A Wayward Wizard in Westeros
A/N: (In my impeccable Mushu impression) I LIIIVE! I'd explain to you what's taken me so long to put out anything, but I figured I'd just post an arbitrary pseudo-crossover instead. I will get to posting the next chapter to Destiny's Call eventually, but I needed something on the side to get my coagulated creative juices flowing again. To those of you disappointed, look on the bright side. At least I'm not half as awful as GRRM when it comes to the inter-publishing break. I've read the ASOIAF series and watched the GOT show, and I liked both, so I'll be doing something of a blend with them involving my character from Destiny's Call, though with a twist that I haven't seen done often. It takes place well after the main story, but I'll keep it relatively spoiler free. Enjoy! (Chapter completed and reedited on 10/23/16. Hope you all had a Happy Fallout day!)
Destiny was a fickle thing. Even after all I had done, all I had endured because of its wicked whims… it just would not cut me a break. Me, the man who had sacrificed so much, willingly or otherwise, for his newly adopted world, friends, and family in the struggle against the Great Dissonance that threatened to bathe the entire world in an all-consuming nothingness. Such an apocalypse had been cancelled, but it came at a considerable cost… in property, innocence, and life. I still suffered from the odd restless nights and chronic dreams about some of the things I had seen, the things I had done to keep those I loved safe, that even Luna for all her immense, well honed skill in Oneirokinesis could not fully shield me from.
The burden got a little easier to bear over the first few years, during which my loved ones aided me tremendously. Before then, I had a strict policy on opening up and leaving myself emotionally vulnerable to others, but bit by bit they chipped away at my stubborn resolve, to my benefit. I still retained that policy when it came to strangers, but I wasn't so distant anymore. My state of mind was also helped in that I kept busy, sharing the stressful workload of Sovereignty alongside the Princesses (despite how amply I hated politics with a fiery passion), training in the yard and making the guardsmen, both veterans and recruits, feel wholly inadequate, scrupulously introducing new technologies and policies into circulation that brought the country out of that strange area that bordered a mixture of Medieval, Victorian, and Modern culture and tech levels. I even assisted on routine patrols (much to the awed amazement of the men and women I accompanied) throughout the countryside, taking stock of our fighting force's recovering strength after a series of devastating conflicts safeguarding the world from that unspeakable force of Evil.
Arcania was my home now. God, years had passed since I awoke in that fantastical land, but it still set me to profound contemplation whenever I told myself that. Even when looking out upon the frankly stunning vistas this planet had to offer (the ones that weren't ravaged, that is), I could still hardly accept it as truth. It was a fact, regardless of my feelings on the matter, but it was true, it was my new home, in all sense of the word. To think, I would one day live more years on that earth than the one I was born in, and there were days that I didn't know whether it scared me or reassured me. Whatever the case, I had set down roots here… and they had grown very deep indeed.
But, regarding the circumstances that led up to my present situation; I was returning from one such combat patrol of the interior with some of the newer guardsmen and women of the relatively nascent A.D.F (Arcanian Defense Force), fresh from a culling of a band of nationless pirates that were harassing our southeast coasts near Baltimære. The filthy brigands had exceeded their already illegal boundaries and encroached upon our sovereign waters and territory to set up a permanent smuggling outpost that they mistakenly thought was cleverly hidden. In the dead of night, we stormed their ramshackle compound when we were sure the lion's share of the pirates were ashore. The fighting was fierce, but short, given that we had the element of surprise, vastly unrivalled equipment, and of course, myself on hand. Our airborne squads set alight the scallywags' anchored vessel using an old, but favored Valkyrian tactic of infusing clouds with flammable liquids and literally setting fire to the rain as they drenched their enemies in flame. The vessel had burnt to the waterline before we were finished putting the ambushed pirates on land to the sword.
Having learned some hard lessons in the past, no quarter was offered to the pirate scum (Though having spent time as a privateer once, I knew that mercy was never something a pirate should ever count on receiving). This policy was once frowned upon by my country people… but that was before the Dissonance War. A lot of the pirates put up a determined yet desperate fight, but there was no contest really. In the aftermath there were eight of ours with minor injuries, but elsewise, none of the three dozen soldiers who had accompanied me were worse for wear (Whereas there were seven dozen dead pirates who could not say the same). I had used the blooding as a sort of training exercise to prepare the future defenders of the nation, teach them to conquer those inner doubts that triggered the wobbly knees that green soldiers with good sense always had before entering a serious tussle.
To someone of my nature and past deeds, it would seem to others almost a waste of time that could be better spent elsewhere, but I was not so pretentious. Just because I was their Prince did not make me their inherent superior outside the chain of command. These were my people now, and I did little things like this to remind them of that. Due to many of my controversial actions before and during the War (not that the sheltered people of Arcania would truly understand why I committed the things I did), I wasn't up there with Cel, Loony, or even Candy in terms of public veneration. But with the reorganized and restructured Defense Forces? I was practically their newfangled patron saint. In some circles I was praised as somewhat of a prodigal commander on the battlefield, though considering I did nothing that hadn't been done before in my birth world, I felt unworthy of those accolades. Besides, the real credit belonged to my superb subordinates.
A heavily contributing factor to that shared success lay with the spontaneous tattoos that every Arcanian got when they had that life changing epiphany that all but always happened before the transition into maturity. Of course, when fate essentially dictates what defines what you are and what you will do with a duo of colorful brands superimposed on your skin, there is little point in arguing it (A fact that only added to my love-hate relationship with Mana Marks). I was only partially excluded from this rule. I say I got lucky, in the sense that I only received one of those stamps on the side of my shoulder. The other was left blank, perhaps purposely. It made for a hell of a banner though, which was affectionately named the Star-crossed Horseshoe, even though in actuality it was an Omega symbol and I despised it being recognized as anything else (Which is probably why it stuck). That 'Horseshoe' made the difference though, and was second only to the Princesses themselves as a rallying symbol. I had forged a legend for myself. One wrought in blood, flame, and magic.
But getting back to my current predicament, one minute I was about to cross the chamber threshold after climbing the stairs of the Solar Tower to personally report to the Regent of the Sun, maybe celebrate another victory over the petty forces of crime (Not that Cel needed an excuse to drag me to her boudoir and ravenously divest me of my apparel). The next? I was in a snow covered clearing in some boreal forest biome, a light sprinkling of white flakes drifting down from the mid-morning sky to land on the ground. I blinked, nonplussed, and searched my memory banks for a clue as to what caused my… unexpected relocation.
I never once casted a spell that was unintentional (no matter how I'd like to tell myself otherwise at times), so I ruled out accidental magic automatically. That left any number of supercharged trap spells sown into the stone floor that would send a person on a one-way trip to an assigned destination. I admit, I used quite a few of those myself in the ongoing, legendary prank war Celestia, Luna, and myself were forever embroiled in. But the locations they would mischievously spirit me off to were never this… remote… or nippy for that matter. Usually they would be places I wouldn't normally go to, like a burlesque theater or a birthday celebration for some uppity noble's spoiled brat for example.
