The power was out for about three-and-a-half days. Bad storm. Lots of fun and introspection, though.
I've written a BIG chapter because of it, though… Enjoy 😎
Bear Keep
298 AC
"This is an egregious waste of time," Mormont said sharply. "I should have you whipped."
In the early morning mists just before the sun peeked over the horizon, a lone galley bearing the familiar flag of a green field with a roaming black bear had sailed into Frostgate harbor.
The first person to step off the ship was none other than Arthur Dayne himself, the Sword of the Morning, and quite possibly the single best swordsman who ever lived.
He'd ridden to Bear Keep immediately and had woken Mormont at the usual time they'd reserved for one of their live duels-some godless hour in the early morning…
Starag Mormont was the kind of man who obeyed his instructors to the letter. They knew more than he did, after all, and this was especially prevalent when it came to swordplay.
Except this time, Mormont was sorely disappointed that Arthur had sat him down in the corner of the dining hall with a square-shaped checkered gaming board.
No swords today, apparently.
Arthur himself had not cared to notice Mormont's annoyance. "It's called Chess. Came from the Reach. Supposed to be some sort of Westerosi variation on Cyvasse. Gerold introduced me to it some time ago." He said with a wry smile.
The Dornishman was shorter than Mormont, but he carried himself with a similar air of confidence. The kind that came with the knowledge of one's own Mastery of the sword.
He had short black hair and sparkling purple eyes. Arthur had a square jawline, and his tanned skin had blanched just a tinge during his exiled stay in the North. That, and he'd seemingly given up his southern fashions, and had taken to growing a full beard.
Now, Arthur Dayne looked every bit the Northman who had gone and gotten quite sunburnt in King's Landing.
"Why are we playing it and not crossing swords?" Mormont asked sternly. "I've got work to do."
Arthur simply held up a hand. His gaze was patient. "I said the exact same thing to Gerold. However, I soon began to see its brilliance." He sat back and reflected on what he'd say next. "Think of it like exercise, but for your mind."
Mormont gave a resigned sigh. If Arthur said he'd needed to play, then so be it. "What are the rules?"
The Sword of the Morning smiled broadly. "That's the spirit."
As with learning anything new, Mormont soon found his earlier disappointment being replaced by childish excitement as Arthur laid out the rules rather concisely.
The game was purely one-on-one, to which Arthur had compared it to combat. If you made a single mistake, your opponent would take advantage and you would lose. This alone had intrigued Mormont, as he did not take to board games, but preferred a good round of cards.
There was an element of risk involved, as each player could only make one move per turn. This greatly stimulated Mormont's taste for gambling. He'd have to make the right choice, or he'd be disadvantaged or even lose.
"We both control sixteen pieces." Arthur lifted up one of the front pieces on his side of the board. It was eggshell white, bulby, and short. "This is a pawn. It's one of your more basic pieces, but can be devilishly effective if used correctly."
Mormont looked at his own arsenal. His pieces were charcoal black, but they were the same shapes as compared to Arthur's. He too had eight pawns on the board.
"The pawn can only attack diagonally and can move forward one square at a time. If you get them across to your opponent's side of the board, you can turn it into any other piece except for the King." Arthur explained.
"And what does the King do?" Mormont asked. He picked up the tallest of the black pieces. It was a slim tower shape with an ornate crown on top. "Can he move more than one square?"
Arthur shook his head. "No. The King can only move one square at a time in any direction, and is your most important piece." He picked up the same white-crowned piece on his side. "The King is you. If the King is threatened, you either have to move him or defend him. If he's completely trapped and can't make any possible moves to escape, then you lose the game."
More real than most people might think. If this game originated in the Reach, then Olenna Tyrell must've had a hand in its creation. It was exactly the kind of twisted and cynical game she'd play.
"So, the objective of the game is to trap your opponent's King?" Mormont asked as he sipped his first cup of coffee for the morning. "Sounds simple enough."
"Maybe, but remember that you're up against someone else. They'll do anything to make sure you lose and they win." Arthur reminded him.
