They say nothing burns like the cold. It takes over the body, dominates the mind, and numbs the muscles. The men of the North were regarded as the most resilient to the biting frost of the winter, but the frigid temperatures of the barren tundra even had the likes of King Stark shivering. Lord Mormont, ruler of Bear Island, stood next to his liege. Whatever remained of the King of the North's armies were assembled at this one location, as winter set upon the scrubbed lands. Across the long valley, winding and barren, stood the armies of Greyjoy.

The men of the Iron Islands were known for their brutality in combat, their reaving of the lands, and their grossly barbaric practices with their many saltwives. The armies of Greyjoy, having found allies in The Neck and The Eyrie, stood ten thousand strong for this final assault on the North's stronghold and seat of power, Winterfell. Their travel to the land had not been an easy one, however. They had taken many casualties in their road to war, and behind them lay a path of blood and corpses. House Hornwood, righteous in their wrath, had its self nearly eliminated at the hands of Greyjoy's army, but killed tenfold more Ironborn.

Lord Lotir of Hornwood had been executed earlier in the day, with his armies eliminated and his generals killed. The Greyjoy demoralization tactic worked in part, but many thoughts went out to Lord Hornwood as a martyr, and a hero of the North. Those Northmen who had not yet deserted or turned coats now stood in defiance of their would-be conquerors. They stood seven thousand strong, outnumbered but not without hope. The Wall was still at their backs, and their war had not been one of miserable defeat, but of heroic resistance.

Lord Mormont stood tall, without steed. His wardrobe compromised of a thin coat of chain mail, covered by the tabard of his house. On it, a black bair stood among evergreens. His claws, tongue, and fangs were colored bright orange, contrasting its surroundings. He wore thick leather boots and leather gloves, and clutched Longclaw in his grip. The hand-and-a-half Valyrian steel sword was wielded with both hands, its pointed tip rested on the ground. On its pommel, a mighty black bear's head gazed out towards the Greyjoy army.

Lord Stark had given him pardon to return to his host of two hundred men. Lord Mormont's army was varied, those young and with bright eyes and those wrinkled with a grim look both stood proud. He looked out to the men of the island, and gave a hearty grin. He raised his voice over the whipping winds and shouted out to them, easily gaining their attention,

"I look upon the men of my host, and do not see one that does not look like a martyr."

Grif Mormont was known for his morbid thoughts, as well as his morbid phrases. He was clear in his meaning, and the men seemed to understand it as well. If they were to win a victory at Winterfell, they were to return home to their mothers in full and be hailed as heroes. If they suffered a defeat, they were to return home to their mothers in many halves and be hailed as heroes. Lord Mormont was ready to accept this fate, but was not without his own fears.

He was young, at the age of twenty-four, yet wore the wrinkles of the old men with pride. He was without wife, and without son. It was most likely that upon the event of his death, his brother would inherit his title. If not his brother, one of his many sisters. As for the afterlife, Mormont had nothing to fear. He would join the Old Gods in singing the songs of the First Men, and he would be at peace. However, he would be unfulfilled, a life yet lived for many years is a life truly lost forever. His mother would bury him as she buried the Lord Mormont of old, and so on and so forth.

Lord Mormont's guise of confidence was shadowed by an inner fear of death. He would be immortalized in the halls of Bear Island, yet he would perish a mere child among men. He could put his men before him in the charge, or even run away and return to Bear Island on his ships, but these were not the ways of Northmen. His father's court had groomed him for command of the armies and fleets. This scenario had been played over and over again with his father's knights and tacticians, and it was clear that each ended in defeat.

He knew his place in King Stark's army. He was to be one of the charge brigades, nearly eight hundred men in the armies of House Mormont, House Umber, and House Tallhart. The composition of the armies was clear, House Umber had contributed the most infantry with 300 footmen prepared to move into the heat of battle, a mere 50 horsemen, and a mere 50 archers. Unlike House Tallhart, which had brought an army of 110 archers, 50 horsemen, and a mere 140 militiamen. House Mormont's army was the most homogenous, with an army of 200 men, all axe-wielding infantry.

King Stark had yet to give his orders, and Lord Mormont presumed that he would allow King Greyjoy to take the first move so that he may construct the perfect counter. As a member-army of the charge detachment, Lord Mormont was guaranteed to see the first minutes of battle for himself. The morbid words of Ser Tannin, one of his father's many knights, returned to his thoughts.

"Glory to the first man to die."

Lord Mormont stamped his feet and shuttered, cursing under his breath as he drew his cloak closer to his body, "Damn this cold."