The air on Bear Island had the perpetual scent of sea salt and wet pine, a cold odor that entered the lungs and burned. Alaric Mormont left the forest behind, where the gloom beneath the pines gave way to the gray daylight hitting the stake wall of Mormont Keep. The fortress was not a castle, not in the way men of the South understood the word. it was a sturdy palisade of oak and fir logs, set on packed earth and rock, designed not to impress, but to withstand the cold and the Ironborn.
The heavy wooden gate was open, guarded by two men in chainmail and simple helms.
"Alaric! Lord Jeor sent word," said one of the guards, a stocky man with a reddish beard and a smudge of grease on his forehead. "As soon as you arrived, to present yourself in the courtyard. He's waiting."
"Understood, Torrhen," Alaric replied, his voice calm and unhurried, adjusting the thick wool tunic on his shoulder.
The warning didn't surprise him. The courtyard was the heart of the fortress, the place where most things happened, from distributing rations to weapon training. More importantly, Jeor disliked delays. Alaric knew this, just as he knew the dying raven he had healed was to blame. The System had rewarded his discretion and Heal Wounds with a level—a small price for a fatherly reprimand.
Crossing the area by the kitchens, the strong smell of peat smoke and fish stew hung in the air. The packed dirt floor beneath his boots was slippery from a frost the morning sun couldn't melt. He could hear the distant sound of clashing metal.
The courtyard was a noisy, cold mess. In the center, the ground was churned into mud by the dampness and feet, but that was where the training took place.
Jeor Mormont stood, still as an old tree. His chainmail was so polished it looked black, but beneath the leather vest, the man was massive, with broad shoulders and a belly that pressed against his belt. His white beard, recently trimmed, revealed a square face with skin burned by time and wind. The scabbard of his ancestral Valyrian steel, Longclaw, was strapped to his hip, the bear-head pommel faintly gleaming in the light. It seemed heavier and more real there, hanging from Jeor's waist, than in any legend.
Jeor's eyes, however, were not on him, but focused on the sparring taking place a few steps away.
Jorah, his older brother and heir, moved with the clumsy grace of fifteen years. Jorah was tall, nearly five feet two inches, and broad-shouldered. His arms already displayed the rope of muscles that came from hard work. He wore only a padded jerkin, dark patches of sweat spreading on the thick fabric, despite the cold.
In his hands, a common longsword, the steel dull, but constantly moving. His opponent was Torghen, one of the veteran guards of the garrison, a man with more wrinkles than teeth. Torghen moved with the economy of one who had no energy to waste, blocking firmly and responding with short, treacherous thrusts. The old man's experience was a weight, a counterweight to Jorah's vigor and talent.
Despite the difference in age and skill, Jorah managed to press Torghen. The sound of clang was sharp and incessant. Jorah attacked with youthful impetus, each blow an onslaught, and though Torghen absorbed most of the strikes on his guard, the old knight's breath grew heavier with each moment. Jorah shouted with every blow, a surge of adrenaline that made him rotate his body and deliver sweeping strikes, forcing Torghen back onto the mud.
It was a misstep by Jorah—a blow that hit the guard more than the old man would have liked—that made Jeor finally take his eyes off the fight. The Commander twisted his neck, the leather creaking beneath his movement, and found Alaric standing at the edge of the courtyard.
Jeor's face expressed no anger, just a cold, unsurprised dissatisfaction.
"You're late," he said, his grave voice cutting through the noise of steel like a blade.
Alaric didn't try to justify himself. It wasn't his nature to debate the undeniable, and trying to explain to Jeor how healing a dying raven was a way to gain Experience was out of the question for Alaric, who still kept the secret to himself. Because of this, his father only saw a twelve-year-old boy playing with a filthy animal instead of training.
"My apologies, Lord Jeor," Alaric said, bowing his head in a restrained gesture.
Jeor let out a heavy sigh, the air condensing into a gray cloud before his lips.
"Animals. It's always an animal, isn't it, Alaric?" Jeor crossed his arms over his chest. "You are twelve years old, and you're getting big enough to be considered a man."