The Queen, which was slightly shorter than the King, was far more mobile and efficient. She could literally zip across the board in a single move in any direction and was the most powerful piece.
The two Rooks could move as far as possible in a straight line and be meant to support each other as castle walls might support a garrison of soldiers.
As for the Knights and Bishops, the latter could only move diagonally. While the former was capable of jumping over and capturing other pieces in a sort of L-shape.
Both sides had completely equal setups, which meant that the outcome of the game was dependent on skill and mental ability. Indeed, it was a more sophisticated form of combat. One that immediately interested Mormont, and made him eager to begin playing.
And so they did. Arthur went first as were the rules of white over black. He moved up the pawn in front of his Queen two spaces forward.
He clarified the move. "When starting from the line, you can move the pawns up two squares or one. Afterward, it's only one square."
Mormont nodded in understanding and copied the move. He needed to get the hang of the game first. Which meant he was likely going to lose this first round, and many more afterward.
Sure enough, and much to Mormont's annoyance, Arthur had quickly pulled out both his Queen and one of his Bishops and trapped Mormont's King in a few simple moves. He won.
"Damn." Starag grit his teeth as they reset the pieces on the board. The maneuver had been so incredibly easy for the Dornishman, and would have been equally effortless for Mormont to predict, that it had offended his ego.
Arthur gave him a knowing smile. "It's very frustrating, believe me."
"But incredibly addictive," Mormont added. He took another swig from his mug of coffee. Rhaenys would be a natural at this game. "Again." He said.
Dayne smiled encouragingly and had moved a pawn standing in front of his right Rook up two squares.
This time, Mormont managed to snag two of Arthur's pawns and one of his Bishops before Dayne had trapped him with a Knight and his Queen.
They played perhaps dozens of games over the next few hours as the sun rose high into the sky. Each game, Starag Mormont had gotten wiser to Chess, and was more fluid and calculated with his moves.
Although it was more frustrating than not, he managed to keep himself ice-cold. He was playing against someone who clearly understood the game better than he did.
Mormont had managed to win three games, which was a well-earned victory in his book. Even if he just barely managed to outwit Arthur by inching his pawns up across the board before Dayne could retaliate.
By the time they'd finished, breakfast was being served in the large dining hall. The men-at-arms had begun feasting, and Mormont's family had gathered at the high table.
Both men had decided to join them and made for the breakfast table. They'd eat light, as they both wanted to spar after the meal.
"Uncle Arthur!" Duncan had almost jumped out of his seat upon seeing the Dornishman. He ran up to the both of them with an excited grin on his face.
Arthur had nearly been knocked over by the impact of the tall four-year-old's hug. He managed to catch himself with his light feet. "Oof- It's good to see you too, lad." He said with a warm smile. "You seem to be getting taller every time I visit."
"Indeed." Mormont agreed. "One day, he'll be the world's biggest man."
Now it was his turn for a fierce hug. The boy wrapped his arms tight around his waist. Duncan had blushed scarlet at his father's praise. "But I won't be as strong as you, father."
"No." Mormont ruffled the boy's charcoal black curls. He grinned wickedly at his son. "You'll be stronger."
"How did they get here?" Arthur's question hung in the air like a bad smell.
The Sword of the Morning was of course referring to the band of wildlings that had now become part of Mormont's own tribe. The two men watched silently atop the hillside as the wildlings went about constructing a new feast hall.
The foundation had already been laid and boarded up with spare wooden planks that Sigmund had requested. Now, there were thick pine logs acting as pillars and support beams inside the square structure. The walls would also be logs, so as to protect them better from the cold.
Even though there was barely a change in temperature, Sigmund had still commented that they now lived in the "South" as opposed to the "True North". Mormont did not bother arguing with him about that point. It was trivial at best.
Starag Mormont knew there was no point in hiding the truth from Arthur. The Sword of the Morning was one of his closest friends and mentors. He'd find out sooner or later, anyway. "You want the long version? Or the short version?"
