Chapter Text
Lady Mormont
Few people welcome the cold. Even northerners, men and women born and bred in winter's chill, dread anything beyond the first snowfall. Although they put on stoic expressions for the southern crowd, their love of snow and ice lasts but a few weeks. Of course, there is no outward moaning or complaining—that is not the northern way. Instead, gruff sighs become wearier and more drawn out, serving as a wordless distress call...a language of its own.
But I fell in love beneath snow-covered trees and have found more warmth in the embrace of a northern lord than in all the sun-drenched sands of the south. The cold is not bitter or barren to me—it is an excuse to gather my boys closer, to snuggle up beside a roaring fire together.
Still, after the trickery of multiple false springs—where the land turned to slop before freezing again—even I am ready to greet warmer weather. With thawing temperatures, nature gives way to new life. The ground hums with growth as both plant and creature rise from a long slumber. There's patience and kindness in the way people move carefully around budding flowers and newborn animals. Even the air seems gentler…smells sweeter.
Or maybe it's not about the climate at all. Perhaps it is the spell of island life that has left my heart full and content all these years.
Truth be told, I adore Bear Island, but not nearly as much as I adore the snoring man beside me. Shaking my head with a fond smile, I sit up on one elbow to admire my husband in the half-light of morning. Most days, Jeor wakes before me and it is his gentle touch that pulls me from the world of dreams. Now, my fingers itch to run through those whitening curls and return the favor.
But I hold back. I cannot risk waking him…
…or maybe just one kiss.
I press my lips against his scruffy cheek before slipping out of bed. His arm stretches out in response, my name slipping from his lips on the end of a dream-filled sigh. My smile widens and I sneak another kiss—this time from the very place my name escaped.
With one last glance at Jeor, I slip down the hall to where our little boy sleeps. Having trekked the small space a hundred times before, I find his bedside with ease. Squinting in the dark, I see a small leg poking out from beneath a massive pile of furs and stuffed toys. I reach out and lightly tickle the bottom of Jorah's exposed foot with my fingertips. The reaction is immediate—a startled squeak and the limb retracts beneath the furs quickly, like a rabbit diving into its burrow.
My laughter banishes the silence of the room. I wait a moment, but Jorah doesn't stir again. So, I move to his side and with natural care, press my hand against his stomach, waking him with a soft kiss to the cheek. Just like his father, his hand reaches for me on instinct. The word 'Mama' escapes—a title worth more than my own name—and bleary blue eyes blink up at me.
"Wake up, my sweet boy. Our adventure begins."
The whispered reminder of a promised journey works its magic as Jorah smiles, grasping my hand and slipping from the warm cocoon of his bed. I nudge him through the dark to where our coats and boots wait near the door. His movements are uncoordinated, softened by sleep, as I pull his arms through the sleeves of a light coat. I watch him struggle to pull on his boots—a task he now wants to do for himself.
We don't exchange words, just conspiring smiles in the dark.
Before heading out the door, I scribble a quick note for Jeor, just in case he wakes before we return. Hopefully, a quiet home will lend a few extra hours of much needed rest. He has been working far too hard in recent moons, caught between the duties of leadership and fatherhood, stubborn and unwilling to be neglect any of his duties.
Just two nights earlier, I found him fast asleep in Jorah's room, stretched out across the small bed, legs hanging off its sides. I had allowed him a few moments of rest before waking him. In return, he had mumbled and grumbled his way up the stairs, batting away my steadying hands as I informed him he would be of no use to anyone with an aching back.
Stubborn, I think with a smile.
So, when I devised my plan, I left Jeor out. He won't mind…there will be a sweet treat at the end of the day…a delicious pie.
Not long ago, I spotted fresh berries sprouting up from the bushes near the edge of the woods. With Maege's nameday on the horizon, I decided to bake a celebratory fruit pie.
Now all that is needed is the plump berries ripe for the taking. And who better to help pick berries than a little bear?
