The wooden palisade courtyard, the defensive heart of House Mormont, had become a scene of surreal horror. The sound Alaric had invoked moments before still reverberated in everyone's ears, leaving a persistent ringing that seemed to drown out reality. Even so, with the memory of the supernatural feat still lingering, the ironborn advanced toward Alaric, determined to complete their mission.
Behind them, the northern warriors, men Alaric knew by name, fathers and youths who had never seen the true horror of war, held the shield wall. But it was a wall of statues. The sight of the young heir performing the impossible had plunged them into a trance of disbelief. They watched the invaders move away from them to surround Alaric, yet the inertia of shock kept them planted in the damp earth.
Alaric felt the cold air enter his lungs, frigid and tasting of iron. He sensed the hesitation of his men. If that moment passed, the northerners' courage could turn into superstitious fear, and that of the ironborn into a fury of retaliation. He needed to be the trigger.
"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" Alaric's shout was not that of an experienced commander, but of a young man who refused to die that day. His voice tore through the heavy silence. "THEY HAVE THEIR BACKS TO YOU! WAKE UP! FIGHT FOR YOUR FAMILIES! THE OLD GODS ARE ON OUR SIDE, THEY ARE WATCHING!"
The words acted like an electric shock. The trance was broken. As if a veil were removed from their eyes, the northerners roared back. The thumping of feet in the mud became an earthy thunder as they advanced with lowered spears.
The ironborn still looking at Alaric tried to turn upon hearing the advance at their backs, but the confusion was absolute. Ash spears pierced the gaps in leather armor; northern axes fell upon unprotected shoulders. The courtyard was filled with screams of agony and the dry clash of metal against bone. The number of those advancing toward him began to dwindle under the weight of the northern charge, but Alaric knew that danger was still at his door.
About a dozen ironborn, those closest to him and the most fanatical, ignored the assault on their rear. To them, Alaric was the source of all evil, the anomaly that had to be stopped. They advanced cautiously, shields raised, eyes fixed on him.
Alaric felt the pulse of the System in his mind. He needed more time for Thunderclap to recharge, but he couldn't stay solely on the defensive. His mind turned to another Cantrip already prepared: Produce Flames.
With his left hand gripping the shield and his right holding the hilt of his sword, he began the preparations. It was a strange movement, clumsy due to the need to keep his weapons ready. Behind the protection of the shield's reinforced wood, he tried to rub the fingertips of his right hand, those not closed around the sword hilt, against the palm of his left hand. The movement required a dexterity he was still perfecting. The friction wasn't just physical; it was metaphysical. He felt the tingling begin, a hot itch that seemed to want to escape his skin.
That was the first requirement: the gesture, the focus, the manipulation of energy through what the System called the Somatic Component.
As his fingers struggled with the movement, Alaric began to whisper. The words did not come out in the Common Tongue. They were guttural, sibilant sounds, a cadence reminiscent of dry branches snapping in a bonfire and the rustle of leaves in a storm. It was Druidic, the language nature used to speak to itself, a language that the ears of those men, accustomed only to the sound of waves and steel, could never process. To them, it was the sound of the forest itself gaining a voice.
This was the second requirement: the Verbal Component. The resonance that shaped raw power into a specific form.
But Alaric knew that pure magic, without context, was dangerous in the world of Westeros. He needed a mask. He needed it to be interpreted as a miracle, not as dark sorcery that would make even his own men fear him. So he repeated the same action he performed before activating the two previous spells:
He raised his sword to the gray sky of Bear Island. The steel tip pointed to nothingness, and his eyes shone with a calculated intensity.
"BY THE OLD GODS!" he cried, his voice reaching every corner of the courtyard.
In that instant, he activated the spell.
A sphere of vibrant orange flames erupted from nowhere, appearing at the tip of his blade. It was no ordinary flame; it did not consume the steel, it emitted no black smoke. It was a globe of imprisoned sunlight, dancing and crackling with an energy that seemed to have a life of its own.
The effect on the ironborn was immediate. They stopped marching as if they had hit a stone wall. The glow of the fire reflected in their dilated pupils, illuminating a terror that was now absolute.
"By the Drowned God..." whispered one of them, recoiling so far he collided with the comrade behind him.
"The fire does not burn the sword!" another shouted, his voice failing. "The Storm God has sent us a monster!"
