The order was not unexpected, but it still cut the boy like a freezing sea wind. Jeor wanted him to protect the women, the children, and the grain. The role of a steward, not a warrior.
"Lord Jeor," Alaric began, his voice surprisingly steady despite the internal tremor that did not come from fear. "With all due respect, we don't have that luxury. The Ironborn are far more experienced than we are, so every sword, every axe, every spear, is one more chance in our favor. A handful of guards on the walls won't make the difference if the line here is broken, but that difference on the battlefield could mean the line never breaks at all."
His plea to participate wasn't just motivated by wanting to protect his only safe haven in Westeros. It was about what he saw when his power, the System, was activated.
He saw numbers.
It had taken four long years to accumulate the 900 Experience points needed to go from Level 2 to Level 3. Now, the Exp bar required another 1,800 Exp, totaling 2,700, to reach Level 4. If he continued at the tedious pace of his island life, with the 2 or 3 points earned from occasional yard victories or tending to animals, as he did with the raven, it would take over a decade to rise another level.
Bear Island was a place of few opportunities, and Alaric was fed up.
The System had been clear. Experience was not just a reward for mundane tasks, but the byproduct of overcome challenges and great deeds. In the six years since the System awakened, the only thing that had earned him more than 30 Exp at once was the "bear" that occasionally attacked him. Other than that, life was a measly sum of small numbers.
This invasion, this impending catastrophe, was a crack in the ice, a rare opportunity. And the System had recognized it as such.
A green interface flickered for a brief moment at the edge of Alaric's vision, a sign that reality was bending around him.
[New Common Quest Received!]
[Title: Defense of Bear Island]
[Description: Repel the Ironborn invasion under the command of House Blacktyde and protect the inhabitants of the island.]
[Reward: 400 to 1,200 EXP (Depends on Alaric's contribution to the battle and the casualty rate).]
The minimum of 400 would already reduce his level-up estimate by at least two years. He couldn't miss this.
Alaric didn't think he was being arrogant or shortsighted in believing the prize was within reach. His confidence came from the powers granted by the system, powers he kept secret.
His father didn't know that Alaric had recently acquired the Barkskin spell, magic that would make his skin as hard as oak bark. And Jeor certainly didn't know about the two Cantrips, level-zero spells he could use repeatedly without exhaustion: Thunderclap, a sonic roar capable of harming and pushing everyone around him in a 5-meter radius; and Produce Flame, a flickering flame that could be hurled up to 30 meters.
A man with a Valyrian steel sword and decades of experience couldn't do what Alaric could with his spear and spells. Perhaps, if he had been transported to another fantasy world, he wouldn't consider himself so strong, but in Westeros, a world that could almost pass as a replica of the medieval era of his previous world, he was already nearly invincible.
Jeor, however, knew none of this. He saw a lanky, overdeveloped twelve-year-old boy defying an order.
"Don't you dare disobey me, boy," Jeor growled, the rumble in his throat born not of war, but of authority. The scabbard of Longclaw tapped softly against his thigh. "Your place is where I designate, and the Ironborn, as pathetic as they may be, won't be affected by the presence of one more youth. Putting every heir and member of House Mormont on the battlefield would be folly, and it is a risk I will not take."
He leaned in, his square face hardened by controlled fury.
"My decision is final. And if I have to have the guards drag you back to Mormont Keep, I will. Go. Now."
Jeor and Alaric stared at each other for a long, heavy moment, Lord Mormont's words hanging in the cold air like the smoke from a fire extinguisher. They were an odd pair of stubbornness: the Lord, with the aged, contained anger of one who had seen too much; the boy, with the unyielding calm of one who saw numbers and possibilities where others saw only fatality.
The Lord tested the boy with silence, waiting for the weight of authority and the urgency of war to crush Alaric's stubbornness. But Alaric, though he kept his expression reserved, was fighting an internal battle.
Timing. That was the only question.
