The Wolfswood

298 AC

There was a still, icy chill in the air.

Melding slush from the day prior had since hardened into thick, uneven clops of muddy ice, making it difficult for one to find their footing.

Not to mention, the ironwoods had since shaken off the large brushes of snow, revealing their dark-gray, naked branches for all to see…

Starag Mormont had spent a good portion of his life in the Wolfswood. When he was fostering with the Starks, he would always look forward to hunting in the thick, dank forest for deer and boar with Brandon Stark. It always smelt faintly of morning dew and pine.

They'd ride out from Winterfell just before dawn with a few guardsmen. Spears, bows, anything to hunt their prey with. They'd cross the barren, snow-covered fields and go deep into the heart of the North, far into the depths of the wood.

It was there they were free to roam. Free to hunt and laugh and stalk their prey as the First Men had done so long ago. They became more primal in a sense. All notions of sensible behavior and nobility were promptly tossed away.

In the Wolfswood, nothing else existed but man and his prey. There were no majestic courts and silly girls wearing their ridiculous dresses. It was rough and dirty terrain. And there was only one objective in mind: Kill.

It was a much simpler time then, of course. Back then, Mormont's family had barely a few gold dragons to their name. He hadn't needed to worry about a damn thing.

Now, the Wolfswood was a much different place. While nothing had changed in its appearance, there was something… something about it that felt different to Starag Mormont.

Perhaps it's not the wood… Perhaps it's me…

His world had changed significantly since those days of riding carelessly through the Wolfswood with Brandon, bringing their hunting trophies back to Winterfell for all to see.

Now, Mormont was a man of the world. He'd become accustomed to danger, and had looked death in the eyes countless times since. The boy who had hunted in the Wolfswood with Brandon Stark was long gone…

And yet, that seemed almost like an entirely different lifetime. As if thousands of years had passed in just a few decades… It was surreal in a way… And it made Mormont wish that, only for a moment, he could go back to those simple days and feel the wind brush his ears and feel his hair get caught on loose twigs and branches…

What would Brandon say if he were still alive?

He would definitely make fun of Mormont's eyepatch. "What happened to you, Starag? Did some jealous wench poke your eye out with a spoon?"

Mormont smirked as he sat on his log in front of the open fire. That's exactly what Brandon would say.

"I do hope that smile is meant for me."

Mormont glanced to his left and saw his wife approaching. Her thick cotton and fur skirts were gathered in her hands, so as to not get mud all over them. She soon took the log right next to his, her place from the night before.

"Afraid not, sweetheart. I was thinking of the delights of Ned's breakfast table." He said as he let his hand roam her thighs.

"It's as I feared…" Rhaenys said with a sigh. Yet she leaned ever so closer towards him. "What shall I do? What with my lord husband's truest love being food?"

"You could always wrap yourself in bread. It would make you more lovable."

To that, Rhaenys had no reply other than to blush beet red and think of the preposterous image of her naked body wrapped in a freshly baked bun.

Mormont decided to stop having fun at the expense of his wife and relieve her curiosity instead. "Just some old memories."

She nodded in understanding. Still, the flush of blood still permeated her golden cheeks. "It's just… I haven't seen you smile since… Well…"

Mormont gave her thigh a comforting squeeze in reply. He knew exactly what she meant.

It had been a week since he'd received that crisp white letter from Winterfell. The same one that told him his father had been killed in his sleep. The same letter that pressed him to action.

Mormont had told his family of Jeor's death as well, though he had left out the exact causes. He was not yet ready to divulge that it had been a dead man who had snuck into the Commander's Tower during the night and who had killed his father. That would just have to wait.

First, he'd need to consult Ned on the matter to figure out their next move. The defense of the North would be very costly. Especially since they required materials that were scarce north of the Neck. Dragonglass in particular would be difficult to find in the North alone.

Unless… Unless there was some kind of deposit in the Northern Mountains, or perhaps even in the slopes above the Stony Shore… It was a long shot, but it may just work. Worst case, they found more minerals and ores they could trade with. Gold, silver, gems. He'd write to Alysane and Dacey as soon as possible, and get them both to work.

