Jorah Mormont advanced through the opening in the palisade, his feet sinking into the muddy ground of Bear Island. Behind him, a small group of northern warriors kept their shields raised, eyes fixed on the back of their young lord.
"Listen well. The plan is simple, but it demands precision. We'll flank them from the rear and pin these bastards against the soldiers on the other side of the courtyard. If we hit them from behind now, their morale will break before they can organize."
As they turned right, just after passing through the breach, the scene that greeted them was worthy of a nightmare or an epic from ages past. Alaric Mormont, in his imposing and terrifying bear form, was a mass of dark fur and primal fury. He was dragging an ironman away from the gate, powerful jaws locked onto the invader's shoulder. The man, desperate and in agony, struck frantically at Alaric's furry face with a short sword, but the bear seemed to ignore the pain with supernatural resilience.
Suddenly, a sharp sound cut through the air. An arrow, fired from the firing step, flew with cruel precision and lodged deep in Alaric's back. Jorah felt a pang of worry, but the bear didn't even flinch. A second later, another arrow ricocheted off his shoulder blade, yet Alaric continued his macabre work. With a brutal movement, he positioned himself over the ironman, pinning the invader's weapon hand to the muddy ground with a massive paw, and, in a final motion, clamped his jaws over the enemy's head. The sound of snapping bone was muffled by the distant screams of battle.
'Before... Alaric arrived, they were probably shooting at Father on the ground.'
Jorah averted his gaze for a moment, focusing on the immediate threat. He looked up toward the firing step. Instead of the familiar faces of the Northmen who should have been there, he saw three ironmen archers. They were well-positioned, covered by several other soldiers holding heavy shields, protecting them both from Mael's fire, whom Jorah could see shooting from the opposite internal firing step, and from any attack coming from inside the village.
He noticed the access ladders to the firing step, explaining how they had reached that position. His eyes swept the ground and stopped on the body of a fallen ironman a few meters away. The man had an arrow through his neck, and beside him, an ashwood longbow and a nearly full quiver lay scattered in the dirt.
An idea formed, born less of warrior instinct and more of cold tactical analysis.
"Roluf!" Jorah called. "With me. Keep that shield up and cover me at all costs. The rest of you, advance! Form a shield roof over your heads. Protect yourselves from the arrows and push against the ironmen at the gate. Pressure them, don't give them room to escape. Advance constantly!"
"NOW!" Jorah's command echoed.
The group acted as a single organism. Roluf positioned himself beside Jorah, raising his shield to create an arc of protection against any projectiles from above. Jorah ran, staying crouched under the shadow of Roluf's protection, while the other Northmen locked their shields above them, advancing in an improvised tortoise formation toward the main gate.
Reaching the body of the dead invader, Jorah knelt. He set his longsword on the ground, the cold metal resting momentarily in the mud, and picked up the bow. The wood was rough and the string was damp, but it seemed functional. He pulled an arrow from the spilled quiver and notched it.
Jorah sighed internally. He had never been a talented archer. In fact, his archery practice sessions on Bear Island always ended with his father shrugging and suggesting he focus on the sword. But at that moment, his skill level didn't matter; the firing step, packed with ironmen squeezed together, presented targets that even he couldn't completely miss.
He rose partially from behind Roluf's shield and drew the string to his cheek. The effort strained his muscles, and he fired.
The arrow did not fly with the elegance of one of Mael's shots. It left a bit shaky, veering away from the archer Jorah intended to hit. However, the density of bodies on the firing step worked in his favor. The iron tip lodged forcefully into the back of a soldier who was holding a shield to protect the archers from internal attacks.
Jorah watched the effect. The man didn't die instantly, but the shock and pain made him falter. He let out a roar and, for a brief second, lowered his shield to try and reach the wound in his back. That was enough. In that exact instant, an arrow from the inner village, fired by one of the archers who had run from the firing step, took advantage of the gap and hit the ironman directly in the collarbone.
The soldier staggered back. Jorah didn't see exactly where the mercy shot hit, but the impact was enough to make him lose his balance and plummet from the narrow firing step, falling heavily onto his companions fighting below.
