The silence that descended upon the beach was heavier than the sea mist. The last of the Ironborn longships was a rapidly shrinking speck on the horizon, fleeing in abject terror. The fires in the village sputtered, and the groans of the wounded were the only sounds that drifted from the keep. On the shore, the two of us stood, silent and still, our presence an unanswered question.
Slowly, the main gate of the Mormont keep creaked open. A group of warriors emerged, their shields battered and their faces grimed with soot and blood. They moved with the cautious tread of men approaching a wolf they weren't sure was dead. At their head was a broad-shouldered man with a thick, greying beard and the fierce, proud eyes of his house's sigil. Lord Mormont.
He stopped a respectful distance away, his hand never leaving the pommel of his greatsword. His gaze flickered from us to the crumbling piles of rock that had been his people's salvation, then back to us.
"The Ironborn are broken and fled," he said, his voice a low rumble, rough as gravel. "We owe you our lives and our home. But I must ask… who are you? Are you sent by the Old Gods?"
The moment was here. The first step back into the world. I reached up and unsealed my helm, the soft hiss of its release unnaturally loud in the quiet air. I pulled it off, letting the cold, salty wind run through my hair. I saw a flicker of surprise in their eyes. Whatever they were expecting, it wasn't the face of a young, highborn Northman.
"My name is Rudr," I said, my voice clear and unamplified now. "And this is Torren. We are of the North. We saw its people in need, and we answered."
Lord Mormont's eyes narrowed, studying my face, searching for a sigil on my armor that wasn't there. "Rudr," he repeated, testing the name. "I know of no House Rudr."
"We are a house of two," I replied simply.
"And this magic?" he pressed, gesturing to the beach. "I have heard tales of the Children, of the First Men... but nothing like this."
"The North has deep magic," I said, letting the ambiguity hang in the air. "The Ironborn trespassed on sacred shores. They paid the price."
Words were not enough. I walked toward the splintered main gate of the keep, the Mormont warriors tensing as I approached. I placed a hand on the broken timbers. Focusing my will, I drew on the essence of the wood from the dimension, feeding energy into the damaged gate. The wood groaned, not in protest, but in rejuvenation. Splinters fused back together, cracks sealed, and the broken crossbeam straightened and solidified until the gate was whole once more, stronger than it had been before the battle.
A collective gasp went through the crowd of onlookers.
I turned back to the stunned Lord. "Your people are wounded. We have supplies." Torren stepped forward, opening a storage container on our skiff. He produced rolls of clean, tightly-woven bandages and jars of a potent healing salve—creations from the dimension that could knit flesh and ward off any infection. "Take them. See to your people."
Lord Mormont looked from the miraculously healed gate to the priceless supplies, his gruff exterior finally cracking with profound gratitude and awe. "You have given us a miracle this day, Lord Rudr. You must stay. You will have the honor of my hall, a feast to thank you..."
A familiar, insistent tug pulled at my senses. The curse. The leash was tightening. "I am sorry, Lord Mormont, but we cannot. Our time here is at an end."
The disappointment on his face was plain, but it was quickly replaced by a look of grim resolve. "Then we are in your debt. A debt House Mormont will always honor. How can we repay you?"
I met his gaze, my expression serious. "Remember this day. Know that you have friends who watch from the sea. When the North calls for aid again, I trust the bears of this isle will answer."
"Aye," he boomed, thumping his fist on his chest. "To our last man."
We put our helms back on, the world once again becoming a display of filtered light and sound. We boarded our skiff and pushed back into the waves, the small vessel accelerating with impossible speed towards the open water where the Odyssey waited beneath the surface.
As we departed, I saw Lord Mormont turn to a man in grey robes, his maester. The words were too distant to hear, but the intent was clear. A raven would fly from Bear Island today. A raven bound for Winterfell. The whispers had begun.