8

Chapter 8: It's over, Balon! I have the high ground

I own nothing, guys, stop it...

If you are fan of LotR check out Clamavi de Profundis if you haven't yet. They are phenomenal. Thanks for the support. I'm glad you lots are enjoy the story.

"The Road goes ever on and on

Out from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

Let others follow it who can!

Let them a journey new begin,

But you at last with weary feet

Will turn towards the lighted inn,

your evening-rest and sleep to meet"

The song was all it could think of, as he watched the flames licking the pyre where his cousin laid, restful. He felt guilty. He felt doubt. He felt disgust towards himself.

Did he let Jorah die? Did he willingly hold himself back? He saw Euron, he recognized the man's intentions. He was certain had he acted in time, he would've saved his cousin. Yet he hesitated.

He had not always seen Jorah as a good person. He saw him as a creepy, glory seeking unprincipled man, who would do anything for a firm pair of tits and a tight fit. Of course, Beor never witnessed that himself, besides the need Jorah felt to prove himself.

He had of course realized that he had based his opinion of the man not from what he did or said, but from what he would've said or done in the books and tv show. Maybe that was why he stayed his hand, hesitated just an instant to absolve himself of what he thought had to be done?

He did not know what the answer was, and frankly he was scared to find out. He didn't feel much of anything about killing scores of Ironborn. He felt righteous when he divorced Euron Greyjoy's head from his body with his bare hands. These, action, he thought, were justified. But Jorah? I didn't want to know, really.

Wiping his eyes and slightly runny nose, he fought to fight his resolve. There's still work to be done. As he father said, in one of the few instances he heard him talk, "Good men cry, but great men cry after the work is done". His promise to himself when he first got here was to be great. Jorah was, unfortunately, a casualty to that goal.

Walking back to the camp where the men were celebrating the taking of the island, he was showered with praises and adulations by his men and the greater host. He felt a sense of pride at that, if he were honest with himself, though he was annoyed that he was first known for being the Butcher of Old Wyk before being a man of great mind. For some reason, that robbed him the wrong way!

"My lord Beor!" said a drunken lord, swaying his way, obviously drunk. "Where have you been? The men have been eagerly waiting for you to come and tell the stories of how you slew Andrik the Unsmiling!" he yelled, more than said.

A great roar arose from the men around them, raising their cups of ale and mead. " I was there!" yelled a Westerlander, " He felled the giant of a man with his bare hands, shattering the very ground upon which we stood! The Red Bear!" he finished, eliciting a roar from the audience.

"He singlehandedly ran through half their army, hacking and slaying, singing one of those songs of his, I saw Ironmen wetting themselves at the sight of him! Running away! To the Red Bear!"

Cue another roar and another round of drinking. To say that Beor found this embarrassing was an understatement. He was being shoved around, wine cups being put in his hands, as if they've forgotten that he was just about two and ten.

Looking around for a exit, he saw Selmy in the corner of his eyes motioning him to follow him. Without hesitation, he took his chance and went after the older man, not without being patted on the back by passersby. He entered, Lord Barristan's tent to find the man sitting down at a modest table, with to cups on it.

"Sit, lord Beor. It has been a long day" He said, in that ever respectful tone of his. Now seated, Beor realized that he was relieved for the quiet. He had not realized how tired he was. Not long ago he was fighting for his life, after all. He has had his first kill too. And his twentieth. And maybe his sixtieth. He had lost count after a while. He was not bothered the least by that thought

"How are you feeling, dear boy? Selmy asked, a fatherly tone to his voice."

Suppressing a grimace, Beor allow himself to ignore being called a boy, again.

"I'm... fine, really" he admitted, partly to himself. "It was my first battle, so I should be expected to be shaken, but I'm fine."

"I'm sorry about lord Jorah. He was a good man. He did not deserve to die this way"

"Thank you, Ser Barristan. I avenged him. I could not save him, but I avenged his death." Beor answered, fighting back a tear.

