defied convention but could create miracles—to carve out a path for the Night's Watch.
But to ensure Lynn gave his all...
Mormont slowly stood up and walked to the corner of the room.
There sat a wooden chest covered in a thick layer of dust.
He blew the dust away and unlocked the rusted copper lock.
Inside the chest lay a longsword, resting quietly.
The scabbard was made of black leather, inlaid with silver.
The pommel of the hilt was a bear's head carved from silver.
The bear's eyes were two small pieces of dragonglass.
Longclaw.
The ancestral sword of House Mormont.
A masterpiece forged entirely of Valyrian steel.
Mormont reached out, gently stroking the cold scabbard.
An image of a young man floated into his mind.
Golden hair, a handsome face, always with a hint of melancholy.
Jorah.
His son.
The son who had once made him incredibly proud, but ultimately brought him great shame.
For a woman, to satisfy her insatiable desires for luxury, Jorah had stooped to selling slaves.
When the sentence was handed down, he chose to flee, escaping to the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea.
He abandoned his family, abandoned his honor, and became an exile.
Mormont's heart ached as if cut by a knife.
He had donned the black cloak and come to the Wall, trying to use this cold wasteland to wash away the shame his son had brought upon their house.
Jorah still had a shred of conscience left.
He hadn't sold the sword; he had left it behind.
No letter, no words.
Just this Valyrian steel sword representing the glory of House Mormont—Longclaw.
"At least he had the decency to leave it," Mormont muttered, bitterness in his voice.
He knew that by abandoning the sword, his son had completely forsaken his birthright.
He had forsaken his qualification to be a part of House Mormont.
Since then, the sword had remained locked in this chest.
It shouldn't be gathering dust here.
A thought became clearer and clearer in Mormont's mind.
It should belong to a true warrior.
A man who was brave, fearless, and understood honor and duty.
A man who could wield it against the coming Long Night.
Another young face appeared in his mind.
Calm, decisive, with eyes burning with an unquenchable fire.
Lynn.
Mormont's gaze turned steely with resolve.
He closed the chest, picked it up, and walked out of the hall.