The Hour of the Hammer (9 a.m.)
The morning sun bathed the courtyard of Mormont Keep in a cold clarity typical of Bear Island. Fortnight had passed since the ironborn attack, and the scars on the wooden and earthen palisade were still visible, serving as a constant reminder of the need for strength. In the center of the yard, the rhythmic sound of wood against wood and the scuffing of boots on the packed earth drew gazes that previously would not have lingered there.
Jeor Mormont watched it all with crossed arms, the rigid posture of a lord carrying the weight of his people's survival. Around him, the audience consisted of more than just the regular garrison. Several men of Bear Island, like Roluf, had begun participating in the drills held in the courtyard of Mormont Keep in case they needed to take up arms again, but now they watched the fight with an almost devout attention. They knew that the next time the sea brought smoke and blood, the skill of those two youths in the center of the yard could be the difference between life and death for everyone on the island.
Alaric kept his spear in constant motion. The polearm, his choice from the beginning, felt like a natural extension of his arms. He felt the agility flowing through his limbs, a direct byproduct of the elevation of his attributes by the System. His movements were precise, seeking reach and the advantage of distance. However, Jorah was different. Following Alaric's advice, he had abandoned the longsword for the longer bastard sword.
Even with Alaric's increased reflexes, Jorah dominated him with an ease that bordered on frustrating. Every thrust of the spear was parried with a minimal, powerful movement of the bastard sword. Jorah's strength was superior, and his agility, while slightly lower than Alaric's, was applied with the experience of one born for combat.
Alaric didn't need much effort to understand why. While blocking a downward strike that made his arms vibrate, he mentally activated his GM Eyes. Jorah's translucent panel floated in his peripheral vision, revealing the qualitative leap his brother had taken after the battle against the invaders.
...
Name: Jorah Mormont (15)
HP: 29 / 29
Sex: Masculine
Race: Human of the First Men
Class: Fighter (Style: Great Weapon Fighting)
Archetype: Battlemaster (Maneuvers: Parry, Riposte, and Lunging Attack)
Level: 4
Exp: 3,550 / 6,500
Ability Score
Strength: 10
Dexterity: 11
Constitution: 10
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 5
Charisma: 8
Skills
Athletics (Str): Ability to climb, jump, and swim.
Acrobatics (Dex): Ability to stay on one's feet in tricky situations, like running over ice, balancing on a tightrope, or staying upright on a rocking ship's deck.
Feats
None
Talents
Espada Longa: 3 / 4
Espada Curta: 2 / 4
Lança: 2 / 4
Bow: 1 / 4
…
After the battle two weeks ago, Jorah, being closer to level 4, had also leveled up, secured his 2 attribute points, and finally consolidated his class. This raised his sword talent to 3, making him the person with the highest talent in a specific weapon on all of Bear Island. Alaric wasn't surprised to see Jorah's class. From what he had gathered in these six years using the GM Eyes, Fighter was the standard for any warrior who didn't have a very specific fighting style or lifestyle, unlike Maege, a Barbarian, or Mael, a Ranger.
But what increased the distance between them most was the gained archetype: Battlemaster. From what Alaric understood by reading the description, accessible by simply touching the word on the panel, a Battlemaster, unlike a barbarian's raw fury, treated combat like an academic study or an Olympic gymnastics match, performing every move with perfect execution. And the system made this a reality through the Maneuvers system, granting perfect execution skill with up to three Maneuvers, which, in Jorah's case, were: Parry, Riposte, and Lunging Attack. In other words, Jorah now possessed skills that made his pre-class version look like a child swinging a piece of steel.
With Parry, he had the ability to reduce the impact of an imminent attack by using his own weapon to deflect the force; Riposte allowed an instant counter-attack the moment an opponent failed to hit him; and Lunging Attack suddenly increased his reach, projecting his body forward in a deadly thrust.
