Old Town – The Citadel
The Hour of the Shadow (4 p.m.)
The afternoon light filtered through the Citadel's expansive glass windows, fragmenting into seven vibrant colors that painted the air and the floor of the meeting hall. This multicolored spectrum danced upon the grey robes of the maesters, lending an almost mystical aura to the austere environment, where the scent of ancient parchment and beeswax reigned supreme. The room's layout was strictly hierarchical: every row of seats converged toward the center, where a stone circle surrounded a blackboard. There, a maester was finishing his lecture, moving with the rhythmic calm of one who had taught for years.
At the top of the final row, seventeen seats stood out, elevated a meter high. Those who sat within them needed no words to demonstrate their power; the architecture itself forced any interlocutor to look upward, feeling the weight of authority. These were the Archmaesters. Strangely, the formation was complete that afternoon. Even Marwyn, the Archmaester of Higher Mysteries, had appeared, his Valyrian steel mask gleaming sinisterly under the polychromatic light. He held his small rod of the same rare metal—a distinction he shared with his peers, each sporting a mask, ring, and rod made of the metal corresponding to their discipline.
The maester in the center of the room cleared his throat, adjusting his chain before delivering his closing remarks.
"Therefore, the data suggests that the application of compresses of apple cider vinegar mixed with willow bark extract drastically reduces the pustules of Sweating Fever, preventing the infection from penetrating vital organs. While patient isolation remains vital, this method has reduced mortality in our experimental ward by nearly thirty percent."
As he concluded, a chorus of polite, restrained applause echoed through the hall. The maester responded with a formal nod, awaiting the verdict of his superiors. In the elevated row, the Archmaester of History, wearing his copper mask, leaned slightly forward.
"The council congratulates you on your findings, Maester Leonor. It is a fine advancement for an ill that plagues the lowborn villages, and the council will discuss the matter of further research investment and the distribution of this protocol to maesters throughout Westeros."
The maester thanked him with a bow and began gathering his belongings. The Archmaester of Copper then turned his gaze to the crowd of maesters below, his voice resonating with authority.
"This will be the final presentation of the day. The council must close the doors for a private session. We have urgent matters to discuss regarding recent events in the Iron Islands. You are all dismissed."
Slowly, the room began to empty. The murmur of side conversations faded as the heavy oak doors groaned shut, leaving only the seventeen Archmaesters and their closest assistants, who moved like shadows in the corners of the room.
The ensuing silence was broken by the Archmaester of Copper. He turned his masked face toward an Archmaester wearing a mask of black iron, signaling him as the Archmaester of Ravenry.
"Armen, have you still received no further letters from the maesters of the Iron Islands in your tower?"
Armen let out a heavy sigh.
"No. All contact has been lost. The ravens we send either return or simply vanish."
The Archmaester of History nodded, his tone becoming more pragmatic.
"We may, then, consider them inactive. But as we cannot allow sensitive records to fall into the wrong hands, we must request that Lord Leyton—after sending his men to war—order his soldiers to clear all documents from the maesters' solar in the Iron Islands and bring them to us. The existence of our plans cannot be discovered."
He said this while fixing his gaze on Marwyn. The Archmaester of Higher Mysteries gave a smug smile upon receiving the request.
"That is perfectly possible. Tomorrow, during my next meeting with him, I shall make the request."
The Archmaester of History nodded in agreement and turned back to Armen.
"And what of the Maester of Bear Island? Yves, correct? Has he also sent no word?"
"No," Armen replied, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Which is strange. According to the letters sent by the Grand Maester, who reported information from the letter sent by House Stark, House Mormont managed to repel the attack without significant losses. Maester Yves should be alive, yet his silence is absolute."
At that moment, another Archmaester, wearing an iron mask—signaling him as the Archmaester of Warcraft—intervened with an accusatory tone.
"This would not have happened if we had included the Maester of Bear Island in our plans the moment the Maester of Pyke warned us about the resurgence of the Drowned Faith. We knew of the possibility they would attack Bear Island. We sent the alert and included the other island maesters, but we isolated him."
The Archmaester of Religion, wearing his lead mask, readily agreed.