Pulling a mental blank save for an alarming last second recall of facing the briefest flash of my reflection, my instincts from years spent in the field involuntarily kicked in. I stretched out with my senses, both physical and metaphysical, and made note of everything. Every species of tree, every scent on the wind, every birdsong twittering through the air, any telltale signs of where I could be. I cross referenced those signs with all that I knew of my world, aspiring to mark my location on my mental map and set about getting home. To my dismay, the preliminary and postliminary results each came in as resoundingly inconclusive. My body stiffened and my jaw locked tight, which was fortunate or I would have ground my teeth into powder. I was not one for self delusions of false reassurance in the face of overwhelming evidence.
I was lost in a strange land… again.
There was only one surefire explanation for this predicament, and that was The Mirror. Whatever it was; a mystical portal that operated outside of what we deemed conventional magic, an insidious eldritch toy that had a perverse fixation on me, or just a regular mirror that misdirected all as to its mysterious purpose, it had became a recurring theme in my life. The modus operandi of the confounding looking glass was that it brought itself to our attention whenever I was 'needed' somewhere, which was always another world that I'd often recognize from when I was a normal guy with normal problems. Sometimes its reflective surface would become wavy and show my destination like some holographic view screen, other times it would keep it a secret while projecting itself into dreams with foreboding omens. It even pulled that last trick on Luna herself once! Though that was a different story. I would oblige the mirror, often reluctantly, and the only way I could return was by meeting some unknown, overarching objective before I was given an exit. Which I assumed was the case here. The sole plus to this 'duty' was that virtually no time would pass back home between my trips; elsewise I'd never go.
This however, was the first time it had kidnapped me and spirited me away though. Knowing that it could do that was highly discomforting, to say the least. But I couldn't let my growing aggravation with the Cosmic Mirror get in the way of my mission oriented habits. And so with that in mind, I refocused and redoubled my efforts into scanning every last detail anent this world that I could with my higher senses.
There was magic native in this world, a lot like it was with my own, but it felt... on the verge of sleep, for lack of a suitable word, like it was waiting for some kind of specific event to reawaken it to its full glory once more. I closed my eyes and prepared a cursory glance into the world's leyline network that was typical of all magical planets. When they opened again, they were glowing with subdued power, and what I saw was... what I regarded as a sui generis thaumaturgical ecosystem. Magic encompassed this planet so tautly, like a balled up tapestry of magical might, so much so that individual 'strands' were hard to make out. But with that tautness came an immediate responsiveness to everything that affected them. Already I could tell that my arrival here had sent vibrations tumbling through those leylines, in the same manner that a thrown pebble disturbs a pond… only instead of sending out gentle ripples, it made tidal waves. It wasn't broadcasting my presence like an LED billboard, per se, since it would be a monstrous challenge for anybody or anything with lesser command of magic to pinpoint the 'epicenter' of the disturbance, but anyone else paying attention to these things like I was would know something was up.
Even though I had never seen this acute an instance of this degree of thaumaturgical compression myself in some time, it wasn't overly surprising to me. If the world's overall magic was indeed in a state of nigh rest (with a few prominent exceptions that were sipping at the incredible wellspring of nearly untapped power to be harnessed), then it would accumulate overtime until the earth, water, and air was metaphysically saturated with it. I did notice that a vast majority of the available leyline energy nearby was gravitating towards the northeast of my position in a slow, steady, implacable movement, much like a river's stream... if that river was made of magic, hundreds of miles wide… and being unwaveringly consumed for some purpose that yet evaded my understanding. There was a smaller, subtler flow heading far to the Southwest that smelled naval blue somehow, but I paid it no mind at the time. Then there was a patch to the direct north that I couldn't draw a bead on without directly focusing on it with a scrying spell, and those could be detected if I wasn't careful, so I held off on that until I had a stronger idea of the lay of the land.
Based on the shifting 'scent' of magic that marked organized activity as my mind's eye spun the globe, this world was definitely inhabited and dominated by humans. But how could that be with so much unused magic sousing their planet? Unless these people had no affinity for harnessing that magic, the leylines shouldn't have been doing such an astounding impression of a rolled up Bayeux tapestry that was fading in its hues. Or had it become a forgotten art throughout the ages? The possibilities were numerous, and yielded more questions than answers. The magic was still being drawn upon though, if those myriad flows were any indication, but they were so rare, the planet could easily support thousands upon thousands more. Even the passive uses of it were few and far between! My brow furrowed increasingly as I 'upped' the resolution in my mind's eye, desiring to know where in the hell I was that was so negligent to the ultimate natural force accessible to men. Blurry shapes gradually joined into discernible features like a pencil sketched picture, and I was both stupefied and riveted by the results.
I stifled a sharp intake of air as I figured out just where I was. You see, one of the many unique benefits of my wizard eyes was that I could use them to discern the outline of the land and living things that the leylines' magic passed through and permeated but without physically suffusing into everything all across the board (with some notable exceptions, especially in the approximate region), which was one of the few facets that made it distinct from my own world's ever present magic, otherwise I would have the complete topography of the planetary landscape too.
In the timeframe of a scant moment of sharpening the image presented to my 'third eye', I could tell that I was somewhere on the northwestern end of a vaguely boomerang shaped island within boating distance from the mainland shore that was maybe over a hundred miles across at its widest point and roughly over fifty miles across from north to south, populated heavily with gnarled oaks, tall pines, flowering thornbushes, moss covered grey rock, and steep hills with fish filled streams where ursine creatures could catch their next meal in their jaws, which was likely a large reason why it was named Bear Island, which itself was only a small piece of the North.
This was Westeros… bloody, kriffing Westeros. Off all the manifold destinations the looking glass could send me to, it picked the one place that combined everything I hated about the backstabbing, self serving political antics of court intrigue along with the 'might makes right' patriarchal attitude that justified murder, rapine, rape, the pungent stench of ignorance that every medieval level society had no shortage of, and the utter brutality and filth associated with the system of human slavery on the continent next door… the uninspiringly named Essos, was it? Whatever overall objective the mirror wished for me to accomplish here, I would be busy for a long, freakin' time dismantling everything that was just plain wrong with this world and remaking it into something mildly presentable at the family dinner table. I really hoped that wasn't the basis for me being brought here. Elsewise I would have to steep my hands in enough guts to choke an Exogorth.
'Well… complaining about the onerous task ahead of me never hastened my triumphant return to my loved ones' I idly reflected to myself as I lazily yet longingly twisted at the gunmetal grey band on my ring finger, the pads on my thumb and index brushing over the multicolored gemstones studded onto the metal ring, causing them to glow faintly before dimming down.
The memories enclosed inside gave me the strength to forge onwards.
Baby steps first, find the closest locals and make some inquires to better establish a time period. The seasons were all outta whack here, lasting years for whatever inherently magical reason that I was too mentally enervated to seriously look into or care about, so they were unreliable indicators for the year. Speaking of, the light snows here on Bear Island could mean one of two things, that it was autumn and that the snows would be picking up soon, or these were the infamous summer snows that the well traveled southerners lambasted the North for. It made no difference really, given my climate adaptable, extremely enchanted clothing. Additionally, the cold never bothered me anyway-… and now that song is stuck in my head. Lovely.
My updated mental map told me that I was about five or so miles from the ocean where there was a decent sized gathering of people to the west, though it would be a downward incline from here through the thickets that were heavy with the smell of pine needles. I shrugged to myself before getting a move on. At least the walk would be peaceful, even if my thoughts would be anything but.