He looked the boy up and down, a look that measured and weighed. At twelve, Alaric was already five feet two inches tall, a height that put him almost on par with Jorah, three years older. Jeor had noticed the growth in his youngest son's bones. The wool shirt was stretched across his shoulders.
"You can't spend your life dragging sick ravens from beneath the moss and thinking that will make you useful. A Northman needs a sword in his hands, not a little bird, boy. You're not a wildling, nor a Maester to care so much for small life. You are a Mormont. And this island doesn't care about your little birds. Don't be late again."
Alaric lowered his head again. "Forgive me, Lord Jeor. It won't happen again."
Jeor let out a heavy sigh, the air condensing into a gray cloud before his lips. "Good," he grunted, a sound that wasn't forgiveness, but tiredness. "Go get a weapon, then. You're next." He pointed with his chin towards the training shed.
Alaric gave a nod, wordless, and walked towards the weapon rack under a thatched roof. His fingers closed around the ash wood of a blunted training spear. The shaft was smooth from use, but it was heavy enough. Reach was his trump card. Against the sword of an older and slightly stronger man, it was the only advantage he had.
When he returned to the courtyard, Torghen, panting and red-faced, was stepping away from Jorah, staggering to the side where the ground was less muddy. Jorah remained in the center, the longsword raised, the tip pointed at the ground.
Alaric didn't wait for his father's command. He joined Jorah, the ash shaft firm in his hands, the dull steel tip of the spear pointed forward. He assumed his stance, feet apart, his body weight balanced. Jorah raised his sword, his guard high, and the two brothers faced each other under the gray sky, waiting for Jeor to signal.
While the spear remained perfectly still, Alaric activated the GM Eyes Skill. For an instant, his older brother's sweaty, stocky body was obscured by a green panel, filled with precise information about him.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Name: Jorah Mormont(15)
HP: 15 / 15
Sex: Masculine
Race: Human of the First Men
Class: None
Level: 3
Exp: 1.080 / 2.700
------------------------------Ability Score -----------------------------------
Strength: 9
Dexterity: 10
Constitution: 10
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 5
Charisma: 7
----------------------------------Skills--------------------------------------
None
----------------------------------Feats--------------------------------------
None
----------------------------------Talents--------------------------------------
Bastard Sword: 2 / 4
Longsword: 1 / 4
Shortsword: 1 / 4
Spear: 1 / 4
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jorah's status panel, which had a different structure from his own, showed an interesting point: they were similar in both points and talent. Alaric's talent with the spear, Jorah had with the long and bastard sword. The similarity between the talents of each one's main weapons, added to Jorah's superior age, which allowed him to start his training earlier, already made it clear who possessed greater combat skills with bladed weapons.
The most surprising thing of all is that he had so much talent without even awakening a class yet. And since the class he will likely awaken is the fighter class, he will gain one more talent in all simple and martial weapons, surpassing Alaric and almost everyone on Bear Island.
"Begin!" Jeor's shout was a thunder, and the air broke.
Jorah advanced with the speed of a hungry wolf, a youthful fury exploding on his face. He fought with passion and the need to prove himself, and this eagerness to win was felt in every tense muscle.
The longsword flew in a powerful arc, but the reach of the spear forced him to hesitate. Alaric took a step back in the mud, twisting his wrist and pushing the spear forward. The tip hissed inches from Jorah's chest, forcing him to divert his planned strike into a sideways movement, which brushed the wooden shaft with a hollow sound.
Jorah tried to close the distance, attacking the spear, trying to grab the shaft and pull it in. Alaric, with the cold discipline of the North, retreated one more step, spun the spear, and responded with a quick low-to-high movement, aiming for his brother's hand. His developed body (5'2" vs 5'3" for Jorah) and his 2/4 talent with the spear helped him trace a movement that would give him an advantage.
The movement was almost perfect. The spear tip tore the air with a shiiink sound, grazing Jorah's leather gauntlet. It was a clean hit that only missed because Jorah used his body's experience, leaning back at the last moment and responding with a lateral guard strike that forced Alaric to retreat again.
As the brothers moved, Torghen, the old guard, stood beside Jeor.
