Being closer to them, the nobles did not have much time to react.
Albin, being the closest to the attacking group, was the first caught in the assault. He was surrounded by two men and stabbed before he could even comprehend what was happening.
Rickard, standing beside him, was the next target. However, alerted by Gerold's shout and witnessing the scene out of the corner of his eye, he managed to react in time, throwing his right arm up to block the knife lunging toward his throat.
But like Albin, he was attacked by two. Even as he stopped one blade, the other continued toward his stomach. Yet, before the knife could pierce him, a spear struck the attacker's back, stopping him with a cry of pain.
The spear had been thrown by Alaric, who, through his GM EYES, had discovered they were Drowneds in human form before anyone else and was simply waiting for them to make the first move. After throwing the spear, Alaric wasted no time and began sprinting toward Rickard.
Rickard, though surprised and grateful, did not turn his head to see his benefactor; his life was still on the line. Grabbing the arm that held the knife embedded in his own right arm, the Lord of Winterfell wrenched his limb back, freeing himself as he retreated.
Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to pull him out of danger. A Drowned behind him, who had been running toward Brynden to take him from behind, saw the failed attack on Rickard and switched targets, plunging a knife into Rickard's back.
By this point, everyone present (from the distant nobles to the soldiers awaiting orders) was fully aware of what was happening and rushed toward the Great Houses' group.
Gerold and the two other members of the Kingsguard, Gwayne Gaunt and Harlan Grandison, positioned themselves in front of the King, skillfully defending him against the onslaught of five Drowneds who were trying to break through at all costs.
Despite being outnumbered, they successfully held them off, gaining the necessary seconds for the others nearby, Tywin, Steffon, Andrey, Arryk, and Quellon, to draw their weapons and counterattack.
With the numerical advantage now shifted, the Drowneds, stripped of their immortality in the sunlight, were quickly defeated.
Meanwhile, Alaric, who was running toward Rickard, lunged at the Drowned who had stabbed Rickard's arm and was preparing to strike again while the Lord was distracted by the one who had stabbed him in the back.
Tackling the Drowned to the ground, Alaric didn't try to wrestle the knife away. No. He knew just by looking at the man's build that his Strength of 9 wouldn't be enough. Instead, the moment he grabbed the hand wielding the knife, he pulled it toward himself and bit down with all his might.
Despite his head being repeatedly punched by the screaming Drowned, Alaric didn't let go. On the contrary, feeling the hand nearly slip from his grasp, he coiled himself around it and bit even harder.
Even though he had placed himself in a position of extreme peril, offering his back for a potential attack, he felt no fear.
As he ran, moments before throwing himself at the creature he was now mauling, he had seen the crowd, which had initially just been watching the King's interaction with his vassals, begin to charge toward them.
It was only a matter of time.
That time arrived quickly as Alaric noticed a darkness fall over him. This darkness was the collective shadow of the crowd surrounding them, who began hacking away at the Drowned beneath him.
[System Notification]
Level 7 Enemy Eliminated.
Participation Reward: +180 Exp.
Exp: 12,646 / 14,000
[System Notification]
Level 6 Enemy Eliminated.
Participation Reward: +176 Exp.
Exp: 12,822 / 14,000
[Quest Completed: Prevent the Assassination]
Reward: +300 XP
Exp: 13,122 / 14,000
'I didn't even realize I'd received a quest.'
Seeing his work was done, Alaric stopped biting the hand and was about to get up on his own, but a hand grabbed his arm and hoisted him up.
Looking at his rescuer, he found his father, who was staring at him with a mix of fury and worry. Without a word, Jeor began dragging him away from the chaos.
Looking back, Alaric could see Rickard being held up by the arms by two men shouting for a maester.
"Wait! Lord Rickard is hurt!" he tried to say, forgetting to spit out the Drowned's blood still trickling from his mouth, causing his words to slur. Spitting the blood out, he continued, "I can heal him!"
As if he hadn't heard, Jeor continued to drag him away.
Seeing that his father wouldn't stop on his own, Alaric pulled back in the opposite direction.