Then, of course, there was trouble brewing down in the South supposedly. Tensions between Hoster Tully and Tywin Lannister were slowly but surely rising. The borders between the Westerlands and the Riverlands were quite possibly the most dangerous region in Westeros. Small raids and skirmishes were being conducted here and there, like pinches and forceful grabs for power.

Of course, nothing concrete could be said about who was behind what exactly. Nobody would dare blame a Lord Paramount for such indiscretions without solid proof.

Mormont didn't know why exactly this was the case. Probably someone in Tully's household. Had to be. Mormont didn't believe that Tywin Lannister would needlessly disturb the peace when he was more or less in charge of the Seven Kingdoms via his daughter, Queen Cersei.

He would just have to see once he arrived at Winterfell. Ned and Ashara were probably more up-to-date on events than he was. And with Olenna Tyrell's assistance, no doubt.

But none of that mattered right now. Mormont's company was still about half a day's ride from Winterfell.

Mormont had invited both Marwyn and Sigmund along to Winterfell, as they both had the knowledge to share about the Others, and how to deal with them. Ned would want to know absolutely everything he could find out about this sudden threat to the North.

And, of course, Maege and Arthur had come along as well. Though the former would soon be returning to Bear Island in a few days to continue running the place and also putting together suitable defenses for if the Others made it past the Wall. And also because little Lyra must probably be overwhelmed with running Bear Keep and Frostgate simultaneously.

Then there was also-

"Father!"

Duncan had revealed himself from the other side of a pitched tent. His puffed red cheeks were dimpled, and his mouth was upturned in a wide, playful grin. Mormont's son had run over to him and tackled him in a wide-sweeping hug. Mormont had smiled back at the boy and embraced him.

Once they separated, that was when Mormont noticed the stick in his right hand. "What's this for?" He asked.

Duncan's expression turned sheepish like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have. "I… saw you and Uncle Arthur go down to the stream before the sun came up… And…"

So, he saw our morning duel. "And?"

The boy's purple eyes stared up at him in awe. "You were both so fast, I didn't even see your swords!" His eyes were cast downward again. "Can you teach me how to fight like you do?"

Mormont ruffled the boy's hair and grinned. "Of course. But first, you've got to know how to properly stand."

Duncan twisted his head in confusion, almost like a dog would upon hearing a specific word. "Stand?" he asked as he glanced down at his feet, then back up at Mormont. "What do you mean?"

Mormont stood up from his seat and took the stick from his son's hand. "A swordsman is only as good as his footwork. You must be light on your feet. Like a dancer."

"Dancing?" The boy's face twisted. "Dancing is for girls."

"It's also for men who want to stay alive," Mormont said sternly. "You need to be able to move fast. And to do that, you must learn how to stand."

Deep inside his mind, Mormont had managed to recall that very first lesson he'd had with Arthur so many years ago. The experience was still palpable and fresh in his mind. He'd run eleven laps that day.

"Like this," He said. Mormont stood facing away from his son, with one foot spaced in front of the other. He rested on the balls of his feet alone and kept his heel lifted off the ground so as for better mobility.

Mormont saw his son match his stance, and even lift his own feet off the ground in such a way. But soon enough, his balance gave way and he tumbled to the ground.

But the boy did not complain. Starag Mormont felt a surge of pride as he saw his son get back up and try it again. This time, his stance was unsteady, and he let his heels touch the snowy floor of the Wolfswood. "It's hard, father."

"Everything worth doing is hard, son," Mormont said. "And once you're able to stand as I do, you can do things like this." He leaned forward and swatted Rhaenys' thigh with the stick. He could hear the welt echo in the forest.

"Ow!" Rhaenys had rubbed her thigh. All the while she had given him a fiery glare.

Despite his mother's fuming, Duncan had burst into a fit of boyish giggles. And all the way through it, Mormont had maintained his winning smile. He matched his wife's stare until she finally looked away.

It was moments like this when Mormont looked back on his lonely days of traveling on the Kingsroad. Living on water and hard rations, and hoped the next town ahead would shelter him from an oncoming storm. Being the family man wasn't all that bad…

And yet… That private voice had decided to come out to haunt him again…

Enjoy it while you can, Mormont. It reminded him. Of his duty. Of his mission. Of the doomed expedition he would soon embark on.