"It hit!" Roluf exclaimed, though his voice was muffled by the sound of an arrow slamming hard against his own shield. "They've noticed us, my Lord! They've started shooting at us!"
Jorah, who was already crouching again and reaching for a second arrow, replied:
"Just hold a little longer, Roluf. I don't need to take them all down, just enough of them."
This time, instead of standing and exposing himself fully to the archers' line of sight, Jorah leaned quickly to the left side of the shield's protection. He fired in a hurry, following his instincts, not wanting to overexpose himself.
The arrow flew in an almost straight line toward one of the enemy archers. The ironman, however, was quick; he ducked in time, and the projectile hissed over his head, only to find the back of another unfortunate soul protecting the rear of the group on the firing step.
Jorah didn't stay to admire the result. He was already back in the safety of Roluf's shield, hand groping the ground for the penultimate arrow.
"You got another one, my Lord! And he stumbled and fell from up there," Roluf informed him, peeking over the edge of the shield as another enemy arrow thudded into the wood.
Suddenly, one of the archers screamed. An arrow, coming from the opposite side of the palisade, hit the back of the archer who had just dodged Jorah's shot. The wounded ironman collapsed onto the firing step, writhing in pain.
"One of the archers seems to have fallen!" shouted Roluf. "Someone from inside found the angle!"
Jorah didn't waste time responding. He leaned to the right this time, firing his third arrow. Once again, he retreated before seeing the impact, but Roluf soon narrated the action:
"Another one hit in the back!"
Then, something unexpected happened. An arrow, fired from a very low angle near the gate, soared up and whistled like a hawk, striking the throat of the second-to-last archer on the firing step. The man dropped his weapon, hands flying to his neck as he fell onto the planks, blood gushing over the wood. Only one active archer remained.
Roluf looked down toward the courtyard, trying to understand where that impossible shot had come from.
"Mael hit one of the archers!" Roluf shouted, relief in his voice. "He jumped from his firing step and is shooting from down here!"
"That's good, because this is my last arrow. As soon as I give the signal, start running to the gate. We're joining the shield wall."
He took the last arrow, feeling the weight of the bow one last time. He leaned to the right with a fluid movement, firing without hesitation at the last visible archer. He didn't wait to see if the shot found its mark. Jorah dropped the bow into the mud with a dull thud, his right hand flying to the hilt of his longsword, and shouted:
"NOW!"
The projectile Jorah launched described an imperfect trajectory, wobbling slightly before finding its destination. The iron tip tore through the air and buried itself deep in the thigh of one of the ironmen, piercing the side of his leather and mail breeches.
The man's scream was sharp, piercing the sound of the rain, as he lost his footing and buckled on the firing step, hands clutching the open wound. But Jorah saw none of this, for he was already running, with Roluf right behind him.
The island mud was treacherous, a mixture of black earth, melting snow, and the blood of those who had already fallen, but Jorah moved with agility. Behind him, Roluf, running while clutching his shield and spear, found the footing more difficult.
As they advanced toward the main gate, where the battle reached its peak, Jorah's vision caught a massive movement to his left. There, in a section where the palisade had already given way, Maege Mormont was leading her defense. But what truly held his gaze was not the clash between the two sides, but the silhouette of Alaric.
In his bear form, Alaric, his back bristling with arrows, continued to tear down the ironmen. However, the price of his fury was visible and visceral. Beyond the arrows, his once-imposing snout was bloodied and torn; deep gashes marked his face, evidence of swords that had managed to find flesh amidst the dark fur. Jorah felt a tightening in his chest seeing his brother's state, but duty called him forward.
Despite the wounds, Alaric did not retreat. Still running, Jorah observed the scene with analytical calm. He realized that although the ironmen had managed to knock down parts of the palisade, they hadn't established a solid position inside the village. Many invaders were still caught on the threshold between inside and out. They hesitated, shoving one another, waiting for an opening that would allow them to flood the settlement.
'Maege is doing very well,' Jorah thought, feeling a spark of respect. 'She's holding the line, turning every inch of the breach into a slaughterhouse.'
