With every step the god took toward the continental forces, his inhuman form became clearer to everyone there, and they began to whisper about it.
When the Drowneds returned to the fight, completely heedless of the Dornish and Ironborn advancing toward their rear, it also became clear to them that this strange creature with the head of an octopus was the source of the courage found by the Drowneds.
"For the Drowned God!" they screamed.
"What is dead may never die!" others chanted, the motto made real.
Alaric, aware of the danger approaching with slow steps, grabbed Maege's hand and pulled her toward Jeor and Jorah.
"We have to run before that thing reaches us!" he shouted in a panic.
Jeor and Jorah turned to him, their expressions confused by his terror.
"Calm down, boy!" Maege said, pulling her hand free from her nephew's grip. "God or not, he is one and we are thousands."
"God? Explain yourselves, now!" Jeor commanded, shifting his scrutiny between his sister and his son.
The constant sources of his headaches.
"That!" Alaric pointed to the humanoid shape walking toward them. "It is the Drowned God himself. And I can feel him. He is NOT just size. We have nothing that can stop him. And while I can fly away, your only chance is to start running before he arrives."
As he explained the situation, his words attracted not only his family's attention but also that of everyone around them. They turned their heads and stared at him in a mix of confusion, disbelief, and shock, depending on how much they knew of Alaric and his magical capacity—which, for some, gave truth to his words.
Jeor, knowing now his son's ability to "feel" the capabilities of others, looked at the distant Drowned God in conflict.
Unlike Maege, who remained resolute in the chance of victory against the god.
"Unless the Ironborn turn coward and switch sides, we have over twenty thousand swords. We can surround him and hit him with hundreds of arrows at once! He is a walking target."
"It won't work! Only magical attacks will work against him."
That small detail made Maege recoil and soften her stance.
"Can't you throw those fireballs?" Jorah asked.
"One per minute. And I would need to throw more than sixty of them, which would take me more than three days. Without stopping. And he has his own magic as well."
"And our swords? You said they are magic," Jorah insisted, looking at Red Rain in his hands.
"Look at the size of him, Jorah. Even Ice will be nothing more than a toothpick to him."
Looking at the giant octopus-man, who seemed to grow taller with every step, Jorah found no words to refute his brother.
But Jorah didn't care.
"But—" Jorah started, but his father was faster.
"Follow me! We have to report this to Lord Rickard."
With another bad premonition, Alaric followed him and repeated the same information to the Lord of Winterfell.
And just as he suspected, their liege lord decided not to listen.
"I will wait to see him in action for myself before deciding on something as drastic and dishonorable as deserting."
With frustration consuming him in a torrent of fire, making him feel his temperature rise, Alaric began to feel his scalp itch.
"The defense against the Deep Ones, the taking of Pyke, and the fight against the Drowned fleet. I participated in all those fights; I experienced all those dangers. So you NEED to believe me when I say that HE is on a totally different level, and that delaying the retreat could end up condemning you all."
"I understand the weight of my decisions very well, boy! I do not need to be reminded or guided by you." The anger of having his authority challenged was not contained. "Do not let whatever confidence you gained these last few days make you think it turned you into a military genius, Ser Alaric the Dauntless."
Hearing Rickard's reprimand and mockery of his title, Jeor squeezed Alaric's shoulder and gave him a tired look that practically begged him to shut his mouth.
But Alaric didn't care.
"Then look and see for yourself," he said, pointing to the avatar of the Drowned God. A few dozen Dornishmen had broken away from the main group, which was nearly reaching the Drowneds' rear, and were approaching the being. "Watch what will happen to all of you."
Following Alaric's words, the three witnessed the moment when the avatar of the Drowned God, seeing the enemies advancing in defiance, raised his hand toward them. He expelled a yellow gas in their direction, causing most to fall to the ground and begin vomiting. Meanwhile, the avatar continued to walk as if nothing had happened.
