The ironborn, once fierce and relentless, were now merely exhausted shadows of their former selves. The House Mormont soldiers were separating the invaders into small groups, exactly four men at a time. It was a pragmatic precaution: four men were easy to watch, difficult to organize into a revolt, and simple to bind. Thick hemp ropes, taken from the fishing stocks and the castle reserves, passed from wrist to wrist, tightened with knots that left no room for maneuver.
Jorah Mormont walked ahead, sweat wiping away the smears of blood that stained his face. At his side, Maege Mormont carried her mace casually over her shoulder, though her eyes were in constant motion, watching the ranks of prisoners. Roluf followed close behind Jorah; his large hands still trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the adrenaline that was slow to subside. He had been summoned by Jorah in the heat of the moment and now felt like a fish out of water between the two nobles of the island.
And, a few paces behind them, followed the figure that caused a vacuum of silence wherever it passed.
Alaric, still trapped in the form of a monumental bear, moved with a predatory grace that did not belong to an ordinary animal. His fur, once brown, was now matted with dark blood and mud. Each step of his massive paws left a deep mark in the soil softened by battle.
The Northerners, men raised under the emblem of the bear, should have been accustomed to the image, but reality was different from the embroidery on a banner. As the group advanced, the soldiers organizing the prisoners stopped what they were doing. They recoiled, some tripping over their own feet, others reaching for the hilt of their swords by pure instinctive reflex. The fear was palpable, a chill running down the spines of men who had just faced death but did not know how to react to an apex predator.
Maege, noticing the hesitation and dread in the eyes of the younger lads, let out a short, dry laugh, laden with her habitual sarcasm. She did not stop walking, hardly bothering to look back to check on the beast.
"Settle down, you softhearted lot!" she shouted, her voice projecting over the courtyard with authority. "The bear doesn't bite. At least not you, unless you start smelling of sea salt."
Some men laughed nervously, but the tension did not fully dissipate. Jorah, however, did not share his aunt's casualness. His eyes flicked back to Alaric every few seconds, a gleam of anxiety evident in his features. The prospect of explaining to his father that the bear was his brother weighed heavier than the armor on his shoulders.
They spotted Jeor Mormont near several guards, barking quick orders on how the prisoners should be treated. When Jeor noticed Jorah and Maege approaching, he began to raise his hand, ready to give them a new task, but his words died in his throat.
His gaze locked onto the beast following them. Jeor saw the wounds on the animal's flank, the deep cuts that still bled, and the way the bear seemed to observe the surroundings with an intelligence no wild animal possessed. The Lord of Bear Island straightened his back, his presence becoming even more imposing.
"Explain yourselves," Jeor ordered, his voice raspy and serious, cutting through any ambient sound. His eyes did not leave the bear.
Maege stepped forward with a relaxed posture, wiping blood from her cheek with the back of her hand.
"Relax, Jeor. The beast came out of nowhere and started tearing the ironborn apart as if they were made of straw. They fled from him like they'd seen the Stranger himself."
She shrugged, a slight smile forming on her lips as she looked at the beast.
"He didn't lay a finger on me or my men. In fact, he seemed to be protecting us. Must have been sent by the Old Gods to teach these invaders a lesson."
At that moment, Alaric let out a small roar. It wasn't a sound of aggression, but a guttural noise, almost like a comment on Maege's narrative. The woman let out a genuine laugh, slapping her thigh.
Jeor, however, found no humor in the situation. His brow furrowed, and he tightened his grip on his sword hilt.
"Keep that beast at a safe distance from the ironborn, Maege," Jeor ordered, his voice devoid of any lightness. "I don't want any of them dead now that they've surrendered. They are worth more as hostages or as warnings to the Iron Islands. If this bear decides he wants a snack, we lose our leverage."
He turned to Jorah and Maege, returning to immediate command mode.
"Take some men and clear out some houses to use as temporary prisons, since our cells in the Keep won't hold them all. Meanwhile, I'm going to gather the men who can still fight to check if any of those who ran managed to escape by boat. I'll also scout the island for anyone hiding in the woods."
Jeor was about to walk away, already calling for one of his guards, when Jorah's voice stopped him.
"Father!" Jorah called out.
Jeor stopped abruptly. The use of the personal title, rather than "Lord," was like a warning signal. He turned slowly, noting that Jorah stood rigid, with an expression that mixed exhaustion and an urgency Jeor rarely saw in his son.
"What is it?" Jeor asked, puzzled by the behavior. He noticed Roluf also approaching, his face pale and nervous. "You're the woodcutter, Rodrik's grandson, aren't you? What do you have to do with this?" he said, recognizing one of the few inhabitants of his island.