"Long. Don't want any details left out." Arthur said stolidly.
Mormont told the other man of what occurred on the other side of the Wall. He left nothing to the imagination and had been rather vivid in his descriptions. Especially when he brought up the Other…
Dayne had kept a stony mask the whole time. If he disbelieved the story, there was no hint in his expression. "You fought one of these things?"
"I did," Starag replied. "But that's why we have wildlings with us now. I made an oath to their former leader, and I kept it."
Arthur gave him a respectful nod. "I just hope they can be trusted. As for these… demons… We should tell Ned as soon as possible. He can raise the banners and pool all the resources we have in the North to fight this threat."
"I'm quite sure he'll know soon enough if he doesn't already," Mormont said. "My father will have sent him a letter about it. There may not be much we can do about the dead, but there may be something we can do about the Others…"
Dayne's glance asked him to elaborate. He did. "As I said, not even castle-forged steel works against the Others' weaponry. It shatters into pieces. But Valyrian Steel seems to do the trick. I have a hunch it's something to do with magic, but I could be wrong…"
His mentor seemed to ponder the matter in his head as he took the time to think about it. "Perhaps. You said they could raise the dead. Necromancy is supposedly a form of magic in itself. And these swords that they use… Certainly seems magical as well…" Arthur paused for only a brief moment. "But Valyrian Steel is rather scarce. Surely there's something else we can use…"
Mormont flipped over the other man's words in his mind. Wasn't Valyrian Steel forged with obsidian? Dragonglass? Did that have something to do with it? He'd have to look into it. Even better, Torwyn's friend would be more knowledgeable on that front.
"There's a man coming to Bear Island who might know more." Mormont relit his pipe. "A chap named Marwyn. He's an archmaester from the Citadel who specializes in anything Valyria. He might know something of use."
Arthur looked over at him with searching purple eyes. "I've heard of him. I don't doubt his expertise. However, what if he doesn't know anything we can use?"
Starag shrugged and blew a thick smog of smoke out of his nostrils. "Then I don't know anything else. At least anything short of going to Valyria myself to find an answer…" He said with a loud snort.
As soon as he uttered the words, wheels and gears began to turn in his mind. If Valyrian Steel alone had prevailed against the Others, then what else had the Dragonlords left behind that they could use?
The Valyrian Freehold was a bastion of magical wonders at one point, supposedly. Perhaps there was something else left behind after the Doom had struck the peninsula… Something they could use in their fight against the Others…
Starag Mormont was under no illusions. Valyria was unknowably dangerous. There had been many expeditions to the once rich and prosperous lands belonging to the Dragonlords in the last few centuries alone.
There was a story he'd heard about a Lannister who had gone to Old Valyria. Gerion, wasn't it? He'd gone to find the ancestral blade of House Lannister, which had been lost centuries ago in the once-great Freehold…
He never came back, of course…
All of the expeditions to Valyria had failed. Not because the adventurers didn't make it there…
But because they didn't return.
And yet… There was an inkling in Mormont's mind that told him he'd be just fine…
He didn't know if it was his gambling intuition or just a good stroke of optimism. Either way, he quickly cleared the smoke from his mind. It was by far one of the biggest risks that he'd ever take…
Arthur's purple eyes had widened significantly. "I've seen that look before, Starag. Don't tell me you're actually considering traveling to Valyria? Nobody who's gone there has ever been seen again."
"Well…" Mormont stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It's just an idea. Obviously, it's a last resort, though."
"It shouldn't even be an option to consider." Arthur ground out with an iron-willed voice. His purple eyes turned dark. "We don't know anything about Valyria. Not since the Doom. All we do know is that nobody has returned from that place alive. It would be best left alone. Do you understand?"
