Capítulo 78: 3
Chapter 3: The bear and his thought
Alright, clarification, more for me than anyone else. Our MC died of pancreatic cancer at the age of 58, so not too old, but old enough to have had a fruitful career and gained ample experience with life and people. It always strikes me as unrealistic that young men and women in their late teens to mid-twenties just have all the maturity, wisdom, and knowledge to maneuver and thrive in a cutthroat place like Westeros. I would know, I'm one of them. I would be a fukken goner, I tell you that.
So I decided to go with a more accomplished individual with both scientific knowledge and decades of applications to make the story more believable. And beyond that, I've never seen a story with an aged man who wasn't too eager to be reincarnated. How would someone be reluctant and weary with the actual survival and intellectual know-how?
Anyhow Here we go.
As always, I own nothing, save for the sweat of my brow, to which I am entitled.
Sometimes in 278 AC
It took him a while for his mind to settle down after that doozie of a realization hit him. Here he was, helpless in the body of a newborn. Alone with his thoughts, he couldn't help but pity his circumstances.
He was in Westeros, in the bloody Game of Thrones. Even worse, he wasn't even in the nice parts. He was on bloody Bear Island, right in the backyard of wildlings and walking dead popsicles. "I mean, that's just my luck", he thought, somberly, " Ironborn to the South, wildlings to the North. and a world-ending threat breathing down everybody's neck". He ran his fingers through his hair, at least he tried to. It came out more like a spasm, his motor skills being nigh nonexistent in his current state.
He was currently in a wooden crib, feigning sleep, whilst his wet nurse busied herself with some form of needlework. For a man who prided himself for his independence, this state of affairs was nothing short of humiliating. He had no control over his bowels, couldn't walk, talk, or feed himself. However, all this paled in comparison to the stupid, utterly debasing way the other adults addressed him.
The baby talk. the godforsaken, rotten, thrice-damned baby talk. "I am a grown man, for heaven's sake! I have seen and done things you couldn't even imagine, you bloody savages!" he said, fuming. "Wait till this stupid body grows, I will show you who the haiwee wittle beaw is! I'll show you all, you wait and see..." he finished, fuming internally. He wanted to yell and curse at times, but all that would come out was babbles and drool, which would earn even more infuriating oohs and aaahs...
For all his petulance, James, or Beor as he was now named, could still see a silver glimmer in his situation. He was born in a noble house. Whilst not particularly rich, House Mormont had a good standing in the North, their only issue being the remoteness of their lands. He would've much preferred to be born in a more southern family, by that die was already cast, unfortunately.
The other thing on his side was time. Maege and Jeor looked a lot younger, both still had their dark hair, and the absence of Jorelle and Lyanna also pointed to the fact that he had something around fifteen to twenty years before the White Walkers proper became a threat.
So here he was, being gently rocked by Merry the wet nurse after yet another humiliating feeding session. With thick and long curly red hair framing her round face, she looked to be quite young. Whilst he wouldn't call her a child, she still had baby fat on her signaling that she hadn't matured to the point of being a full-grown adult. Yes, here she was, breastfeeding her, implying that she recently had a kid. This reminded him of the type of world in which he lived, not a technology advanced with human rights and the rule of law, but a world where might be made right. Luckily though, he was on Bear Island, which made him relatively safe, given that the only threat was wildlings and Ironborn; He wasn't quite worried about that since the populace there was used to dealing with these types. It also put him as far away from the plot as possible while still being in Westeros.
No, what was bothering was the conundrum with which he was faced. Should he lay low, and bank on the other "main characters" to do their thing? Or could he try to make a name for himself or something? "Nah", he thought," that'd be tantamount to suicide. I'm not a man of this time, I'm a freaking professor, for heaven's sake."
Then the revelation came. "A name for myself, yes. But no one ever said it had to be as a warrior or some other foolish thing. I can be an entrepreneur! An inventor. And being in such a remote place and part of the ruling family, the chances of people trying to harm me are fairly low", he concluded, a frown marring his baby features. "Yes, this is feasible. I can make this place my little paradise, transform it and show them the true power of the mind. I'll need muscle and followers of course, but that's an issue for down the line.", he, rubbing his little pudgy hands, proud of the thought.
Thus here he was, Beor, the only Ph.D. in Chemical engineering in the whole of Planetos, scheming and planning, all the whilst being fussed over by Merry the wet nurse. He had a long way to go of course, but he would do it slowly but surely. The insulting underwear changes, the fussing about of the other adults( he still considered himself one, if a tad diminutive, currently). What annoyed him, was the loss of his motility. Fine motor control was practically nonexistent. His head was way too big and his neck and back muscles were way too weak to support let alone sit up.
