Disclaimer- This is a work of fan fiction using characters from George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series. I do not claim any ownership over any characters or the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. I'm only borrowing some of his characters and settings to practice fiction writing. This fanfiction story is for entertainment only, I will make no money off of it, and is not part of the official story line.
AN: This story diverges from canon in that after a troubling and barely remembered dream, Maege Mormont visits Winterfell and asks Ned if she can take Jon as a ward and possible husband for one of her many daughters. In other words, this is one of my efforts at a pseudo-time travel story.
I'm simultaneously writing a similar story, called the Wolf and the Mermaid, but Wyman Manderly is the character possessing vague knowledge of future events. I wanted to use the same premise, but plot the similarities and differences in outcomes between a loyal Manderly with less time but more money and a loyal Mormont with less money but more time.
In both AUs, Robert's visit to Winterfell will occur when Jon and Robb are about 16/17 (300 AC). This starts about 9 years before, so they are roughly 7-8 years old (very early 291). The Greyjoy Rebellion kicks off around 292-293 AC, not 289 AC, per canon.
Keep in mind that the Wolf and the Mermaid and the Wolf and the Bear are not in the same AU. They are separate.
Cover Art: Siegfried & The Twilight of the Gods by Arthur Rackham (1911)
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Maege Mormont ran at a breakneck pace through the thick wood. Hounds bayed in the near distance. They were getting closer, she thought desperately. She ripped her axe across a thicket of branches, trying to clear a path off the trail, as she pushed her way through.
The ambush staged by the flayed men had seen Galbart Glover dead with an arrow through his eye, and both their horses slain. She'd managed to get a shield up in time, three arrows striking it in quick succession as she threw herself off her dying horse. They'd closed in to finish her off, but she'd exploited a gap in their line, breaking for the woods.
They'd followed. Dozens of men wearing the sigil of House Bolton. Horns blowing, hounds baying.
Her legs were on fire. She must have run for miles, attempting to lose the Bolton men in the deep woods. They kept coming no matter what tricks she employed. She knew she wouldn't last much longer.
She came upon a meadow. A lone weirwood tree dominated the area. She heard the hounds and horns closing in from every direction. She sighed, defeated. She'd failed the King.
She patted the leather wallet tucked safely behind her sword belt. King Robb's Will naming his natural brother, Jon Snow, a Stark and his heir was still there, the shape of the thick parchment obvious under the leather.
She looked around. They'd be here in minutes. Taking the wallet, she tossed it high into the branches of the weirwood tree. If she was killed, the Bolton men would doubtless have found the Will on her body and destroyed it. This way, maybe, just maybe, it would escape notice and be discovered by loyal men someday.
She gave a short, desperate laugh. It was a fool's hope. But better a fool's hope than no hope at all.
She placed her back to the tree as shapes came into view. She'd lived her entire life clad in mail. It appeared she'd end it that way also.
If it wasn't for her failing the Young Wolf, King Robb, she wouldn't mind dying this way at all.
The hounds were unleashed first. A peasant untrained in war might have panicked at the snarling fangs and sharp claws, but she was a warrior and they were mere beasts. One stroke of an axe for each saw four dogs dead and the rest cowering.
The men came next. Bolton men fighting under the pink banner of the flayed man. Traitors. Cowards. But they were many and clever.
Spearmen hemmed her in. Archers stood behind. As she tried to break through the wall of steel, her axe flashing, their spears struck and arrows fell upon her, finding gaps in her armor, bursting weak links.
She'd like to think she'd died a death worthy of a song. But she knew it was a lie, even as her heart beat its last. They were too experienced, too professional. Her blade only found flesh twice before her life's blood watered the roots of the weirwood, her vision turning to black.
Then there was light and she saw things as if floating on a cloud through a prism of color. Winterfell was burning as the deep winter snows were falling. Boltons, Freys, Ryswells, Umbers, Karstarks, Manderlys and even more house banners hung in a ruined Stark hall, feasting, celebrating a marriage to a false Stark. A battle in the snow, a scarred man she barely recognized as Jon Snow, King Jon she realized, leading an army of wildlings and mountain clans against the traitor houses. Victory, then the Long Winter.
Battle after battle, won. The war steadily lost. No skill at arms could defeat the icy bite of winter, the inexorable pangs of starvation. Men fell and rose again, eyes glowing blue.