Jorah took a deep breath, trying to organize the words that seemed stuck in his throat.
"Alaric didn't stay in the Keep, father. He joined me as soon as the ironborn broke through the palisade."
Jeor arched an eyebrow, interest now replacing irritation. Jorah continued, speaking fast, the words coming out in a flood. He described how the defense was being mounted, how they were successfully repelling the invaders, until the moment they managed to take down the ironborn leader. He narrated the reversal, the moment the invaders began jumping the defenses to surround them from behind, creating a deadly choke point.
At this point in the explanation, Maege, who until then had been listening with a half-smile, frowned. She looked at Jorah and then at the empty space around them.
"Wait... Alaric was down there with you?" she asked, her voice losing its playful tone. "Where is he now?"
She and Jeor began to look around frantically. They searched for the dark-haired boy with the reserved gaze, expecting him to emerge from behind a group of soldiers or from inside one of the supply tents. Jeor, in particular, felt a tightness in his chest he hadn't felt in years. Alaric was his youngest son, the one he had tried to keep away from the brutality of the front lines because of his calmer nature.
Jorah noticed their visual search and felt his stomach churn. He continued the account, his voice trembling slightly.
"I... I took half the men to hold the flank. Alaric stayed with the rest. He fought as if he were twice his age, father. After we finished with the ironborn at our position, I ran back to join him, but..."
Jorah stopped. The "but" hung in the air, heavy and cold.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Jeor Mormont, the man who had faced blizzards and invasions without blinking, seemed to age ten years in a second. His expression became more serious than usual, a mask of stone hiding a storm of emotions. Even Maege, whose presence usually lit up the environment with her brute strength and acid jokes, lost her spark. She stood still, her hand gripping the handle of her flail so hard her knuckles turned white.
I should have said it at once, Jorah thought, the weight of Alaric's secret burning in his mind. He looked at the bear sitting calmly a few yards away, watching them with eyes that shone with human consciousness.
Jeor took a step forward, his voice coming out dry, direct, every syllable laden with the fear of a father who has already seen too many tragedies.
"He is dead?" Jeor bellowed, though the volume was low.
The silence following Jeor Mormont's question was as heavy as a shroud. The Old Bear kept his eyes fixed on Jorah, waiting for the final blow, the confirmation that his youngest son had fallen in the mud of Bear Island. Beside him, Maege seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, her hand still gripping the handle of her flail with a force that made her tendons stand out.
Seeing the raw pain on his father's face, Jorah felt a sudden urgency break through his hesitation. He stepped forward, hands outstretched as if he could physically ward off the grief already settling over them.
"No!" Jorah exclaimed, his voice louder and more urgent than intended. "No, Father. Alaric is not dead."
The relief was instantaneous, but it lasted only a heartbeat before being replaced by aggressive confusion. Jeor frowned, his thick brows knitting into a line of pure irritation. If Alaric wasn't dead and the battle was over, why wasn't he here, presenting himself to his Lord and father? Why was Jorah acting as if he were hiding a crime?
"Where is he, then?" Jeor demanded. His voice was no longer the broken whisper of a grieving parent, but the growl of a Lord whose patience was rapidly depleting. "If he's alive, why are you standing here stammering instead of bringing him to me?"
Jorah did not answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted away from Jeor and landed on the great beast that remained seated, watching the scene with supernatural calm.
Jeor followed his son's gaze and saw only the bloodied creature. The fact that Jorah was casting "strange looks" at a wild animal while his brother was missing was the final straw for the Lord of Bear Island.
"Answer my question, damn it!" Jeor roared, taking a heavy step toward Jorah. "Stop looking at that beast and speak! Where is your brother? Where is Alaric?"
Jorah swallowed hard, feeling cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck. He pointed a trembling hand toward Roluf, who stood a few paces away, looking as if he wanted to vanish into the ground.
"Father... I... when I returned to the palisade..." Jorah began, his voice failing him. "I didn't find Alaric. Where he should have been, there was only... there was only the bear. And then Roluf told me... he explained that..."
Jorah locked up. The words "Alaric turned into a bear" felt too ridiculous to utter aloud, even in the face of the bloody evidence before him. He looked at his father, then at Roluf, then at the beast, and his mind simply refused to form the final sentence. It was a blockage born of the logic of a world where such things weren't supposed to happen.
Jeor opened his mouth, chest puffed out to launch a torrent of insults at his heir's inability to provide an explanation, but the sound never came. The air around the bear began to vibrate.