"I do," Mormont replied stolidly. "I understand the risks very well, Arthur. But ravens have been sent out from the Citadel. Summer has ended. And if there's no other way we can prepare for the Others, then there might just be something we can use in Valyria…"
Dayne narrowed his eyes in frustration. "Starag… I know you've always been one to take risks… But going to Valyria? That is perhaps the most foolish choice of all, and one that will absolutely get you killed." He stepped closer. "Do you want to make Rhaenys a widow? I've seen the way she looks at you. She cannot live without you, Starag. This whole bloody island could barely function without you here to watch everything. Do you seriously want to throw that all away just so you can gallivant like in the stories and play the Last Hero? Because you're bored of all this? Because you want to be the only man to boast of victory where all others failed?"
Slowly, Starag Mormont took the pipe out of his mouth. He blew out another puff of smoke away from Arthur. He respected this man far too much to get angry with him. Yet, he needed to defend himself.
"No." Mormont began, letting the ice enter his veins once again. "For once, Arthur, this isn't about me. I'm not considering an expedition to Valyria because of my pride, or out of boredom… It's because if I don't, the lives of my people, my family, and my friends," He bit out the last word pointedly at Arthur. "Will all be in serious danger. If the Others come marching past the Wall, we'll be the first they'll hit. If they didn't know of me before, they certainly do now. They're professional, Arthur. Ruthless. Emotionless. Most of all patient. They'll go for House Mormont first, and if I'm not prepared for them, then I'll lose everything anyway…"
"At least with this expedition…" He trailed off. "At least I have a chance to stop it before it happens. To find… something we can use. Whether it's more Valyrian Steel, Dragons, or even magic itself… It's either that or die trying…" Mormont finished stolidly.
Arthur had given a weary sigh. "I won't be able to convince you, will I?"
"Probably not." Mormont had shaken his head. "But like I said… It's the last resort. I promise we'll look over our other options first. I'm not saying that I will go there, I'm simply saying that I'm willing to if need be."
The Sword of the Morning looked at him pleadingly. "I hope for your sake, and for the lives of our family, you don't need to…"
So do I… Mormont thought to himself.
Silence fell between the two men. They simply watched over the band of wildlings in the clearing below as they worked away. Nothing more needed to be said.
It was perhaps a moon later when a ship bearing the sigil of a tall white tower with a flaming crown was seen just off the coast of the Stony Shore towards Westhelm. It arrived at Bear Island a few days later.
Stepping off the boat was "The Mage" as Torwyn had referred to him.
Mormont had heard of the rather short and stout-looking man carousing in the Dancing Fox Inn in Frostgate Town. He sent for the Archmaester with an escort of armed guards.
It hadn't taken them long to reach Bear Keep, and quickly, Marwyn was sent up to the Lord's Office to discuss more confidential matters of state…
And now, he sat directly across from Starag Mormont. Torwyn sat at Marwyn's side, and Arthur stood leaning against the mantlepiece just above the fire off to the side.
Marwyn "The Mage" was not exactly what Mormont expected him to look like. He'd expected an old man shambling around in a heavy robe with a burly set of chains. Perhaps even with an odd-looking mustache…
The man sitting across from him was none of those things…
While he certainly appeared to be somewhat out of shape, he had a sort of lean and hard look to him. The kind that one gets when they spend too much time in dangerous settings or foreign places…
His hair was an older mix of slicked-back dark brown and wiry silver, with white hairs growing out of his ears and even… his nose, too. His hands were rather large as well, and he wore a battered and worn brown coat with different colored threads and patches of cloth.
Not exactly the usual clean-cut Maester… But then again, Torwyn had reminded him of Marwyn's odd nature. He was considered the black sheep of the Citadel…
Mormont himself had little regard for the "Knights of the Mind" except for Torwyn, Maester Luwin of Winterfell, and perhaps Maester Aemon at Castle Black. The rest were outside of his circle and could rot for all he cared.
This man too seemed to have a similar distaste for his fellow Maesters. So, perhaps there was the hope of a solid working relationship yet. If they got along, things would run that much smoother.
"Welcome to Bear Island," Mormont gave the older man the customary warm smile of greeting. "Would you mind if I called you Marwyn?"