Those unaffected stopped anyway, terrified by the condition of their allies. Only one was not physically or mentally affected, and he was the only non-Dornishman: Quellon Greyjoy. He continued to run toward the god he used to worship, the one now responsible for the ruin of his people, screaming with his two-handed sword in his grip.
An immense feat of courage, even more so when facing a being five meters tall. But ineffective in the end.
Before his sword could even make contact with the god's leg, his hands and blade were snatched by the deity using only his left hand.
Then, lifting Quellon by the arms, the Drowned God, still walking, grabbed Quellon's lower half with his right hand and tore him in two, spilling his guts onto the ground.
Dropping both halves of the former Lord of the Iron Islands onto the dirt like trash, the Drowned God continued to walk as if nothing had happened. Totally impassive.
Back with the three northerners who witnessed the scene, all were shocked by the display of power and cruelty from the monster.
Even Alaric, who expected such a demonstration, took a step back with the impression that the Drowned God was looking directly at him while splitting Quellon in half.
But they were not the only ones watching.
Quellon's execution was witnessed both by those on the wall protecting the circle and by those marching toward the Drowneds' rear, who became fearful of being caught, potentially, between the Drowneds and that monster.
"Run. Now!"
This wasn't Alaric insisting that Rickard or Jeor run, but rather Jeor, wishing for at least his youngest son to survive.
Grabbing the young bear by both shoulders and turning him around, Jeor looked deep into his eyes and spoke desperately.
"Turn into a crow, an eagle, anything."
Nothing. Alaric did nothing. He only observed the panic in his father's eyes.
"What are you waiting for? Now!"
But Alaric remained still. In conflict.
Until now, the idea that he could fly to safety and abandon it all, leaving everyone behind, seemed easy. It seemed so in the past.
Having to finally make the choice, he couldn't force himself to actually do it. To abandon Jorah, Jeor, and Maege.
His older brother, who, despite having a complex about feeling behind his younger brother, to whom he should be an example, not a follower, still saw him as a brother he cared for.
His father, who despite making it clear to never call him that in front of others, preferring "Lord Jeor" and always demanding discipline from his sons, still loved him behind his walls.
And his aunt, who never had trouble showing affection and was always present as the only family member with the courage to be open.
His family. As dysfunctional as they were most of the time.
Understanding this now, Alaric tried to think of how to get out of there with all of them alive.
'A whale?' he thought, considering the possibility of transforming into one and carrying the three on his back.
But his father, seeing his son frozen, thought he was paralyzed by fear and snapped him out of his trance with a slap to the face.
"Wake up! Did you hear me?" he asked, watching Alaric's eyes blink rapidly as he was jolted out of his own mind. "Did. You. Hear. Me?"
"Yes! But I won't go without you!"
"Don't be an idiot! When Ser Gerold Hightower, or even His Grace, understands what we are facing and commands a retreat, I will be the first to board the ships, and I will take Jorah and Maege with me."
A lie.
"Then there is no problem with me staying here and helping until then."
"You could die by then!" He leaned in and lowered his voice for the next words, speaking through his teeth: "He wants you! What do you think will happen when he finds out you are here? You have to go!"
Before Alaric could say anything, Rickard, who continued to watch the avatar of the Drowned God, said something that made them stop.
"Who are they? And why are their swords glowing?"
Rickard was referring to a new scene drawing the attention of many:
Wielding swords that crackled with sparks of electricity running through the steel, three men stood in the path of the avatar of the Drowned God, waiting for him in open defiance.
Murmurs broke out as men asked one another who those three were. But no one had an answer, especially since only their backs were visible.
However, drawn by the bastard sword held by the one in the middle, Alaric had a premonition regarding his identity and those of his companions.
Using his GM Eyes, Alaric confirmed his suspicion and made it public.
"They are the Faceless Men."
His words drew confusion from Rickard and astonishment from Jeor.
When the avatar of the Drowned God finally reached his challengers, he attempted to sweep them aside with a swing of his left arm, but the three Faceless Men were far more agile.
As they dodged the limb, the three assassins managed to strike it, creating three gashes along the arm. These cuts, unlike normal wounds, did not bleed.