Everything is about to change…

The wind was howling outside the thick glass panes…

The fireplace had been set with freshly chopped logs of wood from the stores, as this meeting was likely to take hours.

Mormont sat back in his seat across the large wooden desk inside the Lord's Solar of Winterfell. Sitting on the other side was his best friend, and liege lord; Eddard Stark.

Standing off in the corner by the roaring fireplace, Arthur kept silent. He didn't want to interrupt and was gazing at the two of them with those ever-vigilant purple Dayne eyes.

"He was killed in the night," Ned said. His tired eyes were lined with black bags. He'd probably not gotten a wink of sleep for several days. "His steward found him in the morning, lying next to the corpse of the dead ranger."

Starag Mormont kept his expression a mask of ice. All the while his blood boiled, burning hot with the anticipation of going up the Kingsroad just to piss on the corpse of the dead man who'd slain his father.

"And what of the dead ranger? Was it still…" He asked.

Ned had shaken his head. "The top half of its body was badly burned. Your father must've smashed its head in with a lamp while he still could."

Were Mormont not angry, he would've given one last somber smile to the memory of his stubborn old father, his guts hanging out of a hole in his chest, giving it one last hurrah as he took a lamplight and smashed the head of the dead thing. At least he didn't die in his bed. He would've hated that.

"Unfortunately, I don't believe your father left a final will…" Ned said as he pulled back for another draft of his Braavosi Firebrand. "I don't suppose you-"

"I do," Mormont said. "I know exactly what he'd want."

Truth be told, it had been quite a long time since either of them had spoken of Mormont's older brother, Jorah, who had dishonored the family-and the North- years before by selling poachers to a Tyroshi slaver, and who had prompted Starag's own return to the family, and his lordship over their family home.

Starag knew there was nothing he could do to take back Jorah's stain on the family except to live with it. The past was the past. There was nothing he could do to change it.

But before his father's untimely demise, the old man had certainly made it clear that he wished for Jorah to one day return to Westeros. Humble, and ready to accept the punishment he'd avoided so long ago. Whether it be at the hands of Ned Stark, or by serving the rest of his life on the Wall.

Mormont knew that was a pipe dream. Jorah wouldn't leave Essos, not without his precious Lynesse. Not that he'd kept up with his older brother's whereabouts for the last few years, of course…

But that was a matter for another day. Right now, they all had other things to worry about.

Ned had called a servant in, and told the girl to fetch the three of them a good hearty lunch of potato and beef broth stew, along with slices of marbled salted pork, garlic bread and butter, and plenty of water.

Mormont normally would've preferred a lighter meal, especially with the current circumstances. At the same time, his stomach rumbled demandingly, clawing hungrily for sustenance. They'd barely eaten on the road, him and Arthur.

Besides, there was a good chance the food would go cold. There was much to be done in terms of planning. They'd likely be in the Lord's Solar the whole bloody afternoon. And perhaps even well into the evening.

Arthur also had no objections to the prospect of hot food. Though he didn't show it, he was damn near as gluttonous as Mormont himself was. A common trait among soldiers, it seemed. Or more accurately, among men.

Men. What fragile creatures they were indeed. Just sacks of meat and bones waiting to die. Day after day they got a little bit older until that one moment might come. One where a man wonders if he will die by the sword, or if he will die in his bed.

What a horror the latter must be like. A part of Mormont wondered if that was the fate that awaited him. After all, he'd built such a comfortable life for his family and people, one where he'd rarely needed to take part in warfare.

And yet, there was the doomed pit in his chest that grew with anticipation into a tight ball of black fire. It stayed burning inside. There was a chance he might be saved by the long haul of age yet. A worse fate lay waiting for him across the Narrow Sea. Whether by another man's blade, or… by something far worse, he did not know.

Mormont had been broken out of his musings as he felt something… Fur. Incredibly soft and tall grey fur had grazed and bent against the rough palm of his open hand. He felt the delicate and elegantly curved canine skull rub against his fingers. Mormont looked down at its owner, and into her beady warm yellow eyes.

