Maester Yves's chambers at Mormont Keep were designed with the austere pragmatism that defined Bear Island. It was not merely a place of rest, but a "all-in-one" hub of functionality. The air was thick with the pungent scent of dried herbs and ointments, which filled rustic wooden shelves nailed to the log walls. In the center of the room, a wide, heavy table served as both surgical bench and alchemy altar. Upon it lay an ironborn man, unconscious, his legs wrapped in bandages stained with blood and lymph. Jeor and Alaric Mormont stood over him, observing the defeated figure under the flickering light of the torches.
Moments earlier, Jeor had reached the grim conclusion that knowledge of Alaric's abilities was no longer a secret kept within the family; there were two distinct groups of raiders who seemed to know far too much. Determined to wrench out the truth, the Old Bear had intended to descend to the outer cells, where most captives were being held to avoid panic among the keep's servants. However, Jorah had informed him that a prisoner captured during the climax of the battle had been sent directly to Yves's care so that he would not die before proving useful. Jeor agreed to start there, but ordered Maege and Jorah to the cells to interrogate others, fearing the wounded man might succumb to silence or death before speaking. It was this need for urgent answers that led them to the Maester's room.
Jeor approached the ironborn and began to shake him violently. "Wake up, carrion," he growled, delivering light slaps to the invader's pale face. The man only murmured incoherent sounds, his eyes rolling in a state of profound disorientation, unable to formulate even a single sentence. Frustrated, Jeor looked at the rows of jars on the shelves and turned to his son.
"Which of these damnable things can dull the pain?" Jeor asked, his voice harsh, addressing the son who was more accustomed to this room than he was.
Alaric, maintaining his usual reserve, analyzed the options. His eyes scanned the labels and, understanding exactly what his father intended, he picked up a dark ceramic jar. He poured a viscous liquid onto a clean cloth he found on the table and handed it to Jeor.
"As long as he breathes from this cloth, he will feel nothing," Alaric explained, his calm voice contrasting with the tension in the room.
Jeor took the cloth, but before offering it to the prisoner, he grabbed the ironborn's injured leg with his massive hand, squeezing directly over the covered wound. A sharp, hoarse scream tore through the silence of the room, and the invader's eyes flew wide, consciousness returning abruptly through the shock of pain. Immediately, Jeor pressed the soaked cloth over the man's nose. Almost instantly, the screaming ceased and the captive's body relaxed, though his eyes remained fixed and alert.
"I am going to ask you questions," Jeor said, leaning over him. "If you answer, I give you the cloth and the peace it brings. If you lie or delay..." He squeezed the thigh wound hard, feeling the man writhe under his fingers despite the chemical numbness. "Understood?"
The ironborn, trembling and sweating, nodded feebly. Jeor replaced the cloth over his face, allowing him to inhale the artificial relief.
What followed was a game of psychological and physical torture that stretched on for nearly an hour. The dynamic was methodical: Jeor would pose a question, and if he perceived any hesitation or sign of falsehood, he removed the cloth and pressed his fingers into the wounds, pushing until the man howled in agony. Alaric watched it all in silence, showing neither pity nor pleasure. To him, this was an essential necessity for the safety of his House, and by extension, his own. There was no sadism in his eyes, only resignation. Jeor, for his part, acted with the efficient brutality of a lord who had protected those lands for decades, treating the invader's suffering as the fair price for the invasion.
By the end of the session, the truth finally emerged amidst sobs and gasps. The prisoner revealed that the order to capture Alaric had come from Lord Urrigon Blacktyde. Urrigon, according to him, had received a vision sent by the Drowned God: the existence of an "envoy of the Storm God" hiding on Bear Island. The plan was to take him to the island of Blacktyde and sacrifice him, an act that would supposedly elevate the island to the seat of the faith, supplanting Old Wyk. The man coughed up blood and continued, explaining that Urrigon had set sail with a considerable fleet, but most of the ships had been scattered or destroyed by a violent storm, or by the Storm God himself, in the pirate's distorted view. Urrigon's ship was one of those that foundered, and the rest of the expedition that reached the shore was merely what remained of that maritime fury.
Jeor tried to press further, seeking details about other possible lords involved, but the ironborn fainted. Even when the Old Bear squeezed the wounds with renewed force, there was no response. The invader's body had reached its limit.
"Let's go meet Maege and Jorah," Jeor said, wiping his hands on his doublet. He tossed the damp cloth over the unconscious man's face as a final gesture of utilitarian mercy and signaled for Alaric to follow him.
Both left the room, leaving behind the smell of blood and medicine. As they walked toward the inner cells, they crossed the keep's main hall, where Maester Yves tried again to intercept them, his face heavy with questions about what they had done to his patient.
