Chapter Text
Bear Island was a small community: Between dense forests and heathered plateaus, only a handful of people braved the harsh northern winds and crashing waves. Not one, but two oceans separated this speck of land from Mereen – making it the perfect escape for Daenerys.
She could hear the distant sound of these waves breaking on the shore now, as she rode her bike along the cobbled path. The mist was too thick today to catch a glimpse of the sea from her route, melting into the melancholy grey of the clouds that hung low over the sea. But she could still taste a hint of salt on her lips and smell the seaweed washed up on the beach during last night’s storm. The fierce winds had caught on the trees covering the island’s cliffs, and a layer of leaves that had just begun to yellow now covered the path leading down from the cliffs to the harbour.
Her bicycle – painted with stripes of black, green, and white – skipped over the rough stones of the path, making her grab tighter on the handles. Her long curls whipped in the breeze behind her, and Daenerys relished in the feeling of freedom it brought her.
It was this feeling she had hoped to find when she had scrolled pictures of rental properties an entire continent away.
Her friends had thought her mad when she had presented her plan to them. Missandei had begged her to consider something a bit closer to home – she could have pulled some strings with friends in the summer isles, perhaps? After all, who could deny the appeal of pristine white beaches and balmy turquoise waters?
But Daenerys had longed a contrast to the mellow evenings of the Narrow Sea. She had found herself, at the end of her twenties, stepping out of a lawyer’s office in the city, a stack of freshly signed divorce papers in her bag, with a profound feeling of directionlessness. It had been a sobering reality check to find herself at this point, career moves made and paths taken to cling to a marriage that had ended up far from healthy, and even farther from the naïve fantasy of first love she had dreamed up in the beginning.
She had longed for a place to get out of her head, for somewhere wild and untamed, for the sting of cold wind on her cheeks and the intense smell of pines filling her senses to ground her again. Ultimately, she had put in for a sabbatical, left her apartment and everything in it but what she could fit into three suitcases to Drogo, and signed a two-year lease on an island cottage in search of picturesque views and peaceful silence. And if the first glimpses of autumn on Bear Island she had gotten over the last weeks were anything to go by, she had succeeded in her search.
Barristan Selmy was already waving at her when she let her bike come to a halt in front of the whitewashed building that housed the island’s hardware store. She returned the greeting happily as she strode toward the entrance.
“Good morning, Daenerys.”, he called from behind the register. “How is the work on the kitchen going?”
The older man had been one of the first people she met when she moved to the island in early summer, finding her aimlessly rummaging around a shelve of faucets and plumbing supplies. He had since become her patient advisor as she threw herself into renovating the wooden lakeside cottage she lived in.
“I got pretty far over the weekend.” She had already disappeared between the shelves at the back. “I will need a lot more boards though. Turns out the woodworm got to the panelling on the window-side wall as well. Do you happen to have another ten of these?”
“Let me have a quick look in the back. I would also recommend linseed oil to finish the boards – that should save you any further trouble.”
“Thank you so much. I hope that this will be the last unexpected hitch in the kitchen. I really need to get to work on the pipes before it starts to freeze. I wasn’t even planning on ripping out any walls originally.”
Barristan gave a dry chuckle – he was familiar with renovation projects and their tendency to devolve into unexpected side quests.
“Perhaps I can send Torgo over in the afternoon with the boards? He could take a look at the heating system while he is at it.”
“Thank you.”, the young woman replied with a polite smile. “But there’s no need. I replaced one of the valves two weeks ago, and I am pretty sure it did the trick. I’ll replace some of the pipes in the living room just to be sure, but I should be fine.”
Daenerys raised her chin proudly in emphasis. She would not admit that, while fiddling with a rusty valve on the boiler had gotten the heating system running again, fine was perhaps an overstatement. The old pipes still had a mind of their own at times, creaking and gurgling and giving out entirely at unforeseen moments. While the need for sweaters and thick socks was no longer a constant of her evenings, she still went to bed at least partly covered in wool most nights, just in case the heating decided to act up again.
