Jorah Mormont stood outside the embroidery room, listening.
He heard chatter... laughter... Harlen's laughter.
Facing his mistakes was hard for any man. Admitting them to the woman he loved was even harder. But he had no time left.
He pushed open the door.
The women inside looked up, surprised. Harlen's dark hair was tied in a neat bun, her Lys silk dress flowing around her like water. Even while she embroidered, she moved with quiet elegance.
But Jorah saw more... the years of strain, the exhaustion from two miscarriages, and how her health had slowly declined. He felt guilty for adding to her burdens.
Harlen noticed the worry on his face immediately.
"Leave us," she told the other women.
They obeyed without question.
When the door clicked shut, Jorah exhaled shakily. He collapsed onto the bench, his body heavy with dread. He stared at the floor, unable to meet her eyes, silence pressing between them like a stone.
Harlen moved to sit beside him, taking his hand gently. "Jorah… what is it?"
His voice cracked... "Wife… I have done something unforgivable."
Her fingers tightened around his... "You asked me before," he said quietly, "where the extra coin came from. For our house… for our people."
Harlen said nothing. She only listened.
"Do you remember Torwin? The man you never liked?"
She nodded stiffly. Torwin had always unsettled her... a man with a smile too sharp and eyes too cold.
"He had a plan," Jorah continued. "At first… I sent him thieves and bandits. Men who were meant for the Wall."
Harlen jerked upright as if he had struck her, her face washed pale with shock and a rising, silent anguish.
The look she gave him tore at Jorah's soul, every inch of her pain a wound deeper than any blade could cut.
"But then," he forced himself to continue, "our lands grew safer. Fewer criminals. Fewer outlaws. And Torwin… grew greedy. He threatened to expose everything unless I gave him more."
Harlen's breath hitched, pain clenching sharp and cold in her chest. The rumors... nightmares of vanished villages, stolen families... now twisted into sickening reality before her eyes.
Jorah reached out, but she stepped away.
"If I surrender to Lord Stark," he said, voice shaking, "he will not spare me. And even if I were sent to the Wall… with my father as Lord Commander… it would be the end of me."
Harlen's voice trembled with fury and disbelief. "How many, Jorah? How many innocent lives?"
He paled.
"Around… five hundred." Silence fell, heavy as winter snow.
Harlen Glover had been raised to be a good wife and a good woman... gentle, dutiful, loyal. But after marrying into House Mormont, she learned the ways of the Bear. She learned to wield a sword, to stand in a shield wall, to protect her own.
In that instant, her eyes blazed with hurt, betrayal, loss, and a cold rage that shimmered beneath the surface... each emotion slashing at him like sharpened claws.
He knew then she would never follow him... not now, not after this.
"I came to say I'm sorry," he whispered. "And that I'm leaving."
Harlen didn't move or speak. Her silence screamed with grief and fury... her eyes, wet and unblinking, told him what words could never say.
Jorah turned and walked out of the room, leaving behind the life he had destroyed with his own choices.
Before leaving Bear Island, he found Maester Kaelen and handed him a sealed parchment.
"Send this to Winterfell... "
Then he mounted his horse and rode into the cold northern wind, leaving behind a wife who could no longer look at him… and a house that would soon bear the weight of his sins.
It took Erick a week of painstaking labor to complete the Array Formation.
During that week, he carved runes into stone, shaped the land, and wove invisible lines of power across Sea Dragon Point. Each day, he walked miles, mapped distances with precision, and tested how energy flowed through the earth.
When he finally finished, the core formation was unrecognizable.
The massive stone he had carved was now covered in distortion runes... symbols that bent perception. To outsiders, the hill looked like nothing more than an overgrown patch of brush. Anyone who tried to approach would unknowingly turn around and walk away, convinced they had already checked that spot.
The core was hidden... protected... untouchable.
And the great formation... the one that stretched a hundred miles from the core... had awakened.
A thick ring of mist now circled all of Sea Dragon Point, two miles wide, drifting like something alive. It wasn't natural fog. It shimmered faintly, pulsing with the rhythm of the runes buried beneath the soil.
This mist had unique properties.
It created illusions... not frightening, but subtle... gently guiding any self-aware creature back to where they entered.
