Jeor Mormont turned his gaze away from Alaric. There was a weight in his eyes that went beyond the exhaustion of battle; it was the shadow of doubt. He turned toward the mass of people squeezed inside the main hall, people who were still trembling from the steel and fire of the Ironborn.
"The immediate danger has passed!" Jeor's voice thundered, cutting through the murmur of panic. "Return to your homes. Organize yourselves, take care of what remains. But stay away from the houses under watch. We have prisoners being guarded there, and I will not be held responsible for what happens to anyone who interacts with them!"
The command was the spark for chaos.
What followed was a desperate human flow. More than four hundred people — women with babies in their laps, crying children, and elderly people whose legs could barely support the weight of their own bodies — surged toward the narrow exit of the fort. The sound of hundreds of feet pounding against the stone floor echoed like confined thunder.
In the center of the hall, Maester Yves was kneeling among the wounded, his hands stained with blood and herbs. Seeing the crowd advance like a stampede, his eyes widened.
"Stop! By the Gods, watch where you step!" Yves shouted, but his voice was a whisper against the clamor. "Do not step on them! You are crushing the wounded!"
The mass did not hear. The fear of being locked in an environment that smelled of death was greater than caution. Alaric saw a man wounded in the abdomen nearly trampled by a woman running to find her son. Without thinking, Alaric moved forward, placing himself between the crowd and those lying down.
Jeor and Maege were not far behind. The Lady of Bear Island leaped forward, using her imposing stature to push the human flow to the sides, creating a safety corridor. Jorah, with his sword sheathed but a stern expression, grabbed a man by the shoulders who was about to stumble over a soldier with a broken leg.
"To the side!" roared Jorah. "Keep order or I will close the gates again!"
It took what felt like an eternity. The flow was slow, blocked by cloaks that got snagged and people who fell. Alaric felt the physical pressure of those people, the human heat and the smell of sweat and the fear of not yet knowing if their family members were alive. He helped Yves move an unconscious young man behind a pillar, protecting him from the stream of people.
When the last child crossed the threshold and the sound of footsteps faded into the distance toward the village, the silence that fell over the hall was deafening. The contrast was brutal. Moments before, the air was thick, hot, and noisy; now, the room seemed vastly larger, frigid and melancholy. Tables were overturned, puddles of blood mixed with spilled wine, and only the low groans of those who could not walk filled the void. Only the wounded remained, watched over by family members who refused to let go of their hands, static figures that looked like shadows against the stone walls.
Jeor wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. He and Maege exchanged a heavy look before walking toward Alaric. Jorah joined them in silence.
"Alaric. Follow me," Jeor said. It was not an invitation.
They began to climb the staircase toward the Lord's quarters. In the corridor, Maester Yves emerged from the shadows, trying to keep up with the Old Bear's long stride.
"My Lord, we need to discuss medical supplies," the Maester hurried, panting. "Some have permanent damage to their tendons, and others... well, others will be lucky if they walk without a cane. Those who recover will need…"
"Not now, Maester," Jeor cut him off, without even diverting his gaze from the path ahead.
"But, My Lord… "
"I said later!" Jeor's voice echoed through the cold corridor.
The Maester stopped abruptly, watching them pass. They entered Jeor's office, a room that smelled of old leather and beeswax. Jorah was the last to enter, closing the heavy oak door with a dry snap that seemed to seal out the world.
The exact moment the latch clicked into place, Jeor spun on his heels. His small, piercing eyes fixed on Alaric.
"How?" Jeor asked, direct as an axe blow. "And since when?" He did not need to explain what he was referring to.
Alaric held his gaze. He knew that the system, the floating interface that only he saw, the Attribute numbers, and the description of his spells, were concepts too alien for any man of Westeros. To explain the technical truth would be to be taken for a madman or worse.
"I know how to use it instinctively," Alaric replied, his voice firm. "It is like breathing or moving an arm. I simply know how to make the energy flow."
Jeor frowned, the silence stretching out. Alaric realized that this answer would not be enough for men of Westeros. He sighed lightly and decided to give the half truth they could process.
"This instinctive ability came to me for the first time the night the green comet passed, six years ago," Alaric admitted, referring to the red scar in the sky that many saw as an omen. "Since that night, the world seems... different to me, and so certain magical knowledge simply arises in my head naturally."
"And why did you never say anything?" Jeor asked. There was no anger in his voice, only a cold curiosity.
"Magic is not well regarded, you know that," Alaric answered calmly. "Men who do what I did end up lynched or exiled from society. I thought it prudent to remain silent until I understood what was happening to me."
They stood there, two men of Bear Island, staring at each other without expressing any negative emotion. Alaric remained reserved, a statue of serenity, while Jeor evaluated him as if he were facing a new type of terrain on a war map.
Maege Mormont, however, did not possess the same stony patience. She took a step forward, her face red with repressed indignation.
"'Prudent'?" She spat the word. "You speak as if you were surrounded by strangers! We are your family, Alaric! Do you think we would do something like that to you?"