" Will you be alright, my boy?" Barristan asked him, concerned in his voice. This was a green boy who just lost someone dear to him in battle. The first kills are always the hardest, after all.

" I killed over a hundred men, today, Lord Selmy. I am no boy." Beor bit back. The words just flew out, him being unable to contain himself.

Chuckling, Selmy nodded. "Of course, lord Mormont, I meant no offense. Shall I call you the Red Bear, then? or would you prefer the Singing Bear? Personally, that one is growing on me."

Beor couldn't help but laugh, the tension breaking. "I'm not a singing bear", he retorted mock offense on his face.

"Well to their defense, you do sing pretty songs. When you get to be a full grown man, the ladies will need to be pried off of you" Barristan replied, laughing.

"Thank you, Barristan", Beor said, staring at some spit of dirt somewhere in the tent. His eyes looked much older than they had any right to be. For a second, Selmy felt he saw a man not far from his age, sitting next to him.

" Of course Beor, anything for a friend".

That brought a smile to the man's face.

"Drink up", Beor said, shifting the subject. "We had a resounding victory, after all. We will be sad after the war. For now, we celebrate."

Acquiescing, Selmy raised his cup to mirror Beor, then they down them in one gulp

"I've never lost a drinking game in my life, Beor. Tonight is not the night I will."

" Well, then, better keep up!" Beor said, as Barristan refilled the cups.

Soon they were both laughing, Barristan deep in the piss, Beor slightly buzzed, but thoroughly drunk on his new found friendship with the fame night. They kept going late into the night, the celebrations going till the wee morning.

A week and a half later, they were ready to ride to Pyke. Stannis had smashed a meager resistance in the Bay of Great Wyk, before mercilessly putting down any semblance of resistance.

Beor had sent the wounded back to Bear Island alongside the remains of their fallen comrades. Out of one hundred and twenty so men, he had lost thirteen, fourteen if you count Jorah.

Along he sent a letter to his mother alongside the remains of his cousin and some treasures he looted from the Drumms. He had thought of sending Longclaw back to his home, but he decided to postpone this, as the conflict with the Greyjoy was still not settled.

The trip to Pyke was much shorter than the to Old Wyk as the last pockets of resistance were being snuffed out all over the Iron Islands. As far the Rebellion went, the taking of Pyke was merely a formality. The king already had the castle besieged, and it was scheduled to fall in a matter of days.

Jorah was supposed to be one of the first to enter the breach, so in his honour, Beor decided to to what he was supposed to do.

"Lord Beor", Barristan said, as they got off the war galley, " the king will require your presence at his council. He has heard of your exploits and wishes to personally meet you"

'Ah', Beor thought, ' I did not think of that'. Sighing, he nodded.

"When shall I be needed, then?"

"He will send for you, probably to share supper with him and the other members of his war council, myself included."

"Well, then I shall see you again later, my lord", he answered, a smile in his face.

" Very well, take good care of yourself until then, lord Beor"

" And you too, lord Selmy" Beor finished, bowing his head slightly at the older man.

" Funny", Barristan said, chuckling.

"Lord Selmy?" Beor asked confused.

" This might be the very first time I've ever seen you bow, however small it might have been."

Beor laughed at that. " I have really stiff joints, my lord. Never been much of a bower"

They both joined in laughter, as they walked into camp.

"Lord Beor Mormont is here, your Grace." said a nervous squire.

"Oh good!" Beor could hear the king's voice , from outside of the tent. " Well, where is he?"

" Outside, your Grace" the boy answered, his voice clearly shaking.

" Well, what is it you're waiting for? A raven? Let him in, you moron!"

" Y-yes, your grace, at once, your grace". The poor boy sounded like he was on the verge of tears. Beor sympathized although he found the exchange amusing.

"This way, my lord", the squire said, looking up to meet Beor's amber eyes, a good shorter than him. Following the red haired boy, he entered the tent to see the place full of the high brass in Westeros. King Robert, tall and brawny, the wine and the feasting not having taken their toll on him yet. Lord Eddard Stark, of course was sitting besides him, cleaning Ice, his valyrian great words. Lord Selmy nodded to him, from a corner of the tent, ever in his milky white armour.

