Author's Note:
As I mentioned last week, there's still a Sansa chapter left. However, this is the end of the Bear Island storyline…until I write the epilogue and the missing scene fic anyway.
Since I think most of my readers are here for the Jorah/Dany fix-it, I just wanted to say merci, mes amis! Thanks to everyone who came along for the ride but in particular, the following Twitter, Tumblr, AO3 and readers who took the time to leave me lovely comments (in no particular order – I heart you all): Anno1701, JessC27, charmingskyblue304, neesie-pie, Lemming, 51kas81, CopperEyed, subtilia, JessicaTooze, SerJorahIsLove, foxdvlc, MormontOfRivia, FirstDraft, ships_in_the_night, Reiselust, toxicstardvst, srortiz87, BastetGoddess, TheWingedLioness, Seeeas, PalominoOnCrutches, JuhVaz, Fisher, sm87, LovableKillerWhale, Itiswhatitis, serjor-uh, Kat+Morgan, brandylou, BlackandPinkUnicornGuardian, Ann, SS42, a girl is someone, azerty29, anyone else I might have missed and finally, as always…to SmashingTeacups who forced me into writing this story in the first place :) :) :)
Here's to the hope and dream of an awesome Season 8, complete with an ending worthy of our ship. Hey, it could happen. And if not, we'll always have fanfiction…
Mwah!
Jorah
Jorah finished off Euron's captain in a blinding, cold spray of steel, snow and ice. The pirate crumpled into a heap on the snowy beach, rolling with the crash of frosty seawater that soon came up to claim his sword-torn body.
Jorah swiped at the hot blood on his cheek, and examined a narrow slash on his sword hand. His wounds were just scratches this time, which was fortunate. Before he left the Keep, Daenerys told him that she had absolutely no interest in him gathering more scars to add to the rest.
In fact, she forbid it and told him that if he came back to her injured, she would kill him.
He had smiled at his little wife's strong-willed teasing, even while noting that her features were colored with anxiety and her words were only half in jest. Her worry broke his heart, as always. Before he took his leave, he gathered her up in his arms, embracing her tightly but carefully, ever mindful of the child between them.
"I'm tired of farewells," she said against his shirt, her silver-haired head pressed tight against his shoulder.
"Me too," he answered at her ear, pressing a soft kiss at her temple before he pulled back. He bent on one knee and pressed a second kiss to her pregnant belly, while Daenerys's fingers played in his hair. He turned his gaze back up to hers, vowing, "But I'll come back, Khaleesi. I'll always come back to you…"
Always.
This was a promise he meant to keep, even as he peered into the blizzardy landscape around the beach at Ynes Lyme grimly and wondered if maybe he finally promised too much.
"Winter is here," he muttered sourly at the weather. He added in his head, And what a bitch she's decided to be.
In the distance, Jorah heard the desperate cries of the remaining Greyjoy sailors, as their rowboats were smashed by wild, insurgent winds blowing over the jagged, rough-hewn coastline. The wooden vessels were dashed over black rocks in the harbor, snapping and splitting apart, with men tossed into the churning water and frothy surf. The swirling snow obscured any more than a shadow's view of the drowning men.
The wind brought death and the air turned cold again, as cold as that night that Jorah found Daenerys trapped behind the lines of the dead at Winterfell and they both watched Rhaegal and Viserion fall from the bruised-violet sky.
He remembered finding her and dragging her up from that pile of corpses. He remembered pulling her back against him, holding her close. She was cold, blood-stained and injured, her braids ruined, her clothes streaked with battle grime, but his heart had leapt at finding her and holding her once again.
It wasn't a new feeling. Gods, no…
He remembered helping her down from a Dothraki mount after a ride that went on for far too many hours and the way her hands curled up around his neck instinctively. His heart had leapt at her touch all the way back then too.
From the moment he met her, all those years ago, on a beach as far from this one as it could possibly be, he should have known. He knew soon enough, in any case. But there was fate in that first meeting that he failed to recognize until later, after that first blush of affection had consumed him…and continued consuming him.
The winter may try to freeze his blood, but his heart belonged to a dragon. And it burned for her. For Daenerys Targaryen.
Daenerys Mormont, he could hear her remind him with that sweet tone, that same teasing pleasure she turned on him whenever they were alone, stealing kisses from his willing lips, tracing skin beneath her wandering, wondrous touch.
Let the storm blow and bluster. Let the frost try to eat at his bones. He sheathed his blood-stained sword, pulled up his fur collar and began trudging. He knew these lands blindfolded, even snow blind—he was blind to its dangers, but only out of resolve.