A man could walk for hours and swear he was going straight… only to find himself stepping out of the mist exactly where he started.
Animals passed through without trouble, but humans were turned around every time.
Sea Dragon Point was now a fortress without walls.
Erick carved special runes on small rocks that could serve as guides.
These runes were unique, capable of opening a passage and allowing those who held them safely through the fog without disruption to their perception.
While Erick worked, he had visitors.
The scouts of House Stark and House Tallhart rode in a loose formation beneath the towering pines of the Wolfwoods. Snow clung to the branches like white fur, and the wind whispered through the needles with a sound that felt almost like speech. The North was vast, ancient, and full of secrets... but even the oldest rangers felt something different in the air today.
Ser Wendel Tallhart led the group, his cloak pulled tight against the cold. Behind him rode five Stark men, seasoned trackers who knew every bend of the forest. They had been searching for days... looking for signs of slavers, missing villagers, or anything that could explain the strange reports coming from the coast.
But as they rode deeper, the land grew stranger.
By midday, the scouts reached a clearing where the snow lay untouched. There were no tracks, no animals, no wind. The silence pressed against their ears like a weight.
"Feels wrong," muttered one of the Stark men, a grizzled ranger named Cregan. "Forest shouldn't be this quiet."
Wendel dismounted, crouching to examine the ground. "No animal prints or droppings. As if nothing lives in this area."
"As if animals keep away from something," Cregan replied.
The men exchanged uneasy glances.
They pressed on, heading deeper into the forest.
The air itself seemed heavier, as if the forest were holding its breath. Then, faintly, the scouts began to notice it.
A sweetness.
At first, it was barely there, like the scent of blooming flowers on a distant breeze. But the farther they rode, the stronger it became.
"Does everyone smell... feel this?" asked a young Tallhart scout.
Wendel frowned. "The air tastes… different. Almost sweet."
They didn't know what was happening with the air, but it felt more refreshing and carried a hint of sweetness.
By late afternoon, the trees thinned, and the scouts reached the cliffs overlooking Sea Dragon Point. The ocean roared below, waves crashing against jagged rocks. But it wasn't the sea that stole their breath.
It was the mist.
A vast fog encircled the entire peninsula, swirling slowly like a living thing. It shimmered faintly, as if lit from within by an unseen glow.
"What in the Gods…" whispered one of the Stark men.
Wendel stepped forward, his boots crunching on frost. "Mist doesn't behave like this."
The scouts approached cautiously. Every man's face wears uneasiness. The sweetness in the air only grew stronger. The mist pulsed like the breath of a sleeping giant.
Wendel touched the edge of it with the tip of his glove.
The fog rippled inward, as if drawing him in.
"Careful," Cregan warned. Wendel nodded. "We need to know what's inside. Rope lines… no one goes alone."
They tied themselves together and stepped into the mist.
The world changed instantly.
Sound dulled... light dimmed... sweetness in the air thickened, clinging to their tongues.
The scouts walked slowly, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the shifting fog. Shapes moved at the edges of their vision… shadows that vanished when they turned to look.
"Did everyone see that? There is something in the mist?" whispered the young Tallhart scout.
"I did not see a thing... " Cregan said firmly, but his hand holding the sword was shaking.
They all saw something.
A flicker of movement... a silhouette... a suggestion of a figure... of course, it was just mist playing tricks with their minds.
Minutes passed... or hours... time felt strange here.
Wendel stopped suddenly. "Hold."
The men froze.
Ahead of them, the fog parted just enough to reveal a faint outline... a path, or what looked like one. They followed it cautiously, each step slow and deliberate.
But after several minutes, the path curved… and they found themselves stepping out of the mist.
The rope line was still tied, and everyone was safe. Looking around, they found their own footprints on the ground… they had walked in a circle.
Cregan swallowed hard. "How did this happen? We were going in a straight line."
Wendel nodded slowly… this was exactly what he thought.
All of that was strange… no one said it aloud, but it was creepy as hell... after experiencing that, no one really wanted to continue.
But Wendel had no choice… if he came back with a report that he and his men were afraid of the mist, his and other scouts' reputations would be tarnished. He was pretty sure that after such a report, he would be scouting only for a new job.
Because of that, they tried again and again.
Each time, the mist guided them back to the same spot... gently, subtly, without force.
