The Odyssey cut through the waves of the Bay of Ice with a silent, predatory grace. What would have been a week's journey for the fastest longship took us less than two days. We remained far from the coast, a ghost of a ship on the horizon, invisible to any eyes but our own. On the bridge, the holographic map had resolved into a detailed, real-time image of Bear Island. It was a rugged, beautiful place, but the image was marred by plumes of dark smoke rising from the coastline near the Mormont keep.
"There," Torren said, his voice a low growl. He pointed to a cluster of hostile sigils on the map. "Squid banners. Ironborn."
I magnified the view. The ship's sensors, a fusion of technology and magic, gave us a clear picture. At least a dozen longships were beached in a wide cove. Reavers, like ants, swarmed the shoreline and were laying siege to the wooden walls of Mormont Keep. We could see the fires, hear the distant clang of steel and the cries of the dying. The defenders, heavily outnumbered, were being pushed back toward their longhall. They were fighting with the desperate fury of cornered bears, but they were failing.
"They're Northmen," Torren stated, his knuckles white where he gripped the console. "Our people."
He was right. This was no random event. This was an attack on my father's bannermen. On my home. The years of isolation, of planning, of waiting, all coalesced into this single, sharp point of clarity. The world had come knocking, and it was drenched in the blood of my countrymen.
"They chose the wrong island to raid," I said, my voice cold.
Intervention had to be overwhelming, but it also had to be surgical. The Odyssey itself could have leveled the entire raiding party, but revealing such a weapon was not an option. We needed to send a message, not declare our true nature.
"Bring us into the cove, but keep us submerged," I commanded the ship. The great vessel sank beneath the waves without a ripple, moving towards the island like a leviathan. On the tactical display, I began to draw from the dimension, not food or furniture, but soldiers.
The Ironborn captain, a brute named Hrothgar Ironhand, roared with laughter as his men battered the main gate of the Mormont hall. Victory was moments away. He was already imagining the women he'd claim and the silver he'd haul back to Pyke. That's when the sea began to churn.
From the depths of the cove, figures began to rise. They were not men. They were hulking constructs of stone and iron, shaped like massive, snarling bears, their eyes glowing with a faint, blue light. Water streamed from their seamless bodies as they waded ashore, moving with a silent, implacable purpose. There were ten of them, each twice the height of a man.
The Ironborn's laughter died, replaced by stunned silence, then by shouts of disbelief and terror. Axes and swords glanced off the constructs' bodies with metallic screeches, having no effect. A stone paw, impossibly strong, smashed a longship into splinters. An iron jaw closed on an Ironborn reaver, crushing him in his mail.
Panic erupted. These were men who prided themselves on their savagery, but they were deeply superstitious. This was not a battle; this was a nightmare. This was the cold, dark magic of the North made manifest.
As the reavers broke and scrambled for the few remaining ships, a sleek, black skiff shot out from the waves, beaching itself silently on the shore. Torren and I stepped out. We wore the dark, form-fitting armor I had created, our faces concealed by visors.
Hrothgar Ironhand, his escape cut off by one of the stone bears, turned to face us, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fury. "What sorcery is this? Who are you?"
Torren drew his blade, its edge humming faintly in the air. "We are the sons of this shore," he said, his voice amplified and distorted by his helm. "And you are not welcome here."
Hrothgar charged, screaming a final, defiant war cry. He never reached us. I raised a hand, and the wet sand before him erupted, ensnaring his legs in a grip of stone. He was trapped, helpless. Torren moved in, and with a single, swift stroke, the fight was over.
We stood on the beach amidst the carnage, the stone bears slowly crumbling into piles of inert rock and metal now that their purpose was served. The remaining Ironborn fled in terror, rowing for their lives. From the walls of their keep, the surviving Mormonts stared down at the impossible scene—at the wreckage of the raiders, the dust of their saviors, and the two silent, armored figures who had appeared from the sea.
The first ripple had been cast.