And the executioner of that carnage was Alaric. Jorah saw Alaric lunge at ironmen trying to organize at the boundary, sinking his jaws into their feet or legs and, with brute force, dragging them away from the safety of their companions. Once isolated outside the wall, the invaders stood no chance. The bear crushed or mangled them before returning for the next victim who dared set foot inside the village.
Jorah looked away, refocusing on the primary objective. As he neared the gate, the situation became clear. The fourteen men he had sent ahead had managed to form a shield wall, a straight line of oak and determination. They were fighting a considerable group of ironmen who, sensing the threat at their rear, had turned to face them, forming their own shield wall.
In the clash, there was no grand display of brute force, no shield-on-shield or shoulder-on-shoulder grinding. The ironmen used their spears to keep the enemies at bay. However, Jorah's eyes, trained to see beneath the surface of combat, noticed something wrong. The original plan was for his men to pin the invaders against the group led by his father, Jeor Mormont, who was defending the opposite side of the gate. But it wasn't happening that way.
There was a gap. A dangerous empty space between the group of ironmen facing his fourteen soldiers and the main group still trading blows with Jeor's men.
'They aren't being squeezed. In fact, these bastards are managing to push my men back instead of being pushed,' he analyzed.
Jorah didn't stop. He didn't let worry cloud his judgment. Still running, he slowed his pace slightly, eyes searching the churned soil. He saw it: a northern spear, its ash shaft still intact, fallen beside a body lying in the mud.
Without breaking his stride, Jorah ducked in a fluid motion. His right hand momentarily released its grip on the longsword, passing it to his left, and grabbed the spear. He propelled himself upward, regaining full speed as his lungs filled with cold air.
"MAKE WAY!" Jorah's cry cut through the din of war.
The Northmen at the shield wall, hearing their lord's voice, glanced back over their shoulders while still using their spears to keep the ironmen at a distance. They thought he would simply join the line to bolster the resistance, but the sight of Jorah charging toward them with a sword in his left hand and a spear in his right caused a moment of confusion.
The men began to pull apart, opening a crack in the wall of oak. To the ironmen on the other side, that opening must have looked like a fatal mistake, a lapse in northern discipline they could exploit. Jorah, however, saw the opening as a perfect corridor for his strike.
At the peak of his run, Jorah transferred all his body's momentum into his right arm. He hurled the spear with the full strength of his shoulders.
The projectile of ash and iron hissed loudly, a sharp sound that seemed to silence the battlefield for a microsecond. The spear passed dangerously close to the Northmen still moving to clear the path; the tip even grazed the shoulder of one of his own men, tearing a tuft of wool from his tunic. But the trajectory was true.
The ironman in the center of the gap had no time to react. He was preparing to charge the opening, but Jorah's projectile was faster. The iron tip found the center of his chest, piercing through mail and leather with a dull impact. The man let out a muffled cry, his feet ripped from the muddy ground. He took two stumbling steps back, the spear still vibrating in his chest, before collapsing to the ground.
The sudden death created a vacuum of hesitation among the invaders. Jorah seized the moment.
"PUSH!" Jorah roared, his voice regaining absolute command as he switched his sword back to his right hand. "DO NOT BE PUSHED BACK! ROLUF, INTO THE OPENING! NOW!"
Roluf, who had reached the line a heartbeat after Jorah, did not hesitate. He dived into the breach Jorah had created with the spear throw, positioning his heavy shield and locking it with the comrades beside him. The veteran began delivering short thrusts with his spear against any ironman within reach.
"PUSH ON MY COMMAND!" Jorah shouted, watching and waiting for the best moment to advance.
Having finished commanding for now, Jorah positioned himself immediately behind Roluf. He became the support that kept that section alive. Whenever an invader tried to flank Roluf's shield or found a gap in the veteran's defense, Jorah's sword flashed, a bolt of steel that warded off the threat with precision.
Eventually, he began to move to help the other Northmen with their battles, doing the same for them as he had done for Roluf and, much earlier, for Alaric. Jorah, having to take on the role that should have been performed by a group, had practically become a one-man army.