"They have good control over the steel, Lord Jeor," Torghen said, his voice hoarse. "Lord Jorah, he has the fury. The strength. But little Alaric..." He shook his head, admiringly. "He has the calm. And he knows the value of a spear's reach."
Jeor didn't look away. He just crossed his arms again, the leather scabbard of Longclaw lightly hitting his thigh. "He has a head for books and for beasts. But he has good growth for his age."
"Five feet two inches, Lord Jeor. Almost the size of Lord Jorah." Torghen commented, an almost invisible smile appearing on his lips. "If they continue to strive like this, Bear Island will have two good bears to defend her. The future looks bright."
In the courtyard, Jorah realized Alaric was playing with distance and abandoned the blind fury. With a shout of frustration and focus, he advanced quickly, not with a strike, but with a run. He charged beneath the spear's reach, his body hunched. Alaric reacted, trying to use the spear shaft to push Jorah's shoulder. But Jorah was heavy, and the push didn't stop him.
Jorah was within fighting distance, the longsword moving in a quick, brutal thrust. Alaric only had time to spin his body, the spear useless at short range, and use the crossed guard of the shaft itself to block.
The clang was deafening. The impact vibrated through Alaric's arms, cold and painful, making him stumble back onto the mud. The ash of the spear groaned. Alaric nearly fell.
Jorah gave no room to breathe. He was upon his brother, breathing heavily, the sword already rising for the final blow. The determination on Jorah's face showed clearly. Alaric didn't have that determination, only the cold discipline of someone who sees numbers and plots the best route. He was on the brink, he would probably lose again, but he wasn't broken.
The deafening clang of Jorah's longsword against Alaric's spear shaft was still echoing in the courtyard when a shrill cry tore through the air.
"Lord Jeor! Lord Jeor!"
One of the middle-aged guards of the garrison, Mikar, stumbled into the courtyard, slipping on the mud before steadying himself. He was panting, his face pale beneath the dirt. His wool cloak was thrown back, and he held a hand-axe, not the weapon of a watchman, but of a man running towards a fight.
Jeor stopped suddenly, his body tense. "What the devil is it, Mikar? Speak clearly!"
"Vessels... attack vessels, Lord Jeor! Three. Coming from the west, near Tormenta. Black and green. The Ironborn! The Ironborn are coming!" Mikar gasped, the words coming out broken.
The sound of clashing steel had stopped. Jorah, who was about to finish Alaric, stopped with his sword suspended. Alaric let the spear drop, the sound hollow and dry on the dirt, and both turned around. The fire of the brotherly dispute vanished.
Jeor's face closed into a mask of cold calculation, his square jaw tense. He didn't look at the sea, but at the ground, as if he were counting grains of sand.
"Black and green sails," he murmured, his voice grave and dry. "Blacktyde, then. Raiders. Three attack ships... each can hold twenty men, at minimum. Sixty, at most." He raised his eyes and swept the courtyard with an eagle's gaze. "But they wouldn't send three vessels if they only had twenty per ship. That would be a waste. Forty, I'd say. That gives us at least a hundred and twenty Ironborn experienced in raiding and fighting."
He didn't need to say aloud what everyone knew: Bear Island had a garrison of only twenty-one trained men, and perhaps two hundred peasants capable of wielding something heavier than a fishing pole, and who barely knew what to do with a sword.
"Numerical advantage will hardly give us a significant edge," Jeor growled, more to himself than to the others.
Jeor's calm vanished with the speed of the wind. He straightened, and the silence of the courtyard was broken by his voice, which became a roar.
"Jorah! Torghen! Take half the available guards. Go to the village. Gather all men capable of holding weapons in the center of the village! Now!"
Jorah obeyed without words, running towards the barracks to get his combat armor and call the men.
"Alaric! Mikar!" Jeor addresses the other two who remained. "Take the other half of the men. Go to the village. Retreat all women, children, and elders to Mormont Keep! Leave as few supplies or valuable goods of theirs behind as possible! But don't forget, speed is the priority! Understood?"
"Understood, Lord Jeor," Alaric said, the calm returning despite the tremor inside him.
"Afterwards! After you finish retreating the women, come back and empty the weapons storehouse. Take everything you can. Axes, spears, bows, and arrows! And bring them to the center of the village, for Jorah and the men! Now!"