The Direwolf was too big to lay by Ned's feet alone, not with Starag taking up his own considerable amount of space. So, she had preoccupied the entire western flank of Ned's large wooden desk. She was an absurd sight, but only because of her sheer size. About as large as Mormont's own warhorse.

She was laying down, curled up around the rectangular edge of her owner's desk. Yet her head was now pushing against Mormont's palm in blessed comfort.

Mormont smiled at the beast. Lya was her name or at least the name that Ned had given her after that fateful day in the Wolfswood when he and Jon had found the Direwolves.

Ned chuckled harshly as he took another gulp of his alcohol. "She's never this friendly with my other bannermen."

"I should expect so," Mormont said with a playful smile. "I saved her life, after all." He paused briefly as he gazed back into the motherly gold orbs. The large pale triangle of her left ear twitched as he scratched behind it. "Glad you kept them. They must be hell on your kitchen staff, though."

His quip had seemingly lightened the mood in the room. Ned had given way to a raucous- and likely a bit inebriated- round of laughter. All the while, Arthur had snorted loudly as he pulled up a chair on Mormont's left.

Mormont soon found himself desiring a change in subject. Anything would be better than the morbid topic of his father's death. "How's that match coming along by the way? Between Robb and Wyman's granddaughter?"

"It's going well for the time being," Ned said with a smile. "She and Robb seem to get along fine. Though I don't think my son will enjoy giving up the bachelor's life just yet, he enjoys her company."

Starag nodded in understanding. He'd seen the pair standing together when his company had ridden into Winterfell's courtyard earlier that day. And not long after, he'd seen the two of them walking the ramparts together. Though Mormont could tell there was a sort of… distance between them.

The boy was probably in love with some other girl, likely some serving girl in Wintertown, definitely one with a big pair of tits. The Stark men seemed to go for that kind of thing in particular. Maybe he even promised to marry her one day, and was still stuck in his childish fantasies…

But like his father, Robb Stark would have to do his duty and marry Wyman's granddaughter. Manderly would never take the snub, not unless Starag had a match of his own. Which he didn't.

"He'll do his duty," Arthur said as if reading the minds of the other two men in the room. "He loves you too much to dishonor you like that, Ned."

"I know." Stark smiled grimly. "It is just unfortunate that his marriage will not be as… smooth as my own."

"My father and mother married out of duty, you know," Arthur added a light grin. "They hated each other at first, but they learned to love one another. If they can do it, so can Robb and Wynafryd."

Mormont found himself agreeing with his friend. There was Stark and Dayne blood flowing in Robb's veins. The boy had the potential to be one of the greatest rulers the North had ever seen since Brandon the Builder.

Just as Jon was looking to be one of the wisest rulers of all time, even in spite of his age. "What about the other ones? Dyanna? Arya? Bran? Rickon?" He asked. "Haven't seen them in years. How are they?"

Ned gave him a brotherly smile. They both knew they were there for business, not to play catch up with one another's family...

And yet, even Arthur had stayed silent and had glanced expectantly at his brother-in-law. It was hard to remember that they were a gathering of brothers on the eve of war. A war that none of them may ever come back from. In one way, they were all related, whether by blood ties or marriages to others in their respective families…

Stark had given the large oaken door to his office one last glance. The food would take some time to arrive, after all…

Why not?

It was well past afternoon when the sun came rolling down the dull grey sky in shimmers of pink and light purple. There was a deep orange tang that grew dark as the sun dipped lower.

Mormont felt the dullness of the Firebrand on his lips. It tasted of too much, yet he was not even drunk in the slightest. He couldn't be.

They'd spent the evening combing through old maps of the North, charts drawn by members of the Night's Watch of the Haunted Forest, The Frostfangs, and beyond to the Lands of Always Winter.

The way the game would be played was that the Others would have to come directly to the Wall itself, which was built in the first place to keep them trapped in the North. But that didn't stop them from finding the living…

"What about the Wildlings?" Mormont asked. "They'd be the first to go, and who knows how many of them there are beyond the wall. Potentially hundreds of thousands."

