MEMORIES FROM THE NORTH

BEAR ISLAND

268 AC

The Mormont prince was fourteen when his father bundled him into one of the ungainly wooden boats, handed him a double-sided oar and waded through the freezing water, pushing the boy and the boat out into the current. Jorah looked up. Above, tangled around the head of a violent cliff were the roots of a red-leafed tree. The dreaming tree. There were stories of a screaming face cut into the trunk. Its hollow eyes watched the sea, facing the unknown lands of the far north and all the horrors that lurked there.

The boy said nothing. A true-born bear, he dipped his oar into the water. Snow fell. The white clouds, churning over the sea sank nearly to its choppy surface. He steeled himself. It was four hours to the northern shore in good weather – and this was the worst. Keep your eye where you mean to go. His father's words rang out over the hush of The Bay of Ice. The Mormont prince knew exactly where he was going.

Six hours of ice and storm passed before his boat crunched against The Frozen Shore. Pebbles the size of skulls in grey and black collapsed underfoot as he hauled the boat above the tide mark. He lashed it to an ice sculpture, solid as rock. His back was beaten by another rush of ice-laden wind. His only companions on the beach were the desiccate corpses of seals. Their yellow bones littered the morbid shore joined in death by stray gulls, pulling at whatever remained.

Already beyond six foot, Jorah was every inch a bear. He pulled the furs around his body and tightened the straps holding his un-bled weapons in place. Jorah scrambled up the first wall of ice and laid eyes on a land that had haunted his dreams since he was a child, hiding on the turret of Mormont Keep. The mountains, embossed in his memory as vague shadows on the horizon, stood firm against the sky. They were white in contrast a blue storm. Various peaks glistened where glaciers ploughed through impassable valleys. On one, a faint trail of grey smoke gave away a wildling camp.

He lay in wait for the light to fade. When only starglow touched the world, he set out across the ice sheets toward the mountain range, following the map made by the ancestors of Bear Island's throne. It was tradition, since the early hours of the first men. Those chosen to rule must first know what lapped at their gates. Every generation touched the frozen shores and delved deeper into the north, looking for secrets. Almost all knowledge about this part of the world came from frightened heirs, crawling across the snow.

Jorah wasn't frightened – he was furious.

The tower of smoke had transformed into a small ball of fire, tucked into the mountain. He focused on it, playing the scene over in his mind. Wildlings killed his mother. This was the first chance he had to thank them for that. He touched the hilt of his sword. Thank them, he would.

He was fast across the flat and used a pair of ice-picks, striking the mountain with them until he started to climb. Tall, light and strong, he moved like a spider. The wind continued to circle and the snow came and went. He kept moving up. Finally, Jorah rolled over the crux of the cliff and lay, staring at the sky. The same sky, he thought. They were all creatures of the gods, old and new. How they must watch on and mock. Mock this, then.

The cliff with the fire was not far. He circled the ledge, back to the ice wall and his eyes averted from the steep drop. He paused at the final corner – listening for the sounds of voices or snoring. He heard neither. Carefully, the boy crept forward, edging his head around to glimpse the fire. It was set among stones, near burned to ash with a sad pillar of smoke trailing away. Its coals glowed, melting a dip in the ice.

Jorah pulled back with a gasp. His heart thrashed against his chest. Gloved hands shook. He looked again...

Nailed into the ice cliff with axes and swords were wildlings. Well, parts of wildlings crafted into a bloody circle. Dead eyes, severed heads, hands, torsos – all hung from the ice. Jorah counted a dozen wildlings, some no more than children. His gut twisted at the sight. It was not what he had expected to feel.

One of the heads dislodged and fell at his feet. Jorah drew his sword, staying it at the head. Some might see a massacre but Jorah knew what this was – blood magic.

He his body ducked before his mind caught up. His knees dug at the snow, head bowed almost to them, narrowly missing a large sheet of ice cleaving off the cliff above with a thunderous crack. It rushed by him, taking with it part of the morbid display. Hooves followed in its wake, striking the snow above.

Jorah pressed his back against the wall, hiding in the shadow of the cliff. Those hooves shifted, pacing along the edge of the cliff. The smell of death was wretched. A strange sound filled the air. He supposed it was speech but he had heard nothing like it from the lords of the seven kingdoms. This was a terrible song, strangled by the night. It cut the air. The harder he listened, the more elusive it became.

