The climb to Mormont Keep had never felt so short. Alaric felt his lungs working with a renewed efficiency; every step up the steep trail of Bear Island was firm, devoid of the fatigue that usually accompanied him after moderate physical exertion.
'The Dexterity bonus is more than just numbers on an interface. It's as if my center of gravity is perfectly aligned and my reaction time has been cut in half,' he thought, feeling the lightness in his movements. He wasn't just walking; he was flowing through the rugged terrain of Bear Island with a precision he had never possessed.
Arriving before the great gates of the fortress, a robust structure of oak logs and iron that served as the defensive heart of House Mormont, Alaric did not hesitate. He raised his fist and struck the heavy wood with force. The sound echoed, muffled by the density of the material, but loud enough to be heard inside.
"Open the gate!" Alaric shouted, his voice projecting with a clarity that surprised even himself. He felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, a sensation his system translated almost as a passive Charisma check in progress.
There was a momentary silence, broken only by the sound of the wind whistling through the gaps in the palisades. Then, a muffled voice came from the other side, filtered through the thickness of the wood.
"Who's there? Identify yourself!" The voice was tense, laden with the fear of one who expects the worst.
Alaric frowned. He knew that the confusion of battle and the fact that he had spent so long being merely "the lord's reserved son" contributed to his voice not being readily recognized under pressure, especially when muffled by the door between them.
"I am Alaric Mormont!" he replied, raising his tone. "I am twelve years old, son of Jeor Mormont. Open up at once!"
There was a hesitation. The guard on the other side seemed reluctant. 'Caution is good, but paranoia can be an obstacle,' Alaric reflected. He needed to prove who he was without seeing his interlocutor.
"I know all of you!" Alaric continued. "I know Maester Yves is in there tending to those wounded during the evacuation, that Rodrik is probably complaining about wanting to fight, that Mikar must be shaking with fear, and that Brown the blacksmith has spent the last fortnight complaining about the quality of the coal that arrived from the port. Open this door now!"
The sound of heavy latches being released and iron bars being dragged filled the air. The gate creaked open just enough for a man to pass. Alaric stepped forward and came face-to-face with Regan.
Regan was twenty-seven, with a sun-weathered face and a thin beard he usually scratched when nervous. He held a spear so tightly his knuckles were white. Upon seeing Alaric, the expression of panic on his face was replaced by an almost comical relief.
"Lord Alaric!" Regan exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly. "By the Old Gods, you're alive. The... the battle... Alaric, is it over? Are they gone?"
"Yes, Regan. It's over," Alaric replied, his voice maintaining a calmness that served as an anchor for the older man. "The ironborn have been repelled."
He brushed past the guard without waiting for more questions, entering the inner courtyard and heading straight for the fortress's main hall. The scent of wood resin and hearth smoke hit him, an achingly familiar aroma.
"Gather everyone in the hall, Regan," Alaric ordered without looking back. "Everyone. I'm going to explain the situation once."
Upon entering the main hall, the scene was one of desperate readiness. The hall of Mormont Keep was rustic, with long tables of dark wood and bear pelts hanging from the walls. In the center, a group of remaining guards formed a defensive semicircle. Village women held kitchen knives and wood axes with trembling hands.
And at the front of them all stood old Rodrik, a veteran whose facial scars told stories of decades of service to Bear Island. He held an ancient battle-axe, his eyes bloodshot.
As soon as Alaric crossed the threshold, Rodrik roared, his hoarse voice cutting through the tension of the room.
"Alaric! Where is the Old Bear? Are those damned ironborn dead? Have they drunk the salt water they love so much?"
Alaric raised his hand, a simple gesture that, in his mind, seemed to carry the weight of an authoritative command.
"Calm down, Rodrik. I've already told Regan and I will repeat it for everyone," Alaric said calmly. "They were defeated. But I won't exhaust myself speaking to isolated groups. Wait for the rest to arrive."
Rodrik snorted but lowered his axe, recognizing something in Alaric's posture that hadn't been there before. The youth had always been quiet, but now there was a gravity to his presence, a sort of aura of command that made even the most stubborn veterans bite their tongues.
