The air by the Bay of Ice felt coarse and bitter, thick with the sharp smell of pine and fir trees. Meera stood in an ankle-deep frost filled mud, the muck clinging to her legs like the mud of her swamps. The marsh had followed her even here, the smell of damp, cold earth, the only difference being the rustling of animals moving behind the trees instead of beneath the surface like in the Neck.
Around her, the remnants of Bear Island's levy shifted, a ragged and hard-faced rank of women and bearded men wrapped in sealskin and worn mail, their axes slick with whale oil to stave off the persistent red rust. Many had gone south with Lord Robb Stark, King Robb, the title almost made her smile.
"Fools," she thinks, getting an inward smile. "Ironborns made a fool out of everyone, glorious fools that's what Starks will look like in the South, wolf and fish clashing with lions beyond the Neck while krakens attack their home and Lord Stark remains indifferent to it." Her father had already chosen his side, no doubt. Alyssane Mormont stood to her right, the summer sun catching the polished head of her axe. The young woman's green cloak, stitched with the great brown bear, snapped against her legs in the breeze, as she turned her sharp scrutiny to her.
"You're smiling again, swamp girl," Alyssane said, the islander's common tongue rougher than inlanders.
"Thinking," Meera answered softly. "That's all there is left to do."
"A dangerous thing to do in a place like this."
The retort died on her tongue as a ragged and guttural shout, tore through the treeline ahead. Alyssane curses, in a soft and ugly sound, and moved forward commanding the front lines, the action coming natural to her. "Shields up and line behind me! Here We Stand!"
Then screams erupted. Ironborn, their mails dull grey with salt rust, rushed through the fog. Their cries were guttural, choked half by the summer cold. Meera dropped to knee behind a fallen log, her bowstring stretched far behind to the limit and the first arrow hissed through a gap to the advancing army and found a leather, sinking deep into the chest of a reaver. He toppled like a sack. The second struck at his neck and died trying to stop the rushing of warm blood from the gap of his neck.
Alyssane and her Bear Islanders met the charge with a roar that shook the reavers rushing from the canopy behind. They crashed together not far from the gates of the Motte. To her not-so-far left, the gates of Deepwood Motte groaned open and men of House Glover spilled forth, their banners hanging damp in the morning mist. She caught sight of a youth in the chaos, his blade a frantic blur. Larence Snow, the bastard son of Lord Halys Hornwood and ward of Lord Galbert Glover, he moved with a strength that went beyond his young age, parrying a savage axe-swing, slipping inside the man's guard, and driving his sword through the thin links of enemy's mail.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield seem to be in their control. But the reavers surged again, their numbers swelling from the woods of the forest. The Bear Islanders began to crack under the relentless attack of the Ironborns. Larence, his helm half-dented and a streak of blood by his lips, hacked his way to Alyssane. "My lady, we must fall back to the gates!"
Alyssane hearing his words gave a bitter, sharp bark of a laugh. "The gates will be torched the moment we step inside, boy! Do you mean to roast the smallfolk with us? Hold fast we will deal with all them here, by the old gods!" She turned, charging toward a man whose surcoat bore shoal of silver fish on pale green making him member of House Botley.
Larence found himself locked with a man, decade older his own age, wielding a longsword with an unnerving talent. Their blades danced as mud and blood started slicking their boots. The Ironborn man was fast, forcing Larence to draw on every lesson beaten into him by Lord Galbert Glover and Master-at-arms of Deepwood Motte. He parried a wide swing and rammed himself into the man's chest, sending him sprawling into the mud, but another foe instantly stepped into the gap.
The defense line of Northmen soon started to break as Alyssane's voice grew hoarse, frayed at the edges. "Archers! Pull them back! Pull th-" She never get to finish as a sound rolled over the field then, a roar so loud that every warrior, Northman and Ironborn alike, froze and lifted their eyes watching fire spitting out from the clouds. A crimson shape tore through the clouds with its vast wings making sound loud enough to rupture the ears. The dragon descended with majestic grace, its scales gleaming like rubies, its nose gushing out smoke and when it opened its maws, the world turned red with blinding fire.
Ironborns shrieked as the rear ranks ignited, their shields burning and melting to slag. Some tried to bolt into the woods while others dropped to the ground. The air was soon filled with the stench of burning hair and flesh.
"Retreat!" a voice bellowed, words half-strangled by panic infront. "To the forest! To-"
But another voice cut through the first one, clear and colder then the first one. "Encircle them, not a single one leaves this field alive."
It ended swiftly, brutally after that. The first fire died, leaving only silence and ash as men of Bear Island and Deepwood stood amidst the battlefield, staring at the great beast and the figure descending from it.
Aemon dismounted in a single, unhurried motion and the white direwolf, Ghost, leapt from the dragon's neck to land beside him earning a snarl from the read dragon, that made even the hardiest Northmen flinch away. Behind him came down a woman clad in rich armour, her face hidden by a red mask and different coloured eyes that seemed to shimmer from behind her mask.