'It's as if they were chosen specifically to defeat me,' Alaric thought as he retreated to avoid a lunge. He knew Jorah couldn't see the System, but his combatant instincts guided him to these maneuvers unconsciously. Parry was the perfect defense against the spear's quick tip; Riposte punished Alaric every time he attempted a thrust and missed by centimeters; and Lunging Attack nullified Alaric's only real advantage: distance. If the spear kept Jorah away, the Battlemaster's sudden strike put the bastard sword blade directly in the Druid's face before he could react.
Alaric spun his spear, breathing calmly, while the surrounding civilians murmured, impressed by the speed of the sparring. He was too reserved to show frustration, but Jorah's sheet was a clear reminder: in this world, natural talent and the right class could turn a teenager into a force of nature, even without a single drop of apparent magic.
The sound of colliding metal echoed in the courtyard. Jorah executed a perfect Parry, deflecting the tip of Alaric's spear with the forte of his bastard sword blade, a movement so fluid it seemed choreographed. However, the combat dance was abruptly interrupted. Mikar burst into the fort's courtyard, running so fast he tripped over his own feet.
"Ships! Ships have been spotted!" he shouted between heavy, desperate gasps of exhaustion.
The courtyard froze. The sound of conversation ceased instantly, replaced by a heavy silence and the creak of hands tightening around sword hilts. The trauma of the recent invasion still pulsed under the skin of every man and woman present. Jeor stepped forward, his face hardened, but before the order to garrison could be given, Mikar managed to catch enough breath to finish the sentence.
"Ships... of House Glover! It's the Glovers!"
The tension surrounding the place dissipated like smoke in the wind. Sighs of relief swept through those present. It wasn't another raider incursion, but Northern steel arriving to ensure peace.
As Jeor began barking orders for servants to prepare necessities and for the garrison to organize for the reception, Alaric remained still for a second, wiping sweat from his forehead.
'The hour has come,' he thought, feeling the weight of destiny approaching.
This time, the crowd gathered at the entrance of the main village was different. It wasn't just the robust men who had fought on the palisades; women and youths also squeezed in to see the horizon. No one carried weapons or the haunted look of those expecting death. The general expression was one of pure anxiety. They had been informed: those disembarking were not just allies, but the liege of their liege. Lord Rickard Stark, the Warden of the North, was coming personally to their island.
The members of House Mormont positioned themselves ten meters from the main gate, forming a dignified reception line.
Jeor stood in the center, his face a mask of duty. Internally, he dealt with conflicting feelings. There was genuine satisfaction in seeing that Lord Stark had given such importance to the ironborn attack that he came in person, demonstrating that Bear Island was not forgotten. On the other hand, the lord's practical mind calculated the costs. Accommodating the Lord of Winterfell and his retinue would require resources the island could ill afford to waste at that moment; it would be necessary to spend much more than usual to maintain decorum and hospitality.
Beside him, Maege did not share her brother's financial concerns. A wide, unusual smile lit up her face. She was ecstatic. Maege had met Rickard years ago during the festivities in Winterfell to celebrate the birth of the Stark heir, Brandon. At the time, she had been enchanted by the Lord's presence and handsomeness, but Rickard was a man devoted to his wife, and nothing beyond courtesies had been exchanged. Now, however, Rickard was a widower. And Maege, with her indomitable energy, seemed to harbor thoughts she confided to no one.
Jorah, for his part, was visibly restless. He adjusted the position of his cloak and checked his posture every minute. For the young heir, this was the chance to make an impeccable first impression on his future liege, and the fear of failing or appearing inadequate in the eyes of the wolf made his breath short.
Alaric was the only one who seemed indifferent to the grandeur of the moment. He had already overcome the initial shock of knowing that Rickard himself would come instead of an emissary. While others worried about protocol and politics, his mind was far away, wandering through the shadows of the island's forests. He wondered when Garoa, the Child of the Forest, would finally manifest.
"They're coming! They're arriving!" Mael shouted from above.
He was positioned on the firing step of the palisade. After the attack, the defense had been rebuilt with urgency and intelligence; the walkway was now much wider and more solid, allowing defenders to move with ease and have a firm base for combat.
"Open the gate!" Jeor ordered, his voice resonating with authority.