A few minutes passed that felt like hours to those present. The sound of hurried footsteps and whispered voices began to fill the hall as Regan returned, bringing with him the rest of the refugees who had been hidden in the lower levels and protected chambers.
The crowd that formed was a mosaic of human emotions. Alaric observed the faces: women with eyes red from weeping, children clinging to their mothers' skirts with expressions of confusion and fear, elderly people whose hands shook not just from age, but from uncertainty. Some smiled upon seeing Alaric, interpreting his presence as a sign of victory, while others frantically searched for familiar faces among the few guards in the hall, panic rising as they realized their husbands or sons had not yet returned from the beach.
Maester Yves approached Alaric. The elderly man, whose knowledge was the fortress's greatest weapon in times of peace, looked deeply into Alaric's eyes.
"Alaric," the Maester said, in a tone that was half-greeting, half-silent questioning about what had happened out there.
Alaric merely nodded, a short gesture of acknowledgment. The Maester, understanding the signal, placed himself at his side, offering the silent support of the authority his position represented.
'It's time,' Alaric thought.
He stepped onto a small wooden dais near the main table so everyone could see him. Silence fell over the hall, broken only by the crackling of wood in the hearth.
"Listen, everyone!" Alaric began, his voice resonating through the wooden beams of the ceiling. "The invasion is over. The ironborn who landed on our shores have been defeated. Many are dead, but many others have fled."
A murmur of relief rippled through the room, but Alaric did not allow the celebration to start prematurely.
"My father, Lord Jeor, will take some men to verify if the ironborn are fleeing in their boats or hiding in the forests. They will ensure no invader remains on our soil to be a threat. But although the immediate threat has passed, we still have work to do."
He paused, letting the information sink in.
"We have captured a large number of prisoners. More than Mormont Keep can house in its current cells." He looked at the villagers standing there. "By order of House Mormont, we will use some of the village houses to lodge these prisoners under constant guard. We do not have enough stone cells, so we will use what we have."
The murmur changed tone. A woman in the front, whose face Alaric recognized as the wife of one of the fishermen, stepped forward, hands on her hips and an expression of indignation overcoming her fear.
"What?" she exclaimed. "You want to put those animals inside our homes? They tried to kill us, Alaric! They'll foul our homes with their blood and filth!"
"This is an absurdity!" another woman shouted from the back. "Where are we supposed to sleep? In the street, while the murderers stay under our roofs?"
The agitation began to grow. Alaric felt the social tension rising like a danger bar in his system. He needed a solution that was logical and fair, something that maintained order without appearing cruel to his own people.
"Silence!" Alaric didn't yell, but the firmness in his voice cut through the complaints like a blade. "I understand your anger. I feel it too. But we will not leave prisoners of war loose or unguarded."
He looked directly at the first woman who had complained.
"Those whose houses are occupied by prisoners will not be left out in the cold. All those displaced will have temporary housing right here, in Mormont Keep. The hall will be adapted, guest quarters will be opened, and you will receive rations from the fortress's reserves. You will be safe here, protected by the same walls that kept you safe today, while the ironborn will be shackled under our watchful eyes in the village."
The argument of safety seemed to resonate. The idea of staying inside the fortress, near the protection of the guards and the lord, was much more attractive than returning to a village that had just been attacked.
"It is a temporary measure," Alaric added, softening his tone slightly. "Once the situation is processed and my father decides the fate of the prisoners, you will return to your homes, which will be cleaned and returned to you. House Mormont looks after its own. 'Here We Stand', remember?"
The women exchanged glances. The complaining turned into a whispered debate, but the direct hostility against Alaric's order dissipated. They accepted, not out of desire, but out of the practical logic that life on Bear Island demanded.
'Crisis averted,' Alaric thought, feeling a slight mental click, as if the system were recording the success of the interaction. 'But this is only the beginning. The North remembers, and these prisoners are just the first of many problems to come.'