"Not at all." The Mage had replied politely. "And thank you for the invite. I've not spent as much time in the North. It's always good to get away from the nuisances of the Citadel." He gave a hesitant smile. "Of course, it's not every day I get word of someone in need of my knowledge and expertise… It's a pleasant surprise. And Torwyn has spoken quite highly of you. As such, I am at your service, Lord Mormont." Marwyn finished with a bow of his head.
Mormont nodded his thanks to Torwyn. This meeting wouldn't be possible without the old man, after all. "Yes, well… We've got more than a few questions that need answering. Of course, what I am about to divulge to you cannot leave this room. Do you understand?"
Marwyn The Mage had looked rather curiously at him and gave another look at Torwyn, who simply nodded. "I understand, my lord," Marwyn said after a moment.
"Good." The Bear Lord had begun his tale and told it as thoroughly and with as much detail as he could remember of it.
Unlike both Torwyn and Arthur, Marwyn had sat forward in his seat, immensely curious and completely engaged in the story. Especially when Mormont began speaking of the Other, what it looked like, what its sword had done, and specifically when he told of how Longclaw had managed to hold its own against the icy-cold blade.
"So you see, Marwyn…" Mormont trailed off. "Valyrian Steel managed to do the trick. Longclaw is the reason I'm still alive and telling you this story. And now we know that it must have something to do with how the steel was forged." He took a draft of his mug of coffee. "What can you tell us about it?"
Marwyn had sat back in his chair. His curiosity was replaced by deep thought and reflection, almost as if the gears inside his head were turning at top speed.
This was a good sign. The other man was thinking of the right thing to say. He was searching through the immense well of knowledge he'd accumulated in the last several decades. This man was an expert in his field.
Finally. "There may be something to it…" Marwyn began slowly. He began stroking the goatee on his strong jaw. "Valyrian Steel was forged with ancient spells-specifically blood magic. Not to mention the Valyrians had used obsidian-what we call dragonglass- during the forging process."
"Not even Dragonfire?" Arthur had asked from the fireplace.
Marwyn shook his head quickly. "No. Those are just fairy tales made up by the smallfolk. Dragonfire is supposedly damn near as hot as magma. It would be far too difficult to breathe, much less even be near during the forging process. Even if the Valyrians of old could withstand more heat than normal men."
He continued. "However, the exact blood magic rituals are lost. They are only known and replicated by the smiths of Qohor, who are about as ready to divulge that information as I'm the Emperor of Yi Ti…" Marywn quipped sharply. "But if the Others of legend wield magic like the Valyrians once did… Then it stands to reason that magic would be the equalizer. As was the case with your blade against the Other's. They were both magical weapons inherently. Therefore, that must mean that magic is what will and can destroy them…"
Torwyn shuffled slightly in his seat and raised a bony finger. "If I'm not mistaken, the Last Hero did go in search of the Children of the Forest, so as to recruit them and harness their magic so he could fight back against the Others…"
"Exactly." The Mage snapped his fingers, his thoughts were firing quickly. "It lines up. Since it's been eight thousand years or so since the Long Night, this Other likely thought that magic had died out in Westeros and went for the easy pickings."
Mormont sat forward and posted his elbows on his desk. "Is there something we can use now? Something we can mass produce for the Night's Watch? Something that can take out these Others?"
"Obsidian," Marwyn answered immediately. "The Valyrians called it "Frozen Fire". Since it comes from the earth, and the world itself used to be teeming with magic in ages past. It was also the primary weapon of the Children of the Forest if I'm not wrong…" He looked to Torwyn for confirmation, to which the older man had nodded his head.
So there was that, at least. Obsidian, dragonglass… That was something they could begin using right now. An early victory, but…
"What about these dead men… The wights?" Mormont pressed further. Obsidian weapons and arrows could only go so far. Valyrian Steel may have worked on the Other, but it had no effect on the dead girl Mormont had maimed in Seafell…
The Others could just resurrect the dead again and again. They'd constantly be hurled at the Night's Watch and the North without a single Other being killed. It would be the Siege of Storm's End all over again, the defenders slowly and surely running out of food and resources until they began eating each other. All the while, the invaders would patiently watch and wait for everyone to die out…
Clearly, magic made no difference to the dead...