The heavy timbers groaned as they opened. As the portal swung wide, the sight emerged before them: the grey banners with the howling wolf of House Stark and the iron fists of House Glover waved against the sky. Hundreds of men marched in unison, the sound of their boots and the clinking of their armor creating a symphony of power Bear Island hadn't seen in a long time. Rickard Stark had arrived.
A small portion of the Northern army crossed the open gate of the palisade, marching with a discipline that silenced the courtyard. The rest of the contingent, the great mass of spears and shields from houses Stark and Glover, remained outside, establishing a protective siege around the village. Those who entered split into two symmetrical groups, moving right and left to create a corridor of honor. Through this space, Lord Rickard Stark advanced, accompanied by a small commission of elite guards, toward the Mormont family.
When Rickard stopped before them, House Mormont bowed in unison. Jeor, with a resonant voice, broke the silence:
"Bear Island is yours, Lord Stark."
Rickard returned the gesture with a solemn nod, greeting Jeor with the courtesy expected between great lords. Jeor then stepped aside to introduce his children.
"This is my sister, whom you already know"Maege gave him a crooked smile, not expecting the years to have affected him so much, but if Rickard noticed, he didn't show it and greeted her regardless "This is my heir, Jorah, fifteen years of age," Jeor said, and Jorah stepped forward, greeting his liege with a rigid bow, his slightly trembling voice betraying his nervousness. "And this is my youngest son, Alaric, twelve years of age."
Alaric greeted Lord Stark, but his posture was the opposite of his brother's. He seemed distracted, almost oblivious to protocol. His eyes did not focus on Rickard's face, but rather on the translucent panel floating before the Lord of Winterfell. What Alaric saw left him internally paralyzed: amidst the data, he found something he had never seen in anyone but himself, and a second characteristic he had never seen in anyone at all. He kept the surprise to himself, maintaining a reserved expression.
Rickard, oblivious to the boy's visual analysis, greeted them back. Looking at the youngest, he remarked:
"You are remarkably tall for your age, lad."
Jeor concluded the introductions by pointing to Maester Yves, who watched the scene from a respectful distance, and Rickard greeted him formally as well. Lord Stark then gestured to the man on his left.
"This is Harren Glover," Rickard introduced. "Brother to Lord Glover, who sent a hundred men as reinforcements. Lord Glover himself wished to come, but I convinced him his presence was more necessary at Deepwood Motte, so his brother came in his stead."
Harren greeted the Mormonts with a soldier's firmness, and the gesture was promptly returned. After the formalities, the atmosphere became more pragmatic. Rickard looked fixedly at Jeor.
"Did you receive the letter from King's Landing?"
Rickard referred to a message he himself had intercepted at Deepwood Motte, as he had planned on his route from Winterfell. The letter informed them that the Crown was already aware of the ironborn's transgressions, as they had attacked houses in the south with the same audacity. The Iron Throne had already summoned Quellon Greyjoy two days before the attack on Bear Island. House Blacktyde's attack against the Mormonts, by all indications, had occurred while Lord Greyjoy was still traveling to the capital, taking advantage of his absence.
"I received it as well," Jeor replied, his expression hardening. "But this is not the place to discuss it."
Jeor turned to Maege, his look Brook-no-argument.
"Maege, take Jorah and help organize the allocation of the army outside."
Maege opened her mouth to protest, clearly wishing to participate in the war council, but her brother's stern look and Rickard Stark's imposing presence made her reconsider. She didn't want to cause a scene or embarrass herself before her liege. With a contained sigh, she nodded and left with Jorah.
"Lord Rickard, Harren," Jeor said, gesturing toward the interior of the fortress. "We shall talk in the Godswood."
Rickard arched an eyebrow. It was unusual to deal with matters of state and military logistics in a grove instead of an office or solar, but he did not question his subject's preferences. However, his curiosity increased upon noticing that Alaric was accompanying them.
Rickard found it bizarre that Jeor would send his heir to handle logistics while bringing his "spare" son to such a crucial meeting, but, maintaining his stoic posture, he remained silent.