The sweetness in the air grew stronger the longer they stayed. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was unnerving.
Wendel exhaled, watching the mist swirl around his breath. "I remember a few old tales that speak of places where the land remembers. Where ancient powers sleep beneath the soil."
Cregan nodded grimly. "I'm no expert on this shit, but my ass says some kind fuckery is happening here."
The men stood in silence, listening to the distant crash of waves and the soft hum of the mist.
"We need to report this to Lord Stark," Wendel said finally.
Hearing that man, almost cheered… worried faces lightened, and, with increased pace, they took the path back.
By the time they reached the Wolfwoods again, the scouts were looking much better, shaken - yes.
And like an agreement, no one spoke of what they experienced.
Something strange was happening at Sea Dragon Point, and the scouts almost prayed not to know about it.
As they rode toward Winterfell, each man carried the same unspoken truth… whatever lived in that mist was not meant for mortal eyes.
Erick checked the map floating in front of him and finally let out a long breath of relief.
'At their third attempt… they were close. I'll need to adjust the mist's boundary.'
He sat in the great hall with everyone else, eating stew from a wooden bowl. The hall was warm, lively, filled with chatter and the clatter of wooden spoons.
Erick took another bite and sighed…
'I need to do something about our provisions. If I see one more salted fish… I will go crazy.'
Across from him sat Anna… legs swinging under the bench… eyes bright with curiosity.
"Um… Erick?" she asked, leaning forward. "…How come you always wear that mask…?"
Erick froze mid‑bite… "Hm?" he said, trying to sound casual. "Oh. I don't really know. It's just… part of my gear."
"Gear…?" Anna tilted her head. "I've never heard that word… what does it mean?"
Erick felt sweat forming at his temples.
"A... ah. Yes. Gear. It's just… comfortable. I am forgetting that I'm wearing it. That's it."
Anna squinted at him suspiciously.
Erick panicked.
So he did the first thing that came to mind.
He took off the mask and slapped it onto Anna's face.
Anna gasped. "Waaa... it sticks! It actually sticks to my face!!"
She jumped off the bench and ran around the hall, waving her arms dramatically.
"I am the ghost of Sea Dragon Point!" she howled… chasing the younger kids.
The children shrieked and scattered, laughing as they dove behind tables and benches. Even the adults chuckled, shaking their heads at the chaos.
Laughter echoed through the hall, bouncing off the stone walls and wooden beams.
Erick leaned back, watching Anna terrorize the children.
Erick finished his meal, stretched, and slipped away from the hall. The children's laughter still echoed behind him.
Two miles from Weir-Grip was his usual training clearing... a wide, soft patch of grass surrounded by tall pines. It had become his place, the one spot where he could think, train, and breathe without interruption.
In the world of Westeros, it was the eleventh moon... the equivalent of November.
In the North… that meant freezing winds, biting cold, and snow that clung to everything like a second skin.
But inside the great formation? It felt like early spring.
The air was cool but not freezing, the breeze was soft, and the ground was firm, not frozen. The sky above shimmered with a faint clarity that didn't exist outside the mist.
Erick inhaled deeply... 'Formation's working better than expected…'
Outside the boundary, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, it was peaceful... unnaturally so.
Not far from him, four horses thundered across the clearing.
Strike and Freedom... his first pair... and the new additions from the last rescue, Barbatos and Exia.
He still wasn't sure if naming them after Gundams was right, but no one could stop him. Honestly, the horses seemed to like the names... or at least they didn't complain.
All four of them had chakra.
And now… well…
Erick squinted.
The horses were running in a straight line, side by side, hooves pounding the earth in perfect rhythm. Then they stopped, turned, lined up again, and sprinted once more.
If he was not wrong, they were... he rubbed his eyes…
The horses lined up again.
"…Are they drag racing... ???"
He shook his head, dismissing the thought... but he couldn't deny the truth. They were faster, stronger, smarter, thanks to the chakra... and apparently competitive.
He sighed… his thoughts drifting to the people of Weir-Grip.
The horse band... had taken chakra like fish into water. It was like breathing to them.
Except for a few... kids...
Everyone else struggled, overthought, and tried too hard. They treated chakra like a tool instead of a limb.