He stepped down from the dais, feeling Maester Yves's gaze upon him. The old man seemed to be seeing Alaric for the first time, surprised by the difference in attitude between this Alaric and the one he knew. The young Mormont, however, simply walked toward the window, watching the path that led to the sea, waiting for his father's return.
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The march through the forests of Bear Island was an exercise in silence and discipline. Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, led a contingent of thirty Northmen, men whose tunics were stained with the blood of recent battle and whose faces bore the exhaustion of those who had stared death in the face. They advanced toward the west coast, the place where the iron galleys had first anchored, tearing into the island's soil with their predatory keels.
Jeor's objective was simple but vital: reconnaissance. He needed to know if the invaders' retreat was a desperate flight or a strategic regrouping. However, he knew his men; he knew the hatred for the raiders who had violated their home burned intensely in their chests.
Jeor halted the march for a brief moment in a clearing where the foliage was less dense. He turned to the thirty men, his massive presence and raspy voice commanding immediate silence.
"Listen well, for I will not repeat myself," Jeor began, his eyes scanning every face. "We are not going out to hunt what's left of them merely for sport or blind vengeance. Our goal is to be certain they are truly abandoning our island. Do not engage the ironborn unless they attack us first. If you see a group trying to reach the boats, let them go."
A low murmur rose among some of the younger men, but Jeor raised his hand, silencing them. He looked specifically at Mael and the small group of archers accompanying him. They were austere figures, their fingers stained with dirt and dried blood. Alaric would have noted that they had spent the final minutes before the march scouring the battlefield, plucking arrows from tree trunks and, more grimly, from fallen corpses to replenish their empty quivers.
"If there is a confrontation," Jeor continued, fixing his gaze on Mael, "no one advances until Mael and his men have struck first. Let the arrows do the work. I don't want to lose another man of Bear Island today if we can avoid it. Understood?"
Mael nodded silently, adjusting the string of his longbow. The other Northmen struck their shields in a mute sign of obedience. The march resumed, but the pace was now more cautious.
As his feet crushed the dry leaves on the forest floor, Jeor's mind was not solely on military tactics. Despite the threat of the ironborn ahead, a considerable part of his thoughts, as he knew was true for many of his men, remained in the village they had left behind. More specifically, on Alaric.
'What my son did... what he has become...' Jeor thought, his brow furrowed beneath his helm.
Memories of the delirious sermons of the ironman, the one with the pale, sickly face, began to hammer in Jeor's head. Likely a priest of the Drowned God, evidenced by his sermons and his lips, which were cracked and white with salt, showing he had drunk much seawater in his fanatical rituals. Jeor had initially ignored him, treating his words as the ravings of a madman mistaking fever dreams for divine signs and revelations.
The preacher had screamed about a "sorcerer" on Bear Island. He claimed an emissary of the Storm God was hidden among the trees, stealing the winds and cursing the hearts of the iron warriors. Jeor had thought they were merely religious metaphors to justify the invaders' imminent defeat.
'There was truth in those words. Remnants of it, at least,' Lord Mormont reflected.
Jeor now accepted that Alaric possessed capabilities that defied common understanding. However, as a man of the North who still respected the Old Gods, he refused to believe the ironborn's interpretation. His son was no servant of the Storm God, that malevolent deity the inhabitants of the Iron Islands used to personify their fears. Alaric was a Mormont, sorcerer or not.
But being a Mormont with such powers brought a different kind of fear.
'If Alaric is the reason they came with such fury... if he is the catalyst for this attack...' The thought was a heavy burden. Jeor knew that if news spread that the son of a great Northern lord practiced arts many would call dark, the scrutiny from Winterfell and King's Landing would be relentless. Deaths had occurred. Northern blood had been spilled. If the motive was Alaric, House Mormont would be in a dangerous political position.
Jeor looked over his shoulder at the men following him. The group was a heterogeneous mix. There were men who had fought by his side, others who fought with his sister Maege, and a sizable group who fought with his heir, Jorah.