The snow crunched lightly under my feet as I made my way to civilization, or what passed for it in these parts anyhow, all the while keeping track of the activity that was progressing in what must've been a village by the sea. There were 'blips' out on the water about fifteen minutes inbound from making landfall, which I had initially assumed were fishermen. Now, I could only get a general sense of life forms through my leyline enhanced extrasensory perception, but were fishermen supposed to return home all together like that? Something else for me to mull over. I had taken to distracting myself away from my thoughts with some humming, absently pleased with how this world apparently had not been sung into creation, otherwise it had the potential to devolve into a musical number, like it oftentimes did in Arcania. Don't get me wrong, I love my adopted country, but a man like me could only handle so much spontaneity before his vexation capacitors shorted and he desired nothing more than to bury himself in his well fortified man cave and seal the entrance behind him.
On the bright side, the song stuck in my head had since been replaced by superior ones.
Eventually I had made it to a bushy outcropping that overlooked what was doubtlessly a fisherman's village surrounded by a small palisade wall and was composed of timber frame huts and wooden longhouses, if those crude skiffs carved out of thick logs and fish salting racks were any clue. But it was the flurry of activity downward to my right that had my attention. About one hundred and fifty five burly men, and interestingly some women, were positioned in what were unmistakably defensive lines just outside the village. Their accoutrements consisted of boiled leather, the occasional patchy outfits of ringmail, aged mail coifs, and thick bearskin furs. In their hands were maces, axes, swords, banded shields, and wooden cudgels. Slit trenches with wooden spikes angled in the sands ahead of them were dug into the beach, and even now at the rearmost trenches there were a dozen or so archers stringing hunting bows. All of them looked ready to spill some blood, even though greater than three quarters of their number were laying in repose, as if they were laying in ambush.
Along the five hundred feet of linear-ish, sandy shoreline were a gaggle of watercraft of varying size that were frenetically paddled and closing in on the beach at arbitrary spots, landing with an appalling lack of coordination that twinged at my inner commander to watch. The men and women that began rushing the beach were a straggly, unkempt bunch (Even by the local standards). Clad in mismatched, torn leather armor, worn sealskin, and patchy breeches, they made a cacophonous racket as they trudged ashore. The majority of their arms were not made in iron, but constituted an ill assorted mix of copper, flint, and even bone of all things, though an odd fighter here and there wielded a badly chipped or rusted iron sword that was likely pilfered from an unfortunate victim, if I was right about who these invaders were.
There were more of them disembarking from dozens of boats (if you could call those shoddy, built with green wood, barely floating, leaking contraptions shaped like coracles and skiffs that) and wading through the icy waters onto the beach sands, belting out a shrill war cry the whole time. In ten seconds of observation, I knew that the aggressors were outmatched by the defenders in equipment quality, but outnumbered them further than two to one to counterbalance the disadvantage. In spite of this, the defenders seemed to be performing remarkably well against the odds at the onset, though to be fair the attackers had no sense of organization or discipline beyond charging the enemy wherever they could see them. This meant that they were running straight into the proverbial jaws of the bear.
Though they were few, the native archers were devastatingly accurate with their fire, and the attackers were falling to them piecemeal by threes and fours. While some of the defending warriors were on their feet and holding fast, the rest were laying prone on their bellies in the laterally dug trenches that were moreover hidden with adjacent sand dunes, as they were hiding their numbers until the enemy was near enough and in such manageable numbers to spring a trap, which I admired as a solid tactic. If it was timed right, it would demoralize the enemy, who had been duped into thinking they were attacking easy prey, while also cutting down their numbers in their stupefaction. They held their ground defiantly, not a man or woman among them shaken at the sight of so many enemies rapidly closing in on them. Though to be fair, the overall worth of their enemy left much to be desired… and their archers had a tiny bit of high ground sloped to their advantage.
When there were four dozen or so attackers in counter-charging range, I saw a bear of a man on the defending side in the center mass of the warriors raise an expertly forged sword high into the crisp morning air and bellow powerfully, "Here We Stand!"
"HERE WE STAND!" His fellow warriors echoed his words, and I then knew him to be the leader.
The raiders (and it was abundantly obvious to me that was what they were) answered the challenge eagerly and angrily, their feet kicking up sand as they clamored onwards, unwisely splitting their war band in the process. For a moment, the fervent roar of the defenders drowned the raiders' war cries out as they slammed into their enemies and battle was officially joined. Round wooden shields knocked men off their feet and left them open to a finishing stab, turning the sand beneath them as crimson as my eyes. Maces flashed and bludgeoned unarmored faces until they resembled raw ground beef. One or two would be lost to unfortunate stabs to the gut from dying raiders that were determined to drag their enemies into death with them. The initial wave was thinned out in no time flat as the leader of the defenders cut through half a dozen men on his own, his blade hacking them down like wheat before a scythe. With a shouted order and gesture, his men and women formed a scarcely passing, but still effective shield wall and braced themselves against the incoming horde.
I decided that now was the time for me to intervene, "Time for the ol' song and dance that is battle" I droned to myself, already knowing which side I would choose to aid as I exited the camouflage of the bushes and slid down the rocky outcropping onto the pebbly sands before the main beach at the edges of the village's palisade. Calm as I appeared on my exterior as I stalked along the outer limits, inside I was almost giddy with anticipation. This was one exercise that I didn't need to overthink about.
The nighest person to notice me as I ambled onto the sands was a flanking woman raider, though it was a challenge to tell with her wrapped snugly underneath all of that seal leather and animal fur. She glanced at me in faint confusion (perhaps dumbfounded by my somewhat dazzling fashion sense) for half a second before anger morphed that expression into bloodlust and she screamed something in a rough, primitive sounding foreign tongue I had yet to understand, charging at me with a driftwood spear tipped with what could have been chipped whalebone. I casually sidestepped the first lunge, ducked under the second swipe, and turned aside a third with a slap of my palm to the haft. All the while the woman made these hisses of anger as I actively frustrated her without a hint of effort on my part. To be honest, I had found that 'vanilla mortals' (as a certain Chicago wizard would refer to them) perceptively moved in ultra slow motion relative to myself, and that wasn't just my years of experience in close combat talking.
During these attempts at skewering me, not that a simple bone spear had the slightest hope of piercing the painstakingly crafted, insanely durable yet oddly flexible dragonscale coat that covered my chest, shoulders, and torso (gifted to me by a three thousand year old Dragon Patriarch no less! Though to be fair, he had no use for what were essentially shed patches of molted skin from the tip of his tail. It also helped that his two toned red and black scales matched my color scheme) that had allowed me to weather far worse, let alone the unyielding enchantments on my helmschmied drachen-esque robes, the woman presented five wide openings that would have spelt her doom to someone who had spent years immersed in mortal combat. It wasn't my first time fighting women, but I had never felt comfortable with killing them, unless they were truly vile, without adequate reason. Call me sexist or old school, but striking a woman always left an acrid taste in my mouth.