A few other men were also in the room, some he recognize, but must he didn't, besides their house sigil.

"Lord Beor, your grace" the young boy said, presenting him to the King.

"Yes, I know, you already said that. Now, get me more wine! Your king is parched!"

"Y-yes, your grace, at once your grace" he answered, bowing and simpering all the way out of the tent.

Robert looked at his squire leave, shaking his head. "I didn't know they made them this stupid, frankly." he mused, out loud. Turning towards Beor, the king sized him up before beckoning him forward. With as much confidence as he could muster, Beor walked towards the bulky man, bowing awkwardly in front of him. He never really made peace with the idea of bowing to someone as a sign of submission and respect.

"Your grace", he said, " I am yours to command."

The king stayed silent for a moment, looking at the young lord.

" How old are you, boy?" Robert asked, leaning on the great table.

" One and ten, your grace". Beor answered. Gasps could be heard from a few members of the audience.

" By the gods, Ned. What do you feed them in the North?" The king exclaimed, turning towards his friend, who just shook his head.

"The stories were sordid before, but now they are down right impossible.", spoke a somewhat handsome lord with brown hair and a respectable mustache.

" Lord Mace, why would the entire army and my lord commander lie to their king about some little lord, hmm?" Robert asked the man, as if trying to spell it out for him.

Mace sputtered a bit, at a loss for words, before answering: "Far from me to doubt Lord Selmy's account, but we can all agree that those stories sound borderline fantastical."

"Of course, my lord," Beor interjected, earning a frown from the Tyrell. "I assume I was summoned here to assess the truth of those claims, is that correct, your grace.?"

" Oh, that is not the reason, my boy., Ned vouched for your house and yourself. I was just curious about what the Red Bear would look like. And I have to admit, I thought you'd be taller." he ended, with a small laugh.

"He's just a boy, King Robert. He's bigger than you were at the same age."

" Aye", the King answered, slapping Beor in the back, "he must have some giant blood in him, to be that strong. Well done, young lord."

" I believe the Umbers are the ones with the giant's blood", Mace interjected helpfully.

"Mace, I thank everyday the gods you were born a noble." the king mumbled, looking at the other lord in disbelief." Now where that twit of a squire? Boy!" he yelled at no one," Where's the bloody wine?!"

"If my lords and his grace permit, I have brought gifts and products from Bear Island. It'd be my honour if you were to try them" Beor, said, hopeful.

" Oh", Ned piped up, suddenly interested in the conversation. "You have brought that whisky with you, lord Mormont?"

"Aye, my lord. I've heard of how you came to enjoy it. so I thought I would bring you some." Beor answered, cheekily.

"Whisky?" the king asked, "what kind of drink is that?"

"It's a kind of ale, your grace, only produced on Bear Island. We've recently started producing it, but it had become quite the delicacy in the North, if I can be so bold."

"Well, then, bring it in, lad. Let's see this whisky of yours."

"Very well, my king". Beor walked out the tent for a few moments, coming back with a fairly large bottle, emblazoned with the Bear of house Mormont. A warm amber liquid sloshed inside, as alluring as a Lyseni pleasure woman.

" My gift to you, your grace, my lords. I must warn you, it is quite strong."

Robert guffawed at that, as if challenged. " Oh shut it, lad, spare me your warnings. Fill my cup already, I am thirsty!"

Beor grinned inwardly, aware of what was going to happen. Th king grabbed the filled cup and after a small sniff, downed it in one gulp, only for him to start coughing and hacking, the strong liquid burning his throat.

Eddard Stark laughed out loud at his friend's predicament. "I never grow tired of this!" He managed between bouts of laughter, "They all react the same way".

"Laughing at your king, are you, Lord Stark?" The king said, his face red, mock indignation in his voice, " well then come here and drink with me, I command it! You too, my lords, you shall all taste the North sweet fire!"