"You can punish me as much as you want later, but Lord Rickard needs help! Letting your liege lord die when you could very well save him is no different from treason!"
This time, his words had an effect. Jeor stopped and turned back to look for Rickard, finding him being held upright by two Northmen who were carrying him into a tent, met by a man in grey robes.
"The danger has passed," Alaric explained, seeing the doubt in Jeor's eyes. "They are all dead."
"They have a maester with them." Even Jeor didn't seem to believe his own words.
"A maester won't fix him in time for the next battle! Dammit, follow me if you want!"
Alaric walked slowly toward the tent, lightly pulling his father with him, as Jeor still held his arm.
"Fine," Jeor resigned. "But from now on, you never leave my side."
"No problem."
Entering the tent, the maester, already working on the Northern Lord, who was shirtless and face-down on a table revealing a thrice-pierced back, looked at them, then at Alaric's bloodied mouth, and assumed the reason for their presence.
"Not now. You'll have to wait. Lord Rickard needs my attention immediately," he said, pouring a cup of water over Rickard's wounds to clean them, giving him a better view but making Rickard groan in pain.
"We aren't here to be treated. We need you to leave," Alaric said, approaching the table, referring not just to the maester but also to the two Northmen who had brought Rickard in.
"It's urgent and we cannot explain," Jorah added, knowing the words of someone as young as his son wouldn't be enough.
Continuing to stare at Rickard's wounds, the maester spoke to the two men. "Get them out of here."
The two men did not move.
Confused, the maester raised his head and looked at the two who had just ignored him.
"What are you waiting for? Are you going to let them kill your liege?"
The men looked at Jeor and, knowing who he was, were unsure of what to do.
Seeing further inaction, the old maester began to look at everyone in the room as if he were the only sane person left.
"Have you all gone mad? Will you really let..."
"Listen to them," Rickard spoke, weakly but loud enough to be heard and interrupt him. "All three of you. Out."
"My lord..."
"Out!"
"Take him out of here and don't let anyone in," Jeor told the two Northmen.
The maester was removed from the tent shouting cries of treason, prompting Jeor to order the men to gag him.
With the tent now occupied only by the three of them, Alaric wasted no time. Stepping to Rickard's side, he placed his right hand on the man's back and began tracing circles with his index finger, while simultaneously speaking words in the Druidic tongue.
Instantly, green particles appeared in the air and drifted toward Rickard's body, entering the three wounds on his back and the one on his right arm.
The effect was visible to the naked eye. The more green particles entered the wounds, the more they healed. By the time the particles vanished, the gashes were no longer as deep as before, and the hemorrhaging had slowed to a thin trail of blood.
The magic used was Cure Wounds, enhanced by using a Level 2 spell slot, which increased the healing from $1d8 + \text{WIS modifier}$ to $2d8 + \text{WIS modifier}$.
This arrangement was motivated by the fact that his previous setup, three uses of Enhance Ability, was no longer possible, as he lacked the materials to prepare enough of it to fill three Level 2 slots. It proved to be the right choice; with that single use of Cure Wounds, he had restored 12 HP. It was enough to stabilize Rickard's breathing, though not enough in Alaric's view.
After completing the first Cure Wounds, Alaric performed three more, this time using Level 1 slots, healing another 18 HP and leaving the wounds closed.
"Done," Alaric announced, stepping away from the table.
With a groan, Rickard pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the table.
"I still feel a bit lightheaded," he commented, looking at the closed wound on his left arm, which had a reddish tint to the skin.
"You lost a lot of blood. I could try to fix that, but I think it would be a waste of magic when you can just drink a liter or two of water, and someone else important might need the healing later."
"Forget it. This is enough."
Stepping off the table, Rickard began to stretch, testing for pain. He still felt a slight sensation, though "discomfort" was a more appropriate word than pain. Seeing the expression on Rickard's face, Alaric reassured him.
"Any pain or discomfort will likely vanish in two or three days. If the King orders the attack before then and the pain persists, talk to me and I'll resolve it."