Yet, she was determined to hold herself to the resolution she had made when she had decided on her move: To challenge herself to do it on her own, to prove to herself she was capable of getting by herself, without depending on a partner as she had for so long. “To find your own strength again.”, as Missandei had fittingly put it, as usual so much better with words than she would ever be.
“At least let him bring up the boards. How are you going to log them up to your cottage on that bike, anyway?”
Daenerys pulled a pair of ratchet straps out of her basket with a flourish and grinned at him. “I’ll manage. I’m stubborn, you know?”
“Don’t I know it.”, the older man chuckled.
Her bike became considerably more difficult to manoeuvre with several pounds of wood strapped to it, and some awareness of the things behind her was required whenever she turned a corner, but Daenerys made her way along the harbour road undeterred. The colourful cottages facing the sea stretched before her, nestled next to each other like beads on a string as they braved the harsh inland winds. In the distance, she could make out the lighthouse, unshakeable on top of the treeless cliff, a quiet guard against the wild currents of the Bay of Ice.
She had decided to prolong her midday outing by stopping by the town centre before she made her way back to the cottage, and to delay having to make her way up the steep coastal path on foot, pushing her bike and unwieldy load. And so, she had treated herself to a sugary coffee confection advertised as an autumn special at Tyrions and took slow sips as she looked out over the sea, enjoying the warmth of the sun that hung low in the sky.
Her phone in the pocket of her parka brushed her hip with every step, and her fingers twitched toward her side, quick to answer the echoes of vibrations indicating accusing messages about her whereabouts. But no such calls would come: Her – admittedly slightly dramatic – fresh start had included a change of number, so Drogo wouldn’t be able to call her. If he even wanted to…
Daenerys shook her head briskly. She was not usually one to brood. Perhaps, she thought, broodiness was some inherent, genetic trait of the island’s natives, or a shared quality of those who willingly moved to such an isolated location. Or maybe, the rugged landscape and sullen skies simply lent themselves a bit too well to introspective musings.
Between sips of spiced, hot coffee, she made her way up toward the town centre. Here, more sheltered from the inland winds by several rows of houses, oak and maple leaves coloured the ground in flaming shades of orange and gold. To her right, the moss-covered wall of the cemetery bordered the lane, dappled in the shadows of the trees that grew on the other side of the wall. Evenly spaced latticed windows revealed weathered gravestones nestled under old trees, paved paths running between them.
Some leftover raindrops glistened on spider webs that clung to the tall grass, giving the scenery an ethereal feel.
Unable to help herself, Daenerys followed the winding path through the gravestones. She had no next of kin buried here, no specific gravestone to visit. Still, she recognized some of the last names on the tombs with a spark of pride – a sign she was finding her footing in the small community of the island.
Behind a bend in the path, she came to a stop. The scenery that unfolded before her had something ethereal, spiritual even: To her right stood a group of evergreen trees, ancient stems twisted in a way that conjured images of weather-worn faces of fishermen of old. Their gnarled roots seemed tangled, rising and falling under the mossy ground. Between them sat some modest headstones, tucked away from the main path. The trees’ heavy branches hung low, filtering the midday light in rays.
The place held an otherworldly atmosphere of tranquillity, even for a cemetery. Daenerys could not help herself, she leaned comfortably against the gnarled stem of the biggest tree, knees pulled up and hands wrapped around the warmth of her coffee cup.
She closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled the clear autumn air. A sudden wave of gratitude filled her. Moments like this were what she had hoped for months ago, when she had decided to seek refuge from the emotional turmoil of her divorce on these shores.
A gravelly voice pulled her out of her thoughts unannounced.
"Excuse me, Miss, but why are you sitting on a grave?"
Bear Island was a small community, and life between the tranquil mountain lakes and rocky shores changed at a glacial pace, if at all. Even after a decade of absence, Jorah recognized most of the faces he passed as he made his way along the familiar paths of the island.