Our little tango came to an end when I finally stopped dodging her attacks and stood still for a spear thrust aimed straight at my heart, which the woman did not hold back on. There was a splintering crack as the tip of the spear virtually disintegrated down to the bulbous chunk where the head was fixed to the shaft via leather strips. The woman was absolutely shocked as I stood there with the same serene yet detached expression on my face, not having shifted a millimeter from her strike. I used that lull in our duel to seize the shaft of the spear with a hand, pull the astonished woman up towards me, and promptly head-butt her in the face. I barely put any real oomph into it, otherwise her skull would split open like an overripe melon. Her noggin flopped back as she went limp, the anger fizzling out of those light blue eyes of hers. She crumpled bonelessly to the floor, alive, but bleeding from a broken nose.
Others had noticed my entry into the foray by now, though since the flanking attackers were closer in proximity, they came to me first, likely thinking me some kind of ally to their enemy, which was true in a way. The next person to try their luck was a shaggy haired man who probably never bathed a day in his life, judging from his sour, oily smell. He was wielding a flint axe in one hand and a bone studded club in the other. He had some measure of skill with the unorthodox combo, pressing the distance between us to make the most of his twirling attacks. Regardless, even the best these raiders could scrounge out of their ranks was utterly lacking in my eyes. After I ducked a spinning swipe from his axe, I held up my left arm to block the one holding the club. I whipped out my Tantō from its sheath on my upper backside and planted it into his spinal column, severing it and paralyzing him beneath the waistline instantly… and also piercing his intestines.
It was a slow death, and gave a man time to think on his sins.
Aware that I was not someone to be trifled with, a trio of raiders approached me cautiously, taking advantage of my relative isolation from the embattled defenders at the palisade wall and surrounding me. One of them gasped, seeing whom I had turned into a paraplegic bleeding out onto the snowy sands.
"You'll pay for killing my brother, kneeler scum!" A woman dressed similarly to the first one I faced sibilated at me.
"He's not dead yet" I answered calmly but drolly as I sheathed my blade, "Though I wouldn't count on him walking ever again"
My flippant attitude triggered the woman, who made to stab at my gut with a rusted sword. I easily dodged the attack and grabbed her by her arm to use her own momentum against her by swiveling on my feet and shoving her into a male comrade that was trying to backstab me. They landed in a pile of limbs and I hid a wince to see the man's own sword jutting half a foot from the woman's chest, a very much mortal wound. The third man was beginning to reconsider his odds after how I carelessly manhandled his companions, wavering between backing off and throwing caution to the wind. He chose the latter, tossing his bone spear at me with the hopes that I'd be too slow to do anything about it. He thought erroneously, as I snatched the spear in midair, flipped it around like a baton, and sent it sailing right into his face like a javelin. It erupted out the other side in a bloody explosion of gore, the force of it throwing his body backwards as the five-foot long shaft terminated halfway through.
The sandy blonde man who I had pinned under the body of the woman had just finished rolling her corpse off of himself, staring with light horror as his sword was still wedged in her chest. He was a tad young, and I was guessing this was his first time doing this sort of thing. He practically soiled himself as he looked upon the facial ruins of the other man just across from him. He gaped at me, and I could see that I put the fear of God into him. Or whatever these unwashed, stinking heathens believed in, that is.
"Run" I advised him, "Lest you share in their fates"
He didn't need to be told twice, bolting off in the opposite direction, only for an abrupt arrow from the defenders to take him in the neck with a crimson spurt. He gasped and choked on his own blood, palming at the wound weakly on the sand before his throes ceased altogether. I airily shook my head. I know he was scared of me, but running towards other people willing to kill him to escape me was just idiotic. Sometimes I frightened the good sense out of people.
I stifled a string of invective as a few more arrows dotted the earth around me, forcing me to jump back a bit if I wanted to avoid the dreaded arrow in the knee. My adventuring days were not over, after all.
Clearly the defenders weren't able to tell friend from foe, or they didn't believe in that 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' spiel. A second volley of arrows landed harmlessly about me and I nabbed one out of the air, having intuitively anticipated where they'd land and repositioned appropriately. It was a skill I had refined over the course of many battles, and there weren't enough archers on the defending side to actually require me to reveal my other abilities. I presented the appropriated arrow, an iron tipped job that was average in craftsmanship, making sure the archers aiming for me could see it. I then lodged it into the throat of a man who howled his presence as he attempted to charge me with a copper short sword. I took his head and twisted it, hearing a gratifying crackling snap that guaranteed a cervical fracture and his death. A glance at the defending archers told me that they had wisely reorganized their target priorities.
Sometimes I needed to frighten the good sense into people.
It was a pitched battle now on the beach, as the defenders were slowly pushed back from what sparse ground they retained beyond the palisades. They had taken some casualties, but every man and woman of theirs that fell, died swinging, bringing many with them into the cold embrace of death. One of the biggest reasons for this was that the defenders were organized, while the attackers charged their enemy pell-mell, skewering themselves on the shield wall that had formed almost parallel with the palisades.
"There's something you don't see everyday" I murmured to myself, watching with a morbid fascination as a polar bear with a rider atop bowled over the men composing the shield wall with sheer mass and momentum. That must've necessitated a custom made boat of their own to transport them here.
Realizing that the defenders were now in legitimate danger of being outmaneuvered and overrun by their numerically superior opponents, I decided that now was the time to quit pussyfooting around. Flipping my hood over my head, I reached behind me as my fingers brushed against the handle of the blade that had seen me through many an obstacle. There was a rasp of metal on scabbard (oh so satisfying!) as Dichotomy was freed from its confines. The scabbard had been a gift from a special someone, and held an equally special enchantment that 'told my story', so to speak, in a mural of sorts on the flat visible surface facing outwards, and the less visible surface facing inwards.
It was ever changing, adding new segments to the cycle it would go through with each hour as the lines faded in and out. Contrary to popular belief, a regular scabbard for any particularly lengthy sword carried on the back was impractical, as you'd need longer arms in the style of the Slenderman to properly sheathe and unsheathe it, which is why mine did not wholly encapsulate the blade. Instead, the blade was partially exposed as it slid along a semi-halved shaft that was designed to widen as it was being pulled out, thus allowing the blade unimpeded movement as it was drawn in a swing out fashion. Resheathing it had been annoying at the start, but I usually just telekinetically sheathed it, like Mortal Kombat's Kenshi. I would have to be mindful about doing that here, with how taboo magic was undoubtedly perceived here.
I twirled the approximately meter long, feather light blade in front of me, listening to that faint, soothing hum as it sliced through the air effortlessly. Normally I was loath to use my mainstay weapon on what amounted to unworthy opponents in my eyes, but the situation called for it, and I had a personal vow to keep no matter where I was. Dichotomy felt 'eager' in my hands, and glowed a faint red for a moment; showcasing the fifteen individual shard streams of the pieces it was composed of. Don't get me wrong, Dichotomy was not alive in the direct sense of the word, but due to the inherent bond between Mage-blade and Trifect, it reflected some aspects of the user.