As the battle unfolded, something strange began to happen: bodies started falling from above. Jorah saw, out of the corner of his eye, ironmen plummeting from the upper firing step, landing exactly in the space between the two groups of invaders. The first and second to fall seemed already on the brink of death; arrows were lodged in their backs and thighs, their bodies hitting the ground with a limp impact that suggested they had been pushed or had lost their balance amidst excruciating pain. They didn't jump by choice; they were expelled.
However, those who followed were different. They were men almost intact who jumped of their own free will, desperately fleeing something on the firing step. They landed heavily, trying to regain their balance in the middle of the mud and the chaos of the courtyard.
'The firing step has been cleared,' Jorah noted to himself, a brief sense of relief piercing through his emotional reserve. 'Mael and the others did their job up there. But the number of ironmen down here is increasing.'
The sight of the ironmen who had jumped and were now beginning to stand, reclaiming their weapons in the gap, brought a new urgency. If they organized there, they could apply more pressure and break Jorah's formation. He would not let that happen.
"NOW!" Jorah shouted to his men, his voice hoarse from the effort. "PUSH! NOW! SHOW THESE MILK-DRINKERS WHAT A NORTHMAN IS CAPABLE OF!"
The chaos that followed was a lesson in physical brutality. The Northmen, inflamed by Jorah's words, put all their body weight against their shields and began to push. It was a Herculean effort of strength against the enemy's inertia. Men groaned under the pressure; the sound of splitting wood and bending metal became the soundtrack of that moment.
Fortunately, support from the archers had arrived. Arrows began to fall again upon the ironmen. First, they came from the firing step to his left, where Mael originally commanded. Eventually, projectiles also began to fly from the firing step to his right, where the ironmen had previously been. The arrows struck the ironmen Jorah was trying to push, piercing helms and exposed shoulders, helping to break the resistance of the enemy line.
However, Jorah, with his ever-alert mind, noticed something peculiar. The flow of arrows was low. They came at long intervals, too spaced out for a conventional war situation where both sides try to kill each other at all costs. Each shot seemed deliberate, as if the archers were carefully choosing where each metal tip should land.
'The arrows must be running out,' Jorah thought, watching an ironman get hit in the throat by a well-aimed shot from above. 'They are only aiming at strategic targets, at those offering the most resistance to our pressure. They are making every shot count.'
He looked forward, ignoring the sweat that stung his eyes. The ironmen were now truly being pressed against one another. The lack of space prevented them from swinging their swords or axes with any efficacy. They were becoming a disorganized mass of flesh and metal, trapped between Jorah's shield wall and that of his father, Jeor, on the other side.
A slight movement of Jorah's lips almost suggested a smile of satisfaction, but his face remained calm and reserved, like a rock beneath the storm.
'It doesn't matter if the arrows are at an end,' he declared silently to himself, feeling the weight of victory finally settle. 'The momentum is ours. The ground is ours. We have already won this war. We have already won.'
With one last effort, Jorah dug his heels into the mud and pushed against Roluf's back, adding his own weight and authority to the inexorable tide that was about to sweep the invaders from the face of Bear Island. The gate, once an entry point for destruction, had now become the site of northern redemption.
The physical pressure in the gate courtyard became something almost palpable, a brute force that transcended the mere will of men. Little by little, the ironmen were pushed into an increasingly narrow space. What was once a battle formation became a desperate heap of flesh, steel, and stifled screams. Jorah watched from the immediate rear of his shield line as the invaders in the center of the mass began to lose their footing.
Deprived of space to maneuver their weapons, the central ironmen were forced into a grotesque situation: to avoid being crushed by the lateral pressure of their own comrades and the relentless advance of the northern shields, some began to climb the shoulders of those beside them. They climbed, desperately seeking a breath of air above the cloud of steam and sweat emanating from the human carnage, only to become easy targets or fall back into the pit of mud and steel.