"Omer is right. Considering how aggressive and fanatical the followers of the Drowned God already were before the comet, and how much worse they have become—and how inherently rebellious the ironborn are—it was obvious they would not wait for Lord Quellon Greyjoy's approval to strike. Leaving Maester Yves in the dark was an error."
Armen, feeling the weight of responsibility being pushed onto his shoulders, reacted with irritation. Being the one responsible for the inclusion of the maesters in the Iron Islands, yet also the one who had opposed including Maester Yves, he straightened his posture and replied:
"Our circle grew too large after we included various other maesters around Westeros in our plans. Extending it further only increases the risk of discovery! Including an isolated maester, far from where any important action occurs, just because of a rare event, would be completely unnecessary and imprudent."
He gestured with his black iron rod, his voice rising.
"And even if I did not officially include Yves in the plan, he should have known better. He should have approached us when something like this occurred. I always made it clear in my Ravenry lessons that maesters can and should—so long as it is public information—report everything of importance occurring in the lands where they serve the Citadel. Besides us being neutral ground, they can always use the justification of archiving history for the books! If he hasn't reported the events of Bear Island, there must be a very specific reason for it."
The Archmaester of History raised his hand, cutting off the discussion before it turned into an open brawl.
"Enough. What is done, is done. Let us leave this behind and focus on future plans. We cannot change Maester Yves's silence now."
He turned to the Archmaester of Religion.
"Tell me, Garrett. Considering the acts of the Drowned God's followers, should we do anything more regarding the rise of fanatics among the followers of the Old Gods and the Faith of the Seven? I understand the Northmen have always been passive in their faith, so them becoming a bit more passionate is not as vital. However, what worries me is the Faith of the Seven. Taking into account the history of their Faith Militant, how should we act to calm their spirits before they decide, on their own, that Westeros has strayed from the Path of the Seven and do something about it?"
Garrett settled into his elevated chair, smoothing his heavy robe over his knees. He took a deep breath, preparing to discourse on the complex webs of faith.
The rest of the afternoon dragged on in a dense debate. The seventeen men discussed topics ranging from the succession of minor houses to the control of grain inflation, always stitching the future of Westeros according to their own interests. Below them, Maester Marwyn observed everything in absolute silence. His eyes, shrewd and less dogmatic than those of his colleagues, moved from one masked face to another. While every word was recorded in his mind, he wondered, with predatory patience, how long it would take before he himself was sitting in the position of Archmaester, holding the secrets that the others so feared.
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The Hour of Twilight (6 p.m.)
Bear Island – No specific location
The sun bid farewell to Bear Island with an incandescent melancholy. The horizon was tinged a deep orange, nearly the color of blood, while the shadows of the trees stretched like black fingers over the island's rugged soil. The air was thick with the scent of saltpeter, packed earth, and the sweat of adrenaline. In the center of this twilight frame, the sound of heavy boots crushing the undergrowth dictated the rhythm of the hunt.
Alaric Mormont led the pursuit. He ran with a fluidity that defied fatigue, his right hand gripping the shaft of his ironwood spear while his left swung free, cutting through the air. Behind him, a column of over fifty House Stark men-at-arms kept pace, their oak shields clattering against their boiled leather armor. At his side, Maege Mormont, with her characteristic fury, and Harren Glover, a man whose battle scars seemed to glow under the orange light, flanked the young heir.
Ahead of them, about fifteen meters away, a small contingency of thirty ironborn ran desperately. They were part of an invasion force that had believed they could enter Bear Island and plunder with impunity. Now, stripped of their arrogance, they sought the embrace of the ships that had brought them—their only hope for survival.
Alaric felt the moment. The heart rates of the fugitives were failing; the weight of their mail hauberks and the dread in their souls made them slow. He took a deep breath, feeling the connection with the system that only he could see—the invisible gears of a power that transcended the maesters and their books of dust.
"Now!" Alaric shouted, his voice cutting through the wind.
The men around him needed no explanation. They had already witnessed what "now" meant. With an agile movement, Alaric reached for his belt and drew a length of dried vine, covered in short, sharp thorns. He gripped it in his left hand, eyes locked on the back of the nearest enemy. His lips began to move in a rapid cadence, uttering words in the Druidic tongue that sounded like the grinding of roots beneath the earth and the rustle of ancient leaves.