If he revealed Barkskin, Thunderclap, or Produce Flame now, right there in the center of the village to prove his worth, the reaction would be immediate and perhaps terrible. It would be dread, not gratitude. They would think of demons, of black arts coming from across the Narrow Sea. In the superstitious North, especially in these strange recent years where supernatural events began to be sighted around Weirwood Trees (events he didn't remember occurring in the original series), such things might be dealt with by axes, not deference. It could mean being chained, or worse.
But if he waited. If he used these same powers to kill the invaders, to save a life or defend a position in a moment of despair... the narrative would be different. The story wouldn't be about an evil warlock, but a hero who used a strange weapon to protect his home.
'They will turn their faces in times of need,' Alaric thought.
Lord Jeor showed no sign of backing down. His face was a map of ice.
Alaric, seeing the indifference in his father's eyes toward his silent challenge, yielded. It wasn't defeat, but a strategic retreat. He couldn't win the argument, and the time for fighting was almost at hand. He turned away without another word. His spear felt cold and familiar in his hands. He gave the order to the same guards as before, loyal men, and led them back toward the path leading to the stone gate of Mormont Keep.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
As soon as the sound of Alaric and his guards' footsteps faded down the dirt road, Maege approached Jeor. She wasn't tall, but the mass of her body and the firmness of her stride made her seem to dominate the space. Her leather armor, worn and stained, smelled of grease and sweat.
"He'll understand, Jeor. Eventually," Maege said. Her voice was deep and slightly husky, like gravel rolled by water.
Jeor didn't look away from where Alaric had gone. "You've no moral ground to speak of that, sister."
"True," she replied, a thread of mockery in her voice. "But after so many years of being your younger sister, you should know. You should know I'd never accept staying behind, that's not who I am, and it never will be."
She pointed toward the thin gate of the village's wooden palisade. "Look. Your scout has returned."
The man running toward them was thin and wheezing, dressed in a bearskin coat and mud up to his knees. He was nearly breathless when he reached the Lord.
"Lord Jeor!" he managed to gasp, the sound raspy. "They've anchored. Three longships, maybe 100 Ironborn in total. They're organizing on the pebble shore, marching inland." He swallowed hard. "They saw me. They shot arrows... they know we're waiting."
The news was grave, but Jeor felt strangely relieved. Fear was a more dangerous enemy than any man from Pyke. Now, at least, he knew how many they would face.
"By the Old Gods!" Jeor roared to the crowd, before turning to his guardsmen. "Mael, take the archers to the two firing steps and fill them until there's no room left. Don't aim for the head, it'll be hard to hit, aim for the backs, the sides, the legs, wherever it's easiest. Don't waste arrows!"
He pointed to the line of men already forming a disorganized row near the main gate. "Jorr, take the men with shields and spears. Form a hard line in front of the gate. When they arrive, thrust your spears at anyone who tries to pass! Do not let the formation break!"
Behind the first row, he ordered a second, looser line composed of a mix of swords, axes, and more spears. Behind that, the third, of spears only.
"And for those who can't fit into any of the lines, spread out through the courtyard. You'll be the reserves, as will anyone who fights off an ironman jumping the wall."
"Same for the archers who don't fit on the firing steps," Jeor continued, pointing to the stairs. "Stay close to the ladder and replace anyone who gets hit."
Lastly, he looked at Maege, who was gripping her mace with confidence.
"Maege, you and Jorah stay with me in the second line."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alaric marched back toward the fortress with his guards. The men, Mikar among them, seemed relieved to have escaped the front line. They hadn't spoken a word since retreating from the village center. Suddenly, Alaric stopped. He raised his hand.
"Wait," he said, his voice low and calm.
The guards stopped, confused.
"What is it, my lord?" Mikar asked. "Lord Jeor ordered us to—"
"I heard something, a scream," Alaric interrupted. His gaze darted between the houses.