"Save it for later, Maester," Jeor cut him off, without slowing his pace.
They did not need to step out into the cold outside. Although the garrison had taken most of the prisoners via the external path to prevent the servants from seeing the cause of the chaos, there were internal passages connecting the hall to the stone cells in the basement. Jeor and Alaric descended the damp steps, the sound of their boots echoing against the stone walls, ready to confront what Maege and Jorah had discovered.
The dampness of Mormont Keep's stone walls seemed to intensify as Jeor and Alaric descended into the bowels of the fortress. The silence of the corridor was broken only by the rhythmic sound of their boots and the salutes of the guards watching the cells. Every guard they passed straightened their posture, striking a fist against their chest in greeting to the Lord and his son.
They stopped before a heavy wooden door, worn by time. It was thin enough that the voices from the other side leaked into the corridor, a harsh, authoritative murmur that Alaric recognized immediately as his aunt, Maege. Jeor did not hesitate; he pushed the door open with his shoulder, revealing the scene inside the interrogation room.
The room was stifling, lit by a single torch that cast dancing, grotesque shadows on the walls. Maege Mormont and Jorah stood encircling an ironborn man tied to an oak chair. The captive was a pitiful sight: his face was covered in purple bruises, his nose bled profusely, staining his boiled leather tunic, and he breathed with difficulty, a wheezing sound that indicated broken ribs. The most striking detail, however, was the blood staining Maege's knuckles. She hadn't used a dagger; she had used her fists, and the result had been efficient.
"Maege. Jorah," Jeor called, his deep voice filling the cramped space.
The two turned. Jorah looked exhausted, his armor still soiled with sand and salt, while Maege wore an expression of contained ferocity, wiping someone else's blood onto a dirty rag.
"I'm finished with mine upstairs," Jeor continued, nodding toward the corridor. "I want to know what you've found here. Follow me."
They left the room, ignoring the hoarse insults and curses the ironborn hurled at their backs, calling upon the Drowned God to have the Mormonts' entrails devoured by crabs. Jeor led them to the exit the ironborn had used to enter the cells when they were captured, an opening that led to an isolated slope behind the keep. There, under the dark sky and the distant sound of the sea crashing against the rocks, they would have the necessary privacy.
"Mine talked," Jeor began, crossing his arms over his massive chest. "He mentioned Lord Urrigon Blacktyde. Said the man had visions of an 'envoy of the Storm God' here on the island and wanted to sacrifice Alaric to raise Blacktyde above Old Wyk. What did you get?"
Maege gave a short, humorless smile, adjusting her leather belt.
"Ours told the same story, but with more detail about their failure. He spoke quite willingly after a few punches and some taunting about their defeat." She let out a dry laugh. "The truth, Jeor, is that we only won because these bastards lost eight of the eleven ships that set out from Blacktyde. The storm that caught them on the way was brutal. It killed more than half of the four hundred men sailing, including Lord Urrigon himself."
Jorah nodded, complementing:
"Furthermore, it seems there was an internal divide. Lord Quellon Greyjoy did not support the attack. He gave express orders against this incursion, orders that Urrigon and his followers chose to disobey in the name of religious fanaticism."
Jeor fell silent for a moment, his jaw tense.
"So we are alive because of a storm. By mere maritime chance."
Maege looked directly at Alaric, her voice rising in tone, laden with significant irony.
"Considering the prisoner swore that Blacktyde's strongest warriors, Urrigon's personal guard, were on the main ship and sank with him... along with the remains of the battering ram structures, rams they barely managed to salvage... then yes, it was 'bad luck.' Truly, a very timely storm."
Alaric felt the weight of the implication in his aunt's gaze. He knew what she was thinking, what they were all thinking.
"I do not possess the power to create storms," he said, keeping his voice calm. "My control over the elements is limited."
"Publicly," Jeor interrupted, regaining control of the conversation, "we will treat the storm as maritime bad luck. No magic, no divine intervention. I don't want to fuel religious conflicts with the Iron Islands, much less attract the wrong kind of attention from the rest of the North."
"The fact that I wasn't the cause of the storm," Alaric intervened, his eyes locked onto his father's, "doesn't mean that someone else wasn't. The world is vaster and stranger than the maesters' rules suggest."
Jeor gave his son a deeply weary look and sighed.
"Duly noted, Alaric. But we have more immediate problems. If Urrigon disobeyed Quellon, it means the Lord Reaper of Pyke knew of his intentions and didn't move a finger to warn us. A raven would have reached here at least a day before the ships. I will demand compensation for this, but it also means Urrigon didn't keep his 'visions' a secret. Others may know. Others may want to finish what he started."