"Better safe than sorry, aunt," Alaric replied, his voice not rising a single decibel. "But I intended to reveal the truth in the not too distant future. As soon as I understood and controlled it better."
Jeor made a nasal noise, half snort, half sigh.
"You lie better than I expected, lad," the Old Bear said. He approached the table but did not sit down. "But I will not waste time hunting your lies now. There is something more urgent."
He paused, looking at Alaric with an expression bordering on a premonition.
"You are the sorcerer the Ironborn came to fetch, are you not?"
Maege frowned, confused.
"What are you talking about, Jeor? They came to raid, as they used to do before Quellon put a leash on them."
"Not this group," Jeor explained, finally turning his eyes from Alaric to his sister. "The man you ran through with that spear... while we fought, he would not stop shouting sermons about the Drowned God. He spoke of a divine mission. He said their god demanded the capture of a 'sorcerer who profaned the waters'."
Alaric felt a slight chill, but did not allow it to reach his face, unlike Jorah, who displayed a shocked expression.
"I am not a sorcerer," Alaric corrected. "I am a Druid. They are different things. But yes... I am probably the person he was referring to. Although I find it strange. I was always extremely careful to hide any sign of magic use from strange eyes…"
"What the hell is a 'Druid'?" Maege interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest.
"A Druid is a guardian of natural balance," Alaric explained, adapting the concept so they could understand. "My strength does not come from study or blood sacrifices, but from the connection with life, with the earth, and with the forces that govern the natural world."
Jorah, who until then had remained in absolute silence in the corner of the room, stepped forward.
"Is it because of this connection that you demanded to take the wounded to the Godswood?" Jorah asked, his eyes narrowed. "The men said you cried out to the Old Gods before casting spells. Did the Old Gods give you this power?"
Alaric hesitated for a fraction of a second. He could use that belief to his advantage, become an envoy of the gods. But he looked at Jeor and saw that his father would catch any lie.
"No," Alaric confessed. "The Old Gods are silent, Jorah. I shouted for them and took Torrhen, Beren, and Eddard to the grove because I needed cover. If people saw what I do and thought it came from some demonic force, they would hate me. But if they believe it is the will of the Old Gods... they will accept it with reverence instead of fear."
Jeor nodded slowly, processing his son's logic.
"You used their faith as a shield," Jeor concluded. "Cunning. And dangerous."
"It was necessary," Alaric finalized. "For the good of House Mormont."
Jeor remained silent for a long moment, his thick fingers tapping rhythmically on the oak table. The sound was like a distant war drum. He leaned forward, the candlelight casting deep shadows across his aged face, making him look like a sculpture of rough stone.
"So," Jeor began, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. "Am I to believe that you are also not a servant of the Storm God? The Ironborn were shouting that you were a sorcerer who profaned their waters, a servant of the storm stealing what belonged to the Drowned God at the storm god's command."
Alaric did not look away. He kept his posture relaxed, hands resting at his sides.
"No, father. I serve no god. Not the Storm God, nor any other that men choose to name," Alaric replied, his voice clear and devoid of any hesitation. "Though I confess... I feel something. There is a strange connection, a sort of resonance that comes from the Heart Tree in the Godswood. It is like a constant whisper I cannot ignore, but my power does not come from them either."
He paused briefly, searching for the words that would best translate the mechanics of his druidic connection into terms they could absorb.
"The only thing I truly serve is nature. The cycle of growth and decay, the life that pulses in the earth and in the blood of living beings. That is why I spend so much time caring for the wounded animals in the woods. It is not a hobby or the eccentricity of a reclusive son. It is an extension of what I am."
Maege let out a guttural sound of disdain, crossing her arms so tightly the leather of her armor creaked.
"Apparently, everything we knew about you was a lie," she remarked, her face twisted in a grimace of disgust mixed with hurt. "The nephew I saw as a sensitive lad, too quiet for steel despite his talent, was actually a great liar who has been deceiving us for years."
Alaric felt the sting of the accusation but did not allow it to disturb his serenity. He looked directly at his aunt.
"Not everything, aunt. I truly like animals. Caring for them is not just an obligation or a burden I carry to keep up appearances. There is genuine satisfaction in seeing a creature that should die breathe again. That part of me has always been real."
Jeor ignored his sister's emotional outburst. His mind was focused on the logistics of the disaster that had nearly befallen his house. He began to pace the office, the sound of his heavy boots muffling the crackle of the fireplace.
"Let's go back to the point that truly matters now: security. How did the men of House Blacktyde find out about you? Are you sure, Alaric, absolutely sure, that no one saw you practicing your... magics?"
Alaric tilted his head slightly to the side, revisiting his memories with the precision of someone reading a written record.
"If someone saw me, father, it was not by means an ordinary human eye can understand. I was meticulous. I always took care that no one was around when I did anything. Most of the time, I used my magic inside my cabin, with the doors locked and the windows closed."