The light on Bear Island was always grey and dull, but now, small spheres of a vibrant, unnatural green began to sprout from the beast's matted fur. They floated like ghostly fireflies, swirling around the massive body in a silent whirlwind.
Jeor recoiled a step, his hand flying to the hilt of Longclaw. Maege let out an audible gasp, her eyes wide as reality began to bend before them.
The bear did not just change; it disintegrated and reformed. The mass of flesh and fur seemed to collapse inward as the green spheres intensified. Within seconds, the silhouette of the beast vanished, replaced by a humanoid shape. However, it wasn't Alaric immediately. It was a figure of smooth green skin, featureless, faceless, and unmarked, a tabula rasa made of pure energy or magical matter.
Then, the detailing began.
As if an invisible hand were painting over the void, clothes appeared over the green body: the thick wool tunic, the tanned leather brigandine covering it, the leather helm, the woolen trousers, and the boots. Next, a shield of wood and steel materialized on his left arm, and a sword, stained with blood earned in battle, appeared in his right hand. Finally, the green skin began to clear, turning pale and human, and the smooth features of the face gave way to the familiar traits of Alaric Mormont.
The process lasted little more than two seconds, but for those present, it felt like an eternity.
Maege Mormont let her mace fall into the mud, the metallic clang the only sound in the now-silent courtyard. Jeor stood static, his mouth slightly open, his face losing all color. It wasn't just them; every Northman who had been busy with the prisoners was now staring at the spot where the bear had been. Even the ironborn, surrendered and bound, watched with a terror that surpassed the fear of execution.
Alaric, now in his human form, did not look triumphant. The moment the transformation completed and the system "rendered" his physical body back into reality, the adrenaline of the wild shape vanished, and the damage sustained before transforming returned with full force.
He felt the world spin violently. Dizziness hit him like a hammer. Alaric staggered, his legs buckling under the weight of his own body. The shield and sword that had just appeared slipped from his hands and fell heavily to the ground. He brought his right hand to his head, tossing his helm aside and touching the back of his skull where the ironborn's axe had struck him moments before.
His fingers touched something warm, sticky, and deep. By touch alone, he could feel the open gash running across his scalp, nearly reaching the bone. Pain throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. When he withdrew his hand and brought it before his eyes, his fingers were covered in thick, vivid red.
This is bad... he thought, his mind calm despite the physical shock. Skull fragments might have pierced my brain.
To the others, Alaric was merely staring at his own bloody hand, but before his eyes, the world was covered by a translucent interface only he could see.
[Total Experience: 3,490 / 2,700]
[LEVEL AVAILABLE!]
He hadn't just earned all 1,200 possible experience points offered by the [Defense of Bear Island] mission; he had also reaped 1,390 experience points by slaying all those ironborn.
He felt a wave of exhaustion so deep he could barely keep his eyes open. The noise of the voices around him, Maege starting to scream something, Jeor trying to approach, seemed to come from underwater. He didn't have the energy for explanations now. The wound in his head was draining his consciousness.
"Fuck it," he muttered, the word coming out raspy and dry.
He reached out a mental hand and pressed the virtual [LEVEL UP] button.
The instant his thought sealed the choice, the world stopped.
Maege, who was in the middle of a sentence, "What the fuck happened to...", froze. A drop of sweat falling from Jeor's nose stopped in mid-air. The sound of the wind, the murmur of the prisoners, the crackling of distant flames; everything ceased. Time wasn't just slow; it was static.
Alaric sighed. The silence was a relief. But the true relief came next.
A soft golden light emanated from within his chest, spreading through his limbs like a warm bath on a snowy day. He felt the gash on the back of his head close. The tissue regenerated, blood vessels stitched themselves back together, and the skin sealed perfectly, leaving only dried blood behind. The throbbing pain vanished, replaced by a refreshing mental clarity. The bruises on his ribs, the scratches on his arms, and the extreme fatigue were washed away.
It was certainly worth leveling up now, Alaric thought, straightening his back and savoring the feeling of no longer being dizzy. The full recovery upon leveling up is, certainly, stupidly useful.
He looked around the frozen world, seeing the expressions of absolute shock carved into his family's faces.
Just like when I hit level 2, he thought, remembering his first experience of leveling up years ago.
The green panel in front of him glowed with a new message, and Alaric felt a jolt of surprise.
[REACHED LEVEL 4]
[ABILITY SCORE IMPROVEMENT AVAILABLE]
You have two options:
[Increase one Attribute by +2 points.]
[Increase two different Attributes by +1 point each.]
Alaric stared at the options in shock. He gave a small internal smile, a sense of validation he rarely allowed himself to feel.