"Starag's right," Arthur said as he pointed at the lands north of the Wall on the large paper map. "The Wildlings aren't coordinated enough to defend themselves properly from an army of dead men. Much less these Others. If we can make contact with them, we can save those we can and relocate them south of the Wall."

Eddard stood hovering over the map, his hands posted on either side. He frowned. "You're saying we should become allies with them?" He scoffed. "With traitors and oathbreakers?" His tone of voice told another story though. Mormont heard the hint of reluctant admittance.

"It's either that, or we find the Others commanding an army of undead wildlings," Arthur said. He stood as still as a statue. "I'd rather have them on our side."

Ned had nodded his acceptance. He didn't have to like it. Not when so many lives were at stake. "I see your point. I'll speak with Benjen. He's acting Lord Commander for the moment. Perhaps he could put together a ranging." His gaze shifted to Starag as his mind sprung to action. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to spare some of your own wildlings to act as ambassadors? They might come in handy when treating with Mance Rayder."

Mormont nodded. "I'm sure Sigmund can spare a few of his people. I'll speak with him."

"Good. Very good." Ned mused to himself. He began to pace slowly in a circle around Lya, who lay spread out on the stone floor. "I can have Wyman bring more supplies to Eastwatch-By-The-Sea. But we'll have to make sure every single lord in the North is aware of the Others before we bring the Wildlings across the Wall. Otherwise, the chaos that will ensue will be too great even for me to handle."

That would be easier to deal with than expected. Starag got an idea immediately. He'd rather not market to the world that his father was dead, but there wasn't much else they could do. "The Wall is quite isolated, but if rumors of my father's death spread down the Kingsroad…" He trailed off. "The entire North may know about it in a few moons."

"They may call them false…" Arthur began pacing as well. "But…"

"But they won't know for sure." Ned had finished Dayne's sentence. "Are you sure about this, Starag?" He asked with a weary glance.

Mormont nodded icily. It had to be done. If any good came of it, all the better. "I am."

"Then we'll settle on that plan." Ned ran a hand down his face. "There's not much else we can do in the meantime. With the Wall in place, I doubt the Others could mount a proper siege, even with their undead legions. Get the Wildlings on our side, and slowly convincing the bannerman of the real threat is the best we can do for now." He glanced at Mormont and Arthur. "Do you two agree?"

Mormont nodded. But it was Arthur who stopped pacing suddenly. "What's going on in the south? Can't we bring on Olenna and Doran?"

The old familiar dull ache had entered Mormont's mind, it reminded him of the last time he was enraptured in the Game of Thrones. That was at Highgarden after he'd won his last tourney.

"No. Not yet." Ned said. "We'd reveal our hand too early. Already I think Tywin suspects some sort of pact between the North, The Reach, and Dorne."

Of course. Ned and Arthur were now waging two secret wars at the same time. One in the South against the coalition of Baratheon-Lannister-Tully-Arryn, and now another in the deep heart of the Lands of Always Winter…

Mormont felt himself melding into the background as his two best friends continued their private talk. They both already knew he didn't really concern himself with the Great Game. He could always listen in and give a few words, perhaps lend a hand here and there, but that's about it. Nothing more would be expected of him…

"Has Olenna said anything about it?" Arthur prodded.

"She said Tywin's busier defending his borders from angry Riverlords. Supposedly-"

There was a hollowing sort of ringing in Mormont's ears. A part of him felt guilty for it all. Who was he to lay yet another responsibility on his two closest friends? Who was he to bring yet another war for them to take part in while he had only one foot out the door?

He'd not cared to know anything about the South. He didn't care about the rumors or politics, or the ongoings of other lords. Not except the ones that mattered in his life.

Perhaps he was just getting old. But then again, his father had barely grown any more sentimental as he got older. If anything, Jeor Mormont just got more crotchety.

Were these two men not his brothers? Were they not men he could trust and depend on when they needed him?

So why couldn't he do the same for them?

After all, they were all in this together now.

"I'm afraid that despite your distaste for the Great Game, you are now a player on the board. Whether you like it or not." Olenna Tyrell's seething words of mock encouragement stung him again for the final time. That was it.

It was time to play.

Mormont stepped forward. "What's going on in the South?"