With basket in one hand and Jorah's fingers clasped tightly in the other, I step out into the dewy dawn.
As if overnight, the grass around the Keep has shot up from the ground, just enough to rustle beneath my boots and cast heightened shadows. The blades are vibrant and soft to touch but remind me of how quickly the boy beside me is growing. Even now, I can tell Jorah has gotten taller, as our clasped hands settle a bit higher than before, swaying close to my hip.
Perhaps my thoughts are too melancholy for such a beautiful morning, and maybe I'm selfish…but I fear the day Jorah grows strong enough to grasp a sword instead of his mother's hand.
Shaking my head, I settle back into the present. Worries of the inescapable future can wait…secret morning adventures cannot.
Well, perhaps not secret, but I choose to treasure it as such.
Careful to keep my footsteps short, I guide Jorah along the familiar and worn path to the woods. The sun has not quite risen above the horizon, and yet light stretches across the sky in a faded line, erupting like soft flames in a swelling fire.
But the night is still alive. The closer we get to the forest, the louder the nighttime creatures become, a blend of noises soft and sharp. They are not fearful sounds, for I recognize the gentle coos of the owls, chirping of the crickets, and rattle of the trees. On Bear Island, nature and man dwell together. I have wandered the pine-scented paths of the forest just as often as I've walked the stone corridors of Mormont Keep. Both feel like home.
Even more welcome than the sound of nature, is the sound of Jorah's voice as he shares the important details of his dream from the night prior.
"-and there was a dragon," Jorah says, midway through the recollection. "Papa was there too. He flew on the dragon!"
I smile and ask about the majestic creature, unwilling to reveal that dragons no longer soar the skies of our world. After all, dreams are for things thought impossible. And he is so thrilled by the idea of his father riding a dragon. How highly Jorah must think of his father that even in dreams, Jeor is able to conquer the greatest of challenges.
Admittedly, the image of my husband atop a dragon is not an unwelcome one. With a smothered grin, I make a mental note to tease him about it later.
It's not long before we arrive at the edge of the woods, where sunlight has yet to break through the canopy of leaves overhead. Peering into the dark shadows between sturdy tree trunks, I spot a strange flicker of light. Confused, I squeeze my eyes shut to cast away the dark spots left from gazing at the horizon for too long. But when I reopen them, the small lights continue to blink back at me.
I take an instinctive step in front of Jorah, narrowing my eyes further—whether to see better or to warn off a predator, I cannot be sure. The lights weave and bob among the trees, fading from sight before reappearing a second later.
I blink again, this time with clarity.
Fireflies.
A soft laugh escapes as I recognize the unique beetles dancing in the dwindling darkness. It's rare to see them so close to sunrise. But I suppose their lives are short and the night is never long enough.
Jorah gasps softly, eyes wide with wonder once he sees what has caught my attention. The patterned flashes of light summon knowledge passed onto me long ago, in a place where hot summer nights brought swarms of fireflies, forming a sea of light brighter than the sun or moon.
"They're called fireflies, Jorah."
"Fireflies," he echoes, utterly captivated.
Slowly, as to not disturb the rare moment, I step into the forest, pulling Jorah with me gently.
"Mhmm. See the way each one flashes a bit differently?"
My little bear nods, his free hand rising slowly to touch one that flutters nearby. His head twists to follow the soft beat of wings.
"That's how they find their loved ones…they recognize their light."
"Like me and you and Papa?" he asks, eyes searching mine.
I smile and brush a rebellious lock of hair from his face. "Exactly."
Even in the chaos, they find each other.
It's a comforting thought, one that eases away my petty worries from before.
There's another giggle, this time from Jorah, as a daring beetle lands on his head. He is careful not to move, patient and gentle as always—a wonderful part of his nature.
Enthralled with my little boy's happiness, I forget our initial task.
Together we stand, steady in the dancing light, until it fades with the dawn of a new day.