The fire snuffed out beside him. Any trace of heat was sapped from the world. In its place was cold. Jorah had never felt anything in his bones like this – scratching at his soul – seizing his limbs and stilling the breath on his lips. This is what death must feel like. The eternal cold.

Wildling limbs scattered over the ground around Jorah's feet began to twitch. He covered his mouth with his own hand, quieting the gasp with a leather seal. The dead were rising.

A moment later the cold was gone. The fogs parted and Jorah climbed to the top of the mountain. He found tracks and stains of blood in the snow. Something had stood there but what he could not say.


ESSOS - MEEREEN 300 AC

"Varys plots your safe passage to Dorne," Ser Jorah Mormont said, after the queen closed the doors of her quarters. They were alone again, as they had frequently been these five years past. Jorah still felt that this was a dream that he would soon wake from. Or perhaps exile was the dream and it had never been? "I took the liberty of perusing his correspondence. It seems very likely that Prince Doran is willing to bankroll your landing on Westerosi soil."

"I thought the Martells cared only for Dorne?"

Jorah smirked. "You know as well as I, my queen, that no land or throne is as simple as that. Dorne is a great nation with a vested interest in the state of the seven kingdoms. War is bad business."

Daenerys caught herself watching her confidante more closely than she should. It was difficult to forget what Tyrion had said. 'He is in love with you.' How many times from how many mouths had she heard the same? From Jorah's own lips the confession had come – yet they had not spoken of it since. What would he do if she were to cross the room and -

"Your grace?" He was looking at her with soft confusion.

"Yes?"

"If Varys suggests it, will you take your army and sail for Dorne?"

She turned away from him and looked to the window. It was sunset and the night was clear. Daenerys thought of her dragons soaring on the wind. They were free and terrifying. She knew that she'd never seek to lock them up again. "I don't want to talk about Dorne," she whispered. Slowly, she turned back to Jorah, eyes fixed on him with such intensity that the bear forgot to breathe. "I don't want to talk at all."

Definitely a dream, Jorah realised. His silver queen would never toss military documents so carelessly to the floor or advance on him with such a look in her eyes. Truly she was a dragon – fierce and frightening as the dawn.

When she reached him, Daenerys lifted one of her delicate hands and placed it against his shoulder. He was warm and firm beneath the black silk shirt. Jorah was the opposite of Daario – everything she thought she didn't want and yet – and yet there was something much deeper in her soul that felt his pull. She'd felt it when he was a thousand miles away.

"Khaleesi..." Jorah whispered, a warning of sorts. His resolve was fragile and he could feel it threatening to shatter as she leaned into him. The barest sheen of material did little to protect him from the press of her breasts against his chest and the fire under her skin as her other hand cupped his rugged face. Many of the scars had been earned for her. "Daenerys..."

"I need to know if it's true," she breathed. "I need to know if-"

She was in his arms, it was the only rational thought left to him. Jorah slid one arm around her waist, pulling her closer still. He tilted his head, venturing steadily toward her until his lips cut her question short. Jorah kissed her as she'd never be kissed by any man again. He kissed with absolute clarity. He kissed her until she trembled and he drew back.

It was true, Daenerys thought. Daario desired her, loved her even but her bear? What he felt was something else entirely. She laid her head against his chest while his arms wrapped around her. Daenerys felt a kiss pressed to the top of her head and then his cheek rest there. They will write songs about this. Perhaps they had already. It was all the same song.

"I commanded you to go home," she whispered. Daenerys mistakenly thought that he'd be safe there, hunting fox and rabbit at the edge of the world, watching the winter snows toss against the sea.

Jorah was a man of few smiles but he was smiling now. "I did as your grace commanded."

"Your home is in the North," Daenerys replied. "I see it sometimes."

"In your dreams?"

She nodded. "I've seen the forests of frozen pine, the black stone ruins collapsed against the fog. There is something on the air – a song."

He stilled at this. "Khaleesi, the North is not what you think. If ever I return there it will the final chapter of my time."

"Then I forbid it."