'Meanwhile, I have to talk to Maege and tell Maester Yves to send ravens to Winterfell. I know there's been a resurgence of the "Old Ways" among the Ironborn, but 3 boats is too strange. Any gain they get by raiding us wouldn't be enough to pay the price for gathering over 100 men.' Jeor thought, watching Alaric and Mikar move away.
Alaric and Mikar ran with their nine men towards the palisade. The news had already reached the small village outside the fortress, and what they found was an explosion of desperation and disorder.
The smell of dried fish and peat smoke mixed with the sharper, penetrating smell of fear. Women screamed and cried, clutching baskets full of kitchen utensils, fabric, and trinkets. Everything left behind would be stolen or broken if it had no value.
"To the Fortress! Quickly! Grab only what is necessary and leave everything worthless behind." Alaric shouted, his voice not yet having Jeor's roughness, but carrying the authority of his name.
Mothers grabbed their crying little children, their faces wet and red. Older children, in panic, stumbled in the mud, pulling their mothers' hands. Alaric saw the dilemma on every face.
"My savings! They're under the floorboards!" An older woman screamed, trying to run back to her hut.
"Leave it! You can earn more if you're alive!" Mikar shouted, grabbing her and pushing her onto the path. He was not gentle, but there was no time for niceties. The guards had to use force, pushing the mass of bodies towards the Keep's gate.
Alaric stopped a hunched old man, Rodrik, a well-known figure in the village for being one of the oldest and grandfather to an impressive amount of grandsons and granddaughters, who was trying to strap a rusty sword to his waist.
"No! Rodrik, you're going to the fortress. Lord Jeor ordered the elders to retreat," Alaric said, his voice firm but calm.
"I won't give my years of work to the saltwater pigs!" the old man protested, his voice trembling. "I can fight!"
"Lord Jeor needs you to maintain order inside the walls. Your wisdom is more valuable than your sword, Ser," Alaric lied convincingly. The steel spear of his mind was focused. He put his hand on the old man's shoulder, guiding him gently but firmly to move. "Go. Our men will hold the line. But you need to be there to take care of what's left."
The old man yielded, the pain of pride more distinct than the pain of any cut.
They worked like sheepdogs, pushing, shouting orders, and ensuring people understood the need for speed. Every lost second meant the Ironborn would be closer to the beach.
As soon as the flow of refugees slowed to a trickle, Alaric didn't wait. "Mikar! Let's go to the storehouse! Now!"
They left the last group of weeping women and children behind and ran back. The storehouse was a simple building of wood and thatch roof. The guards kicked open the heavy doors, and the smell of leather grease and cold iron hit them.
Inside, there were no Valyrian steel swords, just the crude tools of Northern defense: axes with rough handles, hunting spears with broad, thin points, and yew bows that creaked with age.
"Everything! Load everything!" Mikar shouted.
There was no time to select. Alaric and the guards grabbed the weapons, the spearheads and cold axe blades clanging against each other in a metallic, strident chorus. They found a two-wheeled cart, the axle protesting under the haste.
They stacked the cart without care: ash spears overflowing the sides; woodcutting axes tossed into disorganized piles. The load became so heavy that Alaric and two others had to carry the remaining axes and spears in their own arms, over their shoulders. The weight was a constant pressure, but the adrenaline and urgency kept him moving forward.
With sweaty foreheads and burning lungs, they pulled and pushed the heavy cart through the now eerily empty village.
The center of the village, where men and women gathered to do business, was now filled with a miserable, disorganized crowd. Jeor, Jorah, and Torghen were already there with the first half of the guards, organizing the now-soldiers. The peasants, huddled together, accidentally jostled each other, their faces pale and fearful.
Alaric, with a load of axes in his arms, could barely breathe, and when he finally reached the crowd, Alaric, and the others who also carried the weapons with their own hands, threw everything onto the ground, at the crowd's feet.
Looking at the crowd of men gathered, Alaric reflected on how there were really only a little over two hundred people, but remembering how the system said there were only a little over a hundred capable men on Bear Island, a macabre realization dawned on him as he understood that many there wouldn't even be able to defend against an attack coming their way.
