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SLW Chapter 6 : Steel and Salt
🕑 Added 2025-01-26 00:08:59 +0000 UTCPanic surged through Aeron as the bell's tolling filled the air. He glanced around, his breath quickening. “Oh gods, they’re already here...” he muttered under his breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
His eyes darted toward the sea, and that’s when he spotted them three ships emerging from the mist, their hulking forms cutting through the waves with an eerie silence. But something about them was off, something that even Aeron, in his frantic state, could tell wasn’t right.
A nearby soldier, who had been scanning the horizon, suddenly stiffened and shouted, “My lord! Them ships ain’t of the Ironborn! No banners to be seen!”
Lord Mormont, who had been standing a short distance away, turned sharply at the words. He stared at the approaching vessels, his brow furrowing in thought. After a moment of heavy silence, he barked, “Ready yer arrows, lads! Makes no odds who they be—coming to our shores uninvited? They’ll meet their end here.”
The men around Aeron moved swiftly, drawing their bows and nocking arrows, their faces set with grim resolve. The tension in the air was palpable, each man preparing for what could be their final stand.
Aeron’s eyes remained fixed on the ships, his mind racing. “They’re right… that’s not a Greyjoy banner. Not any of the Ironborn’s, for that matter,” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling slightly. “Mercenaries or pirates, maybe? But for them to be on the western shores of Westeros…”
He shook his head, frustration and fear mingling within him. “I still don’t know what timeline Im in … no clue who this Mormont is.” His heart pounded in his chest as he realized the gravity of his situation. “I just gotta survive this.”
Aeron cast a glance at the Mormont men as they prepared for battle, each movement deliberate and filled with purpose. They were not a vast force not even two hundred strong but they carried themselves with the quiet, unyielding strength that spoke of countless winters weathered and battles fought. Their armor, though worn and patched in places, gleamed with the pride of those who bore it. These were men of the North, hardened by the bitter cold and the harsh land they called home, their faces set with the grim determination that befitted a remote noble house of the North.
Each man moved with a practiced efficiency, drawing bows, checking swords, and murmuring quiet words to one another, their camaraderie evident in the subtle nods and shared glances. There was no fear in their eyes, only the steely resolve of those who had faced death before and would do so again without hesitation.
The Mormont banner fluttered in the wind, a dark bear on a green field, its presence a silent testament to the house’s strength and resilience. As Aeron watched them, he couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for these men warriors who, though few in number, embodied the very spirit of the North: fierce, loyal, and unyielding.
As Aeron watched the Mormont men, a wave of self-loathing washed over him. Their courage was palpable—these men, standing resolute on the edge of battle, were everything the stories he read about them promised. They looked brave, steadfast, and unyielding in the face of death. Their eyes held a fierce determination, their bodies honed by years of struggle and survival in this unforgiving land. Every movement they made spoke of a lifetime spent defending their home, their honor, and their kin.
In stark contrast, Aeron felt a sickening disgust at himself.’ Look at them, he thought bitterly, just as I read about them brave, unshakable, everything I’m not.’ He glanced down at his trembling hands, gripping the sword that felt foreign yet strangely exhilarating in his grasp. He had always dreamed of living in a world like this, a world of knights and warriors, of honor and bloodshed. Maybe not Westeros, this brutal, treacherous land but it was still one of the worlds he had loved from afar.
His gaze shifted to the approaching ships, dark and foreboding on the horizon. The weight of the sword in his hand anchored him to the reality of the situation, a reality that was far from the romanticized tales he had devoured.
Aeron sighed deeply, the sound heavy with resignation. ‘Well, if they win, I’m dying anyway, he reasoned, the fear giving way to a grim acceptance. So let them come. At least I’ll get the chance to swing a real sword.’ There was a twisted sense of irony in it all finally living the life he had always wanted, only to face the very real prospect of dying within it.