So, I wasn't being deluded in expecting something like this, he thought.
The idea that the system would offer the chance to increase his basic attributes, his strength, his agility, his very essence, upon leveling up had crossed his mind long ago. It wasn't something he had read in the rules of Dungeons & Dragons, as his understanding of tabletop rules was fragmented since he'd never cared for those types of games; too childish for his taste. In his childhood, however, he had played RPGs on his SNES and PlayStation 1, and in that logic of pixels and low-resolution polygons, leveling up always meant becoming intrinsically stronger, not just learning new tricks.
He had found it strange that this hadn't happened at levels 2 and 3. He felt more powerful, yes, but his body still seemed limited by the same biology as before.
However, there was a second factor that had made him anticipate this moment. Thanks to the "GM Eyes" skill, Alaric had the passive ability to observe the progress of others, and on two distinct occasions on Bear Island, he had monitored veteran guards who were on the verge of personal evolution. He had seen the exact moment Mael and another guard passed from what the system classified as "Level 3" to "Level 4."
What had intrigued him was the statistical jump. Normally, a man's attributes rise through years of arduous training or through the process of growing up (as was still happening with him and Jorah), one point at a time. But those two men, upon hitting level 4, had their attributes increased by two whole points at once, from one moment to the next.
Mael, being of the Ranger class, had two points added to Dexterity, the most important attribute for a ranger, while the other guard, being of the Fighter class, had the points split between Strength and Constitution, two vital attributes for warriors.
That observation had planted the seed. If common guards gained this massive bonus at level 4, Alaric's system, being the original source of those rules, would surely do the same, and since he could interact with the system, he would be the one to choose where the points went, rather than having them automatically assigned.
And now, knowing his intuition had been correct, he stared at his attributes with intensity. Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma. He had to decide.
Two points... he reflected, his calculating mind working while the rest of the world remained like an ice statue. This could change everything if placed in the right spot.
Alaric let out a mental sigh, feeling the weight of the decision. He had two points to distribute, and each choice could dictate whether he would survive the harsh winters and bloody conspiracies of Westeros or end up as just another anonymous corpse feeding the crows.
His first impulse was to look at the non-physical attributes: Charisma, Intelligence, and Wisdom. There was a pragmatic, almost cruel logic behind this initial inclination. Alaric knew, from his own experience and from observing the rugged Northmen, that the body was a relatively simple tool to mold. With months of exhaustive repetition—carrying stones, swinging swords, or running through forests under the nourishing effect of his Goodberries—any man could increase his strength and endurance. Physical progress was linear, dependent only on sweat, time, and stubbornness.
However, the mind and soul were different. How does one "train" pure intuition? How does one expand the logical processing capacity of a brain beyond its biological limits? In his former world, study took years to yield minimal intellectual fruit, and wisdom often only arrived with the decay of old age. Here, in this system, he had the ultimate shortcut.
He fixed his gaze on Charisma. Currently, he felt his capacity for persuasion was practically nil. Alaric was viewed with suspicion—a stranger with powers that defied local logic. His secrets had been exposed, and fear was the primary reaction of any inhabitant of Bear Island. To the Mormonts and their subjects, he was one step away from being labeled a demon or a practitioner of the dark arts. If he wanted to lead, or at least survive without being hunted, he needed the "spark." Increasing Charisma wouldn't just be about being "handsome" or "nice," but about an aura of authority and the ability to weave words that could calm the heart of an infuriated warrior.
Next, his thoughts migrated to Intelligence. The benefit was tempting. Enhanced logical reasoning would transform him into a strategist without equal. More than that, there was the matter of memory. Alaric possessed fragments of a past life: concepts of gunpowder, medieval siege tactics seen in documentaries, engineering structures, and even advanced politics. However, these memories were hazy, like dreams that fade upon waking. Increasing Intelligence could be the key to unlocking this otherworldly "database," allowing him to bring Earth's technology to the Seven Kingdoms, changing the balance of power forever.
Finally, he considered Wisdom. For a Druid, Wisdom was the foundation of everything. He looked at his current value of 14 and imagined the impact of raising it to 16. In the system governing his existence, this would mean a crucial change in his Wisdom Modifier.
In Alaric's system, modifiers are calculated by subtracting 10 from the attribute value and dividing the result by 2 (rounded down). With Wisdom 14, his current modifier was +2; by rising to Wisdom 16, the modifier would become +3. This small number, +3, is applied to almost everything he does as a caster—it increases damage, healing, and duration. Moving from 14 to 16 wasn't just a numerical increase; it was a leap in efficiency that decreased his need to rely on the roll of the dice.
