Author's Note:

You know what? I'm dangerously close to falling back into that old habit (7 seasons of habit) of believing that D&D might actually deliver good, angst-heavy closure for the Jorah/Dany ship in S8. I mean, it could happen, right? Riiiiiiight? Haha well, that's what this fic is for…to help me through the dark times to come.

Also, I have a "deleted scene" fic on my list. You'll know what I'm talking about when you get to the end of this chapter.

As always, thanks for the love, m'dears! :)

Daenerys

A few fishermen from Ynes Lyme had brought news from the western bays. One of the boys had been out trapping on the shoreline and saw a speck on the horizon. A spyglass confirmed the presence of a marauding Greyjoy ship on the open waters, flying the Kraken flag high on their frosted mast. The sea ice kept them far from Bear Island's shores but the mere sighting said as much as Theon had tried to spit out before the end—Euron Greyjoy would not be spending the winter in quiet prayer and contemplation.

The fishermen from Ynes Lyme were to give a full account to Lyanna as soon as possible. Maester Morlan bid the yeoman take seats in the Great Hall while they waited, while fluttering about in his chains and robes, simultaneously sending Mary, the servant girl, to fetch Captain Claver and bring him hence.

He then made his way to where Jorah and Daenerys lingered by the stone fireplace, having been called to this meeting as well. Maester Morlan gave a quick, respectful nod to Jorah. The knight remained standing with his hand curled around the brace of Daenerys's chair. Jorah rarely left Daenerys's side these days.

It was no great secret why, though the other residents of the Keep had only been recently made aware of the reason, after Lyanna bluntly asked the question that no one else would dare ask.

"Are we supposed to pretend that the curve of your belly is a result of too many lemon cakes?" Lyanna wondered aloud to Daenerys, no more than a week ago.

Since Lyanna rarely spoke to Daenerys directly, the words appeared to echo off every stone in the old castle. A pin drop could be heard in the sharp silence that followed. Caught off guard, Daenerys failed to form a reply before the little she bear continued, sniping almost too cleverly, "Because we don't have any lemon cakes on Bear Island."

Daenerys's words melted into a huff of something between surprise and indignation. Her hands unconsciously went to the swell of her growing child, unwittingly confirming Lyanna's suspicions. Though there was no confirmation needed. The child grew daily and the girls in the kitchen had been talking about Lord Jorah getting Daenerys with child as fact for weeks.

I just wonder how it didn't happen sooner, was one of many comments that Daenerys had overheard…and, to be fair, she couldn't disagree with their gossipy musings.

"Lyanna…," Jorah cautioned with a sigh, hearing the biting accusation behind the young, dark-haired woman's words and knowing too well the source of it.

"And you," Lyanna turned on her cousin with towering disdain. She had to look up almost two feet to meet his gaze but that was nothing for steely Lyanna Mormont. She tipped her head, "You sire a bastard child with a Targaryen? Is this how you intend to bring honor to the House of Mormont?"

"Enough, Lyanna," Jorah replied, gruffly but with patience. He gave his little cousin deference in all things but this. Where Daenerys was concerned, he wouldn't hear her prejudice or disapproval. Daenerys remained silent, as had become habit, letting Jorah handle his cousin. There were hot words primed on her lips, ready to be unleashed, but she kept them back—first, because she didn't care what Lyanna thought of her. It couldn't be worse than what she thought of herself, at times.

Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of Regrets…

But second, and more importantly, she didn't answer Lyanna because she was distracted. At Jorah's command to his cousin, the baby kicked, for the very first time. A soft "oh" escaped Daenerys's lips, as she laid her hand over the spot and was rewarded with a second, small kick.

At her quiet "oh", Jorah had turned from Lyanna and was watching Daenerys curiously. Her sudden grin chased away the tenseness in the chamber and she immediately reached for him, beckoning him near and bringing his hand down to join hers, where their child continued to assert its existence.

They met each other's gaze with silence, hands joined on her belly.

Lyanna muttered a little more, shaking her head, before leaving them. The rest of the castle soon joined in her knowledge, albeit with far happier inclinations towards the impending event than their mistress.

A child born in winter? A child with the blood of bears and dragons, with a wise father and a loving mother? Oh, there were far worse things to contemplate.

In the Great Hall, Maester Morlan now regarded Daenerys with close attention, fussing over her like an old nurse, and wondering after her general health and the health of the child. He felt useful in this, far more useful than in attending Lyanna, who was never ill and rarely needed his assistance. Daenerys seemed glad to receive his inquiries, answering simply, "I'm well, Maester."