"That… Is a bit more tricky…" Marwyn admitted. "But I suspect that fire may do the trick…"
The Mage noticed the three searching glances sent his way and continued. "The religion told by the Red Priests of R'hllor also includes details about the Others. Supposedly, they are led by the Champion of the Great Other, their god. This champion is a sort of King or Commander if that makes sense…"
He elaborated. "And seeing as R'hllor's main weapon and tool is fire, and judging by how the Other's magic can raise the dead and are capable of summoning great cold…"
A fragment of a memory clicked instantly in Mormont's mind. Something that Ulfgar had said the day they'd gone to Seafell…
"We always burn the dead. Even after raids." Were the old man's words…
Of course! That must be it! If the wildlings had more experience beyond the Wall, surely they'd already know about the Others, and they'd know exactly how to dispose of their dead.
Marwyn had begun to answer his internal question. "-It's a sort of cleaning act, almost… The Red Priests say that fire cleanses the soul. I'm willing to bet that will be the main weapon against the dead…"
"Agreed," Mormont said in reply. "It fits with what the wildlings do for funeral rites beyond the Wall. They always burn their dead. I'm guessing it's because they're more prone to encounters like this."
"Makes sense…" Arthur nodded in agreement. "They're in closer proximity to the Others more often than not. Clearly, they'd be aware of how valuable fire is…" He began pacing the room as he paused. "But didn't you say the Others could command the weather as well? Fire won't last long in a bad storm. Not long at all."
Mormont's earlier hopes were quickly dashed against the wall. Fair enough, and definitely something they'd need to look out for. The many cold and blank firepits in Seafell had sternly reminded him of that, too…
Their only weapons were Obsidian and Fire… Quite pitiful seeing as their enemies could literally raise the dead as puppets, and wield ice-blades so cold, that they could shatter castle-forged steel in less than a second…
It would have to do for now. Unless they somehow managed to pull Valyrian magic out of nowhere, they just had to make do…
Mormont looked to Torwyn. "Draft up a letter for my father. Have it ready within the hour. Tell him to get his hands on as much dragonglass as he possibly can. Have arrows, daggers, and whatever else he needs to be made. Tell him fire will work against the dead as well."
"My lord." Torwyn stood up from his chair and bowed his head. He then opened the large pine door to Mormont's office, left the room, and closed the door behind him.
Starag Mormont continued to sit in contemplative silence for a few more moments. What else could he do? Not very much, at least not from Bear Island…
He needed to be on the front lines somehow. He needed to be doing something important. The nervous tension and excitement were too much for him to just sit in his office all day and do paperwork…
No… Mormont couldn't stand it anymore. A war was coming. One that the North was drastically underprepared for… All they had was a black rock, and fire to combat it…
"My apologies if I did not have the answers you sought, Lord Mormont…" Marwyn frowned and bowed his head. "I'm afraid there's little to go on…" The older man's face turned into a mild grin. "At least, of what can be found in Westeros that is… I'm sure at the bottom of some pit in Valyria, there's probably a tome speaking volumes about magic or whatnot…"
Mormont's eye flickered solely onto "The Mage" just then, and stayed on the older man… But at the same time, Starag wasn't looking at him. He was thinking intently about the final sentence that left the older man's mouth…
"-At the bottom of some pit in Valyria…"
"-some pit in Valyria…"
"Valyria…"
Valyria.
…
Shit. He thought to himself right then. Is there actually something in Valyria?
He didn't need to ask the question out loud. Especially when Arthur had stopped pacing his side of the room. "What do you mean?" Dayne had asked hesitantly.