Slowly, like a receding tide leaving only debris, the numbers of the ironmen dwindled. Each surge from the Northmen resulted in more invaders falling under heavy boots, being trampled or finished off by daggers finding the gaps in their armor. Simultaneously, the whistling sound of arrows from the firing step became sporadic. The shots, once constant, now occurred at intervals of many seconds until, finally, the silence from above became absolute.
The arrows had run out. Unlike the ironmen, who still remained in a dwindling and desperate mass, the aerial support had vanished completely. Now, the courtyard belonged only to those with their feet in the mud. The fate of the battle would be decided by arm, sweat, and the edge of the blade.
Jorah noticed a dangerous change in the atmosphere among his men. With the perception of imminent victory, the Northmen, previously cautious, began to relax. He saw a young soldier lower his shield too far to try a flashy blow, and another charge beyond the line, thirsty for the blood of a fallen enemy. Overconfidence was a poison that could kill as surely as steel.
"HOLD THE FORMATION!" Jorah roared, his voice cutting through the murmur of the struggle. "Do not take risks! Do not take unnecessary risks for cheap glory! Fight with caution! They may be cornered rats, but cornered rats still bite. Keep your shields high and strike with care!"
His order seemed to anchor the men once more. The shield wall regained its iron rigidity.
It was at that moment that a new sound arose at Jorah's rear, the sound of heavy boots running in unison and war cries. To Jorah's surprise and relief, Maege Mormont emerged from the shadows of the inner palisades, leading a detachment of ten more warriors covered in blood and mud.
But it wasn't just Maege who drew attention. At her left side, walking with a heaviness that made the ground vibrate, was the bear form of Alaric.
Jorah felt a lump in his throat as he observed his brother. Alaric's appearance had deteriorated drastically since he had last seen him minutes ago. His snout now displayed new, deep cuts that exposed the pink, raw tissue beneath the dark fur. The bear's right eye was half-closed, nearly shut by a cruel gash that crossed the eye and ran down the face, sending a constant trail of blood that blinded half his vision. He panted, steam escaping his nostrils in loud huffs, but his posture still emanated a dangerous threat.
"Boy!" Maege shouted, approaching Jorah with mace in hand, a mischievous smile and a wild glint in her eyes. "Nothing more to worry about, I'm here!"
She didn't wait for a formal response. Turning to the men accompanying her and to those already on the line, she let out a roar that seemed to ignite the air.
"REINFORCE THIS WALL! LET'S FUCK THESE MILK-DRINKERS ONCE AND FOR ALL! FOR THE BEAR AND FOR THE ISLAND!"
The Northmen's response was immediate and electric. A collective cry of excitement echoed through the courtyard, a guttural sound that drowned out the moans of the wounded. Maege's men dived into the front line, renewing the vigor of the shield wall. Maege charged with them, her mace rising and falling with terrible efficiency.
Alaric, however, remained behind. The bear stopped beside Jorah, front paws dug into the mud, watching the carnage with a silent intensity that seemed out of place amidst the chaos.
Maege, who had no idea the beast was her shapeshifted nephew, noticed Jorah remained static, staring at the bear. She interpreted her nephew's fixed gaze as fear or hesitation before the creature. During a brief interval between strikes, she approached him, letting out a short, raspy laugh.
"Don't worry about the bear, boy!" she said, wiping blood from her face with her forearm. "He's only not docile for the ironmen. A gift sent by the Old Gods to protect us. A blessing in flesh and bone."
Jorah looked at Maege, keeping his expression reserved, though his eyes betrayed a deep sadness for Alaric. He would not reveal the secret there, not at that moment.
"I know what he is, Aunt," Jorah replied, his voice low and firm. "I was with him before he went to you. He has been fighting since the beginning."
Maege shrugged, giving little importance to the mystical connection Jorah suggested.
"Then stop staring at the beast and get back to the fight! The poor wretch can barely stay on his feet. He probably doesn't even have the strength left to fight. Leave him in peace to lick his wounds."
With those words, Maege slapped Jorah on the shoulder and dived back into the heart of the battle, leaving Jorah and Alaric alone for a brief moment of stillness amidst the whirlwind.