Then came dragons and hope, but dragon battled dragon and both armies burned. Hope turned to despair.
She saw one last battle, Jon clad in black and red, sword in one hand and axe in another. He shouted encouraging but indistinct words to the pitiful remnants of the North, near dead, gaunt, half-starved warriors who could barely walk. She saw with pride some of her daughters, women grown, stood among them. They lifted their weapons, sword, spear and axe, and they howled their defiance at the White Walkers.
Brave to the last, they charged into a sea of the dead, and died fighting. And then rose again with glowing blue eyes and began the march south.
Maege Mormont woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright. She looked about frantically, her heart beating rapidly.
Her body was covered in sweat, her heart filled with rage. An axe rested against the bed. She took it in her hands, grasping it tightly, looking for enemies, creatures with eyes of glowing blue.
The full moon cast its light down into her room, the shutters wide open to let the cool ocean breeze in. Her husband, Olyvar, looked at her with concern. His brown eyes were blinking rapidly.
Brown eyes, she thought relieved. Thank the gods for brown eyes.
"Maege, are you alright?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. He paid no attention to the axe in her hand and made no effort to take up the sword leaning on his side of the bed.
Her only response was to drop her axe and embrace her husband. A desperate embrace which turned to a kiss and a kiss which turned into much more. She needed to feel alive after feeling cold and dead. She was not to be denied.
Not that Olyvar was inclined to deny her. His short cut hair and short cut beard were both already turning grey, but he remained just as strong and as virile the day they wed.
Later, much later, she felt far better, resting in Olyvar's embrace. The sense of dread and loss was receding into the back of her mind. It was just a dream. Olyvar was always able to distract her from her troubles.
She had thought that the only man on Bear Island who could throw her wrestling was a fine choice for a husband. But her brother, then Lord of Bear Island, had not approved of the match.
He'd argued with her for days, claiming they had nothing in common. She was loud and boisterous, he was calm and quiet. She was tall and solidly built, while he was even taller and thin as a reed, all bone and muscle. She loved the smell of earth and pine, he loved the smell of the sea and oak. She was noble, and he was common, which Maege thought was his true complaint.
Finally, he'd abandoned persuasion and tried to forbid the match. She could find a better suitor, he claimed. She'd disagreed.
But Jeor was overprotective and stubborn. He'd posted guards to hold her confined within the walls of Mormont Keep. So she'd beaten them senseless and escaped by lowering a rope over the walls.
The day after, she'd wed Olyvar before a heart tree deep within the forests of Bear Island. They built a hut near a stream and lived off his fishing and her hunting. She hadn't returned to the home of the Mormonts until she was pregnant with their second child. Her husband kept his hands free, and she held an axe in one hand and held Dacey in the other as she explained the new reality to Lord Jeor.
Her brother glared and shouted. She glared and shouted back. Olyvar ignored them both, contenting himself with taking Dacey away from the shouting.
Until one day Jeor shouted something he shouldn't have at Olyvar. To this day, neither Olyvar nor Jeor would tell her what was said. They'd fought, Jeor had lost, ending with her husband shoving her brother's head into a bucket of cold water.
Maege laughed when she heard. For a thin reed, Olyvar knew a lot of tricks, which both greatly pleased her and greatly irritated her. In more ways than one.
After that, Jeor approved of the marriage but only on condition he took the Mormont name. Olyvar couldn't care less about the name, as he had five other brothers and innumerable uncles and cousins to carry on his own, assuming they as smallfolk cared about such things. They didn't.
She had always thought it amusing that a man from a family with so many boys had given her five daughters and no sons. Though with daughters like hers, who needed sons?
There were many on the mainland who could not comprehend why she'd chosen to marry a commoner. She'd grown tired of explaining her belief that birth proved nothing about a man's worth. That her man proved his worth daily with his swords, one of steel and other given by the gods. They'd always grimaced and argued, invariably saying something insulting. Then she'd be compelled to hurt them, and she did. It was tiring.
So instead she started talking about Mormont women being skinchangers and mating with bears in the woods. That caused the mainlanders to flinch and move away, leaving her in peace. Which suited her just fine.
She snuggled closer into Olyvar. He kissed the top of her head and wrapped his arms more tightly around her.