Marwyn thought of the right thing to say yet again. "Well… The Valyrian Freehold was home to plenty of different brands of magic. Look at Dragonstone, for instance. The Stone Drum had been forged out of volcanic rock as if it were clay. Only by the use of Valyrian magic." He stroked his ragged goatee once again. "And the Dragonlords were capable of using blood magic to perform terrible experiments. There were even a few who could wield fire as a weapon."
Mormont sat forward. "And… presumably… This knowledge can still be found in Valyria?"
The Archmaester shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, Lord Mormont. I've never been there myself. If I knew for certain, I would've gone a long time ago."
Starag shared a distant look with Arthur. Those pale purple orbs had pain in them. He also knew their chances of withstanding the Others and their army of the dead which potentially ranged in the millions. It wasn't looking good.
But suddenly… This idea of a potential expedition to the Valyrian Freehold itself was looking more and more… real as the day progressed…
Shit. He thought to himself again.
Starag Mormont was always the kind of man who was willing to take risks, and he still was for that matter. He always weighed the factors in his mind, and judged them dispassionately each time…
But this? This was perhaps one of the biggest risks he'd ever take in his life. Perhaps the one that might snuff him out for good…
Admittedly, his ego had found the challenge enticing. Not a single expedition to Valyria had ever returned, and a part of him was dying to attack the chance to make history by being the first to return from beyond the Smoking Sea…
Even better now that the livelihood and well-being of his family and people were in peril… He'd have a genuine excuse to go out and do it…
But what if he didn't return? What would his people do then? How would his family fare without him?
Maege would try to pick up the pieces, no doubt. She'd do a decent job at running Bear Island for a time. But at some point, something terrible would happen to the fortune and assets that Mormont had assembled over the last four years. They'd be back to scrounging for scraps of gold, only this time with many more mouths to feed...
Dacey would continue running Westhelm… But without proper guidance, she'd become purposeless. A ship riding the waves without a sail. The worst thing that could happen in a chaotic storm...
And Rhaenys? Mormont knew that whenever he'd left for business or battle, his lady wife would always throw herself into a depressive mood… She couldn't imagine living life without him. He absolutely loved that about her...
His children would grow up only having distant memories of their lord father. They might even curse his name for sailing off on a hopeless journey to Valyria… All so he could chase after a fairy tale…
A fairy tale? The Others were childhood stories and legends come to life… They wielded terrifying magic… They could render normal weapons and armor useless, could summon blighting storms that snuff out even the strongest fire, and raise the dead with but a wave of the hand…
They weren't a fairy tale… Not in the slightest…
Neither were Dragons at some point. An asset of the Targaryens was their Dragons… Living fire trapped within gargantuan, bulky, scale-lined bodies…
And then his mind had filtered back to the image of those seven direwolves he'd seen so many years ago… Direwolves weren't supposed to exist… They were fairy tales…
Thud! Thud! Thud! There was a hasty knocking at his door. Torwyn. He probably finished up with that letter.
"Come in," Mormont ordered sharply, having been broken out of his thoughts.
The old man came into the room. There was a haggard look on his pale face, and all he held in his hand was an open letter…
Torwyn immediately handed it to Starag. "It's from Lord Stark. Meant for you, my lord…"
Mormont widened his eyes in surprise. Ned never sent him a letter unless it was absolutely important, or unless he wanted him to come to Winterfell. Both of them were busy quite often. They both respected one another's time.
He didn't even look at the letter, though. Torwyn looked as if all the energy had been sucked out of him. He must've felt bad for opening the letter. He'd been used to doing that all his life with Starag's own father. Old habits die hard, after all…
"Don't worry about it Torwyn. It's just a letter." Mormont assured the old man, yet Torwyn did not change his grave expression.
"Forgive me, Starag…" The old man's grandfatherly voice was grim and dark. "But it is the contents of the letter which have made me so melancholic…" He said finally as he looked to the floor with a heavy sigh…
What is it? Mormont's mind bolted to the question. He looked down at the white parchment with a steady lightning blue eye and began to read.
Starag,
My friend, I need you to come to Winterfell immediately. Benjen told me everything about what happened in the wildling village.