True, young Samwell might have taken over the pharmacy from his father, and several new shops had opened along the harbour, catering to the tourists that arrived by the newly established ferry. But the grocery store was still run by the same woman that had run it since he was a child, her face now wrinkled and papery as she gave him a sideways glance whenever he came by for one of his biweekly grocery runs. Jorah tended to stoop his shoulders and hurry by as quickly as possible, refusing to give her or anyone else any more food for gossip than they already had. And how they would have rejoiced in it - the disgraced son, back after 20 years, the woman he had broken with his family for no longer by his side. And none of his family left on the island for him to return to.
His father had left the island before Jorah had even met his would-be wife, for the solitude of a rig job in the Bay’s booming oil industry. One by one, his cousins had grown up and left the island behind, for boardings schools, universities, and husbands all over the mainland, returning only for Christmas and Easter. His aunt Maege, ever the family matriarch, had held the fort. Had she still been alive when he had turned up at the door of the Mormont family home, he was sure he would have been dumped back onto the front steps unceremoniously. But she was not, and the whitewashed house he had grown up in sat quietly at the edge of the harbour now. Wasn’t it ironic.
Jorah stubbornly kept to himself as much as he could, refusing to bear the glances and whispered comments that were sure to be exchanged behind his back. Instead, he embraced a familiar routine. Whether it was ingrained in him, never truly changed, or whether the steady turning of the tides simply allowed no other rhythm, he could not tell. In any case, he welcomed it, setting a steady rhythm for himself.
Morning runs along the cliffs east of the harbour. Regular trips to the town library, unchanged from the darkly stained shelves to the carpeted floors. The occasional swim in the icy water of a small cove a bit further up the coast when the weather permitted it.
One rainy afternoon and excruciatingly dull book choice had found him unlocking the door to his father’s workshop downstairs, on a mission of sorting through the eclectic mix of carpenters’ tools as he had with his aunt’s things upstairs, packaging them in labelled boxes to be deposited to the attic. Something had stopped him as he ran his fingers over the neatly sorted workbench. The memory of his father, spending evening after evening there after his mother’s death, working away on one of his projects. The way he seemed to get lost in the movement of the sanding block, his shoulders not hunched for once.
Jorah had heaved aside the wooden stands in the middle of the room that had once held the boats, kicking up clouds of dust into the dim light. It took quite some manoeuvring – and a painful pull to his back, which he steadfastly ignored – to get the sideboard from the hallway down the tight staircase.
And so the routine expanded, afternoons now spent repairing, sanding, and refinishing the furniture that had inhabited weekends, school holidays and Christmases over the years. Carefully, he buffed out the scuffs he and his cousins had left on the side of the hallway sideboard playing tag, or the cigarette mark he had left on the kitchen table when he had picked up smoking as a petulant teenager. One pass of the sandpaper at a time.
It was good work – it kept his mind occupied enough to stop him from brooding over the fact that his phone had not rung once since he had arrived. No news from Varys, no news from her…
It was the silence, more than sentimentality, that had driven him out of the house after lunch today. He ran his hand over the polished wood of the hallway sideboard before stepping out the door. The path to the cemetery was quiet. Pillows of moss grew between the raised cobblestones of the path, dampening his footsteps. But as the cemetery gate came into view, the tranquil silence he normally enjoyed felt heavy on him.
His mother’s grave he knew well. His father had taken stopped by whenever they passed the town centre, his younger self tagging along tacitly. The second one he could only imagine. He had avoided the funeral, unwilling to face his father’s disdain or to smooth over quarrels between Lynesse and his cousins over coffee and condolences. But Jorah knew what it would look like, the name of the woman that had held his young life together after the loss of his mother, her name now engraved in stone.