"I will," Rickard assured him.
"We should leave soon," Jeor said, his head turned toward the tent exit, listening to the commotion outside. "The maester escaped those two and is in a panic, screaming that Lord Stark is being assassinated by his own men."
"Right. I just need to bandage the wounds and make him believe you two healed me on your own."
After helping Rickard cover his wounds with bandages, the three left the tent. Rickard leaned on the father and son, giving the impression of still being debilitated, though he could walk perfectly well on his own.
It was a performance for the fearful crowd gathered in front of the tent, who had only been kept out by the two Northmen following Jeor's orders. Seeing Rickard alive and on his feet, the crowd began to calm. After a few words from Rickard himself, assuring them that his condition had been exaggerated, the group slowly dispersed. Only the expelled maester remained, becoming a target of ridicule for spreading "lies" about an assassination attempt.
But the maester, certain of what he had seen on Rickard's back, did not back down. When he questioned how the Lord was standing, Rickard explained that Jeor and Alaric had tended to him using a secret treatment of their House that they didn't want foreigners to see.
Before the maester could press further, Rickard dismissed him, suggesting he should go check for other wounded men. Leaving the maester behind, Rickard told the Mormonts to return to the site of the attack.
Upon arriving, they discovered that one of the Ironborn had been captured alive, while the rest died in combat. Among the fallen was Albin Martell, who had been stabbed repeatedly; his state was beyond recovery, and he had bled out on the ground while the battle raged.
Approaching the Prince Consort, Rickard was visibly shaken by the death, but he had to compose himself quickly when he and the other Lords Paramount were summoned by the King's Hand for an urgent meeting.
Seeing Brynden, Jon Arryn, and Steffon Baratheon following the Hand into a large tent, the Wolf bid farewell to the Bears, giving Alaric one final command: heal Lord Galbarth Glover, who had been wounded by fish-men on the voyage to Old Wyk.
Though Alaric found it strange that they were attacked by Deep Ones and not Drowneds on the way to the island, he said nothing and accepted the task. Following Jeor's lead, Alaric walked to Lord Glover's tent with his father's eyes fixed firmly on his back.
Once there, they again asked everyone to leave. Harren, who was present and aware of Alaric's capabilities, also told the others to exit. With the room cleared, Alaric used his last Cure Wounds on Galbarth, granting him +7 HP. It wasn't enough to get him on his feet, but it was enough to extend his life until the next day, when he could be healed again. He made this clear to Harren.
After receiving Harren's thanks for saving his brother's life, Alaric and Jeor left the tent. Seeing Maege and Jorah nearby, Jeor shouted for them and pointed toward their own family tent.
When the four members of House Mormont gathered inside, what followed was not a touching family reunion, but a shouting session. It involved various negative comments about Alaric's inability to follow basic common sense and several questions about what he was thinking.
"As I said, I was never in any danger," Alaric tried to explain once more. To be understood, he tried to sound calm yet firm, doing his best to be heard without shouting louder than his father and escalating the situation. "I could have turned into an eagle at any moment and fled the battle if I saw it was lost and I was going to die."
His words only seemed to irritate Jeor further.
"That is what many think, magic or not!" he shouted, his face turning red and veins popping on his forehead. "Before the fight, everyone thinks they can just desert when faced with death, but as soon as they are in it, they die before they can even turn their heels! It only takes one arrow or spear hitting the right spot to kill you, magic or not!"
Even fueled by emotion, Jeor's words were logical. Alaric, agreeing and knowing his father was right from his past life experiences, didn't try to argue. He was left with only one choice: lie. But since his negative Charisma was working against him, he decided to mix truth with falsehood.
"I know, that's why I placed several different spells on myself before the fight. Spells that increased my strength and agility to the point where I could dodge bolts, twice. Besides, I was always surrounded by skilled warriors like Ser Lyonel Lannett, Ser Andrey Blackmont, Ser Arryk Waters, and even Lord Steffon Baratheon. It was fighting beside him and his guard that I managed to navigate the dromond. You saw me get off it, didn't you?"