The four of them—Jeor, Rickard, Harren, and Alaric—entered the godswood, where the air felt denser and more ancient. They stopped before the island's immense weirwood. Rickard looked at the face carved into the white trunk and remarked in a low voice:
"Weirwood Heart Trees are so rare... Winterfell, Mormont Keep, Raventree Hall, Oldtown... there are few places that still guard this strength."
Harren Glover, observing the tree's melancholy face, added:
"There are likely more beyond the Wall, or lost in the Mountains of the Moon, places our eyes will never see."
Rickard agreed with a nod, turning to begin the conversation with Jeor. However, he found Lord Mormont distracted, looking past the scarlet foliage as if awaiting someone's arrival. He noticed Alaric doing the same, his gaze fixed on the forest.
"Will someone else be joining us, Lord Mormont?" Rickard asked, suspicious.
Jeor was about to answer when the sound of light, rhythmic footsteps on dry leaves echoed from behind them. The sound was too small for a man, yet too deliberate for an animal. Everyone spun around abruptly.
The shock was instantaneous. With the exception of Alaric, everyone froze. Even Jeor, who had been warned by his son about meeting beings of legend and the supposed pact they had made, felt his blood run cold. He had believed Alaric, how could he not after seeing him use magic?, but no amount of mental preparation was enough for the moment legend becomes flesh. Seeing that small, ancient creature there, in the center of his grove, was irrefutable proof that the Old Gods were real. And, in a flash of terror he could barely process, Jeor realized a grim implication: if the Children of the Forest existed, then the Drowned God of the ironborn might also be real, and it was hunting his son.
Harren Glover let out a muffled exclamation, a mixture of prayer and curse, while his eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
"What in the hell is that? Is that... is that a Child of the Forest?" Harren took an uncertain step forward.
The creature retreated instantly, its large, golden eyes glowing with wild distrust. Harren stopped in his tracks, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Easy... easy, little one," he murmured, his voice soft, as if trying to calm a skittish animal.
Alaric, maintaining his reserved expression, walked past Harren without hesitation. His steps were firm on the forest floor.
"What are you doing, boy?" Harren hissed, never taking his eyes off the creature. "Get back here, you'll spook it!"
Ignoring the warning, Alaric continued walking until he stopped exactly beside the small figure. He turned slowly to face the three men, receiving looks of pure shock and confusion from Rickard and Harren. Only Jeor remained motionless, though the tension in his shoulders revealed that seeing the scene in person was far more impactful than merely hearing about it.
"Her name is Garoa," Alaric began, his voice sounding calm in the silence of the grove. "She is a Child of the Forest, a messenger of the Old Gods. She is here to help explain the truth behind the Ironborn attack."
"What the fuck..." Harren repeated, his voice failing him.
Rickard Stark, recovering part of his composure, shifted his gaze from the creature to the Lord of Bear Island.
"Jeor, did you know about this? What is this 'truth' he speaks of?"
"I was informed of her existence," Jeor replied, his voice heavy. "But it is better that you hear the truth directly from the source. She can answer your questions better than I."
Rickard turned his attention back to the Child of the Forest. He stood perfectly still, the aura of authority of the Wolf of the North emanating from him as he asked:
"What truth is this, little one?"
Garoa took a step forward and began to narrate events invisible to mortal eyes. She revealed that the invasion of House Blacktyde had not been a simple act of piracy, but a hunt. The real objective was to capture Alaric. The Drowned God, an ancient and hungry entity, had awakened in the depths and was manipulating the Ironborn to serve its purposes.
She explained that the Drowned God wished to sacrifice Alaric to strengthen its connection to the material world, turning the boy into a bridge of blood. The reason Alaric was the target was because he was the catalyst, the reason behind the comet six years ago and the resurgence of magic in Westeros. However, this change in the world had not only awakened the Drowned God; it had also brought back the Old Gods and strengthened the Children. The Gods, not wanting the catalyst to shift from Alaric to the Drowned God himself, warned the Children of the attack, who in turn caused the storm that nearly destroyed the Blacktyde fleet.
"The Drowned God will not stop," Garoa concluded, her eyes fixed on Rickard's. "He will continue to send men after the conduit, not stopping until he has him in his grasp."