He would get back to her again, as he always did, or die trying.
They couldn't keep his continued absence from Daenerys. She knew. Of course, she knew.
For if Jorah had returned to the Keep with the others, what possible reason could keep him from coming to her now, as she waited, propped up against the pillows piled against the headboard of their bed, his child swaddled and cradled in her arms?
The baby girl had a healthy set of lungs and cried loudly enough that the winds outside were nearly drowned out by her first howling cries, as Maester Morlan washed the child and then wrapped her in a clean, warm blanket. Strong-willed, she didn't stop crying until she reached her mother's arms.
"Shhhhhh," Daenerys cooed softly to the baby as the maester handed her over. After a long night of labor, Daenerys's features betrayed fierce exhaustion, but they broke into a smile at the sight of the baby. Her baby. She continued in soft, maternal tones, "Yes, that's right. Hush now."
The child settled in her mother's arms, safe and warm once again. Daenerys beamed, her whole being flooded with love for this little thing in her arms. All the pain and anguish of the grueling hours before vanished in a single instant, with a magic far more powerful than any Daenerys had encountered across the Narrow Sea.
She was perfect, as all babies are perfect. Ten fingers and ten toes. A fuzz of silver blond hair covered her smooth scalp. When she yawned and stretched, Daenerys caught her wandering little fist and the little girl's fingers curled around Daenerys's thumb. When the baby opened her eyes, Daenerys saw blue, blue irises—the same color as Jorah's.
She looked down at her daughter with awe—how strange it was to love someone you never met before. And love them so completely. Her smile deepened and that expression remained fixed on her face for some time…
Until minutes and then hours passed, and Jorah did not come. The storm grew in strength, wind howling against the Keep walls, drafts sweeping down the corridors and attempting to snuff out candlelight and the crackle of hot fires. Night gave way to morning and then morning slipped into afternoon, but without a change in light. The darkness of unnatural night surrounded them at all hours.
And still, Jorah did not come.
Mary tried to assuage Daenerys's fears with optimistic musings that were uncommon to the Mormont household. Whether she believed her own words or not, was a different matter. But for Daenerys's sake, Mary tried.
"Give him time," Mary said, when she came in at dawn or just after, bringing her mistress a tray of something light to push around and pick at. Daenerys couldn't eat a thing, even if she forced herself. Not until Jorah was back, safe at home.
Seffius Claver had come in with Mary and nodded along with the servant girl's words…though Daenerys could read his face well enough.
Despite his encouraging nod, the pragmatic sea captain was anything but optimistic.
Daenerys appreciated Mary's efforts and bravely gave a little smile back. It was easier with the baby in her arms than it would have been otherwise. But the flood of joy in her heart mixed with a clutch of fear. Her emotions unraveled into a sinking sensation that she knew too well, and she wasn't hiding those feelings from anyone.
Especially not Lyanna, who came in soon after to see the baby and pay her respects to the newborn bear child who would carry her family name. With discretion, Seffius and Mary both took their leave at Lyanna's entrance, closing the chamber door behind them.
"I don't know what I'll do if he doesn't come back," Daenerys admitted to the younger woman once they were alone, and only after a long moment of silence passed between them. Her voice was quiet, nearly a whisper, and broke on the ragged, faithless words. Lyanna's gaze flickered from the child to the mother.
Lyanna's brown eyes met Daenerys's violet ones, as they had above the pyre that burned Theon Greyjoy's body. There was recognition in that gaze, and understanding. They were not sisters yet, but in that moment, they both knew they would be.
"He'll come back," Lyanna answered, her gaze drifting back to the baby girl in Daenerys's arms. She took a step closer, reaching down and running her fingers lightly across the little girl's forehead, as if blessing her. The words she spoke were not conjured by hope or optimism. It was just a statement, blunt as always.
And then she said more, surprising both Daenerys and herself with the words that followed, "But if he doesn't, Daenerys, this is your home…"
The young she-bear nodded her head, with emphasis, adding in her clipped Northern accent, "And here we stand."
Daenerys shouldn't have doubted him. She knew better. He'd promised. And Jorah never broke his promises to her. Not once.
Even if it nearly killed him. Even if this time, he made her wait. And wait some more. Not that he had any choice in the matter. The storm had the final say in his long path home, the shelter it forced him to take before setting out again. She would have scolded him for those lost hours, where her mind had feared the worst, where she had fasted and prayed and held onto her child, keeping her close, afraid that the baby might be all she had left of the man she loved.