"Now do you want to tell me what this is about?" he asked in that slow and steady way of his to which she had become so enamored.
So she told him. As she spoke she realized that a lot of the details had already escaped her. There was a war. Robb Stark was made king and betrayed. He'd made Jon Snow his heir. He'd fought against impossible odds, betrayed at every turn by houses which should have been firm allies. Then the army of the dead. The final defeat of the North.
She shivered as she spoke, running her cold hands through his chest hair to stay warm. When she was done, he hummed in contemplation.
"And this was just a nightmare?"
She nodded, even as the cold and dread inched their back into her bones. He noticed something was amiss and slowly caressed her back, his fingers lingering on an old scar, given courtesy of a Crownlands archer.
"Yes, but it seemed real," she admitted. She blinked away tears as she suddenly recalled Lyanna being impaled on a spear, only for her to pull it deeper into her body so she could get close enough to take the head of a blue-eyed monster with a blade of obsidian. She shuddered even as she felt a fierce pride in the ferocious death of her dream daughter, who was only just an infant now.
"The worse ones do," he agreed placidly. "What do you want to do about it?"
She cocked her head up so she could look into his warm brown eyes. "Do about it? What do you mean? It was just a dream. A nightmare."
He nodded in agreement. "And probably means nothing at all. But I know you. You'll fret and fret and finally drive the rest of us to distraction. You'll let it gnaw at you and then you'll take it out on the rest of us. Better we deal with it now, give you something to do."
She sat up. "And what should I be doing?" she demanded, irritated. She did not take her temper out on her family! She firmly pushed away some memories that suggested otherwise. They were only occasional outbursts of temper. It wasn't a usual thing, she reassured herself.
"You tell me," he replied calmly, ignoring her tone. "If the dream is a harbinger of things to come, what should we do?"
She leaned against his shoulder. "Prepare for winter. A long one. A very long one," she said, with increasing energy as she warmed to the task. "Recruit and train men. A lot of men. Equip them. Improve the fortifications." She gnawed on her lower lip distractedly. "Trust no one except the Starks. There were far too many traitor houses." She named them, at least the ones she could remember, her voice thick with contempt.
He nodded in agreement. "More fishing and more farming means we need more men. More men means we need more land under cultivation. Where do we get the men?"
She considered it as her hand stroked his strong arm. It was more to calm her nerves than it was to show appreciation for him, but he didn't appear to mind. The North was a vast place and largely empty. She closed her eyes as she envisioned a map of Westeros.
"The mountain clans for the men," she finally offered. "They're close and always have too many mouths to feed. We'll take them off their hands." She stilled for a moment, as if recalling something largely forgotten. "And in the dream they stayed loyal to the very end."
He paused before agreeing, after turning her answer over in his mind. He pulled her hand to his lips, giving it a soft kiss. "When we have them, where do we put them?"
"Sea Dragon Point. It's empty but rich," she replied, naming a spit of land south of Bear Island across the Bay of Ice. "It's close and we can reinforce each other by ship," she added distractedly, as he shifted his body to bring his lips closer to her ear.
"Lord Stark controls Sea Dragon Point. Why would he allow us to settle people there?" he whispered as he nibbled on her ear, still trying to distract her. She almost let him.
That was a good question, she thought, annoyed with herself. Ned wasn't just going to allow them to build settlements without his leave.
She tucked her cold feet under his much warmer legs. He didn't even flinch, having long ago become accustomed to his husbandly duties.
"Because it benefits him," she responded slowly. "He'd benefit with the building of a new settlement, with a new lord. They'd owe taxes and service. He'd be a fool to say no."
He smiled at her. "There is no House more loyal than Mormont. We fought for him against the Mad King. We've," she warmed considerably, hearing him identify himself as a Mormont, "stood with the Starks since the founding of our House. Ask for Sea Dragon Point, Lady Mormont. Pledge your loyal service. Jorah will support expanding the House."
This could work, she thought to herself. Establishing a cadet branch of the Mormonts across the Bay would likely meet with Lord Stark's approval. He had precious little reason to say no.
"I'll speak with Jorah tomorrow. If he agrees, I'll travel to Winterfell," she announced decisively.