"No man should have the sun in the palm of his hand!" a third exclaimed, letting his shield drop, the will to fight evaporating before the supernatural.
In Alaric's mind, the details of Produce Flames were etched with crystal clarity. It was a Cantrip, a level zero spell, but to those men, it was a demonstration of divine power. He felt the duration of the magic as a weight in his mind, ten minutes of control, or less, if he decided to use it as a weapon. The System told him that this small ball of fire could be thrown, dealing 1d8+WIS modifier(+2) of damage. For someone like him, who possessed only 15 HP and wore only a brigandine, this could result in a serious wound if he were unlucky and the "die" rolled the maximum number, but it was not lethal against an older warrior or one higher than level 3.
Nevertheless, Alaric's goal was achieved. Fear bought him time. Whenever a bolder ironborn tried to regain his composure and take a step forward, Alaric simply pointed the flaming tip in his direction. The heat radiating from the sphere was real, searing the cold air and making the invaders smell ozone and ash. They always retreated, with some stumbling into mud puddles.
Alaric counted the seconds in his heart. He felt the energy of Thunderclap slowly regenerating in his veins, like a tide returning to the shore. The one minute required for recharge was almost over.
Alaric, with a glance to the side, noticed an ironborn to his left, a burly warrior in a hardened leather doublet, who was trying to flank him while the others distracted him. The man thought he was being discreet, but Alaric, under the effect of adrenaline and senses sharpened by the System, saw every movement.
'Enough theater,' Alaric thought, feeling the cooldown for Thunderclap end.
With a sharp, fluid motion, he thrust his right arm toward the flanker. The ball of fire detached from the tip of the sword, crossing the ten-pace distance in the blink of an eye, leaving a trail of orange light in the gray air.
The ironman had no time to raise his shield. The sphere hit him full in the chest. Alaric could only hope that the side the system's die landed on was a high number.
A sharp scream cut the air. The impact knocked the warrior onto his back. The flames instantly spread over his leather armor and the wool clothing underneath. The invader began to roll in the mud, beating desperately at his chest, his hands trying to smother the fire that seemed to refuse to go out.
The other ironborn stopped, horrified. Some took several steps back, shielding their eyes, expecting their companion to explode or be consumed to ash in seconds. The dread was palpable; they expected absolute destruction, something that would tear the man's soul away.
However, the result was not what they, or Alaric himself, expected.
The man who was hit, after a few seconds of panic and rolling in the damp mud, managed to put out the flames. He sat up, panting, his face covered in sweat. His leather doublet was scorched and ruined in the center, and his hands, which he had used to extinguish the fire, were raw, red, and covered in blisters that were already beginning to form. He let out a groan of excruciating pain, letting his axe fall into the mud. He was incapacitated for fighting, his hands useless for holding a weapon, but he was very much alive.
Alaric felt a bitter taste in his mouth.
1d8+WIS modifier(+2). On the System's paper, it seemed like a solid number. In the reality of war, it was little. Level zero magic, at least at his current level, was just a trick. It had wounded the man, yes, but it would not defeat an army.
The silence that followed was different from what had followed his use of Thunderclap. The absolute terror began to wear away, revealing the pragmatic cruelty of the ironborn. They looked at their wounded companion and then at Alaric. They saw the injury, saw the blisters, but they saw that the man was still breathing.
The dangerous aura Alaric had built began to crack.
"He is not powerful like the Storm God..." growled one of the invader leaders, a man with a braided beard and rotten teeth. He pointed his axe at Alaric, and this time, his hand did not shake as much. "His fire hurts, but it does not kill! He is just a boy with a light trick!"
Alaric saw courage returning to their eyes. Hesitation was being replaced by a renewed fury. They realized that although Alaric possessed strange power, he was not invincible.
'It doesn't matter,' Alaric thought, adjusting his grip on the shield and looking at the eleven ironborn approaching. 'Too late to finally find your courage.'
Alaric took the first step. Then the second. He crossed the narrow opening in the palisade, leaving behind the relative safety of the wooden defenses. In the center of the muddy clearing, he stopped. Deliberately and almost theatrically, he opened his arms, exposing his unprotected chest, his guard completely down, an open invitation to death.