"I heard nothing, my lord," Mikar said, tilting his head and looking in the same direction as Alaric.
"I did. Someone must have been left behind," Alaric insisted. It was a lie, but it sounded like conviction. "Go on ahead. Go to the Keep, organize the capable, women included, to seal the doors and windows. I'll check it out and catch up to you."
Mikar hesitated. He knew Jeor's order was clear: get Alaric to safety. But the boy's stubborn calm disarmed him.
"My lord, it isn't safe. If the Ironmen manage to break through..."
"Go," Alaric cut him off with surprising authority. "I'm faster. I'll catch up. My order is for you to reach the Keep. Now."
The guards exchanged glances but obeyed. The authority of a Mormont, however young, was law.
As soon as the guards' backs were turned and they rounded a curve out of sight, Alaric doubled back. His path led to the center of the village, back to the impending chaos.
There was no scream, and no one had been left behind.
The Quest would not be lost.
Alaric ran back toward the village center, the heavy but familiar spear in his hands.
Haste was an ugly thing, and he felt it as a dry heat in his chest, but the need to return was greater than the need to obey. The Exp was here, and he wasn't fool enough to ignore an opportunity like this.
He slowed his pace as he approached his father's scattered men, the scent of sweat and old leather hanging in the cold air. He leaned against the log wall of a turf-covered house. The low roof covered him like a dark hood, and the damp mud muffled the sound of his boots.
From his position, he could analyze Jeor's planned formation in action:
On the two firing steps to the left and right of the gate, two dozen archers prepared with arrows already in hand, with more archers at the foot of the stairs ready to climb.
In front of the gate, ready to receive any ironman who entered, three lines of men stood with weapons drawn.
The first line, Alaric noticed even from afar, had only spears and formed a shield wall. 'The first line of defense,' he realized.
Behind them, a second line, which included his brother and father, was formed only of swords and axes. 'They must provide support for the first, attacking at close range any ironman who gets past the spear reach.'
And the third line returned to being spears only, but without shields. 'With the long reach of the spear, they can easily attack those who passed the wall alongside the men of the second line.'
Meanwhile, the dozens of remaining men spread across the courtyard. 'Ready to take the place of a fallen man or fight any ironman who jumps the palisade.'
Even though he hadn't been initiated into medieval tactics by his father or Maege, Alaric, using the knowledge gained from his old hobby of reading books on medieval warfare, could decipher the strategic intent behind every decision Jeor made.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
At the top of the fragile wooden wall, Mael, watching the horizon where the Ironborn would appear, shouted:
"They're coming! They're coming!"
Lord Jeor, a grey-haired bear among common men in the second line, with Jorah and Maege at his sides, let out a roar that cut through the crowd's initial panic.
"Steady! Mael, when they're in range, fire without stopping!"
Alaric, hidden in the shadows, gripped the shaft of his spear. He knew Jeor had given an imprecise order on purpose. Bear Island archers were decent hunters but inexperienced in war; they were prone to wasting arrows by shooting at distant targets that would only ricochet off helmets. Jeor wanted maximum impact.
Above, Mael watched. The first line of Ironmen, with their salt-stained helmets and shields of wood and beaten iron, approached at a steady pace, until their formation changed unexpectedly.
Mael's shout tore through the air again. "Lord Jeor, they're splitting up! Three distinct groups are advancing, and one stayed behind! All those advancing have shields up, forming a shield carapace. One group toward the gate. The others... the others are heading for the left and right of the gate, a few meters away. And... and the ones who stayed behind, some are wielding bows and have ladders at their feet!"
"Why? Mael, why would they do that? Are they testing our defense?" Jeor asked, the question loaded with perplexity and anger.
Mael opened his mouth to say he didn't know, that the sea had stolen their wits, but then the answer hit him like a hammer. Inside the shield formation, protected by iron and leather plates that nearly touched the ground, there was a weight, a slowness that didn't belong to a band of raiders. There were three long, dark volumes moving under the cover of the shields.