Meera lowered her bow and walks towards the dragon, Alyssane and Larence step behind her, she had only heard of in stories. Aemon Targaryen looked much as Meera remembered him from the Neck, more mature, perhaps, but with a grace that had nothing to do with his heritage. She knelt as his boot touched the scorched ground. "Your Grace."
He stopped her with a raised hand, his tone gentle. "You need not kneel here on the battlefield, Lady Meera. You are unhurt, I hope?"
The unexpected warmth in his voice caught her off guard, a hot flush in the freezing air of Bay of Ice. She rose quickly, brushing the soot from her knees. "I am well, Your Grace."
She turned to gesture at those behind her. "This is Alyssane Mormont, heir to Bear Island, and this is -"
"Larence Snow," Aemon finished. His mouth curves faintly, a mark of amusement. "We've met before, in Winterfell."
Larence blinks, dawning a slow recognition. "Jon Snow…"
"It was the name my uncle gave me," Aemon said softly, keeping his voice levelled. "But my mother named me Aemon Targaryen."
The woman behind him steps forward, her voice smooth and measured. "You stand before King Aemon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna of House Stark."
The words hung in the cold air, too heavy for the moment. Alyssane's knuckles whiten around the haft of her axe. "Then you're both a wolf and a dragon, dragonlord" she says slowly, her suspicion still present. "A fine tale but we of Bear Island answer only to House Stark."
Meera frowns at her audacity, but the woman in mask tenses, her hand already moving to the sword by her waist, before Aemon lifts a hand to still her. "Dragonlord and not King?" he asks mildly.
Alyssane's eyes flicker to the immense red dragon walking behind them. "Call you what I will, but my House owes fealty to Winterfell, not to you."
Aemon answers with a small smile, "And yet it's a dragon who saved you and your men's life when your wolf is wandering outside the North, my lady. Remember that." His gaze softens as he continues. "You have four younger sisters, I believe?"
Alyssane hesitates for a moment, her eyes flickering to white direwolf. "Aye. The youngest is named Lyanna, after Lord Ned Stark's sister, your mother, if your claim is true."
He nods, his expression dimming in the memory of not his mother but another Lyanna he knew of. The youngest of all, a woman at that who fought in the war against the Night King, and died fighting a wight giant when many men and women older then her hid behind the warm walls of Winterfell.
"Take me to the commander of these Ironborn," he says at last.
Larence obeys, and leads them through the corpses to where the surviving reavers were huddled together under guards. Alyssane walks by Aemon's side, her axe resting against her shoulder as Meera and Shiera walk behind the king, the dragon's making its way behind them all the same.
"They surrendered quick, dragonlord," Alyssane muttered, her tone dismissive to the dead Ironborn laying on the cold floor. "Didn't even fight once your beast showed its teeth and fire."
Soon they reached the place where the prisoners were huddled together. One of the captured women, her face smeared with soot, spat at Alyssane boots in defiance. "It seems that the North doesn't remember at all," she hissed. "What dragons did to your Lor-"
Her words cut short with a wet, terrible crunch as Ghost lunged in a sudden flash of white, his jaws locking around the throat of the man kneeling beside her. The corpse twitched once before falling still.
The woman's soon face went white as the direwolf's fur. Aemon crouched before her, his voice calm as always. "Where are the rest of your raiders?"
Her answer was silence until a sharp, stinging slap cracked amongst them, Shiera's gloved hand, striking the woman hard across the cheek. Still she said nothing beside her glaring however soon, Meleys huge shape stirred behind them, shadow of her vast wings darkening the clearing.
Finally, a man with House Botley surcoat broke, words spilling from his mouth in a rush. "They ride east! To Winterfell, under Theon Greyjoy! They split from Dagmer Cleftjaw near Barrowton!"
"Traitor," another growled before Ghost's rumbling snarl silenced them both. Aemon rose and turned away. "We're done here," he said.
Outside the ring of captives, he looked to Alyssane and Larence. "What would you wish to do with them?"
Alyssane shrugged, wiping blood from her cheek with the back of a hand. "This is Glover ground, dragonlord. Their fate's not mine to name."
Larence inclined his head,. "Lady Sybelle Glover rules here in her brother-in-law's stead. I can ask her," and adds hesitantly, "Your Garce"
Aemon's gaze lingers on him for a while and then starts. "I think, it would be best to send them to the Wall. Let their oaths serve where its necessary. The Night's Watch always has a need for able men."
Before anyone could answer, a woman's voice cut in a quiet voice, but with unyielding firmness. "It would be for the best, dragonlord."
They turn together to the side as Larence steps in quickly. "Your Grace this Lady Sybelle, wife to Lord Robett Glover."
She inclines her head in a bow, the movement awkward with a babe swaddled in one arm. "You saved my hall, my lord. For that, I may offer guest rights. But oaths of fealty are my husband's and brother-in-law's to give, not mine."
Aemon dips his head in acknowledgement. "No need for kneeling, my lady. Send a score of your men north with the prisoners escorting them to Night's watch. The Wall will have need of them."
He then turns to Larence. "You'll lead another score of men carrying that woman, and the two men prisoners who spoke for Winterfell."
Larence hesitates not for a single heartbeat before nodding. "As you wish, Your Grace."