"What is it?" His voice did not tremble. It echoed, firm and provocative, over the sound of the waves crashing against the distant rocks. "What are you waiting for? Why don't you attack me at once?"
He fixed his gaze on the cruel, yellowed eyes of the invaders. A lopsided smile played on his lips, the kind of smile no boy his age should have in front of veteran warriors.
"Are you afraid?" Alaric let out a dry laugh. "Are you afraid of a boy? Where is the fury you are so proud of? Or do you intend to run and hide in the abyssal depths, just like this cowardly god you worship?"
The blasphemy hit the Ironborn like a physical slap. The one who seemed to have become the new leader of the group, a man with a braided beard, rotten teeth, and bloodshot eyes, the same one who, moments before, had spat the word "boy" as if it were an insult to existence itself, felt his face heat with fury. The veins in his neck popped.
"You little worm..." growled the leader, tightening his grip on his sword hilt. "You will beg for the Drowned God to take you before we are finished."
Under the silent command of their hatred, the eleven men began to march. It was not a disorganized run, but a predatory advance. The sound of their heavy boots crushing the damp earth created a funereal rhythm. Alaric, however, remained motionless. His arms remained open; his expression was of a confidence bordering on insanity. He waited until he could smell the sweat and oxidized metal emanating from them. Only when the leader was a few meters away did Alaric change.
In a blur of movement, he pulled his arms back and assumed a perfect guard stance. The transition was so fluid that the Ironborn hesitated. They stopped their march, instinctively regrouping into a semicircular formation.
The tension in that moment was almost solid, a rope stretched to the breaking point. The air seemed charged with static electricity. The Ironborn exchanged glances, measuring the adversary who now looked much less like prey and much more like a predator.
Suddenly, one of the warriors, unable to contain his impatience, broke formation. He wielded a longsword with both hands, his knuckles white with force. With a guttural roar, he threw all the weight of his body into a brutal downward stroke, aiming for Alaric's right arm in the hope of disabling his ability to handle the weapon.
Alaric did not retreat. He read the movement even before the blade reached its apex. At the instant the steel descended, he moved his own sword in a short, precise arc, parrying the attack to the left. Simultaneously, he took a quick side step to the right. The diverted force of the impact, added to the attacker's own momentum, caused the Ironborn to pass right by him, stumbling clumsily toward the opening in the palisade.
With this simple move, Alaric allowed himself to be surrounded. He spun on his heels, now with the remaining ten men in front of him and the eleventh trying to recover behind him. He was in the center of the circle, exactly where he wanted to be.
"And so?" Alaric asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. "What are you waiting for now? Why don't you all attack at once? Look at me, I'm just a surrounded boy. There's nowhere to run, no way to hide. What is your problem?"
The leader, whose face was now a dangerous shade of purple, roared to his men:
"Enough games! Advance! One step at a time, hold the line! Together! We walk together and we attack together!" He pointed the tip of his blade at Alaric's chest. "But listen well: do not hit the head! He must be captured alive and brought to Blacktyde and the Drowned God!"
He took a deep breath, raising his voice to a religious war cry that sent shivers down the spines of those present:
"The Drowned God will reward us! Eternal life awaits us in his underwater halls! What is dead may never die!"
"What is dead may never die!" responded the other ten in a fanatical chorus, raising their weapons and banging on their shields, their renewed fervor dissipating any trace of doubt.
As the Ironborn prepared for the final strike, Alaric's mind entered a state of hyperactivity. The leader's words were not just a threat; they were a piece of a puzzle he had been trying to assemble.
'Captured alive... brought to Blacktyde...'
The thought raced through his neurons like fire through dry straw. He noticed a crucial detail in the way the ironborn referred to him. They hadn't said "a sorcerer," but "THE sorcerer." The definite article changed everything. They were not only unsurprised by the existence of a sorcerer in an isolated place like Bear Island, but they had also come looking for him. Someone somewhere already possessed prior knowledge of what he was capable of doing and wanted to take measures. This attack was not a random raid on a coastal village; it was a planned extraction operation.
'How do they know?' he wondered, his eyes following every subtle movement of the soldiers' feet. He had always been cautious. His magic practices occurred in the isolation of the forests, far from prying eyes, under the protection of shadows and silence. For someone to know his nature, that person could not be ordinary. In the technological and cultural context of Westeros, the only way to collect intelligence from a distance on such a discreet target was through magic itself.