The Old Bear began to pace back and forth, his mind working quickly.
"I'll have to send another raven to Lord Rickard Stark. We need temporary reinforcements and a clear position from Winterfell on this aggression. But before that…" He stopped and faced Alaric. "We need to decide how to handle the island's population. When they find out you were the motivation behind the invasion that caused so many deaths, they will be furious."
Jeor and Maege began to exchange ideas rapidly, discussing how to suppress the matter. They suggested locking Alaric in the keep for a few months until the smoke cleared, or perhaps sending Alaric away to be fostered far from Bear Island, where rumors wouldn't reach.
Alaric listened in silence for a few minutes, watching their desperation in trying to hide the obvious. He took a step forward, interrupting his aunt's flow of words.
"You are trying to put out a fire by blowing on it," Alaric began, his voice cutting through the night air with cold clarity. "Do not try to hide what hundreds of men saw. Use it."
The monologue that followed was delivered with a methodical, almost clinical calmness.
"Those men I fought alongside and whose lives I saved, they are our best tools. Do not silence them. Encourage them to talk. Have them spread word of how 'Mormont magic' saved their lives and ensured they returned to their families. Jorah and Roluf can confirm the loyalty of these men; they already see me as a savior, not a freak."
He looked at his father, ignoring Jeor's scowl.
"As for the cause of the invasion, deny it. Deny it categorically. Even if it's obvious, even if one of our own men admits the error in a tavern, maintain the official narrative: the ironborn are mad, opportunistic pirates. We must also inflame the patriotic sentiment of the islanders. Make them hate the invaders so much that any word from a captive is seen as a vile lie to sow discord between the people and their House. Make them doubt anything that puts House Mormont under scrutiny."
Alaric turned to Maege.
"Aunt, you have the influence and the charisma. The women of the island listen to you. Go to the villages, tell stories of bravery, and paint the ironborn as monsters who would have been defeated with or without storms. Turn fear into pride."
Then, he faced Jeor again.
"Father, do not let Maester Yves put a single mention of 'magic' in the letter to Lord Stark. Report only the attack and the successful defense. And order the garrison to report directly to you anyone, peasant or soldier, who is spreading narratives contrary to ours."
Finally, he looked at Jorah.
"Jorah, you are friends with many in the guard. Use that proximity. Convince them that our version is the truth. Make them feel that reporting dissidents isn't betraying their neighbors, but loyalty to Bear Island. And one last thing: WE CAN NOT ALLOW MAESTER YVES TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE CITATEL! As a maester, he will probably want to send a letter talking about what he saw, but we cannot allow that, so we will have him monitored by someone all the time, either we or someone of the garrison."
When Alaric finished, the silence that settled was heavy, almost palpable. Jorah looked at him with pure shock, as if seeing a stranger in his cousin's body. Maege's face was red, her expression that of someone deeply insulted by being instructed in "deceptive schemes." Jeor, however, kept his eyes narrowed, observing his son with a mixture of distrust and grim assessment. 'Where did he learn to think like this?' Jeor wondered, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the sea wind reaching them.
Maege opened her mouth, ready to protest that she was no tavern manipulator, but Jeor raised his hand, silencing her before the first word came out.
"And you, Alaric?" Jeor asked, his voice low. "Are you going to hide while we do your dirty work? Will you stay out of the people's sight until the dust settles?"
"No," Alaric replied promptly. "I will heal the wounded with magic, but first, I am going to sleep for the next eight hours."
The looks of confusion were instantaneous. Maege let out a snort of disbelief.
"Sleep? We are in the middle of a crisis and you want to take a nap?"
Alaric remained unfazed.
"There is a limit to what I can do. Certain magics belong to a group that functions with a finite usage limit per day, and unfortunately, my healing spells belong to that group, and I have already hit my limit. But besides waiting for the day to pass, I can also reset the usage by resting for eight hours. I will explain the technical details later if you wish, but for now, that is all you need to know."
He looked at the three of them, his expression remaining reserved and calm despite the exhaustion beginning to weigh on his shoulders.
"Do any of you have questions about the plan?"
Jeor looked at his sister and his son, seeing the fatigue on Alaric's face, but at the same time, a resolute determination in his eyes. He realized that the dynamic of House Mormont had changed forever.
"No," Jeor said, speaking for everyone, though Maege still looked like she wanted to argue. "Go. Rest. We have much to prepare for dawn."
Alaric nodded slightly and turned, walking back toward the safety of the stone walls, leaving behind three leaders who, for the first time, felt they were not the only ones calling the shots on Bear Island.
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