'Dang, that's a good name', thought Beor.

As the other lords were being served by him, the squire returned with a jug of Dornish red. " Your grace", he said timidly.

" What is it, squire?" Robert answered, cautiously sipping his second cup, savouring the taste.

"I've brought you your wine, your grace" he answered, doing everything but looking at the king.

Surprisingly, the large man got even redder, and yelled at the poor boy: "Get out of here with that weak piss, boy!"

"My lord?" He answered, bewildered.

" Do you understand the common tongue or must I spell it out with my boot up your arse? Leave! Go make yourself useful, and pick the fleas off the dogs, will you?"

Beor could've sworn the boy peed himself a little before running off, managing to trip twice before making it out of the tent.

"You're torturing the poor lad, Robert." Eddard, commented, shaking his head.

" It'll shape him into less of a cunt, hopefully. I've got enough of those around already." His friend retorted, laughing, downing his glass, apparently used to the strong taste, already.

" By the gods, this is good!" exclaimed, addressing no one in particular. "What do you think, Tyrell?" he asked.

"It certainly has a kick to it, your grace" he answered, timidly sipping the drink, grimacing at the strong taste.

Robert laughed again, obviously feeling his drink already," Now, Beor, my lad", settling down on his chair and motioning him to do the same, " I've heard great things about you, from lord Selmy over here."

"I'm only here to serve you, your grace."

"Yes, yes. Then serve me, you little shit." he said guffawing, "tell of your exploits, then, Butcher of Old Wyk." he said humorously, whisky dribbling on his neatly trimmed beard.

" As you wish, my king", Beor answered, feeling the king cup once again, a small smile on his face.

The siege weapons were hammering at castle's Pyke nonstop for hours now. Substantive cracks had already appeared on the walls. Normally, a sortie would've been made to either sabotage of hinder the advancement of the trebuchets, but Pyke was on his last leg. For months now, they have been besieged by the king's army.

Slowly but surely, every ally and army of the Greyjoy have either been wiped out or bent the knee to the rightful king of the seven kingdoms. House Drumm was all but defunct, House Harlaw had surrendered with hardly a fight, ser Rodrik Harlaw even siding with the king against his liege lord.

So it was only of time before the Rebellion was quelled. Surrender or death, House Greyjoy would bend the knee. In the morrow, the Baratheon Stag will be hoisted instead of the Greyjoy's kraken.

Beor was patiently waiting on the frontlines, his men behind him, knowing that this was the last hurdle before this senseless bloodshed was over. Lord Stark had tried to dissuade him from participating. but he was adamant in seeing this through. It was almost over after all. Soon he will be able to leave this hot and wretched place and return to the sweet and cold weather of Bear Island where he would get to continue doing what he truly loved. Reverse engineering technology from his past life.

As if on cue, a particularly large boulder which smashed into the main watchtower, causing a massive cracked to appear in it, before said crack spread up and sideways, bringing down a substantial portion of the walls of the magnificent castle.

The invading host roar, victory in its grasp already. The king ordered his men to advance and seize the keep, personally leading the Stormland troops in the battle. Beor did not waste a second, urging his horse forward, his men behind him, he made for the breach. He saw Thoros of Myr somewhere in the background, riding his mare towards the fray, flaming sword raised, yelling like a mad man.

But the Bearman made it first in the castle, met with lances and swords. With Red Rain in one hand and Longclaw in the order, he proceeded to hack and slash anything that was stupid enough to come near him. Behind him, his men were pouring in the large courtyard, yelling some bizarre war song about rocking the Ironborn.

A singing opponent was something that could be quite demoralizing apparently. To the Ironborn defending the castle, large men wearing good armour amd weapons were singing a hymn to death, a last lullaby to put them to rest. The brave ones yell back and swung at the enemy, and the cowards ran. The smart ones, however few there were, surrendered.