His mind searched through the magics of the world of Ice and Fire that he knew could achieve this feat, and two options came to mind: fire divination by the followers of R'hllor, and the magic of possessing animals by Wargs/skinchangers.
And as his mind passed over the existence of Skinchangers, a memory came as a flash: the "Bear." That persistent animal that had pursued him for years before disappearing without a trace. He remembered the intelligence in the beast's eyes, the way it set ambushes that no ordinary animal would be capable of conceiving, and how it seemed to know exactly when to retreat.
'There was someone behind those eyes,' Alaric concluded with a cold clarity. 'Someone, a Skinchanger, must have been watching me through the skin of that bear. A Skinchanger powerful enough to possess an animal thousands of miles away from Bear Island. And from the original work, I know only one Skinchanger powerful enough for that… Could it really be him? I have been thinking about this for a long time, but'
He had no more time for philosophy. Realizing the circle closing around him, constricting him, he turned his mind back to the fight at hand.
The struggle that followed was a blur of disordered chaos. The Ironborn attacked in unison, without any organization. Alaric responded with desperate defenses, clashing his shield and sword against any attack coming his way, having to spin constantly to defend himself; a less experienced warrior would have stumbled from dizziness.
He was not seeking to kill any of them; his only goal was to hold out until the right moment.
However, it was eleven against one. In less than five seconds, three blades found his flesh. An axe blow hit his ribs, and a dagger tore into his forearm. No attack aimed at his vital points.
Any other man would have fallen right there, bathed in blood.
But Alaric possessed Barkskin.
Upon contact with the steel, his skin did not break like human flesh. Instead, there was a dry thud, like metal hitting ancient oak. Magic flowed through his veins, hardening his dermis, transforming it into an organic and almost impenetrable armor. The cuts were superficial, mere scratches on a resistant shell that absorbed the impact and protected his vital organs. The only attacks that posed a danger were those from the axe, which were heavy and risked cutting through his skin as if chopping firewood, forcing him to prioritize defending against them. Fortunately, only one ironman held an axe, and he lacked the freedom to deliver a truly powerful, charged blow, hampered by being squeezed among the other ironborn.
Still, Alaric knew the only reason he was alive was the fact that they wanted him alive. Otherwise, one axe blow to the head and he would be dead. Of course, if he had not known of their non lethal intentions, he would not have used such unprepared tactics and would have already used Thunderclap, giving no chance for any axe to bury itself in him.
The leader of the Ironborn, realizing that their blows were not having the desired effect, shouted again amidst the clattering of swords:
"Do not be afraid to hit hard! His skin is tough but not impenetrable! He is already bleeding! He cannot hold out much longer!"
They intensified the attack. The pressure was immense. Alaric felt the weight of every blow, the vibration reverberating through his bones. The ironborn leader was right about him not being able to resist much longer. The number of enemies would eventually exhaust him if he did not change the course of the combat now.
All eleven men were now within his immediate reach, huddling in a desperate attempt to subjugate him through brute force. It was the perfect moment.
Alaric decided it was time.
He raised his right arm above his head in an abrupt gesture. To the Ironborn, it looked as if he were about to deal a final blow to the leader in front of him. But his hand position was unusual: he clenched his fist over the sword hilt but kept his index and middle fingers extended, pointing directly at the sky heavy with gray clouds.
If those men had any knowledge of the arts Alaric practiced, or if they had paid attention to how his actions resembled those when he used Thunderclap moments ago, they would have run. But they were ironmen, driven by blind faith and greed.
Alaric brought his arm down, swinging the sword over the leader's body, but the true attack did not come from the steel.
The activation of the skill was instantaneous and devastating, and the same scene from just over a minute ago repeated itself:
A massive wave of bluish white lightning exploded from his body, expanding in a five foot radius in all directions.
Along with the light came the sound. A deafening roar, as if the sky itself had split in half, echoed for more than thirty meters around the palisade. The air displacement and the electrical discharge were relentless.
The eleven Ironborn were tossed back like toys. And as before, the distance varied from person to person. Some were thrown two meters, while others flew several meters and almost hit the palisade or the other ironmen fighting the northerners at the shield wall.
