Author's Note:

New chapter! And the next two are written and just waiting to be beta-read/edited. #mwah #staytuned

Thanks for reading! You guys are seriously the best :)

Daenerys

Daenerys was in the eastern wing of the Keep, exploring the contents of the castle's library. Jorah had gone out hunting that morning and he and the other men weren't expected back until later in the afternoon, just before the pale, winter sun would slip so easily back down beneath the horizon.

The weather was relatively fair, for the bleak mid-winter anyway—no frost gales were blowing, no clouds of ice and blinding snow were cluttering up the sky and threatening storm-lashings. Still, Daenerys fretted and worried, as she always did now, less than pleased with any separation between her and the man whose arms she woke up in every morning.

So she busied herself in seeking out the secrets of Bear Island. The library was a sufficient distraction. She had been lingering in the bookshelves for over an hour, eyes flickering over old bindings and scrolled ink, fingers running over raised titles written in the old languages of both Westeros and Essos. Located, as they were, on an island at the top of the world, the Mormonts had amassed an impressive collection of books and scrolls, gathered from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

Illyrio Mopatis's library had been grander, with gilded shelving and skylights cut into its high cathedral ceilings, allowing in glittering shafts of Pentos sunlight. But from what Daenerys could remember, Illyrio's library had always held more marble statues than actual books. And the books Illyrio kept in his library were frivolous things—gossip rags, salacious histories and penny scripts from the theaters in Braavos and Volantis. His books had been laid out decoratively, carefully placed to complement his commissioned portraits and a thriving garden of exotic plant life.

The difference between the two places was stark.

There were no plants in the Mormont library. Only books piled on scrolls piled on books, some worn out by the eyes of five generations and all with bindings broken in and well-creased. No skylights or marble statues either. But with its resilient nature, cold sunlight still snuck into the library on Bear Island. The light filtered in as strands of gold and silver from a long row of frost-painted plate windows on the far side, lighting the room and casting Daenerys in an angelic glow that Jorah Mormont, had he been present, wouldn't have been able to resist.

More's the pity…she thought to herself. Nearly two months had passed since that first night together. They had spent far too many nights in a similar fashion. Still, she found herself craving the next time…and the next. When he walked into a room, his blue eyes always seeking out hers, it was all she could do not to jump into his strong arms. She could hear his voice in her head, clearly, teasing her—the unquenchable passion of dragons, indeed.

Oh, but he was no better. Those same eyes betrayed him, as ever. And she would dare him to deny it.

Daenerys ran her fingers between a wide, vacant space between two volumes on a shelf that was cluttered with Westerosi songs and poems. Her fingers came away with thick lines of dust, which she brushed off with the pad of her thumb.

The book of songs that Jorah had given her on the day they met—is this where it came from? For a wistful moment, she wished she could slip it back on the shelf with the others. Here. At home, where it belonged. She had carried those books through the Red Waste, Qarth, to Slaver's Bay and across the Narrow Sea but with the war and the battle at Winterfell…they'd been left at Dragonstone, where they remained still.

Those books would spend the winter on an end table in an empty castle. It was a lonely thought and Daenerys shivered on it. She, too, might have spent her winter alone on Dragonstone, if she'd had any desire to heed Euron Greyjoy's suggestion.

I'm going back to my Island. You should go back to yours. When this winter's over, we'll be the only ones left alive.

The menace in that man's smarmy face as he spoke those smug words had rattled her, though she didn't show it at the time. Sensing the danger, Jorah had lifted his sword an inch from its scabbard as a not-so-subtle warning when the brazen Kraken approached them at the Dragonpit summit. The pirate facetiously bowed to her and went his way.

When she was alone, her head buzzed with memories like this. All war and veiled threats and powerful men and women playing games with each other while the world burned and froze over by successive turns. Screech of dragon and roar of fire, metal, mud and men shouting and dying. Sometimes, she wished she could brush them all out of her head as easily as brushing dust off a shelf…

When she was with Jorah, it was easier to forget. He said time would heal her wounds and perhaps he was right. She hoped he was right. For now, his touch was the soothing balm on her unsettled spirit.

She sighed and wandered to the frosted windows. The sunlight, though cold and distant, warmed her braided hair. But honestly, she'd rather the sun stopped lingering and teasing and just slipped beneath the horizon. Then Jorah would be home. She knew her fretting was nonsense, but cold dread was so much a part of her for so long, the feeling was hard to shake. A few hours away from Jorah and it started to creep back in again.