The same pattern repeated over the following minutes. No matter how many attacks the avatar of the Drowned God unleashed, the assassins managed to evade them all at the last second, whether by rolling or flipping, and almost always found a chance to wound him while doing it.
Always cuts, never thrusts.
Two minutes later, the Drowneds, who had gained confidence seeing their god come to their aid, were losing it again as they watched him being unable to stop three people from opening dozens of gashes on his body.
Many wondered how he could have such difficulty dealing with three when he had just defeated dozens of Dornishmen. Could he not use another spell?
The only one who understood the scene was Alaric. He realized that using another area-of-effect spell on only three people would be a waste, especially when the god would eventually have to fight hundreds, or even thousands, of men to reach him.
It would be a waste, especially considering that despite having his body sliced in various places, he had lost only 31 hit points from his original 615.
'He can end this performance at any moment,' Alaric realized with grim clarity.
Not understanding this, and seeing only the vision of their god being besieged by two mortal Greenlanders, the lead Drowned Priest screamed for his men to follow him and finish the Greenlanders themselves.
But it was already too late.
The Dornish forces, bolstered by thousands of Ironborn thirsty for revenge and led by Steffon Baratheon, had reached them first, striking their rear.
Using his newly acquired numerical superiority to his advantage, Steffon commanded his forces to close in around the Drowneds.
Following the pre-arranged command, the Dornishmen positioned at the ends of the army curved into an arc, connecting with the Northerners on one side and the Reach knights on the other. They locked the Drowneds into a position similar to those inside the circle, though in an oval shape rather than a circular one.
Prevented from going to their god's aid, the Drowned faithful could only stand by and watch as he was continuously cut by the enchanted swords of the skilled Faceless Men.
"By the Seven, what is that?" a voice spoke behind the three Northerners.
Turning, Alaric found himself facing Ser Gerold Hightower.
"Ser Gerold," Alaric greeted him.
Having returned to putting their Valyrian steel swords to use, Rickard and Jeor did not turn initially, but recognizing the voice through Alaric, Rickard stepped back from the front line and faced the commander of the Kingsguard and the continental coalition.
"Ser Gerold," Rickard also greeted. "I thought you were tending to the circle."
Commander or not, Rickard was still a Lord Paramount, placing him far above Gerold in the social hierarchy of Westeros, which allowed him to question him openly.
"That battle is already won, Lord Stark. And as I must manage all forces, I must also know what happened here. When I heard the victory shouts, I thought the battle was over, but here they are; still fighting. Why? And what, in the name of the seven hells, is that creature?" His eyes were fixed on the Drowned God still battling the Faceless Men.
Rickard hesitated slightly before speaking the absurd truth.
"That creature is the one responsible for the return of the Drowneds, who had retreated upon seeing their imminent defeat, as well as the one responsible for this entire war. He is the Drowned God himself."
Disbelief flickered across the commander's face as he continued to watch the god fight the assassins.
"And who are those three? What is that on their swords?"
Rickard resisted the urge to glance at Alaric before answering.
"Apparently... they are Faceless Men. They were responsible for creating those lights over the Drowneds in your circle. And that glow on their swords is lightning," he said, repeating what Alaric had explained to him earlier.
"Lightning? Like from the sky? Faceless Men are supposed to only be capable of changing their appearance, not manipulating nature. How do you know they are Faceless Men?"
Rickard did not answer immediately, thinking of how to explain without mentioning Alaric.
But Alaric, seeing his hesitation, threw caution to the wind.
'I've already exposed myself. There's no point in pretending anymore,' he argued to himself.
"Looking a bit closer, you will realize that one of them is Ser Arryk Waters of The Deep, who traveled with me on Lord Steffon's dromond, and whom I became close with during the voyage to Old Wyk. That was when I discovered his identity."
Skepticism shone in Gerold's eyes as he began to stare at him, just as disbelief shone in Rickard's.