Both Ned and Arthur stopped speaking at the same time. Both of them shared a similar glance of understanding, and then looked at Mormont.

It was Ned who spoke first. "Well, erm… Edmure Tully's been poisoned."

Okay, now that was certainly news.

Mormont's eye had widened slightly. Still, he stepped forward and leaned against the table. "By who? The Lannisters?"

"Not likely," Arthur said quickly. He accepted the new player with open arms and gave Starag a warm smile. "Tywin was enjoying relative peace before all this. He wouldn't go out of his way to start another war. This had to be someone on the Tully side."

"Who rules Riverrun now?" Mormont inquired further. "Hoster Tully is still an old man. So who runs the castle."

"Lysa Blackwood," Ned answered. He saw the visible confusion on Mormont's face. "You remember Lysa Tully, right? From Harrenhal?"

Truthfully, Mormont had never laid eyes on the girl at the time. He had met Catelyn Tully, however, when Brandon had introduced her to him. Though she was now Lady Catelyn Arryn.

Gods… How long ago was that?

That aside, Mormont did recall hearing the girl's name from Catelyn once or twice. "I do. She's Catelyn's younger sister." Mormont said. "Tully married his daughter to the Blackwoods?"

"She would've married Jamie Lannister," Arthur said. "But he decided to continue his vows as a Kingsguard. Robert was being married to Cersei, and Stannis was still trapped in Storm's End. Renly was too young. Tully had no other choice really."

Mormont wondered just why in the Seven Hells a woman belonging to another house was suddenly back in her ancestral home. Shouldn't the responsibility fall to her uncle?

And who had poisoned Edmure Tully? Mormont could only hope fingers wouldn't be pointed to the North. "How does any of this affect us?"

"Well, it seems our enemies are dividing amongst themselves," Arthur said as he casually took a thin slice of cold salted pork and plucked it into his mouth. "There's that. But with the Westerlands in chaos, there's nobody keeping watch on the Ironborn as well."

Ned nodded in agreement. "The South is a cesspool right now. It's volatile, and it could devolve into madness sooner than we expect. This business with the Others is perfect timing if the Gods are playing a joke on us."

Still, perhaps there was something that could be done…

"Have Doran send someone," Mormont suggested. Both Arthur and Ned looked at him expectantly, as if to elaborate. "Someone we can trust to monitor the situation in the Riverlands and keep a low profile. Dorne is isolated regardless. Why not put them to use?"

Arthur soon began pacing again. "He'd probably send Oberyn. And Oberyn would take his daughters with him…" He nodded. "They could pass on what they know to Howland, and Howland could pass it on back to us."

"And he'd also be there if they needed to escape…" Ned added on. He snapped to attention and strode to his desk. Lya immediately stood up and followed behind him.

Once he was finished writing the letter, he called for Maester Luwin to be brought in. A few minutes later, the old man shuffled inside. "Yes, my lord?"

"Have this letter sent to the Water Gardens immediately." Stark handed the note to the Maester. "For Prince Doran."

The conflict in the Riverlands gave a foul stench, one often followed by war…

Oddly enough, Mormont prayed that he'd be alive to see it.

It was almost midnight by the time Mormont found his way back to his old room in Winterfell keep.

He did not stumble his way to the tall oaken door. Even though he knew he was drunk, he walked with the careful and confident stride of a professional. Of a man sent to do a job and a damn good one at that.

Once he found the door, he opened it casually and slipped inside.

His wife was sleeping soundly on the bed. Her brown-auburn hair had been left laying out in perfect curls, almost inviting him to come to bed and play. The sounds of her snoring softly underneath the fur blankets had only filled his heart with warmth.

And then, of course, there was the drool that hung from her slightly open pink lips.

Mormont had shut the door, unclasped his doublet and his trousers, and slipped underneath the furs with her. He instantly felt the warm body cling to his own as if she were a sleeping child missing her teddy bear.

Her thin arms had wrapped territorially around his chest, and her strong, toned legs had tangled with his own. Her flat stomach was cool and smooth, and her breasts had immediately hardened up against his skin.