That one hit a tad too close to home. in the last months of his "condition", he could barely get out of bed, or move around on much without being in horrible pain. He had foolishly thought he could beat the cancer, despite the odds and everything. He went through 2 rounds of chemo and even went in remission for a little while. When the cancer came back, he had come to terms with the fact that he wasn't going to win this one.
It was a tough pill to swallow, with him being not used to not losing, be it in love, life or business. But this one was the one that got him. Tiny rogue cells that he couldn't punch or reason with. "Alright, he thought, snapping himself out of his morose thoughts, "I need information, I need funds, and the patron saint of some sort. Maybe I can turn House Mormont into a prestigious house. Maybe I could travel, see Essos, find some skilled and like-minded people."
"I don't know why I'm here, maybe some cosmic injustice or a random error on a universal scale. But I'm here now. I will find my path. I will jump-start a revolution in Westeros. With that, the White walkers would stop being a threat, and at least, Bear Island will be safer and more prosperous. Yeah, it can be done", he concluded, his baby face smirking.
"And if dragons try me, maybe I'll see how they deal with nitroglycerine, he said, smiling a toothless smile, "though I do hope it never comes to that, the war might be since as glorious here, but there's no need for pointless violence".
Merry the wet nurse, though she did not know her surname, had never seen a babe make such impressions in her life. She could have sworn to have seen him frown, smile, and even adopt a pensive look, which look utterly ridiculous. "There it was again, the little lord just smirked, didn't he?" She didn't quite believe at first, but after spending the last month and a half with him, while his mother and her lord brother were out doing their lordly business, she thought herself savvy enough to discern his facial expressions. The little lord was truly a peculiar boy, very unlike his cousin, the dashing Lord Jorah, at least in appearance.
To be fair, the babe didn't much look like a Mormont. Where all other members of the family had black and dark brown hair, his was chestnut. He had light amber eyes as opposed to his family's blue or darker colors. However, she couldn't deny the resemblance with his father, Torrhen, the master-at-arms of the keep. He was a massive man, big and burly, with hands as big as her head, hairy as a bear with the temper to go with it. That is unless Lady Mormont was involved. Then he would turn to putty in her hand, fussing over like a mother hen, at her beck and call like a love-starved puppy. Rumour has it that he even wrote her poetry.
"Oh, little lord, why couldn't me Edric be as sweet to me as your da' is to yer ma?" she asked the babe. She could've sworn she saw him roll his eyes.
Maege, Jorah, and her men were riding back from the northern coast. Another wildling raid, if she could even call it that, she thought, a smirk on her face. About twenty of them with sharpened sticks and sad excuses for swords and axes, it was truly a letdown. A first outing since she gave birth to her little cub and this is what she gets. She felt like the Old Gods were punishing her for violence.
As disappointed as she was, however, she couldn't help but be thankful that the little coastal village didn't suffer much damage. With it being winter, she knew they couldn't afford it. It was hard enough to survive this island without having those would be raiders making life hard for the small folk.
At the very least, she found herself quite impressed with her nephew. He had quite a good showing and seemed to take his first kill rather well. In front of the enemy, he stood his grown and never took a step back; like a true Mormont, standing tall, with bravery and honor. Jeor would be proud of him when he hears of his performance.
She looked over to her nephew with pride, convinced that Bear Island would be safe in his hands when his turn came to lead them. Now, however, she needed to get back to her cub, for as much as she enjoy the thrill of the battle, she loved nothing more than having her family around her. She only fought to keep them safe.
"You fought well, nephew. You fought bravery and honor, she said, addressing the dark-haired Jorah, who piped up at hearing her aunt's voice. "Your father will be proud of you."
Those words brought a small smile to his face and a twinkle to his eyes. With a silent nod, he acknowledged her words.
" But now, we must ride home. I have duties to attend to."
"Duties, she says" he retorted, "Is that what we call it now?" A wide smile on his face.
Maege scoffed, not bothered in the least. " Don't think I haven't seen you and that little Glover wife of yours making lovers' eyes to each other. The nights are cold, this winter. You must miss her dearly", she retorted, a smirk on her face.
"Just as much as you must miss your dear Torrhen's poetry. It's quite a feat to have tamed your bear, my fair maiden" Jorah said, before guffawing, urging his horse forward, leaving her behind, a stunned look on her face.
Behind him, he could hear her aunt's horse catching up and her yelling at him:" Where did you hear that? Come back here, you shit!"
The other soldiers followed after them amused at the antics of their lords. Today was a good day.
The third chapter in the books. not much is happening. Just establishing and developing the MC a bit. As you can tell, he is a tad arrogant and set in his ways, which might or might not cause him trouble later in the story. all and all it was ok to write, still getting my stride, as, as I said, this is my first story ever.
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