Lord Mormont surveyed the approaching ships with a calculating eye, the lines on his weathered face deepening as he considered the possibilities. The men around him waited in tense silence, their breaths visible in the cold air, each heartbeat echoing the pulse of the North itself.
Finally, with the authority of a seasoned commander, he barked his orders. “Bowmen, to the front! Ready your arrows!” His voice carried across the docks, sharp and commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. The bowmen, already tense with anticipation, swiftly moved into position, their arrows nocked and aimed at the approaching vessels. The creaking of the bowstrings was the only sound that broke the stillness as they drew their bows, each man waiting for the signal to unleash their deadly volley.
“Shieldmen!” Lord Mormont called next, turning his attention to the soldiers with round shields strapped to their arms. “Encircle the docks! Protect our rear—nothing gets past us!” The shieldmen moved with the precision of a well-drilled unit, forming a protective barrier around the perimeter of the docks. Their shields interlocked, creating a formidable wall of steel and wood, while those at the rear remained vigilant, their eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of a flanking attack.
The formation was solid, designed to maximize their limited numbers. The bowmen, positioned at the front, would unleash a rain of arrows on the enemy as they approached, while the shieldmen would hold the line, ready to repel any who might try to breach their defenses. It was a tactic born of necessity and honed by years of defending their harsh northern lands against invaders.
Lord Mormont watched as his men took their positions, the confidence in his voice steadying the nerves of those around him. He knew the odds were against them, but the North had faced worse and prevailed. These ships, whoever they belonged to, would be met with the full force of House Mormont’s resolve.
“Steady now,” he urged, his voice a low growl. “We fight for Bear Island, for the North. Whatever comes at us, we hold our ground.” The men around him tightened their grips on their weapons, their faces set in grim determination.
As the ships drew nearer, the tension mounted. Lord Mormont raised his hand, signaling the bowmen to prepare. “On my mark!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. The bowmen’s arms tensed, ready to release their arrows at a moment’s notice.
“Loose!” Lord Mormont commanded, and the bowstrings thrummed as a volley of arrows soared into the sky, darkening the horizon as they arced toward the approaching ships. The shieldmen braced themselves, the sound of arrows whistling overhead a prelude to the inevitable clash that was about to ensue.
The arrows rained down on the approaching ships, splintering wood and striking true, but the enemy pressed on, undeterred by the Northern defenses. The ships crashed directly into the docks with a deafening roar, the force of impact sending shudders through the ground. Almost immediately, the first wave of pirates dropped from the decks, landing atop the shieldmen with reckless abandon. The battle erupted in a chaotic frenzy, steel clashing against steel, the air filled with the grunts of effort and cries of pain.
Lord Mormont, ever the seasoned commander, barked orders over the din of battle. "Hold the line! Push them back to the sea!" His voice was a steady anchor amidst the storm of violence, guiding his men through the chaos. Aeron, who had instinctively stayed close to the lord, heard him give a quiet yet urgent command to a nearby soldier, “Send a raven to Winterfell. Inform Lord Stark that Bear Island has been attacked by three unknown vessels. Go!”
Aeron's mind raced. “So the Starks are still alive , that’s good to know at least,” he thought, absorbing the information even as he watched the Mormont soldiers fight with a ferocity that belied their numbers. Despite their valor, the sheer force of the enemy began to overwhelm them. The pirates, driven by bloodlust and greed, outnumbered the defenders, slowly but surely pushing through their ranks.
"Fall back to the keep!" Lord Mormont shouted, his voice cutting through the clamor. "Retreat, but fight them off as you go!"
The Mormont men began a disciplined retreat, moving backward in tight formation, their shields raised as they struck at any pirate foolish enough to get too close. But the docks had become a slaughterhouse—the stench of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the salty tang of the sea. For the first time in his life, Aeron smelled death—an acrid, metallic scent that seemed to cling to his skin, to fill his lungs with every breath. His heart pounded in his chest, panic gnawing at the edges of his mind as he struggled to keep his footing amidst the chaos.