As Alaric weighed these mental options, his eyes slid toward the physical attributes, stopping specifically on Dexterity. He began to reflect on the guardsmen he had known in the North—specifically those with high Strength and Constitution. They were mountains of muscle and dense bone, capable of withstanding blows that would kill a horse.
Yet, Alaric noticed a pattern: the higher the Strength and Constitution, the lower the Dexterity. It was an equivalent exchange inherent to biology. A man with arms the size of tree trunks might crush a skull, but he could rarely move with the fluidity of a shadow or react with the speed of a serpent. Even in his old world, where magic didn't exist, this was a law of physics: the price of raw power was, almost always, the loss of reaction speed.
But Alaric was no ordinary man. He was a bearer of the System.
An audacious idea began to take shape. If he used natural training and the magical nutrition of Goodberries to push his Strength and Constitution to the human limit, he would gain mass and endurance. Normally, this would make him slow. But what if he used his ability points to force the growth of his Dexterity?
He could break the universal rule. He could be a warrior with the strength of a bear and the agility of a lynx. Imagine a man with the natural armor of massive muscles, yet who moves on the battlefield as if time were slower for him. An unbeatable warrior who does not sacrifice precision for power.
With a firm mental command, Alaric made his decision. He ignored the call of the mind and the silver tongue, focusing on absolute physical survival. He allocated the two points into Dexterity.
The panel glowed intensely, confirming the change. Immediately, he felt a strange lightness in his tendons, as if his reflexes had been lubricated by an invisible force. But the system wasn't finished with him yet. A new message appeared, pulsing in gold:
"Choose a new Cantrip for your collection."
Alaric felt a wave of satisfaction. For a Druid, Cantrips were fundamental. Unlike higher-circle spells, which needed to be prepared and had limited daily uses, Cantrips were natural extensions of his will, capable of being cast infinitely. They were the tools of daily labor. Unfortunately, the Druid class does not learn every Cantrip at once, as it does with higher-level spells.
He scanned the list of available options. Over the years, Alaric had learned that the simplicity of Cantrips was deceptive; they were far more powerful than they appeared. After analyzing the gaps in his arsenal, he chose: Thorn Whip.
"Beyond giving me another means of direct attack," he murmured mentally, analyzing the magic's properties, "it gives me control over the battlefield."
What attracted him most to Thorn Whip, besides providing a ranged attack, was the tactical ability to pull an adversary. In combat, he could yank an archer from a high position, pull an enemy close to his own blade, or stop a deserter from fleeing. It was a versatile weapon, a living whip that bridged the gap between ranged and melee combat.
As soon as the choice was confirmed, the panel dissolved into bluish stardust. The absolute silence was abruptly shattered by the sound of the world coming back to life.
The freezing wind hit Alaric's face with force. Maege Mormont, who was in the middle of a sentence when time stopped for him, finished her words:
"...You?!"
Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, continued his advance toward him. His steps were heavy in the snow, and his face was a mask of confusion and restrained authority. He stopped just inches from Alaric, his eyes examining the youth as if trying to see what lay behind that sudden calm.
"Father…" Alaric began, not addressing him by title or name, but the Lord interrupted him.
"What the fuck was that, Alaric?" Jeor's voice was a low thunder, laden with a mixture of dread and a demand for answers. He was referring to the display of power he had just witnessed—something no ordinary man should be capable of.
Alaric looked around. The atmosphere on the shore was tense. The captured ironborn whispered words like "The Sorcerer" and "Storm God" through gritted teeth. Even some of the Northmen—men who should have been his allies—kept a cautious distance, gripping their weapons and shields tightly.
"It's better if we talk later, Father," Alaric replied, his voice sounding firmer than he felt, a byproduct perhaps of his new physical confidence. "In a more private place. Where the walls don't have ears... or fear."
He signaled discreetly toward the surrounding crowd. Jeor followed Alaric's gaze and realized the growing discomfort of his men. The moment of triumph over the invaders was being eclipsed by the fear of the unknown. The Old Bear growled, understanding the gravity of the political situation.
"Return to Mormont Keep now," Jeor ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And this time, Alaric... obey. Do not leave there until I arrive."
Without flinching or offering any resistance that might further inflame tempers, Alaric nodded. He began to walk toward the fortress, feeling his new reflexes in every step—an agility that seemed to cry out to be tested. On the way, he passed Jorah and Roluf. He did not stop to talk, merely giving a short nod—a gesture of recognition that was returned with looks of pure perplexity.
As he climbed the trail, Alaric knew that today would change everything.
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