"Rams, my Lord! Three! They have three battering rams hidden by the shield carapace!"
A visible shock ran through Jeor's face. Rams? Who in the Iron Islands, or even the whole North, would invest three siege engines and a hundred men to take the poor, rocky place that was Bear Island? What was the need for such violence, what was the motive for this invasion? Is this a rebellion? Are they trying to seize the island? Jeor's thoughts were ice.
Snapping out of his shock, he bellowed, his voice tearing through the tension. "Maege! Take half the reserve! Defend the point to the right, the wall to the right of the gate! Jorah! Take the rest and go left! Don't let them in. The moment a breach is opened in the palisade, start attacking them!"
Maege, mace in hand, nodded in confirmation and shouted to the reserve men:
"Half of you! Follow me! And you two," she pointed to the reserve archers at the foot of the firing step stairs, "come with me as well!"
Jorah, right behind her, gave the same command.
"The rest with me!"
At the top of the palisade, Mael didn't wait for a new order. The Ironmen were already within range of his weakest shooters. "Fire! Don't wait any longer!"
The response was an incessant rain, not of a martial cadence, but of desperate haste.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The arrows flew, a dense and irregular cloud of wood and feather. The yew bowstrings sang with released tension, and the iron tips, some rusted, others polished, descended upon the invaders' carapace.
The idea that an arrow, even shot from a longbow of colossal strength, could penetrate a robust wooden shield covered in leather or iron was a fable invented by poets. Most Northern arrows were made to penetrate cloth and skin, not armor. They were lethal, yes, but against steel and wood, they became little more than painful inconveniences.
And that was exactly what happened.
Most of Bear Island's arrows stopped at the first obstacle. The sound was dull and constant: thud... thud... thud... Arrows lodged in shields, breaking their shafts or smashing against metal. The Ironmen's tortoise formation worked with brutal efficacy, deflecting or absorbing the volley of projectiles. Some men stumbled, hit in exposed legs, knees, or feet, and screams of pain could be heard, but the shield carapace continued to advance, protecting the terrible secret they carried.
Even worse, the distraction of the Bear Island archers came at the highest price.
Behind the Ironborn infantry line, a few archers whom Mael had barely noticed approached stealthily. They didn't rush, they didn't shout, and the noise of arrows hitting shields was loud enough to drown out the rustle of their own strings.
While Mael's men focused on the infantry, the enemy archers did what their counterparts couldn't: they shot upward in a calculated arc, and arrows rained down upon the top of the palisade.
A strangled cry rang out. One of the Bear Island archers, a boy with a face red from effort, fell backward, an Ironborn arrow buried in his throat, blood gushing over the logs of the palisade. Another staggered, hit in the shoulder.
"Lord Jeor! Enemy archers, they caught us off guard!" Mael shouted.
"Take cover, but don't try to hit them back!" Jeor replied, ignoring the scream of pain from a man hit near him. "Focus on the infantry! The rams! They are the greatest threat, not the arrows!"
Mael repeated the orders with a trembling voice to the other archers, but the damage was already done.
The shooting continued from both sides, and unfortunately for the Northerners, the protection of the iron shields was excellent. The men carrying the rams managed to reach the base of the wall and the gate without losing more than a dozen men.
"They've reached us!" Mael screamed, his voice nearly breaking in panic.
A second later.
CRASH.
The gate shuddered under the impact, the iron pin groaning in protest, and the logs composing it squealed like a dying pig.
CRASH.
A second later, the palisade to the left of the gate, defended by Jorah, shrieked at the ram's impact.
CRASH.
And then, to the right, where Maege and her men prepared for the inevitable, the ram also made its presence known with a jarring sound.
The true battle would begin now.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
For 6 advanced chapter, you can go to my patreon: Patreon.com/Keiondir
You can also support me by leaving a review and power stone.