"The child has settled? Not still plaguing you with running after the nearest chamber pot, I hope?" the maester raised a bushy, grey eyebrow.

Daenerys paused at that. She looked at Jorah before answering and saying only, "Not as often."

It was different this time, than with Rhaego. Harder in some ways, easier in others.

But maybe that was to be expected—she had been so young with Rhaego, caught up in a spell of promises shouted out by Khal Drogo, as he roused the hoard with his speech around the fires of Vaes Dothrak. She could remember the feelings of pride and rapture as she listened to him—her sun and stars conjured a fire deep in her belly as he swore their son would be The Stallion Who Mounted the World, seizing his mother's birthright back from those who had stolen it away.

But she had been looking for vengeance then. Khal Drogo's strength of will and fiery words had confused her. She thought his promises would last, where Viserys's went sour.

Thinking back on it now, she wondered if it wasn't all folly from the beginning. Did Jorah know where that path would lead them? Did he try to warn her, with his customary caution and patience? Or was he caught up in the myth too, watching her eat that horse's heart whole with pride swelling in his chest?

The past was the past and she didn't linger on it long. But, with no choice in the matter, she grimaced at the memory of that horse's heart and its iron, raw taste rolling around in her mouth.

In the early weeks of this pregnancy, the mere memory of the heat of Essos, the buzz of flies, the smell of the Dothraki tents with their freshly tanned hides—oh, this baby had no love for those memories and sent Daenerys's head spinning and her queasy stomach churning every time she was reminded of it.

Like its father, this was a child of the North. In every possible way. And each time a cold draft blew through the old castle halls, Daenerys felt a shiver, not of cold, but of that small, other life that grew inside her body—fluttering, forming, growing. It was the cold that soothed Daenerys, chasing away the nausea and unsettled feelings with its fresh, unspoiled scent.

The night before, she again stood before the frosted window of their bed chamber, restless, looking out on the dark, quiet night, listening to the sea winds howl against the snowy shores. She didn't notice that she was cold or that her skin had turned icy until she felt Jorah's arms slide around her from behind. His embrace enveloped her snugly, with one arm wrapping around her swollen waist and the other sliding beneath her breasts, with her own arms rising up to rest on his strong forearms.

His lips found her collarbone on the right side, as he murmured at her ear with some chastening, "Your skin is chilled. You shouldn't stand at a cold window, Khaleesi."

"Your child likes the cold, my lord," she murmured back, tipping her head leftward to expose her neck further to his warm caress. His lips left a trail of fire on her cold skin, as always. She turned into his kisses, as soft clay in his arms, her hands gliding to the sides of his face and then up to run through his sandy-colored hair. Her mouth opened against his and they deepened the kiss slowly—the thrill of his kiss mixing now with the flutter of his child.

She craved nothing so well as him, now more than ever. And when his lips left her mouth to trail up to her temple, whispering, "Come back to bed, Daenerys…" she nodded with no argument, her arms folding around his neck lithely. He gathered her up in his arms in one, smooth motion, carrying her back to the bed, where they resumed all those deep, slow, hot caresses that the midnight hours were fashioned for.

The baby may prefer the cold, but its mother was still a creature of fire.

The memory of the night before was only hours old, and Daenerys had to bite her lip to keep from grinning over it, like a swooning, love-struck teenager. The pregnancy only heightened her already ardent feelings and here, in the Great Hall, she let her hand drift up to where Jorah gripped the back of her chair, her fingers lightly dancing over his knuckles in a wholly discreet but also wholly seductive manner.

Jorah's hint of smile, when he side-eyed her and her misbehaving caress said he guessed her thoughts…and approved.

Lyanna finally arrived, though she said they would wait for Seffius, whose delay lasted only a few minutes more. The captain entered, with Mary following him in, on hurried footsteps, attempting to keep up with the man's much longer stride.

"You may proceed," Lyanna instructed her maester as she took her seat at the center of the long table.

Maester Morlan then introduced the fishermen and the full account of the Greyjoy ship was given—when it was last seen, how many times it had appeared on the horizon and the likelihood of it making landfall. The fishermen were Northerners. Their words were short and to the point, expressing facts and little else, leaving conjecture and the rest of it to the highborn and soldiers in the hall.