I leaned forward and my body tensed like a spring. If anyone had been paying close attention, they would have seen the outline of ghostly wings sprout from my shoulder blades. Releasing the tension, I shot ahead as if launched by a catapult; sprinting so fast I could have made the best Olympic speedsters seem like octogenarians with ankle weights. I cleared the gap separating myself from the main gaggle of raiders and with a series of swipes, bisected seven raiders that were in the way as I skidded to a halt among their disorderly ranks. Normal swords would be incapable of this feat, but Dichotomy was most certainly not a normal sword, nor did it have a normal edge to it. I gave the raiders no time to recover or even comprehend what just hit them as the immediate vicinity became awash with a whirlwind of activity and death. Limbs were amputated from bodies, heads rolled like soccer balls, and torsos were halved so abruptly that they wouldn't even spray blood until they sagged onto the sand.
The war cries of the raiders transformed into shrieks of dismayed surprise and finally terror. Imagine if you would a hooded figure steamrolling through the ranks like a buzz saw and that's a basic comparison to what happened. I didn't blame them for it, since I could be scarily efficient in the art of killing. Couple that with the fact that my targets were vanilla mortals, and it was like a hungry tiger in a hen house, although infinitely more gruesome. The shock of my attack actually convinced the rear elements of the raiders to turn tail and run back to their boats, so frightened were they that they dropped all items impeding them in their retreat, such as their shoddily made weapons. The middle element had no such luck, and I trail blazed a red path through them that not a one of them had a hope of surviving. I felt like I was sucking on chalk at the agonized screams of the women warriors among them as I killed them, but I did not discriminate on the field of battle… and they chose to be here.
Two and half dozen had fallen by the time the remaining raiders became cognizant that their fortunes had twisted against them as the heart of their lackluster formation was torn out messily. Of course, when you realize that your subpar weapons cannot block a blade that can literally make you into a halfman, suddenly discretion seems to be the better part of valor in hindsight, which I did not grant them. There were still a large group of stragglers pouring in through a breach that the rider with the polar bear mount had created in the shield wall, its muscly mass knocking the shield-men flat and making them easy prey for its claws and jaws. If it wasn't plugged up and dealt with posthaste, then there would be a lot of additional dead Bear Islanders by the end of the day. I decided to let the remainder of the raiders retreat to lick their wounds while I spun in place, darted toward the jumbled shield wall of the defenders, and leapt over them with a flawlessly executed example of acrobatics.
There were still two dozen or so raiders that had followed their furry battering ram into the gap, forcing the now split shield wall formation to bend back to compensate for the attackers. Normally this would have spelt the end of the shield wall's effectiveness, as once there was a big enough gap in the lines, then the enemy could simply fill it in before dividing and conquering. However, thanks to yours truly, these brave fools would be getting no reinforcements to aid them. I made my way to the melee erupting through the split line, advancing brutally like the implacable man I was. I chopped a copper sword in twain before lashing out with a mighty punch that reduced the bearded man's face to a hamburger patty (I was deceptively strong), slashed my Tantō across a nearby woman's neck with my free hand, and collapsed another man's chest cavity with a spinning kick, all in one practiced motion. My way to the rider on the polar bear was unrestricted now.
Said rider and bear were now engaged in single combat with the leader of the defenders, after the bear had mauled two of his comrades with its claws and teeth while the rider, another woman, I discerned, skewered a third trying to pull her off with an iron leaf tipped spear. I wondered to myself if this was one of those Wargs that could insert their minds into their animal familiars and control them. I'd rarely encountered people who could get their mounts to do the bulk of the killing for them using their will alone, and my curiosity bid me to capture her for study. The leader of the stalwart defenders was having a hell of a time keeping out of the way of the polar bear's swipes and harrowing jaw snaps. The man had gotten lucky with a back swing and slashed the right limb of the polar bear, cutting deep. The off white creature snarled and roughly butted its noggin against the man who had wounded it, sending him sprawling back, dazed. If someone didn't do something right away, he was likely to become lunch.
"Father!" I heard a young lad shout desperately in the background somewhere near to my six.
That sealed it. I took my Tantō, kissed the flat of the blade (a tried and true tradition for me), while ignoring the tangy taste of the blood on it, and flung it at the head of the bear as it reared back to pounce on the now downed man. I didn't even have to use magic to guide its path. My aim was impeccable as the blade went hilt deep through its eye, piercing its brain and slaying it instantly. The woman riding on top let rip a blood curdling screech of pain that topped every other I'd heard that day, sliding off her crude leathern saddle and onto the ground, where she had a violent case of spasms before promptly going stock still. I jogged over to her and laid a palm on her forehead, absently noting the red curls that were poking out from her wannabe Eskimo parka's hood. A scrupulously concealed full body diagnostic spell informed me that she was still alive and no worse for wear physically besides some week old hematomas, but rendered unconscious with what evidently were highly irregular brain waves that were shifting back to baseline normality. Hmm… my curiosity about the operation of her abilities was justified it seemed.
I directed my attention back to the bear's carcass and the scruffy man that was getting back to his feet with the help of a lad no older than fourteen. He gently reassured the boy, who must have been his son, that he was unharmed with a hand clamp to his shoulder and a silent, but comforting look. The man looked like a great big bear himself, what with his light strands of dark brown fur speckled with snow, though there were signs that he was on the verge of balding. He was wide shouldered and powerfully built, heavily muscled, and the dark eyes set in his weather beaten, scratched up face had that youthful glow (in spite of his burgeoning age) that only appeared in men who devote themselves entirely to the fight. They also bespoke of a piercing intelligence characteristic of a leader of men. He was absolutely covered in the blood, sweat, and muck of a hard fought skirmish, having immersed himself completely in the fight from start to finish. There was no mistaking it; this man was a leader of men, and women too.
Clutched steady in his strong, paw like hands was a hand and a half sword that almost rivaled mine for sexiness in its darkish grey hue that could be seen even through the slick sheen of blood rapidly cooling upon its three fullers (Fittingly nicknamed blood gutters). On its pommel was the head of a black bear, carved in wood and inlaid with small ruby eyes. I knew this blade from its descriptions in a book series that I had read when I was still a relatively ordinary fellow. This was the treasured Valyrian steel blade of the Mormonts (the one object of extreme value that the otherwise poor family possessed), Longclaw, which guaranteed that the man wielding it was a Mormont himself. That ancestral sword was currently leveled at me in a guarded stance as he glared at me down the bridge of his flat, prominent nose. His stance was reminiscent of someone dealing with a threat rather than a savior. He was wise to do so, though it irked me never the less.
"What are you doing on this island, stranger?" He demanded in an official, commanding voice that was idiosyncratic of feudal lords.
Internally I staved off the urge to sigh. I was not looking forward to another repeat of that dreadful business in Gryphondria. Still, it had taught me a few things about comporting one's self in an ofttimes brutish medieval system. It had also allowed me to refine my skill with directing men in a period of transition from pike, to matchlock arquebus, to flintlock musket, which was an experience with no equal. Although, with all the horrors that the introduction of gunpowder in an otherwise medieval tech system and the respective thought conventions associated had ushered in, it was not a wholly positive experience. Too much blood had been shed in those ensuing months.
At least none of these people could fly. That simplified things tremendously.