Alaric remained standing, his breath coming out in clouds of vapor in the biting cold. He felt the weight of the gaze of the northerners who, a few meters away, had once again stopped their charge, mouths agape at another demonstration of raw power they had just witnessed. Fear was a double edged sword; he needed to turn it into fury before hesitation cost the lives of his allies.
"Do not stop!" Alaric's voice cut through the silence like a whip, more authoritative than any boy his age should be able to project. "Keep fighting! They are already finished! If you stop now, the sacrifice of your brothers will have been in vain! Kill them all!"
The shout woke the Mormont men from their trance. With renewed roars, they returned to clashing their shields against the invaders remaining on the outskirts of the combat. Alaric, however, did not wait to see if they would obey. He did not have the luxury of contemplation. His eyes turned to the ground, to the men he had just knocked down.
He advanced. There was no elegance in his steps now, only a predatory and cruel efficiency. The first target was the leader, the man who had incited the others, who was face down and trying to regain consciousness.
Alaric did not give him time to understand where he was. With a quick movement, he planted his left foot on the man's back, pressing him against the cold mud with all his weight. The Ironborn tried to babble something, but the air was forced out of his lungs. Without hesitating, Alaric raised his sword and brought it down with full force, piercing the left section of the enemy's back. The blade went through leather and muscle, finding the heart with surgical precision. The man gave one last jolt and went still.
In Alaric's peripheral vision, a translucent green panel floated for a brief instant, ignored by his mind focused on survival:
[System Notification]
Level 3 Enemy Eliminated.
Reward: 130 Exp received.
He was already moving before the message even disappeared. The second target was the warrior wielding the axe, a burly man who was managing to prop himself up on one knee, his right flank fully exposed as he desperately tried to find his weapon in the mud.
Alaric ran toward him. With a powerful kick to the man's hip, he made him spin and fall sideways. Before the invader could react, Alaric pounced on him, using the momentum of the fall to drive the tip of the sword into the attacker's right chest. The metal penetrated deep, but Alaric felt the familiar resistance of bone. He tried to pull the weapon back, but the Ironborn's ribs acted like a trap, gripping the blade with a stubborn hold.
"Damn it…" Alaric growled through gritted teeth.
The Ironborn beneath him did not scream; the impact of the fall had stolen his breath and the cut had collapsed his right lung, with blood already beginning to fill his right bronchi. He emitted only a bubbling, wet sound, a desperate gasp for air that would never come. Alaric forced the sword hilt to the sides, hearing the dry snap of cartilage breaking, until he finally managed to free the weapon.
He knew he had lost precious time, at least three seconds that could be fatal on a battlefield. If the sword had not taken his time, he would have positioned himself better, sought a cleaner vital point like the throat or the base of the skull. But here, under the pressure of a dozen recovering enemies, subtlety was a burden.
Irritated by his own delay, Alaric did not bother to finish the man with elegance. He delivered two quick, brutal stabs to the invader's stomach, not aiming specifically, just wanting to ensure the internal bleeding was vast enough that he would never rise again, leaving the man dying slowly in the mud and moving on to the next.
The third Ironman was already on his feet, but his condition was lamentable. He staggered, eyes vacant and hands empty. His weapon had been thrown far by the Thunderclap explosion. When Alaric approached, the man finally focused his vision, terror stamping his face as he saw the blood covered sorcerer coming toward him.
Instinctively, he raised his right forearm to protect his face. Alaric delivered a one handed downward strike. Without the support of the left hand for power, the sword lacked the strength to split the radial bone, but the blade buried itself deep into flesh and tendons, tearing an excruciating scream from the man.
The man tried to retreat, but Alaric was relentless. His own strike was with the shield, which the man defended with his left arm since the right was already damaged, but while he defended, Alaric took advantage of the opening and thrust the sword into his belly. It was not an immediate fatal blow, but it was enough to double him over.
What followed was a demonstration of despair. The man retreated, pulling Alaric's own blade out from inside his guts while stumbling. The panic in his eyes was absolute and tears were already starting to form. Alaric pursued him incessantly, delivering quick, short attacks. The Ironborn tried to block with his arms, as he had nothing else left.