He looked wounded. "You'd forsake me in favor of weeks of traveling to visit a pile of rocks? Abandoning me with five she-devil daughters, two of them infants? What have I done to warrant such a slight?" he asked, in mock pain.
She purred as she pulled him closer. "Duty calls, husband. But let me make it up to you."
They didn't get much rest that night, but she was still energetic enough to discuss the plan with her nephew, the Lord of Bear Island. Jorah approved it quickly. He was still not used to being the head of the family, and so deferred to his aunt far too much, though Maege appreciated it in this instance.
She took a small party of a half dozen with her to Winterfell. She stopped and exchanged pleasantries with the Glovers of Deepwood Motte. She felt a pang, remembering Galbart's dream death. It was reassuring to lift a tankard with him and laugh. All was well. At least for now.
She avoided the Umbers. She'd never suspect that House would ever turn traitor. The Greatjon seemed far too staunch for that. But they had.
It was then she realized that she was taking the nightmare seriously. She knew it was ridiculous, it was only a product of her fevered imaginings, but she couldn't shake the sense it was real.
Besides, it wasn't as if the Umbers had the right to her company. She could visit with whom she chose. She chose not to visit with them.
She arrived at Winterfell almost three weeks after she started. She was in luck. Lord Stark was in residence and would see her.
She last saw Ned years ago, when the Tyrells had lowered their banners at Storm's End. Before that she'd stood with him shoulder to shoulder at the Trident, fighting in the waters of the Ruby Ford. The armies of the Mad King broke and fled that day. Those were good memories.
He rose to greet her when she entered his solar. "Maege," he said, welcoming her warmly. "What brings you to Winterfell?"
"Sea Dragon Point," she responded bluntly. She saw him blink and pressed forward. "Lord Jorah has given me consent to establish a cadet House on the mainland. I'd like to settle it there. It's good land. I'd provide good and loyal service."
He leaned back, a frown crossing his face. "I don't doubt your loyalty or good service. There are none I trust more. But I'd been considering granting the Point to one of my sons, when they came of age."
"Which?" One of the good things about being a Mormont, she thought, was that no one expected much in the way of pleasantries. Direct and to the point was the Mormont way.
Ned's face normally looked as if it were carved from ice. Now, however, a brief smile crossed his face. Maege liked it. She suspected that Lady Catelyn would like to see it more.
"Jon," he replied with a short laugh. "Or maybe I'll resettle the New Gift and give Jon a holding there, if I have another son. Bran's to have Moat Cailin, when he's grown."
Maege nodded in approval. "All good ideas. But mine's better. Give it to me and I'll start building a keep within a moon. Give it to me, and I'll marry one of my daughters to Jon Snow and name them both and their children my heirs."
Ned's face closed off at her mention of marrying Jon to one of her daughters. "Jon's place is here, in Winterfell," he said forcefully.
She raised her eyebrow at her liege lord. "You said a moment ago that you'd grant him the Point. That's a good idea. We should start work now, and not wait until he's old and grey." She gave him a hard stare. "And his place is not in Winterfell. He belongs to all of the North."
He looked slightly abashed. "Forgive me. Jon is young and I had not given a lot of thought to his marriage. You caught me by surprise."
She snorted. "He's eight. In the blink of an eye, he'll be married or run off with some sweet thing. You should start thinking of possible futures now, while you have time and options." She hesitated, a troubling thought crossing her mind. "Or is it that my girls aren't good enough for your bastard?"
"Of course not!" he exclaimed, looking shocked. "Your daughters are fine ladies and would make any man proud to take one as a wife."
"Good," she said decisively. "Jon will be a man or a decade or so. If my daughters are good enough for any man, they should be good enough for him. Take your pick, though I recommend not selecting Alysane. I love her, but she's only interested in two things, spears and boys, and the interest in boys will only grow worse. I suspect she'll find herself in a family way sooner rather than later, if you know what I mean."
Ned cupped his forehead in his hand. "You won't be deterred, will you?" he said, half laughing and half despairing.
"No," she admitted, suppressing a flash of triumph. "If you refuse me, I'll play the part of a spearwife and snatch him out of your castle this very evening. It'd be better if you work with me on the details."
This time Ned did laugh. It was a good laugh, Maege thought admiringly. Lord Stark spent too much time acting the lord and not enough time acting a man.
"Which daughter do you recommend then, Lady Maege?" he asked humorously.