I held back a scoff, "That's a fine expression of gratitude to the one who saved your hide"
"You have my thanks for slaying the beast" He gave a curt nod, "Irony is not how I'd like to leave this world" He permitted wryly, before returning to his cold hostility, "Now state your business here on Bear Island. It's clear to me you're no wildling scum, but we've not had a southron or the like on this island in decades, especially not one so deadly in a fight"
"I'm not a southron. Nor am I from anywhere around here" I carefully clarified, disliking the untrusting tone with which he described me, though I understood it from his point of view. I had just proved to him that I was a greater danger to his people than the raiders were.
"You look like a southron to me" The boy by the man's side commented, before he was silenced by a stern glance from his father. He mechanically shut his trap with a childlike wince, which was made super ironic by the fact that he was blooded in battle himself and therefore indisputably a man by this society's 'rooted in masculinity' standards.
The sounds of battle had lowered by a dramatic degree at this juncture, as half of the shield wall's manpower were either looting corpses, policing prisoners too wounded to die fighting, separating their dead from the others, or pursuing the leftover raiders that were retreating to their ramshackle boats and getting the heck outta dodge back to whence they came. It was unlikely that they would catch any that were uninjured, but I would not fault them for it. It didn't hurt to be too thorough in my book. The remainder of the warriors were warily watching my unforthcoming interaction with their lord, ready to aid him at a moment's notice if I became hostile, not that I had a pressing reason to be. Not a person in sight appeared overly hesitant to clash with me if conflict erupted, which bespoke of the loyalty the people on this island had towards the ruling House. Assuming nothing went terribly wrong here, I looked ahead to my future interactions with this family. Such steadfast loyalty was a hard to find commodity in any world sans my own these days.
A bushy eyebrow rose a quarter inch on the man's forehead, "And from what direction do you hail from, foreigner?" He fished for information, "The Free Cities of Essos mayhaps?"
"I come from a land you would not recognize the name of" I replied in the negative.
This displeased him, but he could tell he would wring little out of me, "Are you a threat to my people?" He cut to the heart of the issue, studying me intensely.
I shook my head, "I'm no threat to you and yours unless you and yours go out of your way to provoke me to action"
"That's not a guarantee that you'll be no problem" He pointed out sullenly.
"The only guarantees in life are death and taxes" I partially quoted Ben Franklin.
My ambiguous and far from neutral response had slightly unnerved him, "And how would we provoke you, exactly?"
From the tense way he was eyeing me, I believe it was rhetorical. His eyes flicked to somewhere over my shoulders and I knew that he was giving nonverbal commands to whoever was behind me to gird themselves in case I became aggressive, archers perhaps, given how suicidal it was to engage me face to face. It was still suicidal to try offing me from range as well, but they did not know that yet. I had to admit he and the men under his command had courage, everyone with functioning eyes had seen what I was capable of. The trail of bisected, decapitated, and dismembered bodies beginning to cool on the sand was a testament to the devastation I could wreak. And that was solely through martial ability. I didn't need my extrasensory perception to discern the creaky draw of repurposed hunting bows to my rear with strings damp from the morning's moisture, which I knew from experience affected the bow's performance… not that it would matter at this proximity.
"Before you get any hasty ideas, I'd recommend telling your people to stand down" I began with false cheer, "Nothing good ever comes from attempting to catch me off guard" Since my guard was never entirely relaxed to start with.
The lord considered this lightly worded warning gravely, which did not go unnoticed by his men, nor ignored.
"I saw 'im tear into the wildlin's ranks like they was naught but chaff, m'lord Jorgan. E' caught me arrow too, snatched it out of the air, e' did!" One of my would be assailants interjected in ludicrously broken English (I don't care what it's called here), "Never seen a person kill so swiftly! E's dangerous e' is. Not a man, but some an'ry spirit!"
I made a note of the lord's name and how unfamiliar it was. Just when was I in this world's timeline?
'Ah the joys of superstitious societies' I mentally sighed. This was going to be a consistent theme here, wasn't it?
"Make no mistake. I am a man" I gainsaid the nameless naysayer, "But I am also much more" I concluded mysteriously, "Tell you what. As a gesture of goodwill," I twirled Dichotomy in hand once as I sheathed my blade with a practiced eloquence. The movement alone spooked all those gathered about, "I'll put away my arms. If you still feel that I am not to be trusted, then by all means… attack me" I dared them, "But know this. I have an irrevocable right to defend myself"
The bald-faced confidence in my voice in spite of my surroundings dissuaded them from trying their nonexistent luck with me. I walked around the dead polar bear (being tracked by a ring of men, who were either too afraid to attack or dutifully awaiting an order from their lord to do so) and knelt aside it to withdraw my Tantō from the slain beast's eye socket, wiping the blood and viscera off the blade on the messy, bloodstained fur of the animal, dyeing it a further crimson.
The Lord of Bear Island processed all this with a heavy frown, internally debating what was to be done about this situation. The fact that the matter of what to do with lil' ol' me troubled him like this whereas a recent incursion of the Free Folk merely inconvenienced him was not lost on me. Maybe to his ears and eyes I sounded and acted arrogant, but that would have been him accrediting me with false attributes, since my solid demeanor had not changed for the entirety of this exchange, and I could back up my words with feats. Regardless of the outcome of this bandying of words, it wasn't a question of whether I could handle his men or not. It was a question of whether or not they could handle me.
Which they couldn't. Not even if their melee weapons had been replaced with modern firearms. And from the scowling look of him, it seemed lord Jorgan Mormont agreed with that assessment.
"Put away your steel, all of you!" He ordered with a snort as he lowered, but cautiously did not sheathe, his weapon, "Enough of my people have shed their blood this day. I will not have another drop needlessly spilled on these sands"
With reluctant slowness, the men and women under his command obeyed their lord, sheathing swords, hooking axes to belts, attaching daggers to harnesses, and otherwise stowing their weapons. I could distinctly feel the glares on the back of my neck subside begrudgingly as the battle-tested lord gesticulated for them all to return to their duties, though a dozen or so, likely bodyguards or household armsmen, stayed close at hand for their lord's protection. Personal hang-ups came second to a direct order from a lord in a feudal society. I could respect the efficiency of the purely medieval system, if little to nothing else about it.
He marched at me, stopping just shy of hugging distance, "I'm putting my trust in you, stranger, if only for the aid you have rendered my people this day" He pointed an index finger upwards at me, "Do not make me rue that" My looming two hundred and twenty centimeter frame did not deter him, which I respected and appreciated, whereas his subjects continued to treat me as if I was not human.
That was another obstacle hampering me from appearing nonthreatening. Ever since my preternatural growth spurt, I had difficulty blending into most crowds that were not composed of hulking Minosians… at least without the use of transformative or illusory magic, and while I was not self conscious in a vainglorious or just plain vain manner, the stares I attracted in public due to my imposing form did grate on me every now and then. On the plus side, no goodies stored atop of pantries were safe from me.
"M'lord!" An armsman with a bleeding gash on his right arm that was visible through the cheap looking ringmail reported, "We've rounded up some prisoners for you" He bore his wound with good grace, though anyone could tell that it pained him, as he was wincing intermittently, "Shall I bring 'em forth?"