"What do they expect to gain from a raid?" Lyanna mused, contempt for the Ironborn in every word—they were selfish, greedy and brazen. Brazen like Krakens of the deep. "We were poor in riches before and even more so now."

"If they come, they'll try for Ynes Lyme first," Jorah mentioned darkly. "The west side of the peninsula is away from the sea winds. If there's any sort of thaw, the ice will break free easily enough."

"Lord Jorah's right about that, milady," one of the fishermen, a grizzled old man with sea-cracked hands and a hoarse voice, spoke up to confirm Jorah's words.

"Ynes Lyme has been a favorite raid for the Ironborn since before any of us were born," Maester Morlan's advice echoed the rest.

"Theon Greyjoy died on our shores months ago. Winter shows no signs of letting up and the Island has been locked in ice since the first storms. You would think they would stay home and seek survival," Lyanna mentioned. "As the rest of us do."

"Euron Greyjoy has an appetite for violence. The season doesn't matter to him," Seffius Claver advised his young mistress, his feelings on the pirate transparent. "He'll come."

"Too bad your dragon has decided to sleep the winter away," Lyanna grumbled to Daenerys. "Do you think we could rouse him long enough to burn the Greyjoys?"

"Drogon's tired of battles and war," Daenerys answered, knowing her reply applied to many in the hall, herself included. She shook her head, doubtful, "I don't know that he would listen to my commands even if I begged."

"Perhaps he knows that you've replaced him," Lyanna replied sharply, the strain of winter and the damn Ironborn causing her to look for an easy mark to vent her frustration. "Mother of Dragons, no longer? Perhaps 'Mother of Bastards' is more appropriate…"

"Enough, Lyanna!" This time Jorah's voice held all the timbre of his father, Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, and the walls of the Mormont Keep shuddered on the familiar, grave-dark tone. Daenerys's eyes immediately darted to Jorah, as did the rest gathered in the Great Hall.

Lyanna blinked, astonished. Lyanna never blinked.

Jorah continued, his infinite patience returning swiftly. Still, he was adamant, "Enough. Our child is no bastard, cousin. Daenerys is my wife and has been for some time."

He reached down and took Daenerys's hand in his, squeezing her palm slightly. She was pleased. Not so much for the revelation that would finally silence Lyanna's chiding—though there was that, as well—but rather, for his mere touch. At its father's strong voice, the baby had moved in her womb yet again, and she was grateful for the firm steadiness of Jorah's hand, as the otherworldly feeling of the child within her was anything but steady.

"It's true," Seffius Claver spoke from the other side of the hall, nodding. "I married them myself, not long after Theon's death."

Beside Seffius, Mary showed no surprise—as she had been their witness, her dark brown eyes willingly taking on secrets. She met Daenerys's gaze now, as she had when the Silver Queen had first walked into the kitchens months ago and shyly asked if she might knead some bread dough. She gave Daenerys a small, encouraging smile.

But Maester Morlan looked utterly taken aback. The fishermen tried to pretend they weren't eavesdropping on a conversation they had no business taking part in, with little success. Lyanna narrowed her eyes.

Of course, they hadn't told her—Daenerys insisted Jorah didn't breathe a word of it—thinking Lyanna would be happier not knowing that a Mormont had bound himself forever to a Targaryen. It might even give the she-bear a little peace, thinking Daenerys might be a passing fancy of her wayward cousin and that someday, somehow, he might come to his senses.

"You married her," Lyanna stated flatly, the implications sinking in. "Without my permission."

"We didn't need your permission," Jorah replied. "And you wouldn't have given it."

Lyanna looked between them both. Daenerys wondered if the relief she saw pass by the girl's dark brown eyes was just her imagination. But she'd seen that look before, in the few, sparse moments when she'd thought that maybe, just maybe, Lyanna might not only accept her presence on Bear Island…but welcome it.

A Mormont bastard would bring shame to this ancient House. But a Mormont heir? Even with Targaryen blood tainting its Northern heritage, Lyanna couldn't be completely unpleased by the news.

Daenerys had lived in this house long enough to know that Lyanna wasn't all stone and ice.

The young woman didn't give up her feelings so easily and moved on from Jorah's revelation seamlessly, dragging her attention away from her cousin and Daenerys—his wife, the mother of his trueborn child—turning back to Seffius Claver once more.

"Station scouts at Ynes Lyme, day and night. If the pirate comes to Bear Island, we'll give him a fight he won't soon forget."