This time, he laughed. "You could no more forbid the moon for lusting after he sea. I will see snow before I – Missandei?"

The queen's lady appeared at the edge of the room from a secret door. "Apologies, your grace," she bowed lightly at Daenerys. "There are men at the gates."

Daenerys slipped away from Jorah who casually took the wine from the table and drank its entirety.

"What do they want?"

"An audience with your grace."

"There are no audiences with the queen while plague ravages the city," Jorah reminded Missandei. He was quieted by the queen's slightly raised hand.

"What makes them think that I will receive them?"


There were six men at the gates – sell-swords, all of them and by the state of their attire they were fresh from work. The largest dragged a trail of blood through the palace marbles. He was a tall, thin creature with limbs of pure muscle. Like a snake, he swayed as he walked dressed in the styles of the far east. The elegant green sash around his waist had been slashed apart. It was heavy with blood and re-tied to hold his flesh together.

When they reached the last chamber they were stopped by their Unsullied escorts and disarmed. Then, the doors of the great pyramid were opened and they were instructed to kneel at the base of the stone platform. There were two figures already standing by the empty throne – a large knight and Unsullied commander. A strange pair.

"They come from the sands around Bayasabhad and speak only a little broken common tongue." Missandei retreated slightly behind her queen as the palace guards opened the doors. She was joined by Tryion (who had a sweet scent of wine about him and winked hopefully at her in a moderately drunk fashion) and Varys who hung back from the rest.

When the queen entered, it was as some kind of crystal cloud. Her silver dress glittered where it clung to her figure and trailed along the stone. She wore a stone dragon around her neck with jewelled eyes set deep. Her beauty was formidable and cast a silence over the room as she took her seat on the throne.

"You may speak," Missandei encouraged the men.

The tallest lifted his head but remained on one knee. His injuries were getting the better of him and he swayed uneasily, leaving a growing stain on the floor.

He addressed her incorrectly but Daenerys took no offence. "There was a great battle. Our company was ambushed up back of the Red Waste. We'd ridden all night – near one thousand of us – beginning to make camp before the sun. That's when they came."

"They?" Daenerys pressed.

"I know not what else to call them. They have no other name."

Daenerys nodded at Ser Jorah Mormont before he addressed the sell-sword. "Can you describe the men you saw? Their armour perhaps – or their banners?"

All six men shifted and the leader shook his head. "You mistake me, ser. These men carry no banners. They carry nothing."

"Then what manner of army attacked you?"

"No army either. A -" the man searched for his words. "-swarm. People, no longer themselves and in wretched condition will hollow eyes and mortal wounds. They walked endlessly. Day, night eventually we had to sleep but they did not. When they reached us they tore our number apart with bare hands. We are all that's left. We rode our horses until they died to reach your walls. We beg you give us sanctuary."

"You must know," Jorah continued, "even if this story is true, this city is besieged by plague. The banners are over the walls."

"Good ser," the man placed his hand on the cold stone to keep himself up. "If you had seen what we had – you would run to these walls – to death – to anything but what came out of that desert."

Jorah turned to Daenerys, awaiting her reply. She considered the man bleeding on her floor and eventually nodded. "The queen agrees that you may stay. Men," he directed at the Unsullied guards, "see to it that a physician sees them all presently. More of their account will be taken when they are well."

When they were gone, it was Tyrion who stumbled drunkenly down the oversized steps. To most they were awkward but to Tyrion they were a series of hazards to be conquered. "This part of the world is exciting," he slurred before making a controlled fall onto a step where he was content to stay. "I've not been here three months and I've had dragons, harpies, stonemen and tales of the undead."

"Better get used to it," Varys replied, the epitome of dry humour.

"Post an extra guard at the wall," Daenerys said to Grey Worm, who bowed and left the hall. "Meereen's walls are high. Whatever these poor creatures are, they will not make it into the city."

"Monsters inside the walls, demons outside – there is only one course remaining to us."

Daenerys eyed the dwarf curiously. She could feel Jorah's disapproval radiating off his person but for the moment, Tyrion's spirits lifted her mood. "And what, dare I enquire, is that?"

Tyrion lounged on the step, holding up an imaginary glass. He eyed it wantonly. "Wine, my queen. Wine until the world makes sense again."