Omitting that he hadn't fought beside Steffon from the beginning, and only with Arryk at the very end, his words seemed to take effect. Jeor began to breathe more calmly, the redness fading from his face.
The same could not be said for his aunt.
"Not that it mattered, right?" she said from her chair. Propping her cheek against her hand with her elbow on the table, she seemed entirely uninterested in the argument. That could only mean one thing: she wanted to add fuel to the fire.
"Even if you didn't have them around you, would you have stopped fighting? I mean... what is all this about?" She waved her left hand, shaking her head in feigned confusion. "Why do you keep running after the action? You know, at first, I thought you were genuinely interested in defending Bear Island, but now? No, it's not that. If this were about defending our home, you would have stayed there, protecting it against any possible fish-men attack with your magic. But instead... here you are. You aren't stupid, boy, I know that much, and you aren't someone who lives for the thrill. So..." She waved her hand and shook her head again. "What is all this really about?"
Alaric had not expected such a sharp reading from his aunt, who possessed only 10 Wisdom and 11 Intelligence. To his displeasure, her words seemed to have reignited his father's intensity, as Jeor now watched him with renewed interest.
"So... what is this all about?" Jorah cut in.
Jeor said nothing. He simply observed.
With a sigh, Alaric offered a controlled version of the truth. Hiding the existence of a transparent green panel that gave him total awareness of his own capabilities and those of his enemies, Alaric explained that he could sense the power and information of people and items. This, he claimed, allowed him to know how close he was to growing in power and whether an enemy was too dangerous for him.
Met with confused glances, Alaric explained that with his gain in magic and the passing of the comet, the way people grew stronger had also changed. Training with a sword was no longer the only way.
He used himself, a Druid, as an example, describing how he could become stronger, gaining more spells and increased physical capabilities, simply by tending to animals and protecting nature. It was a method he had followed until the Ironborn attack on Bear Island, which was when he discovered that killing and winning battles offered far more progress than he had made in years.
"On the morning of the attack, I had just finished healing a raven, which granted me the necessary 'experience' to advance," Alaric said, recounting the events of the past month. "With that advancement, I gained several other spells, including Barkskin. Before that, the last advancement had occurred four years ago. Four long years of healing animals and winning sparring matches in the yard just to advance a single time. From what I felt, the next one would have taken even longer. But then the Blacktydes arrived. That small battle, that single morning, granted me more 'experience' than healing animals had in my entire life. That alone was enough to push me to the next stage. Years of hard work were reduced to hours."
He turned to his older brother.
"The same happened to you, Jorah," he revealed, causing his brother to flinch. "Have you noticed how much better you've become with a sword since that day? And your strength? Your speed? Have you noticed how much greater the gap between us has become during our sessions? It is all thanks to the advancement. Since you aren't a Druid like me, or anything magical, your gains were purely physical and martial, leaving me behind."
Jorah was visibly shaken by the revelation and began to recall the difference between who he was before the Blacktyde invasion and who he was after. He had previously thought it was merely the experience of winning a battle that had sharpened him. But considering what his brother had said...
"So that's what it's about? Power?"
The one who spoke, in a tone of disappointment, was Jeor. The weight of that disappointment did not make Alaric flinch or deny it. On the contrary.
"Yes. That is what it's about, Father," Alaric affirmed without a hint of shame. "Power. The same power that saved the lives of dozens of people on Bear Island. And the same power that will ascend House Mormont and place us in the annals of history. Because, as planned, my coming to this war has granted me the experience needed to advance again, giving me spells on a completely different level than before. One in particular will change not only the standing of our House, but that of the entire North. I will give you only one hint: the North will never again need to rely on the South for food during winter. No child will starve again, and no old man will have to go on a hunt never to return, conveniently removing the burden of being supported by his family. You may not see or accept this now, but you will in time."
His words did not only touch Jeor, who adjusted his posture as he listened, but also Maege. A smile spread across her face with every word until she could no longer contain her excitement.
"By the Old Gods! I didn't know you had that in you, boy! I might just end up liking the real you!"
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