As the last syllable vibrated in the air, Alaric lunged his arm forward. Vibrant emerald-green particles sprouted from nowhere, circling his wrist like a swarm of furious fireflies. Some of the Northmen, despite having seen this before, could not help but stare in awe. In the blink of an eye, the small vine stretched out, transforming into a long, flexible, and deadly whip, entirely covered in thorns that glowed with supernatural energy. The whip cracked through the air, snaking forward until it coiled around the torso of the ironborn bringing up the rear.
The impact was immediate. The thorns tore through leather and sank into flesh. With a violent yank, Alaric used the strength of his enhanced level to pull the magical vine. The invader was ripped from the ground, letting out a sharp cry of pain and absolute surprise as he flew toward his captor. Alaric, with the precision of an experienced hunter, simply stepped aside. The ironborn's body whizzed past him, colliding rudely with the stony ground. Alaric did not stop; he continued his run without looking back, leaving the fallen enemy to be surrounded by two Northern soldiers who, with a merciful and efficient strike, silenced the dazed invader.
This was the second time Alaric had used Thorn Whip during the chase. But the objective of the pursuit was not just the slaughter of a group that had fled the main battle—which was likely still raging but would be over by the time they returned—it was the capture of the ships. Lord Rickard Stark had been clear: the North needed that fleet. Marching overland to Lannisport would be a months-long agony, and bypassing Westeros starting from White Harbor would require logistics they had no time to organize. The ironborn ships were the prize of war that would shorten the path and change the fate of the campaign.
The irony of the battle was not lost on Harren or Maege. This time, the ironborn, composed of forces from House Drumm of Old Wyk and led by Lord Drumm himself, had come prepared. They hadn't been decimated by storms or the fury of the sea on the way. They arrived with eight hundred warriors and mobile siege rams protected by wooden roofs, designed to withstand the defenders' arrows.
However, they made less progress than the Blacktydes had in previous raids. House Mormont had transformed the village; strategically positioned watchtowers allowed archers to pick off invaders the moment they crossed the palisade, while Alaric, from the top of the firing step, acted as a living piece of artillery. He had rained down fireballs, turning the protective roofs of the rams into funeral pyres before they even touched the gates.
"Alaric! If they move a little further to the right, they'll hit a wall!" Maege shouted, pointing to a rocky elevation rising ahead. "It's time for that other magic of yours!"
Alaric nodded, feeling the sweat pour down his face. He closed his eyes for a microsecond, connecting his inner self with nature. Green particles emerged once more, but this time they weren't limited to his arm; they enveloped his entire body. As he ran, small trails of light were left behind, creating an ethereal aura that made the Winterfell soldiers hesitate for a moment in pure astonishment.
The spear in his right hand seemed to dissolve into the light, integrating into his being. His muscle mass began to expand violently; bones cracked and rearranged themselves with a visceral sound. Where a young noble had stood moments before, a colossal grizzly bear emerged, with thick fur and eyes that still held Alaric's human intelligence. From two legs to four paws in a heartbeat, he roared—a sound that vibrated in the chests of the ironborn and chilled the blood of the traitors.
Again, the onlookers were stunned by the sight, with some of them inwardly resigned to the fact that they would never truly get used to this.
With the speed and momentum of a bear, Alaric left Maege and Harren behind as if they were standing still. He flanked the group of ironborn from the left, emerging from the trees like a nightmare of claws and teeth. Panic set in. With no other option, the invaders veered frantically to the right, exactly as Maege had planned.
They were driven against a stone hill over four meters high. With no way out and the sea at their backs still far off, they were pinned. The Northmen reached them like a tide of steel. The fight was short and brutal. Alaric, in his bear form, was an unstoppable engine of destruction. He ignored superficial axe cuts, knocking men down with swipes that shattered ribs through armor. In less than eight minutes, the sand was covered with the dead. There were no casualties among the Northmen, though some of Harren's men suffered serious injuries that left them unable to fight from then on.