"Dacey is six years older, but she's the best of them. And six years is not much in the scheme of things. There will come a time she'll even appreciate having a younger man for a husband, though she might not appreciate it while he's only a boy."
"Avoid Alysane. She's a good girl, brave and loyal, but as I said, she has a bit of a wandering eye at the moment."
"Lyra is a good choice, and is of age with Jon, but all she cares about are horses and the tiltyard. I don't see that changing for a long while."
"Lyanna and Jorey are just wee things, peas in a pod, each already fiercer than all the others combined. But unless he wants to wait a decade and more for one of them to become a lady in truth, he'll marry another."
He gave another short laugh. "So Jon's choices are Dacey and Lyra?"
She nodded in agreement. "Pick Dacey. She's older and she'll have to wait, but she's steady and reliable, equally at home in a dress or in mail. Lyra will make any husband of hers miserable." She paused for a moment. "And it makes it easier to pass Sea Dragon Point onto Jon, if you grant it to me. There will be less resentment if he marries my heir."
"I'll consider it," he said respectfully. "You make a compelling argument."
She shook her head sadly. "You still want to hold the boy close. You aren't protecting him, Ned. The world is a hurtful place. It is especially hurtful to highborn bastards without family. Let me give him a family. Let me build him a home, while he's still young enough to enjoy a childhood in it."
"He has a family," he ground out frostily, his former good cheer gone.
"He has a father. He has brothers and sisters. But he is set apart from them all the same. He has no mother." She had a dim recollection from her dream. She decided to play a hunch. "That's a mystery far too many are picking at, by the way."
His expression froze into a carefully crafted expression of disinterest. She might have thought it true, except for the whitening of his knuckles as he squeezed a colored stone he'd subconsciously picked off the table.
"The North is often a dreary place. Not much to do except prepare for winter and gossip. I know every man in the North, and I think every man in the Seven Kingdoms, is speculating as to who his mother might be, comparing notes, making bets."
This time Ned did not bother to pretend disinterest. His face paled. "Why would they do such a thing?"
"Ned," she said with a sigh. "Are you really that out of touch? You are one of seven great lords. All eyes are on you. You raise your bastard next to your trueborn children, insulting your wife, the daughter of another great lord. You hide the identity of his mother. People love mysteries. Of course, people are curious. Of course, they will pry."
He seemed almost panicked. "I've heard nothing," he said, obviously distressed.
"You haven't been particularly open on the subject, so why would they approach you?" She decided to stop playing with him. "House Mormont doesn't care who his mother is. We care only that he has Stark blood. And if you want the gossip to stop, you need to get him out of your shadow and away from Winterfell. Let me do that for you, let me give him a life."
He groaned. "It isn't that simple," he complained.
"Of course it is," she rebutted. "Do what other highborn lords do with their bastards when they reach a similar age. Send him out to be a page and squire. Make a marriage for him and send him away. Do that and they'll forget him. Then he'll be just another bastard. Keep him close and they'll notice. Tongues will wag."
He stared off vacantly, lost deep in thought. "Send him to Lord Jorah?"
"He is one of the best warriors in the North," she replied smugly, not even attempting to conceal her pride in her nephew's skills. "He's far more skilled and loyal than most."
He swallowed. "You'll protect him?"
"If he's to marry my daughter, he'll be my son. I'd give my life for my children, including yours if you make him mine." Her eyes were steady and certain as she spoke. She knew the truth of her words, it was up to him to hear it.
He stayed still for long, troubling moments before finally breathing in deeply. "Sea Dragon Point is yours, Lady Maege. Jon will serve as a page and then squire to Lord Jorah. I'll send silver and craftsmen to help you build up the Point. Consider them Dacey's bride price. Her dowry will be the Point upon Jon's marriage. Maester Luwin will draw up the papers."
She smiled, a real genuine thing. It seemed to set Lord Stark at ease. The cold that had permeated her bones seemed to recede a small bit. It felt good.
"Thank you for my son, Lord Stark," she replied with real emotion. He did not resist when she pulled him into a smothering embrace.
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AN: Don't expect fast updates on this. I know where it's going but I have a lot of story ideas in my head and like writing wherever my fingers take me. My focus for the moment is Ser Jon, Lord of Castamere.