He was a man attentive to the nuances of the human spirit. He noticed that the sentiments among the soldiers were clearly divided. Jorah's men showed the least fear of Alaric. They had seen the youth act in the heat of battle. Jorah and Roluf had been emphatic in their accounts: were it not for Alaric's "unusual" intervention, many of them would not be marching now. To these men, Alaric's magic was a protective blade, a blessing from the gods themselves to save the sons of the North.
However, for the men who had not witnessed the acts directly, the atmosphere was one of latent suspicion. They heard the accounts of their companions, and though their fear of Alaric had lessened, the unease had not vanished. They looked at the forest as if expecting the trees to start speaking, or the air itself to become a weapon once more.
'Fear of the unknown is a plague worse than steel,' Jeor thought. 'They respect him now because he saved them. But what will happen when peace returns? When the fear of death fades and only the memory of something they don't understand remains?'
The sound of the sea began to become audible, overlapping the rustling of leaves. Jeor signaled for the group to stop. They were approaching the crest of a hill overlooking the natural cove where the iron boats might have docked.
With a hand gesture, Jeor ordered the men to crouch. He himself, despite his age and the weight of his armor, moved with practiced caution. He crawled to the edge of the hill, using the low vegetation and moss-covered rocks as cover. The Northmen mimicked his movement, turning into silent shadows against the horizon.
Jeor cautiously peeked over the cover of the hill, his eyes narrowing to focus on the shoreline.
Far, far off on the horizon, where the gray sea met the overcast sky, he saw a single dark sail. It was one of the iron longships, already too small to be a threat, fleeing south with what remained of its crew.
But on the beach below, the situation still demanded vigilance.
Two iron longships were still docked. One appeared abandoned, tilting slightly to the side in the sand like the carcass of a dead sea beast. The other, however, was swarming with activity. Jeor could see the frantic movement of men on the deck. The sail, heavy and green, was being hoisted, flapping against the mast as the iron sailors rowed to pull away from the shore.
Looking at the small, fragile appearance of the longship, the first thing that crossed his mind was: 'How did they manage to travel from Blacktyde to here in just these little boats? Those iron bastards are good sailors, but not so good that they wouldn't be taken by the tides and get lost.'
'They are in a hurry,' Jeor also noted. 'They aren't paying attention to their surroundings. They are fleeing from something that still haunts them.'
He slowly backed away from the edge of the hill and looked at Mael, who was waiting with an arrow already nocked, his eyes fixed on Jeor.
"They are leaving," Jeor whispered, his voice heavy with a mix of relief and deep concern. "Hold your positions. If they try to land again or linger too long in their departure, Mael, you have permission to begin. But if the sails catch the wind and they pull away... let them take their fear back to the Iron Islands."
He looked back at the sea, his profile hardened against the salty wind. The physical battle was won, but the battle for the future of Alaric and House Mormont was only just beginning in those cold waters.
'I hope you know what you've started, my son,' Jeor thought, closing his eyes for a brief second before resuming his command. 'Because the world does not look upon power without wanting to take it for itself or destroy it out of fear.'
He stood there, an old bear guarding his territory, while the last iron boat began to glide away from the sands of Bear Island, leaving behind only bodies, ashes, and a mystery that would change the North forever.
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While the flames of war and uncertainty licked the shores of Bear Island, thousands of leagues away, the air was stagnant, heavy with the smell of mold, ancient parchment, and the metallic odor of dried blood. The secret dungeons of the Citadel in Oldtown were not meant for common thieves or disorderly drunks; they were the domain of forbidden knowledge, where the ethics of maesters bent before scientific curiosity and mysteries the Conclave preferred to keep buried under layers of stone and silence.
Down the narrow corridor, whose damp stone walls seemed to absorb the faint light of the torches, two men walked side by side.
The first was Archmaester Culler. At sixty-eight years old, time had been a cruel sculptor to his spine, curving it into a prominent hunch that almost forced him to look at the ground as he walked. However, his physical fragility was eclipsed by the imposing nature of his regalia. Over the heavy gray wool tunic common to all maesters, Culler wore the symbols of his office as Archmaester of the Higher Mysteries.
