Author's Note:
Oh hey, I'm back! For a hot (cold?) minute anyway. And with some promised Mormont family fluff. This, at long last, is the final chapter of this story…and acts as a little bridge between this story and Jeorgianna's story in Winter's Child. Hope you enjoy it :)
Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/general best winter-wishes to all my readers. Mwah! Until we meet again! Xo
Jeorgianna
My first memories are painted in silver and white—the colors of winter.
The color of my mother's hair as she bent down to pick me out of my cradle, smiling at me, cascades of silver-blond strands falling on either side of her face. The color of the bear rug covering the floor in front of the fireplace in my parents' bedchamber, where my father would kneel down and bring me toys—a little dragon whittled out of hemlock, a fabric bear stuffed with down.
Silver and white—the color of the lake up in the mountains above the Mormont Keep, iced over and gleaming like the smooth face of a mirror turned up towards the pale rays of winter sunlight. And all the evergreens covered in snow…
I was only three or four, bundled up in furs and wool, the hood of my little cloak pulled up, as we braved the chilly weather to enjoy an uncommonly sunny winter day on Bear Island. We walked up to the lake from the Keep. Or the others did anyway, as the snow was still too deep for my little footsteps. One of Lyanna's taller guards went first, wearing snowshoes and making a path for the rest.
I was carried, first in my mother's arms, then passed to my father after he offered, "I can take her, Daenerys."
I settled in my father's arms as easily as my mother's, reaching up with my little hand to grab hold of the soft fur lining at the collar of the coat he wore. The fur on his coat was dark brown. Mother's was white. But both were soft and warm and I never had any preference between the two.
They passed me between them enough that I knew, even young as I was, that I was loved. And cherished—entirely, completely, utterly—by two people who would never let anything happen to me. Years later, I would recognize that not all mothers and fathers love their children as well. But when I was still little, I knew only that my parents loved me as much as I loved them.
I let my head fall against my father's chest as he trudged up through the snowy hillside. His steps were steady and strong. The weather was milder than it had been in months. There was a trickle of water running under the ice at the stream. There were birds making noise in the forest. With me held snugly in one arm, my father reached back to help my mother climb over a frosty log that had fallen in the path. He waited and offered his hand to Lyanna as well, but she rebuffed him, as always, needing no assistance.
We arrived at the lake before midday. A thaw and refreeze had frozen the lake solid once again, while keeping its face free from snow drifts. The ice was smooth and cold, like the length of a knife blade. Like the blades that the Bear Islanders brought with them, to affix to their boots and glide across the ice like water dancers.
They say the Dornish learn to ride horses at the age of three, as the sand steeds are as wild and beautiful as their riders, and it's best they get used to each other early. The Dothraki learn to ride and fight even earlier. The Lannisters learn the value of a coin in the cradle. And they say that the river-land Tulleys, before that great family was decimated in the War of Five Kings, learned to dance at the age of four or five, knowing that the skill would be required in the pursuit of their greatest asset—advantageous marriages.
But the Mormont children, born and bred up here, on a cold island at the top of the world, learn a skill unique to the rest of Westeros. Their children learn to ice skate and they learn it as early as the first winter day that is tolerable enough to venture out into the snow.
At the lake side, my father carried me over to a nearby boulder and gently set me down on its flat surface, kneeling on the frosted, snow-covered ground in front of me as he nimbly affixed small, silver blades to the bottoms of my little boots. I watched his hands, weathered and strong, tying up the laces expertly. He'd done this many times before.
My mother, on the other hand, had lived in hot climates for most of her life. Ice-skating was a foreign to her as bankruptcy was to a Lannister, or an honest living was to a Greyjoy.
She hovered above us, in her white coat and silver-blond braids, giving my father a sheepish look as she held up the blades that one of the boys had passed into her hesitant hands, "I'm not sure how to use these."
"I know," he answered her, looking up from my boots to give her a warm smile of encouragement. He promised, "It's easy, you'll see."
With a final pull, he tied the laces on my boots tight and then picked me up again, keeping me snug in the curve of one arm as he took my mother's elbow with his free hand, leading her down to the lake side, where some of the others were already on the ice, laughing as they cut lines in the frosted surface. The swish swish sound of metal sliding against ice rang in my ears pleasantly, although I'd never heard it before.
"Lyanna?" my father called his cousin back, as she was already ten yards out, spinning gracefully. She was as comfortable on skates as she was at the head of the family table. My cousin Lyanna was blood of the Old Bear, with ice and snow taking up as much space in her veins as the rest of it. But she listened to my father, more than anyone else, and heeded his call immediately.
"Take Jeorgianna, would you?" he asked, handing me over into Lyanna's arms, adding with some tease in his soft voice, "I fear her mother will prove the more difficult student."
"Jorah!" my mother immediately swatted at his arm, playful but nearly indignant. She muttered, with less confidence than the words that followed might imply, "I rode dragons through the skies of Essos and Westeros. I think I'll be able to ice skate."
"I have no doubt, Khaleesi," my father said, pulling her close and pressing a kiss against her temple.
Lyanna huffed at their banter and then rolled her eyes at the kiss that followed, and the one after that, not one for expressions of love and affection, even among those sheloved dearly. And she did love us, our familial bond deep as the roots of the Island, evergreen as the spruce and pine that sheltered the lake from the cold sea winds that were still blowing, even under high blue skies.
"Good luck," Lyanna mentioned to my father, dryly, before skating away with me on her hip, turning on her feet with a command of balance and speed that befitted her confident nature.
I clung to my cousin like a bear cub, almost as happy in her grasp as in my mother and father's. I'd known Lyanna for as long as I'd been alive and her face and dark brown eyes were as familiar to me as my parents. And while she respected my father and loved my mother, she adored me. I was the baby sister she never had and she treated me that way, giving me all the warmth and patience that she gave no one else.
"Come on, Jeorgianna. Let's see you skate." She lifted me from her hip and set me down on the ice carefully, leaning down and keeping hold of my arms and shoulders until I found my balance. The blades I stood on slipped but she held me steady, as I found my footing again, chuckling over my first few attempts. When I took my first, stumbling slide, she said, "That's it. Look at you! You're a natural, Jeorgianna."
She kept hold of my hand as she gently turned me into a slow spin. At one point, she took both my hands and started skating backwards slowly, pulling me along with her. The blades on my little boots slid across the ice seamlessly and I smiled at the new sensation. It was almost like flying. Or how I imagined flying might feel like. Lyanna smiled back, "It's fun, isn't it?"
"Yes," I answered softly, only just use to the word on my tongue. I was a quiet child from the beginning and didn't spare much time on speaking, even after I learned how to talk.
You're just like your father, Jeorgianna, my mother would say often, clucking her tongue in mock disapproval. But then she'd hug me tightly to her chest, kissing the top of my silver-blond head before adding that she wouldn't have it any other way.
I watched Lyanna's feet intently as I took another slide across the ice. But I took to it naturally, as expected. The blood of the First Men and old Valyria mixed in my veins well enough, granting me the best, I hoped, of both.
I glanced over at my mother and father, my mother's eyes locked on my father's face as she grinned and almost lost her footing for the third or fourth time. My father's hands were at her waist, always ready to catch her, if she decided to fall. I heard my mother's laugh as she slipped again and collapsed back into his arms, the sound of her sweet voice echoing across the lake.
We stayed at the lake late into the evening, making bonfires and skating until our feet ached. Even after the sun slunk beneath the southern horizon, we tarried—in the light of warm fires, with the smell of cider and savory meat wafting through the chilled air, enjoying winter in the way only Northerners know how.