Author's Note:

In real life, I have two moods. The first is all sunshine and lollipops, oh my god, I love everything and the world is totally amazing *heart eyes*. My other mood should just be called "Lyanna Mormont" and it's…less enthusiastic. Basically Lyanna's vibe of (in Smashing Teacup's ever-insightful words), "Everyone is THE WORST," speaks to me. Because, um, sometimes they are. Except you guys, who are the best #mwah

But anyway, the little she-bear is my soul sister. Nobody glares like a Mormont. :)

I've got plans for some Lyanna/Daenerys scenes (showdowns?) later on. But first up, Lyanna has a talk with Jorah. #BearsInTheHouse #IHeartMormonts

As always, thanks for your faves/comments!

Lyanna

Lyanna was conflicted, though she'd never admit it. She had waited weeks to have this conversation. When her cousin and Daenerys Targaryen first arrived on the Island, Jorah had been suffering from grave injuries. The Night King's storm began raging within an hour of their landing and continued for a fortnight. Lyanna had no interest in petty discussions until both of those matters had resolved themselves, either in life or death, whichever inevitable conclusion they were all destined for.

But the storm receded and Jorah recovered, and life won out in both cases. Still, she waited. Still, she made no decision.

And yet, there was a decision to be made. It was one thing to give shelter to wounded and weather-beaten exiles during unnatural storms called into being by dead men. It was another to grant them indefinite asylum on her shores and in her household.

Daenerys Targaryen has no place among us, she thought to herself, again, critically. She should return to her own island…the sooner the better.

She had said as much at dinner the night before, though not in so many words. The insinuation was plain, however, and Daenerys seemed to recoil from the idea. She'd left the table so abruptly, leaving a tense silence in her wake. Jorah, in particular, could not hide his surprise. Dismay and bewilderment colored his features. He'd been off the Island for far too long, amongst people who were too expressive for their own good.

This was not the Mormont way. Lyanna, by comparison, was able to keep her feelings to herself easily and push aside any musings of why Daenerys Stormborn would want to stay on Bear Island.

She was a Targaryen. And who could explain the whims of a dragon? If Lyanna had been forced into analyzing the woman's behavior, she might have guessed that it was the woman's pride that was offended. Daenerys wasn't used to being told what to do. She gave orders, she didn't follow them. Especially not from a Northern girl not even half her age.

But thinking on it again now, as she sat waiting for Jorah to finally come down, lips pursed thoughtfully and fingers drumming against the scrolled arm of her pine chair lightly, Lyanna considered a different explanation.

She was fourteen years old. Well, nearly. And she wasn't stupid.

But what went on between her cousin and his dragon queen was none of her business. She'd rather not know, to be honest. She had a low enough opinion of both of them already. And if both of them had fallen under some sentimental spell of love or something like it…Lyanna rolled her eyes to herself and let out a small sigh.

"Do you wish me to summon Ser Jorah again, my lady?" Maester Morlan asked. He was hovering, as always. He misinterpreted her sigh as impatience.

"No," Lyanna answered. "If he said he was coming, he'll come. And when he comes, I want you to leave us."

She was certain he would come. Whatever else Jorah was, he was still a Mormont. And the Mormonts never played at idle words like the southerners. That's why she wanted to speak with him. Alone. They were the last two Mormonts alive, other than distant cousins, descended from great-grandfathers and grandmothers on the ancient family tree—good fighters, solid men and women all, but with blood diluted to the point of wondering how much bear was actually left.

Therein was her conflict, though she wouldn't breathe a word of it to anyone.

Least of all her maester, who was so habitually unpresentable that she occasionally wondered how they ever allowed him to leave the Citadel. She watched as Maester Morlan dragged out the iron poker to stir up the fire in the hall. He stirred too zealously, and was suddenly hacking and coughing on the small cloud of smoke that rose from the ash bed. With his back turned towards his mistress, he failed to notice Lyanna give another small roll of her eyes and bring her fidgeting hand to rest beneath her chin, to stop herself from shaking her head at his general ineptitude.

Gods, how disappointing…

But here was her dilemma—she was righteously furious that Jorah had dared return to Bear Island after fleeing in such disgrace. But part of her, the part that spent the last however many years receiving raven after raven heralding the death of her mother, her sisters, her uncle—the part that fought off the Bolton bastard and hoards of dead men and outran a storm that froze the sea in a single night—that part of her was glad that Jorah had come home. Too glad. Her ice-cold heart was nearly warmed by the notion that she wasn't the only Mormont left in the world.