Restless, she left the library and went downstairs.

There was a curving, stone staircase that led down from the upper chambers in the eastern wing directly into the Great Hall. But Lyanna was likely dictating raven's messages to her maester or conferring with Captain Claver in the Hall and Daenerys had no interest in interrupting the little she-bear.

Jorah and his cousin had made peace, and Daenerys was glad for it. She even blessed Lyanna in her prayers for the young woman's grace in looking beyond the past…if only for the sake of blood.

Lyanna was wise for her age. After all that had happened, the great houses of Westeros were all broken, battered or dashed to oblivion. Adding to the carnage through in-fighting and old sins would have been a tragic waste. And the Mormonts were not wasteful people.

But despite her acceptance of Jorah, there was no question that Lyanna didn't approve of his choice of paramour. And Lyanna knew, even if nothing had been said outright. Everyone knew. Jorah and Daenerys were discrete but it was a small castle. Secrets didn't keep here. It may not have been discussed, but it was common knowledge that the dragon girl was sharing a bed with the bear lord.

And stubborn, little Lyanna Mormont stood by her first impression of Daenerys Targaryen. She didn't trust Daenerys. She didn't trust dragons. She would be satisfied only when Daenerys left Bear Island for good. She said it only the once, but that's all she needed to say. Her expression, narrowed eyes, set frown, spoke the same words clearly every time Daenerys walked into the Hall.

Daenerys, for her part, did not argue. She didn't allow her pride and temper to give voice to the sharper words primed on her tongue. She had been a Queen for a long time and suppressing the impulse to meet Lyanna's judgment with judgment of her own was difficult. And yet, she did. For the sake of her past sins, for the sake of keeping peace when she once kept only war, and most of all, for the sake of the man she loved and the home that had been restored to him.

But Daenerys had no plans of leaving, even if winter ever softened its grip. And Jorah wouldn't let her go anyway. Not now. So damn the little she-bear's mistrust, she would have to tolerate a dragon in her midst for the time being.

The two women had settled into a tense silence that remained unresolved. They did well enough by avoiding each other's company, especially when Jorah was absent.

Avoiding the Hall and Lyanna, Daenerys took a staircase that led her down another level and she found herself wandering the servant's quarters for some time before following the noise of boiling water and clattering silver.

She lingered in the doorway of the kitchen, watching from the shadows. The cook and two scullery maids were busy at work, washing dishes and preparing food for the midday meal. One of the young women, her dark hair braided up into a thick bun at the nape of her neck, was kneading dough on a table lightly covered in flour. She pressed the dough flat with the heel of her hand, folded it over, and pressed down again.

Daenerys didn't realize she was staring at the girl's hands. The constant, steady motion of kneading bread dough had her transfixed. But the girl had looked up, noticing the silver-haired dragon queen staring from the doorway.

"My lady?" the servant girl gave a brief curtsy. By her words, the other two were alerted to her presence, their quiet conversation falling off abruptly, and gave their own respectful bobs of the head.

Daenerys greeted them warmly, knowing she had disturbed them in their work. But she couldn't help herself as she took a step forward towards the girl kneading dough and asked, "May I?"

The girl blinked in surprise but nodded immediately. Of course, she nodded. Just because Lyanna wasn't awestruck by Daenerys Targaryen didn't mean her people felt the same way. Whatever Daenerys was now, there was a time when she was the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons and that reputation hadn't faded away quite yet.

Daenerys stared at the lump of dough beneath her hands. She had burned fleets of ships, she had flown on the back of a dragon, she had tangled with dead men in the skies above Westeros, she had eaten a horse's heart whole…but she'd never done something as simple as baking bread. She glanced at the servant girl again, suddenly unsure of herself, but the dark-haired woman gave her a simple nod of encouragement. The heel of her cold hand pressed down against the warm dough with a satisfying give.

This is where Jorah Mormont found his lady when he returned from trudging through the snow-covered pine and spruce woods shortly after. Down in the kitchen—chatting with Mary, the dark-haired servant girl, forearms deep in bread dough, stray lines of flour gracing her cheek.

She was smiling even before he walked in, having finally found something to keep her mind and hands busy. But in meeting his gaze, that smile broadened into a wide, irrepressible grin.