Rickard and Harren were in shock, their minds struggling to process the scale of what they had just heard. Gods, sacrifices, and the fate of the world resting on the shoulders of a twelve-year-old boy. Jeor was the only one who showed no surprise, only the melancholy of one who had already carried this burden for a fortnight.
Rickard looked at Jeor, his liege-lord mind already searching for solutions.
"Lord Mormont, you have known this longer than I. What do you have planned?"
"Being near the sea now is the same as inviting disaster to our doorstep," Jeor explained. "Alaric will have to leave Bear Island."
"Alaric is welcome in Winterfell," Rickard offered immediately. "The walls of my house are strong and far from the coast."
"The Wolf's castle is not safe," Garoa interrupted, her voice cutting like ice. "Not while the man who dresses in grey and adorns himself with metal is there. You should not trust him, Lord Stark."
Rickard frowned, confusion clouding his eyes.
"Maester Walys? Why do you say that?"
"He and his kind are not to be trusted," she replied with distaste. "They are schematic; they share confidential information of the houses amongst themselves to form plans that benefit only their own order. They have their own agenda, and after the comet, it has once again included magic."
Garoa took a step closer to Rickard.
"They want the return of magic to remain a secret until they can understand and control it for themselves. That is why he advised you to keep the people away from the Heart Tree of Winterfell. It was not to prevent panic, as he told you. It was so that no one else could hear the whispers that cry for the return of what has long been forgotten."
Rickard remained in absolute silence, his face pale. He was rethinking every conversation, every piece of advice, and every decision made under the influence of Maester Walys in recent times, feeling the weight of silent betrayal.
As Lord Stark processed the revelation, Alaric broke the silence with a voice devoid of doubt:
"It doesn't matter. I will not go to Winterfell. And I will not leave Bear Island."
Jeor frowned, the authority of a father and lord weighing in his voice.
"Alaric, you have no say in this decision. As long as you remain here, Bear Island will be in the crosshairs of a threat we cannot contain alone. Your presence is the danger."
Alaric did not flinch. He kept his gaze fixed on his father, his calm contrasting with the tension in the grove.
"If you send me away now, you will only be confirming the rumors that I am the reason for the invasion. They will say I am the cursed one who brought war to our shores. We may have swayed many to the contrary, but many still doubt and whisper." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "If I am sent away, I can never be accepted here again. Bear Island will close its doors to me forever. Furthermore, now that House Mormont has given its word, revealing the truth would destroy their trust in us."
Harren Glover intervened, confusion etched across his rugged face.
"But... you are the reason, aren't you? The creature just said so."
"Garoa. Her name is Garoa. And yes, I am," Alaric admitted. "But admitting that openly will bring unnecessary chaos. And taking me off the island won't bring safety. Unless you send a raven to Pyke explaining that I've left, and the Lords of the Iron Islands believe it instead of thinking it's a trick, they will continue to attack the island." He then turned to Rickard. "Besides, if the Drowned God is as unstoppable as they say, taking me to the heart of the realm will only put more people, more innocent lives, between him and me. Do you really want to bring this war to all of the North?"
Alaric's logic hit Jeor hard. He had completely overlooked that sending his son away would be the same as admitting he was the cause—and that House Mormont had been lying. He would be putting his son in safety, but creating another problem. Realizing this, he considered something disconcerting, something he didn't want to think about too deeply:
'Was this his intention from the beginning? Did he create that plan knowing it would leave me with no choice in the future?'
Rickard Stark, however, did not seem convinced. The Lord of Winterfell felt slightly offended by the insinuation that the ironborn could march freely through his domain.
"The ironborn would never get that far," Rickard declared, his voice hardened by Northern pride. "We can easily halt their advance by concentrating our forces here and at Sea Dragon Point. And the Crown would not sit idly by. While we hold their advance on the coast, King's Landing would call the banners and crush the Iron Islands."