Jeor stopped pacing and turned to his son, his small eyes glinting with growing suspicion. He already seemed to anticipate that the answer would not be to his liking.
"If you were not seen," Jeor said, the words coming slowly, "then how do they know? What other means would someone have to discover what you do behind four walls?"
Alaric sighed, a light sound that seemed to fill the silent office.
"There are magics, father. Magics that I myself know and understand in theory. They allow someone to spy on another without ever needing to be in the same room, or even the same kingdom. There is a spell I call Beast Sense. It allows me to see and hear through the eyes and ears of a nearby animal."
Jorah, who until then had looked like an iron statue in the corner of the room, stepped forward, his face pale with shock.
"Skinchangers..." he whispered, the word heavy with the ancestral fear of the North. "So the legends are true? They exist?"
Maege looked at Jorah as if he had just said the sun was hot.
"By the gods, Jorah! Your brother just transformed into a five hundred pound bear right in front of us and you are asking if skinchangers are real?" she exploded, gesturing frantically at Alaric. "The proof is sitting right there in front of you, even if it is different from the myths!"
Alaric raised a hand to calm the tempers, a slight flash of correction in his eyes.
"It is not exactly the same thing, aunt. The magic I know is not identical to the legends of skinchangers the servants tell. In my case, Beast Sense only allows me to observe through the animal's senses, not control it as if it were my own body. It is a passive perception. This would make that specific magic unfeasible for spying on me effectively for long periods. And my ability to shapeshift is something entirely different, and limited to one use per day."
He noticed the expressions of Jeor and Maege and realized he had lost them in the technical details.
"I mentioned it only as an example," Alaric continued. "An example that magic can be used for surveillance. I am not saying someone used Beast Sense to spy on me. I am saying the eyes used to spy on me may not have been human, or that eyes were not even necessary. Magic is extremely versatile."
A heavy and uncomfortable silence settled in the office. Jeor looked at Maege, who had an expression of complete incomprehension. Jorah seemed to be mentally trying to reconcile reality with the bedtime stories he heard in his childhood.
Maege cleared her throat, looking genuinely frustrated.
"Fine, enough," she said, rubbing her temples. "You talk of 'resonance', 'passive sense', 'will of the earth'... I am completely lost. It is as if you are speaking Valyrian."
Her confusion was almost comical given the seriousness of the subject, and for a brief second, the tension in the room seemed to flicker, but it soon returned to normal as Alaric spoke again to tell them about the threat surrounding him.
He explained, directly and without embellishment, that he was saying this because of the bear that was hunting him. He told them the creature first appeared four years ago and that, since then, it seemed to have a single purpose in life: to kill him. Alaric detailed how the animal followed him whenever he went into the forest, demonstrating a persistence that defied the natural behavior of any predator; returning even after being defeated and forced to flee several times. He revealed that his 'Detect Magic' spell, which allowed him to perceive magical distortions in reality, warned him intensely whenever the bear was nearby. For Alaric, the verdict was clear: the bear possessed a magical nature, and its tactical intelligence suggested it did not act on its own. He theorized that a skinchanger, or someone with similar power of control, was behind the beast, using it as a weapon against him.
When he finished the account, the silence that followed was different from the previous one. It was a silence charged with shock.
Jeor Mormont, the man who had faced rebellions and storms without trembling, showed emotion for the first time since they entered that room. His eyes widened and he took a step toward Alaric, his voice rising in pitch.
"You are telling me you have been hunted by a magical beast for four years?" he thundered, incredulity overflowing. "Four years being stalked by a bear that wants your throat, and you remained silent? You kept going back into that forest alone, day after day, knowing something wanted to tear you apart?"
Alaric nodded calmly.
"Yes. Because I was never truly in danger, father. If the bear cornered me, I simply used my magic to transform into a bear myself and fight, or into a squirrel and climb a tree. A bear cannot kill what it cannot catch or what is stronger than itself. I had control of the situation."
Jeor closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as if trying not to explode. He seemed to oscillate between pride in his son's survival and absolute fury at his silent recklessness.
"For the love of the gods," Jeor grumbled, giving up on debating Alaric's logic for now. He returned to his desk, leaning his heavy hands on the wood. "Answer me: this bear, the one hunting you, is it responsible for the Ironborn attack? Do they work together?"
Alaric shook his head.
"I do not believe so. The bear always demonstrated a clear intent to kill me. It wants my blood. As for the Ironborn, I heard them talk about capturing me and taking me, alive, to Blacktyde. They had opposing objectives."
Jeor paused. He raised his head, and the expression on his face was that of someone who had just seen a chess piece move on its own across the board. He looked at Maege and then at Jorah, his voice coming out somber and heavy with a terrible foreboding.
"If the bear wants you dead and the Blacktydes wanted you alive," Jeor said, his voice echoing like a verdict, "then it means there are, at the very least, two different groups spread across the world who know exactly what you are, or think they know, and they are coming for you."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
For 6 advanced chapter, you can go to my patreon: Patreon.com/Keiondir