Beor was still the tip of the lance, ripping enemies apart, his blades weaving a web of blood and guts as he made his way towards the Lord's Tower, where the throne room was. The battle was really a repeat of the slaughter at Old Wyk, except with less quality to offset the quantity of men thrown in the meat grinder. He could see Thoros cackling madly, swinging his flaming longsword at the frightened enemy.

The battle was fierce, and many a good man fell, as the Ironborn seemed determined to fight to the last man. Fools were running to Beor to meet their death, only for others to take their place soon after. The young lord was at this point covered in blood and brain bits, living up to his new moniker. Pushing forward through they finally breached the great hall where the throne room was situated.

" Surrender, Balon Greyjoy, in the name of King Robert Baratheon! This madness has lasted long enough!" Beor said, in a loud voice.

"And who are you to speak to me so, greenlander?" the lord retorted, spit flying from his mouth.

"I'm Beor Mormont, the Red Bear. Bane of house Drumm. The Butcher of Old Wyk. You breathe only because the king ordered so, but you are welcome to die, if you so decide." the young man answered, his sword at the ready. The men present took a step back, having heard the harrowing tales of the young lord who bested Andrik the Unsmiling with empty hands.

" You! you killed my brother!" Balon exclaimed, a mad glint in his eye.

"Aye, my lord. He killed my cousin. It was only justice." Beor answered calmly. "Now I will not say it again. Drop your weapons and surrender, and let there be no more bloodshed today."

Slowly, the men looked around. They were cornered in a room with one exit, which was blocked by a demon and his demon army. They knew the jig was up. One by one, they dropped sword and axe, and showing their empty hands in surrender.

"Good men", Beor said. "This rebellion is over! The king's Justice was served!" he exclaimed, raising Longclaw in victory. The men in the room and the hall behind him roared in response, glad to have survived this terrible conflict.

About half an hour later, all his enemies were in chain, with Balon kneeling by his side, as he sat on the Lord Reaper's throne, waiting for the arrival of the king. three hours and and hundred and ten men. That was the price for storming this good forsaken humid rock. Some mad man had decided he wanted more power, which caused the suffering of tens of thousands.

Shifting uncomfortably in the chair, he felt hundreds of eyes on him. He looked up to see the men staring at him, adoration in their eyes. Some of it was tinged with fear, understandably. He was but a boy, but he had fought like an unhinged grizzly bear, taking out hundreds, living in his wake death and desolation. Songs were already being made in his name. Songs of a bear clad in armour made of steel, who came to The Iron Island to deliver the king's justice.

"Make way for the king!" he heard as the sea of soldiers parted to let the large king walk into the great hall. He looked quite...kingly, Beor admitted, clad in black and gold armour, holding a large war hammer in his right hand. Stark and Selmy were by his side, as were many other great lords. One particularly caught his attention. A severe looking man, with a full head of blond hair, armour red as blood with gold highlights. His cold green eyes seemed like they could bore a hole straight through the walls if he so wished.

Only one man could look so intimidating effortlessly. The Lion of the Rock himself, the infamous Tywin Lannister. It just so happen that said man seemed intent on drilling said holes through by the way he was staring at him. ' How rude' Beor thought, standing up to meet the king and his retinue.

"My king!" Beor said, "Pyke is yours". Beor said bowing his head in front of the king.

" I know, Mormont", the king answered wryly. " I was there when you took it for me. That was some good bloody fighting back there. Are you sure you aren't part giant, son?" he asked, clearly impressed by the young lord's actions.

"I only did as you commanded, your grace." Beor answered, almost sheepishly. He was feeling so bold and strong early, now he was as nervous as a schoolboy in front of the headmistress.

"That, you did, my boy.", Robert answered, looking at him with some warmth in his eyes. "Now, who is this?" he asked pointing at the tied up Greyjoy. It was obviously a rhetorical question.

"The lord reaper of Pyke, your grace. He has surrendered to the king's justice."

"Oh", Robert answered, looking at the old lord with disdain. "Can't say I'm impressed. So you are the shit stain that started troubles in my kingdoms, eh? How does it feel to be an oath breaker, you dog?" He asked. putting his booted foot on the kneeling lord's shoulder.