Please don't take him from me. I've only just found him…
Night fell once again, though she didn't notice. The door to the bedchamber opened. Daenerys looked up, expecting Maester Morlan, Lyanna, Mary—
His blue eyes. His dear, blue eyes.
He was covered in snow, frost in his beard, blood on his clothes. He hadn't taken the time to seek out a fire or a wash basin before finding her. His first thought, as always, was of her. She could never scold him for that.
There was something familiar in the way their eyes met. This had happened before. In Qarth, after those warlocks took her dragons, after Irri and the others had been slaughtered—she heard footsteps run up the stairs to her balcony and when she turned, those eyes met hers, his strong, living presence a safe port in a swirling, raging storm.
You came back.
"Jorah…," her voice broke on his name, tears of relief and joy and a thousand other things flooding her vision. With the baby held in her one arm, she raised the other, reaching for him, begging for his touch—to make sure he wasn't just an apparition, sent to torment her with false promises.
He was real enough. Jorah crossed the distance between them quickly, taking her hand and pressing his lips to her palm.
He cleaned himself up and they both shared a hot meal, which the kitchen girls were only too happy to prepare, even if it was the middle of the night. The others were told of Ser Jorah's return and the tense, anxiousness that had settled over the Keep for the last day and a half lifted, their victory against the Greyjoys and the birth of a new Mormont finally celebrated with all the happy joy the two events deserved.
Sometime near midnight, the storm passed.
"You should sleep," Daenerys said softly, reaching up to cup her free hand at Jorah's cheek in that old, familiar caress, her fingers curling along his jawline. They were alone now, sitting up in bed, in the same place that Daenerys had battled all her darkest fears and muddled grief only a few hours before. But this time, Jorah was beside her and there was no fear or grief to be found anywhere in that chamber.
The dragon girl leaned back against her bear knight's broad chest contentedly, letting his arms slip around her. The baby was resting quietly in the crook of hers, and Jorah couldn't take his eyes off them both…no matter how exhausted he was.
"Soon," Jorah promised, pressing yet another kiss against her temple, his lips whispering over the strands of her silver-blonde hair. His child would have her mother's hair. He was glad. He was glad about so many things.
With one last caress, Daenerys's hand slipped from his face to adjust the swaddling clothes on the baby, before resting on the soft fabric. Jorah's hand joined Daenerys's, their fingers interlacing, while his thumb reached up and brushed at the smooth, perfect skin of the baby's little cheek. His daughter slept soundly under her father's gentle touch.
The thought gave him pause.
My daughter.
"Have you given her a name?" he wondered softly. They hadn't discussed it before. Not once. He knew why. Until this moment, here and now, neither one of them dared believe the impossible. Or what had seemed impossible for so long. Redemption, family, happiness.
Home.
But Daenerys nodded, turning her head from the baby to her husband. A sweet smile played at her full lips. Her violet eyes brimmed with love, for the baby, for him, as she replied, "Her name's Jeorgianna. After your father."
He was speechless for a moment, not expecting her answer. Her smile widened, knowing she would receive no protest but asking, just the same, "What do you think?"
What do I think? He thought a great many things. He thought of the way sunlight turned her silver-blonde hair gold, falling around her pretty face in waves. He thought of the way her lips tasted the first time they kissed. He thought of the way she took his hands on the beach at Dragonstone and the love that had been in her eyes, even then.
Last, he thought of her in a lavender dress, stroking the mane of a white horse and turning to him to ask, so softly, Ser Jorah, I don't know how to say thank you in Dothraki?
There was no word for thank you in Dothraki. There was no word in High Valyrian or the Common Tongue either. Not really. Not when trying to express gratitude to the woman who had given him everything.
"I think I love you more than any man has any right to love anyone," he answered, dipping his head by a degree to kiss her lips gently. As he pulled back, she caught his bearded chin and held him fast.
"No more than I love you," she said back, stealing another kiss before letting him go.
Jeorgianna cooed, waking sleepily to stretch, and in the process, bringing her mother and father's attention away from each other and back down to her, where it belonged.
"And no more than we love you, Jeorgianna," Jorah added quietly, with a deep chuckle, his words for the little girl who knew nothing yet of the power of love she'd been born into.
She would though.
Years and years later, whenever anyone asked Jeorgianna Mormont about the Long Winter and how they survived, how they thrived through a season that was intent on murdering them all, she always answered the same. The lesson learned from her mother and father stuck with her until the end of her days:
The night is dark and full of terrors…but love defeats them all.