"Will you be alright, lad?" Harren asked, approaching somewhat apprehensively toward the beast that minutes ago was a twelve-year-old boy, but now panted with the blood of several enemies in its mouth.
Blood dripped from Alaric's dozens of wounds, staining his brown fur.
"He will be," Maege replied, cleaning her own sword on a corpse's tunic. "The wounds vanish or heal when he returns to his man-form. Or so he says."
"Hmm... We can't stop now," Harren said, looking toward the horizon. "We have to secure the vessels. More ironborn might have run and be heading for the boats."
They headed toward the embarkation point, where the Greyjoy ships rocked gently in the tide. After placing the wounded in the cabin beds of the caravels, they established a watch to defend the ships, ready to fight anyone who tried to reach them. Atop one of the nearby hills, a single man was stationed with the duty to alert them if more ironborn approached.
Fifteen minutes later, the alert came.
It was a group of more than fifty ironborn, a number comparable to the Northmen. Like Alaric's group, they carried several wounded men unfit for combat, using their last strength to attempt a desperate escape. Initially, to an ordinary observer, it might have seemed like a balanced fight between equal forces—if one ignored the presence of the blood-soaked bear guarding the beach. But the reality was different: the Northmen had spent the last fifteen minutes resting and catching their breath, while the ironborn were coming from an exhausting run for survival.
The fight was even more crushing than the previous one. The invaders' fatigue was visible in every slow strike and every faltering step. But the deciding factor was Alaric's ferocity. He was obsessed with securing those ships for House Mormont. Since his mission to rebuild House Mormont included a requirement to build a fleet, these ships were a perfect chance to get closer to completing it. He protected them with tooth and nail, diving into the middle of the enemy shield circle with total disregard for his own safety.
The cost of his aggression was high. In the chaos of combat, he took much more damage than in the first skirmish. Throwing axes buried themselves in his flank and, in a moment of brutality, a sword strike slashed across his face, permanently blinding him in one eye while in that form. The bear roared—a sound that mixed pain with wild fury—and continued to tear apart whoever stood before him.
By the end of the fight, the beach that served as the battlefield was a nightmare scene. Ironborn bodies were scattered across the sand, some floating in the shallow waters, staining both sand and sea a deep, viscous red under the twilight. With the threat defeated, the Northmen again isolated the wounded on the boats and resumed their watch, exhausted but victorious.
Harren Glover approached Alaric's moribund form. The bear was sitting, its breathing heavy and noisy, barely able to pull air into lungs destroyed by effort. Blood flowed from his closed eye and from countless cuts across his body. Harren looked at Maege, concern etched on his face.
"Will he really be alright?" Harren asked again, his voice low in the face of the creature's suffering.
"Yes," Maege insisted. "From what he explained, even if he dies as a bear, he will just return to his normal form again. His human body is what matters, and he was fine when he transformed."
Harren frowned, observing the tremor in the animal's muscles.
"Does he feel the pain of the wounds?"
Alaric, hearing the question, let out a low, weak, almost choked roar.
"Yes," Maege said curtly.
"Shit." Harren looked away at the bodies on the sand and let out a heavy sigh.
While the two exchanged words in the tense silence of the beach, a shout came again from the man scouting the hills.
"Movement! People coming!"
Alaric, in a reflex of pure instinct, tried to stand for another round of combat. His front paws faltered and he nearly collapsed, the will to fight colliding with the physical exhaustion of the animal body. However, the man on the hill, looking more closely under the light of emerging torches, shouted again:
"Wait! They're allies! It's our sigil!"
Hearing this, Alaric relaxed his muscles and allowed himself to sit back down, his chest heaving with difficulty.
"The fight at the fort must be over," Maege remarked, sheathing her weapon.
Harren nodded, looking at the captured ships.
"Agreed. And this time, it was us who ended up looting those bastards."
[Mission Accomplished: Second time's the Charm?]
Reward: +1,100Total Reward (Enemies killed): +2,350Exp: 5,885 / 6,500
Because he had many more men on defense than before, Alaric did not gain all the possible experience as a reward, leaving him 615 XP away from leveling up.
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