Jeor, who could hear fragments while fighting, stopped his duel, asked someone to take his place, and approached Alaric.
"What are you doing?" the father bear asked.
"All the Northerners here already know, Lord Mormont. It is only a matter of time before it spreads. And these are not times to keep hiding secrets."
"That is not yours alone to decide."
"We don't have time to debate and vote on the right course of action."
"How?" Gerold asked, drawing Alaric's attention back to him. "How did you know?"
Alaric answered before his father or Rickard could stop him.
"A secret of the North. Forget it." He wouldn't. "When I questioned Arryk before the march began, he did not refute me and accepted my proposal that we work together."
"Work together?" There was caution in his words.
Seeing the Commander's hand move to the pommel of his sword, Alaric realized the White Cloak must have made some exaggerated assumption about him.
Also seeing the action, Jeor tightened his grip on Longclaw in his right hand, looking seriously at Gerold.
Rickard did the same.
"I am not a threat, Ser Gerold. On the contrary. My proposal was that when I exposed myself, they would do the same, guaranteeing victory over the Drowneds and our safe exit from this war."
The hand remained on the pommel.
"Expose? What would you have to expose?"
"That is enough!" Jeor tried to stop him, stepping into Alaric's line of sight and looking him deep in the eyes.
But intimidation did not work on Alaric. He was not a twelve-year-old boy who cowered in front of his father.
"You have to trust me. Father. And I am not leaving without you."
Slowly moving around Jeor, giving him more than enough time to do something, Alaric left him behind, staring at the ground, and answered Gerold once more.
"What I can do. My magic." His words shocked the commander, who still hadn't let go of the pommel. "The lights. The first two lights that appeared over the Drowneds outside the circle were my work. The following three over those inside were theirs."
Silence. Gerold said nothing for a time.
Even with his INSIGHT, Alaric could not get an exact reading of what was going through his head. There were too many emotions and ideas being processed at once.
The possibility that the child in front of him could be a sorcerer would, under normal conditions, be considered foolish, but the resistance shown by his father and the Lord Paramount of the North themselves suggested otherwise.
"Why are you answering me?" Gerold spoke, asking the million-dollar question. "Both your father and your Lord told you to do the opposite. Yet you disobey them. I have no authority to force you to answer. So why?"
"Because those three won't be enough." He turned and pointed to the three Faceless Men still facing the Drowned God, dodging every blow even as fatigue made it increasingly difficult. "As impressive as it is, that will not be enough to stop the Drowned God."
Gerold was about to say something, but Alaric cut him off.
"I won't be able to explain, so don't ask. But you have to believe me when I say he is holding back, and it is only a matter of time before he loses his patience and finishes them."
Even Rickard became alarmed at his words. Even Jeor, who until then had his back to Alaric, turned around.
"And what do you propose?" Gerold asked, sensing that Alaric already had a plan.
"Gather some of your men and encircle him, but do not huddle together; spread out. Otherwise, he will cast a spell that hits everyone at once. And when one of the three needs help, bring him to me and I will heal him."
Jeor opened his mouth to point out that, to heal them, Alaric would have to be right there, but he stayed silent. It wouldn't do any good.
"Am I and the others supposed to just... watch and drag away the wounded?" Gerold asked, sounding almost offended.
"No, you will also attack, but unless you are as good as they are," he pointed behind him at the Faceless Men, "it is better not to take risks and only intervene from his blind spots."
"Wait. You said only magical attacks can hurt him. How can they hurt him?" Rickard asked.
His comment made Gerold raise an eyebrow at Alaric, wanting to know more.
"With those two," he said, pointing to Ice and Longclaw. "Unless you intend to join the fight, it would be more useful to put them in the hands of those who will risk themselves against a god."
"I can lend Longclaw, but I am going regardless," his father accepted without a second thought. "I said you wouldn't leave my side."
Gerold and Alaric turned to Rickard, wanting to know if he would also lend his sword.
"I will go, and I will wield Ice myself."
"Perfect. We just need to ask Jorah the same thing and we can go."
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