He was a disgrace. But he was family. And she had no idea how to reconcile those feelings.

Feelings were not something that Lyanna spent much time considering. They were a nuisance and she had no time for their nonsense. She had decided she would ask him the question she needed answered and she would ask it plainly. She intended to ask it the night before. But perhaps her guests had been too busy untangling feelings of their own…

After waiting another few minutes, Jorah finally arrived, dressed in black and brown, tunic embroidered with silver bears across the chest, looking every inch the lord and master of his father's hall. He greeted Lyanna almost warmly and gave a friendly nod to the maester as he entered, which the old man answered in kind.

At a dismissive flick of Lyanna's hand, the maester retreated to the inner chambers. And as soon as Maester Morlan pulled the oak doors closed behind him, leaving Jorah and Lyanna to themselves, she said, in her blunt way,

"Do you intend to reclaim your title as Lord of Bear Island?"

Jorah must have been expecting the question. His expression barely altered, pausing on the idea for only a beat, "No, I do not."

"I can't believe that." Lyanna pulled her hand out from under her chin, shaking her head with a glowering frown that rivalled any of her cousin's.

But Jorah answered her glower with an uncommon half-smile, non-threatening, nearly paternal. He was in good spirits. Too good, thought Lyanna, considering they were in the middle of the worst winter of their lives. She waited for him to explain himself.

"The Island already has a firm hand guiding it. You are blood of the Old Bear, Lyanna," Jorah replied, with honey in his raspy voice. He'd spent far too much time away from the Island if he thought she'd accept useless flattery. Still, he seemed sincere, as he noted her skeptical countenance and continued, "You know your own strength. You don't need me to sing your praises. The men follow you without question. And I've heard the stories of how you rallied the entire north to Jon Snow's side with a few choice words to Glover and Manderly."

"They refused the call," Lyanna muttered under her breath, automatically.

He nodded, "You are Maege's trueborn daughter. You are Jeor's niece. You are the she-bear of House Mormont…"

"I know who I am," Lyanna snapped at him. He was right. She didn't need his praise or his approval. She was uncomfortable with his calm, forthright manner. He spoke like a lord even when he wasn't trying. Some men are born to lead their people and bring glory and honor to their houses. They have a natural bearing and wisdom that cannot be learned. Jorah had been one of those men.

Lyanna was tempted to believe he might be still, despite her deeply ingrained sense of untainted honor and mistrust of southern ideas of redemption.

For even in his darkest hour, he had the grace to leave the family sword behind. Maege had travelled to the Wall to return it to Jeor's keeping. Lyanna was only a child at the time, held in her mother's arms, then her uncle's, passed between them as a bear cub, as they stood in the Lord Commander's chambers at Castle Black, speaking gravely.

He didn't have to go so far away. He might have come here. He could have taken the black. Her uncle shook his grey head, world-weary with the news.

And face you? I think he'd prefer to give his head to Lord Stark himself, served on a platter. Her mother answered, with a hint of approval. Her nephew feared his father's wrath more than his liege lord's justice. As it should be.

Jeor had nodded at his sister's words. But he also said, in his deep, ragged-coarse voice,

I'll never see him again, Maege. My only son. My only child. I'll never see him again. Jeor Mormont sighed and said no more, just tightened his grip on his little niece, Lyanna, pressing a rare kiss to the top of her black-haired head.

Jorah allowed Lyanna time to consider these thoughts. He waited on her, with no expectations and no attempts to influence her one way or another. It was in her cousin's silence that Lyanna found herself convinced of his prior words and swayed to indulge her own foolish ideas of family and…yes, sentimental nonsense.

She hated herself for it, dismayed by her own show of weakness. She could explain it away well enough. It was the dead of winter. They were short on men and would need extra hands in the coming months, and perhaps years, for hunting and felling trees, as the deep freezes showed no signs of loosening their grip.

But she knew then, deep in her heart, she never would have been able to send him away. In her cousin's face, she saw her mother, her uncle and her sisters. He was a Mormont.

The most disgraceful Mormont in a hundred years…

It didn't matter and she knew it.

To Jorah, she said only, "Welcome home."