I require what information you can give me, as you've witnessed these Others firsthand.
And I regret to inform you of terrible news. A few nights ago, your father was-
Mormont had torn his eye away from the page. Now he gazed out the triangular-shaped glass window just on the other side of his office…
"Leave me. All of you." Starag ordered calmly. His tone of voice left no room for argument.
Torwyn was the first to make his way out. He bowed carefully and left the room without making a sound.
Marwyn had made to stand up. He'd perfectly recognized the kind of iron voice that spoke those five hard words. It was that of immovable authority. A voice belonging to the Targaryen Kings of old…
Of course, Mormont had not forgotten his manners in his now ice-cold demeanor. "I thank you for your service, Marwyn. Here," Mormont ignored the white letter on his desk and took a new parchment from the sheath of blank pages by his side. He wrote a few words on it and took the red wax seal by the right corner of his desk, and stamped the page firmly and coolly.
Mormont held up the cream-colored page to Marwyn. "Give this to the owner of the Dancing Fox. He will give you the King's Suite free of charge for the rest of your stay on Bear Island. However long that may be, it does not matter."
The Archmaester had given him a look of immense gratitude, which was quickly replaced by fearful puzzlement. Reluctantly, he accepted the note and left the office.
Finally, the Sword of the Morning stood stolidly as he looked at Starag. The pain in his eyes had been replaced by understanding. And sorrow as well. He knew, or at least suspected what had happened…
No words needed to be spoken. Arthur nodded and strode out of the room. He closed the door gently behind him.
Starag Mormont continued to elude the lonely white letter on his desk. He hadn't even read the rest of the letter. He'd only stopped at that dreaded middle point…
Instead, he opened up one of the drawers of his desk and took out the half-filled glass bottle of swift golden ichor within. The Braavosi Firebrand sloshed and flowed as easily as water.
He uncorked the bottle and drank the spicy, honeyed liquid until there was nothing left inside the bottle.
Once he'd set it down, Mormont then reached into his coat and took out his pipe. He lit it easily as always and took a hearty draw.
The ice had resettled into his veins. It had been there the whole time as he sat by himself in his office.
And now, as he gave himself the courage to look back onto the page, he felt a raging heat burn at him from within… As hot as Dragonfire itself…
-your father was stabbed to death in his chambers by one of the dead men brought back from a recent ranging. Supposedly, they hadn't received word of Benjen's trip to Seafell-
Mormont slammed his closed fist down on his desk. BAM! The contents on top of the pinewood flat had quaked terribly. The neat stack of paper had slid into a deep incline. Of course, they hadn't known…
They hadn't known because of Them…
Maybe it was some fool at the Night's Watch who had misplaced one of the most crucial letters to the well-being of the men on the Wall…
Perhaps it was some freak storm which the raven had been caught in, had been forced to take shelter, and then promptly eaten by a hungry treecat…
But in Starag Mormont's mind, there was only one possibility…
The Others had recognized the flaws in their plan. They wanted to lure out the leadership of the Night's Watch. The real fighting men who the black brothers admired and followed… Benjen Stark, and Jeor Mormont…
However, when the time came to swoop in for the kill, their plans had been dashed away the moment Starag cleaved off the arm of the Other in Seafell…
But that didn't mean they couldn't improvise…
And when a separate ranging beyond the Wall was made, far different from the one at Seafell…
They saw their chance to take out the Old Bear himself, and even get revenge on the man who'd foiled their plans…
Two birds with one stone. Cold. Ruthless. Efficient.
Mormont simply blew another puff of smoke out of his mouth and nostrils. As he thought the plan over and over in his head. As his thoughts raced through the last several hours…
This was the game now. The Others had drawn first blood. They'd killed his father in his own bed. And they were daring Starag Mormont to make his move…
Well, if it was a war the Others wanted…
He glanced up at the overhanging map of the Known World. He traced along every single imperfect line in the dim glow of the firelight. All the way until he reached the broken peninsula of Old Valyria…
It was a war they'd get…