Balon looked up at him, undisguised disgust marring his features. "Call me what you want, but I am no oath breaker. No Greyjoy has sworn loyalty to a Baratheon. You can have my head, but do not insult my honour.

Several soldiers went for their sword at such lack of respect, only the king stopping them with a raised hand. Chuckling, he said " you have brass balls to address me like that, squid. I should have your tongue for this."

Balon looked up, using his spite to hide his fear. " Now what to do with you, I wonder?" he asked rubbing his chin, thoughtfully.

"They have raised their armies and disturbed the king's peace, Robert. Justice must be done", Stannis said, " for the crime of treason, the death penalty is the fitting punishment, whether by the sword or the rope."

Robert nodded as his younger brother spoke, considering his words.

"Ned"? he asked, turning to his best friend. The Warden of the North, looked on, thoughtful.

"He is beaten, Robert. His fleet is burned, his armies routed, his keep sacked. He has learned what it means to take up arms against your might. Let him swear an oath to you and let this senseless war end. Enough blood has been spilt already. Let's mot add more to it, friend."

The other lords, especially Tywin, didn't seem happy at the suggestion, but they could see the honour in it. Stannis made to protest but was cut off by Robert. " You two make good points, damn it!" he said frustration in his voice.

"Robert, I...", Eddard began.

"I'm thinking, Ned. Quiet!" the king said raising his voice, making his friend flinch.

"Mormont!" Robert called.

"Yes, your grace?" he piped up, curious as why is was being called upon.

" What do you think, lad?", Robert ask, turning away from Balon to look at him.

"Your grace, I hardly think..." Beor began only to be cut off by a growling Robert.

"You took the damn castle, you captured the damn mutt, how would you deal with this?" the king said, starting to sound impatient.

' Ah, what a fucking headache' Beor thought. Gathering his thoughts, he began. " House Greyjoy is an Old House of Westeros, and ruled the Iron Islands for centuries. Lord Balon however broke the peace in vainglory. This is a crime that cannot go unpunished. However, wiping a great house would further destabilize the Iron Islands which we don't want.

So my proposition is: Send lord Balon and his brothers to the wall and take Theon Greyjoy as ward to teach him the civilized ways. Establish another house as stewards of the Iron Islands until Theon Greyjoy comes of age. Lord Rodrik Harlaw is rumoured to have been against this whole debacle and lost two sons needlessly. He still has a daughter. Establish a betrothal between her and the young Greyjoy.

Doing so we'll have a great house supporting the crown and the future of House Greyjoy secured. At least, that's what I think, your grace." Beor finished.

The king look at him, thoughtful. After a few moments of mulling over, he nodded. "Very well, little Mormont, we'll do as you say. Ned, you'll ward Theon Greyjoy until he comes of age, until then Rodrik Harlaw shall be the steward of the Iron Islands."

Turning back to Balon, he declared " And you mutt, you and your brothers are stripped of all honours and titles and condemned to serve in the Night's Watch from this day to your dying, so says the king, Robert Baratheon, first of his name, Ruler of the seven kingdoms."

The former lord reaper looked like he had aged twenty years in a minute, his face ashen and his hands shaking.

"This is not fair! Your grace, you cannot.." he said thrashing while being restrained by guards.

" I can, and I did, Greyjoy. Be happy you get to keep your head. I heard Mormont over there loves ripping them out." earning a pinched look from Beor.

That quieted him quickly, though he had started to sob.

"Get him out of my sight", the king ordered, waving the crying man away.

" Now come, son", the king said, talking to Beor, "let's get some of that whisky of yours! I'm always thirsty after a good fight!" he roared, laughing loudly.

there we go. this one is a chunker, my longest chapter to date though I don't quite like how it turned out.

Anyway, the Greyjoy rebellion is over, and next is Tywin and the Tourney at Lannisport.

I know Rodrik Harlaw didn't have a daughter, but this is AU, so I say he did, so he did.

Hope you enjoy.

Sorry for typos.