So she was waiting for me…

"I missed you at dinner." He kept his eye trained on the ceiling as he felt her lips press firmly against his neck. "Duncan was off playing swords with Rickon and Bran today. He beat them both."

Mormont smiled. "I'm sure it had nothing to do with his unnatural height and strength." He quipped.

Rhaenys giggled lightly, and post her chin up on his chest as she stared into his lonely blue eye with her flashing violet orbs. "He'll be the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. Just like his father."

It was not the ever-present feeling of love that had moved him then. He would never tire of that. It was the firm conviction with which she spoke that made him look away from the ceiling at the woman in his arms.

Mormont wrapped an arm around her and placed her head in the crook of his arm. "I ought to spoil you more often. You'll be running me dry of affection if you keep up at this rate."

He heard that delighted playful giggle again. "Oh and we wouldn't want that, now would we, Lord Mormont?" She said as she leaned up and kissed his ear. When she leaned away, Mormont saw the hunger in her eyes.

Plain ravenous desire. For him. And only him.

"No. Of course, we wouldn't, Lady Mormont." He said before he dove onto the open waiting mouth. Rhaenys' lips were firm and hard. Her scent was that of charcoal and honey.

They made love in the slow, homely heat of the old room. The fireplace continued crackling as the two lovers collided with one another again and again. It was not like when he'd returned from his expedition to Seafell. The same love was there, but the intensity was much different. He'd been thankful to be alive then, and now he just wanted to explore this beautiful creature he'd made his. This woman who belonged to him for the rest of her life.

There were times when Mormont would be away from Bear Island for weeks, perhaps even moons if need be. During his forays, he'd lay with other women. He'd fuck them without so much as a care in the world. Sure, they were pretty, but they weren't Rhaenys.

None of them were Rhaenys.

Always, he'd come home looking forward to seeing his wife. Always, he'd love to see her radiant smile, her beautiful dark red hair, and the shapely, Valyrian curve of her backside.

It was not even that she was better at sex. In fact, Rhaenys was one of the most inexperienced girls Mormont had ever been with. Especially when they first coupled.

No, it was quite simple. Mormont knew that the Targaryen Dragonlords had multiple wives. And in a way, he supposed it was much the same with himself. Sure, there were girls who had been nice and comforting. But he could never love them like he could love Rhaenys.

And that's just how it was.

When they had finished, Rhaenys had collapsed on Mormont's chest, her stomach heaving against his own. Her golden face was flush with fresh sweat that rolled and beaded. Her mouth upturned into a wicked grin as she reached down to her core and touched the thick white liquid that flowed out from her lower lips.

"How did you know I wanted another one?" She asked.

Mormont smirked. "I always know."

Rhaenys blushed fiercely. "I know we already have two… but I want another son from you."

"Really?" He gave a tired sigh. "Jeor will be a hellraiser once he's older. I'm sure another little girl would suit us just fine. At least one of them will have to sit there, shut up and listen while the others muck about."

"Maybe…" His wife said as she shifted her cheek onto his shoulder. "I think girls are too bratty, though. Another boy with your hair and… Hmm…" She paused for a minute, as if imagining their next child's appearance… Or perhaps even seeing it. "Your hair, these amazing black curls…" She said tugging at his shoulder-length hair. "And your mother's eyes. Brown, like chocolate."

Mormont watched the young woman in his arms as she continued. "Oh! And he'd have my father's nose, jaws, and chin. He would look Targaryen with your coloring… Almost like Jae!"

"And what would his name be?" He asked.

That's where Rhaenys paused. "I… I don't know…" She said with pursed lips. "I want something Valyrian… But nothing seems to stick."

"I'm sure you'll think of something when we wake up," Mormont said. He felt the waves of exhaustion caught up with him. All of the planning and guesswork had taken its toll on him. Now it was time to sleep.

Rhaenys had also yawned. "I'm… sure… I'll think of something, too…" Her words were odd and spoken without consistency as she too blinked and fell asleep in the crook of his arm. The spot of drool was soon back, making Mormont smile.

The crackling of the dying fire had soon melded with the background hum of the cold winter winds outside the glass windows… It all soon faded as the edges of his vision slowly and comfortably turned to black.