The two stared at each other. Alaric's good eye met Jorah's. There was an intelligence there, a consciousness fighting against the exhaustion of the savage form.
'If these wounds are permanent...' Jorah questioned himself mentally, the weight of worry crushing his relief. 'If Alaric returns to his human form now, what will happen to these cuts? Will he inherit the scars of this animal? Or worse, will he be able to survive this level of physical trauma once the size and resilience of the bear are gone?'
He reached out his hand as if to touch his cousin but hesitated. Alaric let out a low grunt, almost a sigh, and averted his gaze toward the gate.
Jorah was jolted from his reflections by the powerful shouts of his father. From the other side of the mass of ironmen, Jeor Mormont's voice echoed like thunder, commanding silence even from the steel.
"SURRENDER!" Jeor shouted, his imposing figure visible above the shields. "DROP YOUR WEAPONS! If you continue, not a single one of you will be left to tell the tale. Surrender now, and I guarantee you will be treated as prisoners of war. You can be ransomed by Lord Blacktyde! Do not throw your lives away for a battle already lost!"
The invitation to surrender hung in the saturated air. For a moment, the movement of swords slowed. The ironmen, exhausted and terrified, exchanged uncertain glances.
However, from the center of the chaos, a figure emerged in defiance. It was a sickly-looking man with pale skin, cracked lips covered in a crust of dried blood, and his right eye suffered from a constant, nervous twitch that made him look possessed. He was the man who had led the brutal assault against the gate from the start.
Leaning on the shoulders of the men around him to stay upright, he stemmed profuse bleeding in his left ribs with his right hand. He stared at Jeor with a hatred that transcended reason.
"We will not dishonor ourselves by surrendering to you snow-eaters!" the man screamed, his voice sounding shrill and fanatical. "Your tree gods are weak! They have no power over Him Who Dwells Beneath the Waves! What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger!"
He spat blood on the ground and looked at his companions, trying to rekindle the flame of resistance.
"We may perish here, but our will and our deeds will remain alive! They will strengthen those who come after us! Our songs will be sung in the Watery Halls!" He raised a trembling arm and let out one last full-lunged cry: "WE SHALL LIVE!"
The moment he finished his proclamation and the ironmen, moved by desperation, began to let out war cries in response, fate intervened abruptly.
A spear, thrown with brutal precision and force, crossed the airspace of the courtyard. The projectile struck the sickly-looking ironman right in the center of the nape of his neck. The war cry died in his throat, replaced by a wet gagging sound.
The silence that followed was absolute. Every head, northern and invader alike, turned in the direction the spear had come from.
There stood Maege Mormont. She was standing a few meters from Jorah, a fierce and bloodthirsty smile tearing across her war-marked face. She still had her arm extended, having just delivered the throw that had silenced the fanaticism.
"He talked too much," Maege commented to no one in particular, her smile never fading.
With the sudden and inglorious death of their leader, what little remained of the ironmen's fighting spirit evaporated. They looked at the body sprawled in the mud and then at the shield wall surrounding them.
"This will be the end of all of you who resist!" Jeor shouted again, seizing the leadership vacuum. "There will be no songs if no one is left to sing them! Drop your weapons now and you yourselves can speak of your wills and deeds to your families in the Iron Islands. This is your last chance!"
The silence weighed for a few more seconds. Then, the metallic sound of an axe falling into the mud broke the trance. An ironman, young and with his face washed in tears of exhaustion, dropped his weapon.
The first gesture encouraged the second. Another man dropped his short sword. A third threw his shield aside. Like a row of dominoes, the movement spread through the entire mass of invaders. The clinking of steel hitting the ground became the sound of surrender. In less than a minute, not a single ironman remained holding a weapon.
They fell to their knees, hands over their heads, transformed from warriors into prisoners.
Jorah did not sheathe his sword. The tension in his shoulders did not completely disappear, but he felt the victory finally solidify. He looked at Alaric, who still remained in his bear form, watching the prisoners being moved away from their weapons and from each other.
'It's over,' Jorah thought, breathing in the cold morning air that was beginning to break.
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