Blade after blade, Alaric's steel shredded the man's limbs. Pieces of skin, blood, and severed fingers fell into the black mud. Finally, the man collapsed, shrinking into a fetal position, his arms now reduced to masses of bloody flesh pressed against his chest. He sobbed, a childish and desperate cry, begging for help that would never come from the Iron Islands.
"Please!" the invader bellowed, looking past Alaric. "Help me!"
[System Notification]
Level 3 Enemy Eliminated.
Reward: 130 Exp received.
Alaric ignored the green panel and, without a shred of pity at seeing the sad sight of a grown man crying for help, stood over the ironman, sword tip already raised for the final blow.
However, his fixation on executing the fallen man cost him his peripheral awareness. A rookie mistake that the battlefield never forgives.
CRACK.
A brutal impact hit the back of his head. Even with the protection of the Barkskin, the force of the blow was tremendous. Alaric felt the world tilt violently. A sharp ringing invaded his ears, replacing the sound of battle.
Dizzy, he instinctively dodged to the right, taking staggering, wide steps to get away from the threat. His knees buckled and he almost fell face first into the mud as the world spun in a kaleidoscope of gray and red. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, while the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth.
Upon managing to focus his eyes, he saw his aggressor: an Ironman holding the same battle axe of the man who had just died. The hands of the new axe wielder trembled, fear evident on his face despite having managed to land the blow.
'Shit... I should have taken the axe for myself when I had the chance,' Alaric cursed himself internally.
He looked around, the dizziness still making his vision double. Besides the man with the axe, four other invaders were approaching, regaining their courage upon seeing that the "sorcerer" had been wounded. Of the original eleven, three were being massacred by the northerners who had finally advanced the line, but those five before him were his immediate problem.
Alaric staggered to the side. The pain in his skull was a rhythmic and agonizing pulse. He realized that the axe blow had likely cracked the bone under the magical skin. His human form was compromised; he lacked the balance necessary to parry blows or counterattack with precision. And to make matters worse, his Barkskin had been dispelled, as his concentration to maintain it had been damaged by the attack.
'I need healing... the Goodberries…'
The image of the small magical fruits he was capable of creating, which had the capacity to heal, came to mind, but was quickly discarded. He would need normal berries as a material component for the level 1 spell, and he had none with him. But he also could not wait for his allies to advance the line to him; by then, it would be too late.
'Considering they are afraid and… aimed for my head… I find it very unlikely that… they are still considering only capturing me,' Alaric managed to think through the throbbing in his head.
He looked at the five men. They advanced now with a renewed confidence, seeing the boy stagger like a drunk. They did not just think he was finished, they KNEW. It was obvious the blow had seriously messed with his head and magic, and that he could no longer fight.
Alaric closed his eyes. He ignored the pain, ignored the blood coming from his head and trickling down his neck. He sought his inner connection with the nature that pulsed beneath the frozen soil.
The Ironborn advanced, the man with the axe in front, shouting some insult. But before they could deliver the mercy blow, the reality around Alaric began to distort.
Small spheres of emerald green light appeared out of nowhere, floating at high speed around his wounded body like a swarm of mystical fireflies. The air around him suddenly heated up. His clothes and weapons vanished into thin air and Alaric's body began to change rapidly, gaining much more mass and fur.
The five men stopped abruptly. The terror they felt before was nothing compared to what they saw now. Instead of a wounded boy, what emerged from the mist of green light was a mass of muscle, brown fur, and wild fury.
A Grizzly Bear, colossal and imposing, let out a roar that made the ground shake.
Before the man with the axe could even take a step back, the bear charged. The beast's speed defied its size. With a devastating lateral swipe, the bear hit the attacker's face. The five sharp claws tore through the flesh of the face as if it were paper, throwing the man face down onto the ground. His face had been reduced to a mask of blood and lacerated meat.
The other four retreated, but the bear did not stop. It pounced on the fallen man before he could even understand what had happened and let out a groan. With a brute movement, the bear opened its jaws and buried its teeth into the Ironborn's skull. There was a dry sound of bone snapping under tons of pressure from the jaw.
The attack was so precise that the ironman did not even have the chance to fight or struggle.
The bear raised its head, its muzzle stained scarlet, and fixed its small black eyes on the four remaining men. In Alaric's peripheral vision, the green panel glowed one last time in that sequence:
[System Notification]
Level 3 Enemy Eliminated.
Reward: 130 Exp received.
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