It was a small comfort to find his mother’s grave no longer alone in the spot underneath the fir trees, now joined by his aunt’s for company. Maege’s tombstone had been placed just two feet to her side, nestled between the winding roots of the trees that curved around them almost protectively. The pale midday light fell through the heavy branches in rays onto the moss and leaves below. Despite the closeness of the town square, the only sounds were the occasional calls of birds and the distant rolling of the waves.
As he rounded the corner, Jorah stopped abruptly. Leaning against the gnarled trunk of the tree, her legs splayed out in front of her, almost on top of the graves itself, sat a young woman.
Her hair was what struck him first, strikingly light, silvery strands falling around her shoulders. If it had been any closer to Halloween, he might have suspected her a ghost, with her pale colouring and petite frame. The next thing he noticed was her completely unseasonable attire. They were firmly on the way to fall here on Bear Island, seasons changing earlier than on the mainland, and though the first frosts were likely still weeks away, the air held quite the bite already. Yet, she was wrapped only in an oversized cotton parka, no scarf or hat in sight.
He decided to make his presence known as he rounded the bend in the path, stopping in front of the group of fir trees.
“Excuse me, Miss, but why are you sitting on a grave?”
Her head shot up to him.
“Oh, this? I thought it was a nice quiet spot—trees, moss, birds singing…What, do you have this spot reserved already?”
He faltered for a second. Did she just call him old?
“Something like that.” She was older than he had initially assumed, her voice steady and self-assured. “You’re sitting on my mother.”
Her eyes flicked to the two gravestones, then to her outstretched feet. She pulled them closer to her body and scooted to the side.
“I did not mean to be disrespectful.”, The playfulness in her tone was replaced by sincerity. “I was just stopping for a minute. Taking a moment to think.”
He raised a questioning brow at her, taking in the scene. Leaning against the tree beside her was a large backpack, and a coffee cup sat next to her knees in the grass.
“And the cemetery seemed like a good place for that?”
“I mean, yes… It’s quiet here. And I’m new to the island. I guess I am still finding my footing”
She shrugged, pulling her parka tighter around her shoulders, seemingly shivering.
He should have bristled at her nonchalance. Instead, Jorah was surprised to find himself reaching out a hand to help her pull herself up from the ground.
“New in town, and you pick the cemetery. What brings you here, anyway…”
“Daenerys.”, she supplied.
“Daenerys.”, he repeated, savouring the vowels. A strange name, but somehow fitting.
She seemed hesitant to reply, her eyes roaming over the gravestones carefully for a moment. She blinked and pulled her shoulders back, as if to steal herself.
“A divorce.”, she replied. “Thought a change of scenery would be good to start over.”
She finally met his eyes, the corner of her mouth quirking ever so slightly.
“I didn’t exactly mean to start by invading family space, though...”
“Jorah.”, he replied curtly. He should be getting on with it, say his goodbye and be on his way. Maybe it was the vulnerability in her eyes, maybe the way the sun hit her hair in that way, that made him soften and go on against his better judgement.
“Guess I get that. Same reason I came back.”
Her brows raised in surprise. “You, too?”
“Aye. Needed to get some air. Figured this was as good a place as any.”
She tilted her head in curiosity, a blonde curl falling into her face that she awkwardly pushed back. There was a twinkle in her eyes. They were the strangest colour, a pale grey that almost bordered on violet.
“Well, Jorah, I’m glad to meet another misfit.”
He couldn’t help but let out a rumbling chuckle, burying his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat.
“The pleasure’s all mine, Daenerys.”, he echoed, “I really should get going.”
Just as he was about to make his way down the gravel path and back to the harbour, he turned on his heel once more, facing her.
“You should get a coat, you know. If you plan on staying. Wouldn’t want you to freeze to death next time you decide to have a picnic with my mother.”
“Do you think she would mind if I dropped by on occasion? It’s a small island, and one has to make friends somehow. Even if they’re… posthumous.”
Her smirk was broadening, dimples forming on her cheeks. Something melted in him, just a bit.
“Somehow, I’ve got a feeling she wouldn’t mind.”