"Exactly!" Alaric exclaimed, seizing the opening. "The Crown won't ignore this. The ironborn, even with the help of their god, are not strong enough to fight all the Seven Kingdoms united. Their threat is not as bad as you think. For the transgressions committed, King's Landing will send an ultimatum, which they will ignore in their faith in the Drowned God, starting a war, or the letter will be a direct call to arms. One way or another, it is the beginning of the end for them. We only need to wait for the next letter from the Crown, which, considering how much time has passed since the last one, should already be on its way. Sending me away to solve a temporary problem will only create another in its place: one of trust for House Mormont."
Rickard observed the boy for a long moment, surprised by his strategic clarity.
"You've thought a lot about this, lad. But you forgot one detail: it is perfectly possible to send you away without fueling rumors. One only needs to say..." He looked at Harren. "Say that you left for Deepwood Motte in search of more reinforcements from House Glover."
Harren nodded, approving the plan with a sharp jerk of his head.
"It wouldn't work. Since the houses are already very close and familiar due to trade, a simple letter would suffice and would be much more appropriate than sending a twelve-year-old boy. That will only convince those already convinced, while the cynical will continue to doubt. Besides, it hasn't just been a long time since the letter was sent, but also since the last attack; so, since we could be attacked at any moment until the letter arrives, it's better I stay to help with the defense," Alaric insisted.
Harren let out a short, raspy laugh.
"The situation isn't yet bad enough that we need the help of a green boy in a battle of men, lad."
Alaric was deeply confused by Harren's comment, but then he realized that neither he nor Garoa had mentioned that he could also use magic. Without saying a word, he held out his left hand and began rubbing his fingers together. In an instant, a flash appeared, and a living, pulsing flame began to dance upon his palm. The Produce Flames spell illuminated Alaric's face and reflected in the wide eyes of Rickard and Harren.
"The magic of the Children of the Forest wasn't the only thing responsible for the Blacktyde defeat," Alaric said, his voice firm as the flame burned without scorching him. "Lord Rickard, you can confirm this not only with Lord Mormont, but with all the men who fought on the beach."
Rickard and Harren turned to Jeor, seeking a denial that didn't come. Lord Mormont merely sighed and confirmed with a nod.
"It's true. He took down several invaders on his own using these arts. And more than that... he healed the wounded. Saved men who would have been dead or useless for months."
"Furthermore," Alaric continued pressing, sensing he was winning the argument, "since everyone on the island knows I possess powerful magic, my being absent during an invasion would only bring more scrutiny from the cynics."
Rickard Stark let out a long sigh, his final resistance crumbling before the evident supernatural.
"So be it. You stay," Rickard decided. "I only hope a new attack doesn't occur before King's Landing makes its move."
After the conversation ended, Garoa reminded Alaric of their agreement and left without saying goodbye. With that, an unnerving peace returned to Bear Island, but not for long. Two days later, an exhausted messenger brought the response everyone was waiting for.
The letter from King's Landing was definitive. It reported that while Quellon Greyjoy was in the capital, new attacks had been carried out by the ironborn. More seriously, it was discovered through reports from the few still loyal in the islands that the houses of the Iron Islands planned to hold a Kingsmoot to elect a king and declare independence. The response from the Iron Throne was implacable: the Crown was declaring war against the rebels and summoning all noble houses to gather their forces at Lannisport for a final invasion.
At the foot of the parchment, the red wax seal bearing the symbol of a hand boasted the signature of the most powerful man in the realm after the King: Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King.
[New Common Quest Received!]
[Title: The Iron Born resurgence]
[Description: Help to put a end on the Iron Born rebelion.]
[Reward: 600 to 3,000 EXP.]
A day after the letter arrived, twelve ironborn ships docked at Bear Island—but this time, they weren't composed only of longships.
[New Common Quest Received!]
[Title: Second time the Charm?]
[Description: Repel the second Ironborn invasion under the command of House Drumm and protect the inhabitants of the island.]
[Reward: 300 to 2,000 EXP.]
Note: The reason I write Jorah as so talented is because he, born and raised isolated on a northern island without the same opportunities as southern nobles, managed to win the Tourney at Lannisport. Yes, I know he won the joust, but still, that speaks to his talent.
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