At his lord's prompting nod, he waved forward the six captives that had been bound with hemp rope and who had not been fortunate to die, garner the mercy of death due to debilitating or mortal wounds, or escape with their brethren. Two of them were women (not counting the one laying unnaturally still at my feet, who no one had come to collect, either out of fear of me or because they had forgotten her was unknown), though given how fugly they were, I wasn't too sure on that one. One thing that was for sure, if it weren't for the stench of death and decay already permeating the battlefield, my nose would be wrinkling from how filthy they smelled… like decades rotted, half frozen fish guts, piss, and excrement. How could anyone bear to live smelling like an old Chinese restaurant's dumpster?
One of the captives, a thin man with gnarled teeth and a sallow, sunken, bearded face was tossed to the lord's feet, while Jorgan stood august and formidably above him, his son standing lawfully beside his father, though he made no secret of his hatred of the Free Folk, glowering fiercely at the prisoner.
Mormont shook his head at him condescendingly, "When will you Wildlings ever learn that you are not welcome on this Island so long as there are brave men and women willing to defend it?"
"Piss on you, kneeler!" The man sneered up at him, before spitting at him. But the middle aged lord's reaction time was quick, catching the loog on the backside of his hand, which he proceeded to wipe on the furs of his prisoner while backhanding him in the same motion, making the prisoner reel back with blood dribbling down from a newly split lip, upping his ugliness factor by five points as he struggled to erect himself with his feet hobbled with cords of hemp.
"Normally the punishment for killing any member of a Lord's people unjustly is a choice between death or the Wall" Jorgan lectured on with a detached tone, "Seeing as the Honorable men of the Night's Watch deal with your kind primarily and are unlikely to accept your questionable oaths, I will save them the hassle of killing you themselves. Fetch me a block and bend his neck" The lord commanded gruffly.
His men complied; seizing the beaten raider's pitch colored hair and pushing him to his knees none too gently before forcing him to stare at the sands once someone had brought what I believe was a repurposed, portable tree stump from the fishing village to function as the chopping block. This was confirmed once I espied the dark brown marks upon it from prior usage. The prisoner remained stubbornly silent but I could see the faint tremors in his body that he was trying to keep under wraps, whether out of fear as being seen in his last moments as a coward by those in attendance or his natural survival instincts overpowering his conscious efforts to face his inevitable execution without remorse was indeterminable without utilizing unethical means available only to me.
Jorgan motioned for his son to give him an unsullied cloth strip to clean off Longclaw, which I thought was counterintuitive, since he was about to sully it again. Once he was finished making his family sword presentable, he walked with deliberate slowness to the rightmost side of the condemned as if he were bored. It was uncertain if he did this to make the prisoner sweat or because he really didn't care either way. Both could be argued. Though he hid it skillfully, the lord was fatigued from battle and the people of Bear Island long had a deep-seated disregard for their wilder, reaving cousins north of the Wall. It was a shame that a several hundred foot high, frozen barrier was part of the reason for this enmity betwixt people who shared common ancestry as blood of the First Men, but such things could not be helped where humans were concerned.
Intentional or not, the wait became overbearing for the soon to be dead man, "WAIT! Wait! I have a final request!" He shrieked before Jorgan could recite in whose name he would do justice for. I doubted his name was Eddard, but family bloodlines in Westeros went such a ways into the past that it wasn't a safe bet to make.
"Final requests are heard from honorable Northmen, not reaving wildling scum" Jorgan huffed disparagingly, the corners of his mouth tightening with displeasure.
"Others take you! I am a true Northman! Truer than any kneeler man here!" The angry prisoner spat with vitriol (and a bit of blood too), "And we ever remember the Old Ways. Slay me before the eyes of the Gods, let me embrace eternity at the roots of a Weirwood!"
That particular request caused a spark of murmurs to echo around the men and women assembled. From what I recall, the people of the North kept to their animistic religion of the Old Gods, and believed in the nameless, naturalistic deities that were worshipped well before men ever set foot on this continent, when the mystical fae like Children of the Forest held dominance over Westeros. Jorgan's face hardened and his eyes became unreadable, perhaps weighing the immensity of his captive's request and the urge to just kill him and be done with it. He could go with the latter and shorten the man by a head here and now, but there would possibly be those amongst his people who would disapprove and whisper about how he could be so callous as to deny a man what many considered the right to face his end before his Gods with faith in mind. The same Gods that he too worshipped no less, or gave the public impression of worshipping. Faith is a severely complicated topic among humans, I've learned.
I had somewhat sacrilegious views on this subject, but would politely keep them to myself. Human beings had an innate need to seek out things of a spiritual or metaphysical nature. I had heard it referred to as a God shaped hole in our hearts at my old church. If they did not fulfill it properly, they would fill that hole with a poorer substitute: food, drink, sex, work, recognition, achievements… anything that could give their lives everlasting meaning. Yet all of them were square pegs jammed into circular openings, and those who relied on these hedonistic, self-serving, worldly pleasures would wind up ultimately dissatisfied with themselves. I have found in my experience that having a profound sense of purpose and working it was the antidote to the existential void that plagued every single one of us, whether we admitted it to ourselves or not. And here were these people, putting their faith in a concept of nameless gods of the waters, stones, and trees. Their faith was a personal relationship with their deities, yes, and similar to mine in that regard. The distinguishing feature though was that these people put their faith in a natural order of things… and nature was scary, especially human nature.
Philosophy aside, this was an instance that showcased how leadership was a precarious balancing act. Denying the man's request would be to lose face among his pious followers who had a mutual religious culture with their enemy, or accepting, which would be risking other prisoners demanding the same treatment, and upsetting the hardliners who had lost friends and or family in the battle and were slavering for blood here and now. This was the sort of vaguely political horse dung that I left to the Princesses back home, since they were leagues better in the PR department than I was. Being an established war hero begat me less political clout than the lofty title of Prince (and not Prince consort or prince with a lower case p like some of my contemporaries) bestowed upon me by the Princesses, which in my opinion I did nothing to achieve, though my loved ones would disagree earnestly on that. I'll strive for the benefit of the people even at my own bodily detriment, but do not ask me to put up with their vexing bullshit if I do not have to.
"What say you stranger?" Jorgan's chain smoker-like voice broke through my thoughts like a battering ram through a flimsy wooden gate, though I kept my expression blank.
"You want my opinion?" I said, skeptical of the underlying motive behind his including me in this spat.
"For all that you are a foreigner, were it not for your timely intervention, I would have less reason to hear out his words, and more reason to cease his ability to speak altogether. Furthermore I would have your measure in this affair" He explained in his brusque, yet refreshingly honest way.
"Very well" I nodded, "Not to remind a venerable lord of his duties, but one of them is to see justice done in his lands. These raiders deserve death for their harmful actions here" There were immediate murmurs and grunts of concurrence, definitely from those who had lost kith and or kin in the skirmish here.
"However," I declared, silencing all who were listening in, "true justice is impartial to the prejudices of factions. These prisoners…" I gestured to them, most glaring at me with hotter spite than they reserved for their original targets, "…are slated for death this day for crimes against the people of Bear Island. Where I'm from, captives sentenced to death are granted three things. A last meal, a last letter to friends or family to bid farewell, and a last request… so long as it is not overly presumptuous"
The Lord of Bear Island noticed the emphasis I placed on that last point, and thoughtfully tilted his head as though he was leaning towards assent. I saw through this fake body language for what it was, a small ploy to shift any resentment at his lordship for deliberating a matter based on a foreigner's advice, however sincerely given. A man that he and his people ostensibly owed a boon to for my pivotal aid in the battle, which the mostly unscathed Lord Mormont likely would not have survived without me (I've had less subtle intervention moments, as I am wont to name them). I had to give him credit; Jorgan had a firmer grasp on politically minded intrigue than half of the bluebloods I've had to deal with (especially the eponymously named lesser prince himself, who was one of the biggest ponce's I had known when I first met him).