Worst of all, he didn't even know if those numbers on the mission included the capable women, so the situation could be even worse.
Jeor, his body hard and still, observed the cart and the piles of weapons. He didn't smile. He just nodded.
"Guards!" his voice was a clarion of command. "Distribute these gifts. Every man who doesn't wield a weapon, grab an axe or a spear! Quick! The winds of war bring a salty smell, but we won't wait for them to catch us unprepared!"
The few trained members of the garrison, including Mikar, began to take the weapons from the cart. The chaos of before turned into a more hopeful, but equally rushed, confusion. The peasants, with hands calloused by oars and nets, grabbed the rough handles of the axes and felt the weight of unbalanced spears. Fear was there, but now it had a counterweight: the cold metal and the promise of self-defense.
When the distribution calmed down, the clearing had turned into a tense ring of men, most eyes fixed on Jeor. Alaric stopped beside his father.
Jeor stepped forward, his thick leather armor and imposing stature making him seem twice his size. He didn't need to shout. Just his presence brought a forced silence to the crowd.
"Look at yourselves!" Jeor began, his voice rough but deep, cutting the tension. "Fishermen, farmers, hunters... Men of Bear Island. You are the backbone of a kingdom that bends, but never breaks."
He paused, sweeping the crowd with a piercing gaze, resting a moment on Marge Mormont, his sister, who stood next to Torghen, already holding a two-handed axe and wearing a savage expression.
"Soon, the sea will bring us unwelcome guests. Ironborn," Jeor spat the name as if it were poison. "They call themselves warriors of the sea, but let me tell you what they really are. Thieves! Glorified pirates who only attack women and children. They hide on their stinking ships and pray to a drowned god. We pray to the only god that truly matters here: The Old Ones! Who planted the Weirwoods and gave each of you the strength of the Bear!"
The crowd was deathly silent, absorbing every word.
"They think Bear Island is an easy target. They see our wooden houses and only think of unprotected coin. But they don't see what's in a Northman's heart. They don't understand that this island is made of challenges, and it has made our will as indestructible as our ironwood!"
"For centuries, the saltwater worms have tried to rob us! And for centuries, they go home with their tails between their legs or drowned in the frozen sea! This is not the attack that will break us. This is just another day's work. Just another story you can tell your children and grandchildren around your hearths, about the day the men of the North roared and crushed the scum of the sea!"
Jeor raised his axe, the blade reflecting the pale Northern sun.
"You may be afraid—and fear is good. It keeps you fast and alive! But let your anger be louder! The anger of seeing your wives fleeing, the anger of seeing your barns stolen! Use that anger! Today, we don't fight for a distant king or a title. We fight for our neighborhood! For our children! For our home!"
The crowd's contained roar was about to explode.
It was then that Marge Mormont stepped forward. She was a force of nature. Raising her axe with iron points, she let out a cry that rivaled war cries:
"FOR BEAR ISLAND!"
The crowd erupted.
"For the North!"
"F*ck the Ironborn!"
"Mormont!"
"The Bear!"
The air was now charged not with fear, but with a savage, united fury. The peasants, transformed into warriors by necessity and oratory, brandished their axes, their expressions of terror replaced by a grim determination.
Jeor maintained his posture until the crowd's roar reached its peak. Then, he turned, the ferocity on his face transforming into a calculating coldness as he addressed Alaric, who was standing beside him.
"Alaric," Jeor spoke, the tone now low and private, despite the pandemonium behind them. "I need you and the remaining guards back at the Keep."
He cast a sidelong glance at Marge, who was laughing and rousing the crowd with her axe.
"This should be your aunt's job," Jeor continued, a trace of paternal exasperation in his voice. "Protecting the fortress and those we've retreated. But, as you can see, the honor of fighting always draws her more than responsibility. She wants to be on the front line."
He squeezed Alaric's shoulder. "The castle is full of women, children, and the supplies that will keep us alive after this is over. It's vital. If the Ironborn manage to get past us, they must not find an easy reward."
"You and the guards go back. Your place now is on the walls, commanding the second line of defense and protecting our future. Go. And pray that we don't have to meet again at the Keep's gate."