'Maybe humans are just too dumb to use chakra properly…' he paused. '…Excluding myself, obviously.'
Erick returned to his usual routine... training.
He stretched first… moving slowly and carefully to loosen his muscles. Then he started his Saitama routine: push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and a run around the clearing. He didn't push too hard… not yet. He still didn't know all the long-term effects of chakra on a growing body, and the last thing he wanted was to stunt his height and end up looking like a chibi ninja forever.
Erick refuses to be Naruto‑sized.
He focused more on hand signs afterward. He could perform the three basic academy jutsu, but in confrontation? They were useless. His performance was slow and too clumsy.
He knew it would take years to push his hand‑sign speed to anything respectable.
Still, he wanted at least one flashy jutsu… something cool and dramatic.
He opened the shop.
Before browsing jutsu, he searched for chakra paper.
5 SP… he bought it instantly.
The thin sheet felt ordinary in his hand… dry, smooth, unremarkable. Erick closed his eyes and pushed chakra into it, hoping he had at least one affinity.
The paper changed immediately.
He felt it before he saw it.
When he opened his eyes, he froze.
One side of the paper was wet, dripping faintly... the center had crumbled, breaking apart like dry earth... the last corner was smoking, thin wisps curling upward.
Erick stared... "No way... " three affinities... water... earth... fire.
More than he could have hoped for. More than most shinobi ever had. And all three were strong, reacting instantly to his chakra.
And there was one more... one the paper couldn't show... yang.
He could feel it in his bones, in the warmth of his chakra, in the way his body responded to training. His physical energy was potent, vibrant, overflowing. The kind of yang affinity that made taijutsu monsters and chakra‑enhanced beasts.
Erick sat down slowly, staring at the ruined paper in his hands… he felt overwhelmed... excited... terrified.
If he trained properly… if he mastered these affinities… he could become potentially a walking, breathing natural disaster.
Erick let out a long breath, the sweet air filling his lungs... he felt giddy.
Not just metaphorically… he was literally silly, like the small kid he actually was. His legs bounced, his fingers twitched, and his grin stretched so wide it almost hurt.
He didn't even hesitate… Great Fireball Jutsu 40 SP… purchased.
People in his past life had called it useless, a no‑kill jutsu, a flashy waste of chakra. But Erick knew better. It was one of the most underrated techniques in the entire Naruto universe.
Engage... disengage... create openings... force movement... control area.
And, most importantly... it literally made you a dragon.
He unrolled the scroll carefully, eyes scanning the neat ink strokes. As expected, it began with the hand signs and a basic explanation of the jutsu's effect.
But then it went deeper, into the details of how each hand sign created the final effect.
He read slowly, absorbing every line:
Snake... gathers air in the lungs.
Ram... stabilizes the body so the lungs don't rupture.
Monkey... compresses the inhaled air.
Boar... adds internal pressure, like squeezing a balloon from all sides.
Horse... channels the compressed air toward the mouth.
Tiger... creates a localized zone at the lips that superheats the exiting air, igniting it into flame.
If the user angled the release downward just slightly, physics would roll the flame into a sphere, creating a Great Fireball.
The word 'Great' was added to this jutsu not because it sounded good, but because the technique has no upper limit. The only limitation is the user's body and the pressure it can withstand.
"This… is what I call a jutsu."
He couldn't help admiring it… the elegance, the logic, the raw destructive potential. Suddenly, the Uchiha clan's legendary arrogance made perfect sense.
"With a jutsu like this," Erick muttered, "no wonder they strutted around like peacocks."
He set the scroll aside and closed his eyes, imagining each step… the hand signs, the flow of chakra, the compression, the release, the ignition.
A thought hit him. '…Uchiha Itachi was a cheat... ' Itachi could perform this jutsu, seeing once and on his first try.
Erick guessed that Itachi's mastery of hand signs was just so absurd.
"Alright. One step at a time."
He inhaled slowly, pulling in only a small amount of chakra. No rushing. He moved through the hand signs at a steady pace... one sign per second... feeling each shift in his chakra, each subtle change in pressure.
Holding Tiger sign, he exhaled... a tiny flame puffed out of his mouth...
It wasn't a Great Fireball... not even close... but Erick's grin stretched from ear to ear.
Because with time and practice… he would breathe fire like a dragon.