"Would you have me feed them and scratch out intelligible scribbles on my rolls of parchment that cannot be sent too?" He countered, drawing a string of concurring grunts and head wobbles from his warrior men and women.
"No" I conceded there, "But I fail to see any real harm in staging their execution before this Weirwood they revere" There were positive murmurs and grunts for me there, even from the disgruntled prisoners themselves.
These people are weird.
"If you yearn to do them this service then, for which they are unworthy of, then I would have you come with us to my family's keep and see this impartial justice done with your own hands in our Godswood, along with my son and I" He finally relented, sheathing Longclaw in its scabbard. While I saw some men and women grit their teeth in disapproval, the majority seemed behind the idea… not that their opinions carried weight versus their lord's solemn word.
"Done" I acceded pleasantly, having nothing else to do, "I have a condition though, if I am to be an unpaid assistant headsmen this day" I added as the prisoners were dragged away and elements of the Bear Islander force on the beach initiated the return trek to the home of the Mormonts. Already I could see non-combatant women, greybeards, and children from the successfully defended fishing village assisting in the cleanup of the beachfront and burial of the honored dead.
Normally, this would be presumptuous of me and anyone else in a likewise position. Regardless of my unwilling presence here, I was trespassing on his lands without his permission, so he was within his rights to evict me forcefully or demand a service of me in exchange for his consent to dwell among his people. Not that I thought unfavorably of Lord Mormont, for he seemed an upright, honorable fellow that factored in logic during his decision making. But even if he wasn't that kind of man, nobody with half a brain who had seen me do battle would demand anything of me, let alone threaten me with violence if they didn't get their way.
"Name it" He folded like a house of cards in a gust.
"This woman here" I indicated to her where she lay, "The one that nearly killed you atop that white beastie of hers. Her life is mine to decide the fate of"
That caused an acrimonious uproar among those gathered at the outrageousness of my prerequisite stipulation. Gee, you'd think I suggested that everyone smear themselves in petrol fluid and set themselves on fire while doing the chicken dance naked from the reception I got. Lord Mormont shouted it down with a fearsome bellow before it could escalate into something that could not be taken back once committed to. As angered by my chutzpah as they were, they still respected the chain of command and fell silent. The men and women of Bear Island were remarkably vocal for the underlings of a feudal lord, more akin to a tribe than a fiefdom. Perchance there was a historical precedent for the Lord of Bear Island to hear his people's counsel afore a ruling, like a Clan Chieftain. The man himself stared at me for the longest time, as if reevaluating whatever judgment he had made of me previously. The lord's tweenaged son looked about in confusion, not getting what had everybody up in arms for what had to be the umpteenth occasion. Though I had a good guess as to what.
"What do you intend with her?" He interrogated me, his voice as harsh and cold as winter itself, "Nothing unspeakable, I should hope? I have little mercy for wildlings, but none for rapers. I geld all those that I catch on my lands" His hand rested threateningly on the ursine pommel of his ancestral sword, and everyone besides me tensed in anticipation. Rape must have been a sore spot with Lord Mormont to warrant so potent a reaction, I posited.
"Nothing of the sort" I answered in the negative, "I merely wish to study her… unique way with animals" And I would be a lot nicer about it than Twilight when she gets into one of her 'neurotic scientist' moods. I never did forget when one of her moods touched upon a shortcoming that was almost my undoing, though I've forgiven her for it since then.
I don't think these people understood what wargs were based on their flabbergasted gaping at me for my reasoning, unless I grew a second head without realizing it in the preceding minute. That would suck.
"And after you are done with her? What then?" He churlishly continued, "What will you do with her?"
"I'll take her home, I suppose, back to her people" Giving her back to the Mormonts would probably not be conducive to her health, and in spite of being blooded herself in battle, she was below my age of accountability without deliberation.
The young skinchanger was only fifteen, after all.
"Why?" A woman warrior spoke out, "So she can fin' 'erself another ferocious creature to mount when she an' 'er kin attack us anew?" A chorus of agreements resounded with her.
"What? Worried I can't do a repeat of this?" I laid a foot on the polar bear's hefty carcass and rocked it like it was no heavier than a pillowcase, showing off the bloody ruin that was once its eye. I also reinforced the implication that I would take charge of her.
"She has wounded and killed many of my men" He reminded me, "And I would have been among the slain, were it not for you"
"And for that, I implore you to show some mercy" I bent down to peel back her parka hood, revealing a petite, redheaded girl underneath. She appeared peaceful in her comatose like, dreamless sleep, "As you can see, she's hardly a woman grown… no older than five and ten namedays I'd estimate" I purposely fibbed. Magic doesn't give me ambiguous results. I could tell you so much about a person based on the output of a single, simple spell used in every hospital and triage center back home.
"A girl who is old enough to have shed Bear Islander blood is old enough to be judged as an adult by our people's customs" He intonated with a lordly inflection.
I couldn't argue with that, "Indeed she is. But as she is so young for a wildling, she's not as set in their troublemaking ways. Why waste a life when these lands are so under populated as it is? If you so wanted, you could take her in and raise her as one of your own?" I tested the waters for foisting this girl off on someone else after I had learned all I could about her warging powers. I disliked babysitting anyone prone to danger.
"I'll never break bread with a wildling!" Mormont's son declared venomously, "Don't listen to him, father! Don't listen! They killed my mo-" He was interrupted by his dad.
"Quiet, Joran!" Lord Mormont barked at his offspring, who complied begrudgingly with a muttered 'Yes, my lord father'.
"That will not happen. My ancestors would frown on me if I willingly called a wildling one of mine own" He said to me, his brow wrinkling, "Not after what they've done to my family, and my people"
"I see…" I truly did, "Well I can promise you that you'll never see this particular wildling again if you release her to me"
"And how will you keep that promise?" He wanted to know.
"I have my ways" I replied enigmatically.
"You have made my morning interesting, and you have ensured that, Gods' willing, I will live to see another. You can have custody of her as my token of gratitude for that then, stranger" He ultimately acquiesced, satisfied with my sincerity thus far, "But you will be held responsible for her for the duration of her captivity on this Island" He warned me, which was fair.
"If she brings further harm to your people, I will separate her head from her shoulders myself" I meant it too, though I would see that it did not come to that.
"I believe you" He trusted in me, before suddenly apprehending something he forgot, "I can't well keep referring to you as stranger, lest I come across as an impolite, northron savage!" He grinned, self deprecatingly, "What shall I call you, lord…?" He presumed that I was a nobleman, perhaps because of my eloquent speech patterns, fancy yet practical vestment, and regal bearing. He was sort of right.
"I'm not a member of any Nobility ('Though I am by necessity a member of Royalty')" I informed him, pulling my treasured hood down to expose my face, "And you may call me Zenith"