In his right hand, a Valyrian steel staff swayed with every step, the dark, rippled metal reflecting the light in a hypnotic way. On his finger, a ring of the same precious material seemed to merge with his wrinkled skin. But it was his face that caused the most discomfort: a Valyrian steel mask covered the upper part of his face, a relic of priceless value.
At his side, keeping pace with the old man's shuffling step, was his assistant, a twenty-six-year-old maester whose natural appearance was an affront to symmetry. The young man possessed an exceptionally thick neck, which seemed necessary to support his equally thick jaw. He was short, broad-shouldered, and had immense hands, whose thick fingers seemed better suited for work in a forge than for handling parchments.
However, the assistant fought against his own nature with an almost maniacal discipline. His robes were impeccable, without a single fold or stain, pressed with a rigor that defied the humidity of the dungeons. His hair was perfectly combed back, shining under the torchlight. His teeth, revealed occasionally in brief words, were white and clean, treated with the most expensive herbal pastes and abrasive powders the apothecaries of Oldtown could offer. He smelled of lye soap and mint, a scent that seemed out of place in that environment of decay. It was precisely this obsessive attention to detail and his genuine interest in the higher mysteries that had secured him the position.
The Conclave, ever vigilant, had imposed him upon Culler to ensure that the Archmaester's discoveries were reported, as Culler's predecessor, Marwyn, had the irritating habit of forgetting to share his more volatile findings with the others. Another reason was to assist Culler with activities requiring physical exertion, something Culler had become increasingly less capable of over time, both consequences of his advanced age.
'Damn the decrepit old fools of the Conclave,' Culler thought, his mind seething with irritation as the echo of his staff resonated in the corridor. 'Sending this sycophant to wake me before the first light... They think they can watch what I do through this boy, as if his hygiene could mask the fact that he is merely a watchdog with a maester's chain.'
Culler felt the weight of age in his bones, a dull ache that Alaric's system, thousands of miles away, might quantify as a Constitution penalty, but which for the Archmaester was simply the inevitable reality of failing flesh.
"Archmaester Gilbert is waiting for you in Room Six, sir," said the assistant, his voice coming out clear and modulated, devoid of any excessive emotion. "He emphasized that the matter admits no delay."
Culler did not stop, nor did he even look up from the stone floor. Through the Valyrian steel mask, his sigh sounded like a metallic hiss.
"I heard you the first time you said it, boy. And the second," Culler replied, his tone dry and disinterested. "Gilbert has always been a man of useless haste."
They continued the journey in silence. The corridor was punctuated by heavy iron doors, behind which one could occasionally hear moans of pain or the sound of dragging chains. These were the "patients" of the Citadel, prisoners whose fate had been swapped from the gallows for a life, or death, of scientific utility. To Culler, those sounds were merely the background noise of his profession, as irrelevant as the sound of wind in the trees. To his assistant Maester, those sounds meant even less.
Eventually, they reached a reinforced oak door marked with the number six in iron numerals. The assistant stepped forward with surprising agility for his build, opening the heavy door and holding it for his superior. Culler entered without offering the young man a look or a word of thanks.
The interior of Room Six was spacious and lit by strategically placed bronze candelabras. In the center stood a wooden table, upon which rested the body of a man. Two individuals were standing by the table, observing the "specimen" with clinical intensity. One faced the door, while the other remained with his back turned, his hands moving over the recumbent body with surgical precision.
Upon hearing the sound of the door and people entering, the man with his back turned stopped what he was doing. He turned his head slowly, revealing a face furrowed by deep wrinkles and eyes that seemed to have seen too many things that the sunlight should not illuminate. He was Gilbert, the Archmaester of healing.
Gilbert observed Culler's hunched figure, his eyes traveling from the staff to the mask that reflected the candlelight.
"Why are you wearing your mask and carrying your staff here, Archmaester Culler?" Gilbert asked, his voice as scratchy as dry parchment. "We are not in the Great Hall before the novices, and there is certainly no one to impress here."
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