Half a month later, on Bear Island.
The island, isolated off the western coast of the North, was like a forgotten slab of rock, enduring the fury of the Sunset Sea all year round.
The sea wind here carried the tang of salt and a bone-piercing chill.
The soil here was barren and hard.
But the people who lived here were like the island's black pines.
Resilient, upright, never bending.
House Mormont's stronghold stood at the highest point on the island.
It was built not of stone, but of enormous logs.
Carved into the stronghold's gate were a standing black bear and the house words that had endured for hundreds of years.
Today, however, an unprecedented panic hung over the ancient timber stronghold.
The hall was packed with islanders.
There were white-haired veterans, half-grown children who had only just taken up weapons, and fishermen whose faces were etched by wind and frost.
Every eye was fixed on the fisherman in the center of the hall, soaked through, his lips purple as he trembled over a bowl of hot soup.
He was the only survivor to return from the sea that day.
"...Black sails. Black sails everywhere..."
The fisherman's voice choked with terror. The wooden bowl slipped from his hands and hit the floor, spilling hot soup everywhere.
"Kraken banners... It's the Ironborn! Those damned Ironborn!"
"They have more ships than all the fishing boats on Bear Island put together..."
"They're coming... They're coming straight for us!"
Those words plunged the hall into deathly silence.
The Ironborn.
To every northerner living along the western coast, that name meant plunder, slaughter, and destruction.
"How... how many of us can fight?"
A veteran forced the question out.
The captain responsible for the defenses looked utterly grim.
"Fewer than a hundred."
"Lady Maege answered