THE DRAGON'S BEAR

No. She couldn’t possibly be imagining things now, could she? --- she

She glanced up, a watery smile already on her face. “JORAH! You’re awake!” She’s ignored the knitting, leaping up to sprint to his side.

“Be careful, Ser Jorah. You’re still injured,” she tried, but he was grasping for a sword moments later. She took his large hand, wrapping both her little ones around it. She was strong, holding him still and smiling down at him.

“Oh yes yes, Dragon Mama is safe and sound. All thanks to you. And me. But mostly you, I’d say.” Thus, the rambling began. “See, she managed to get you on Drogon. Something something something. She was crying and everything, so I had to help her, obviously. And then, we flew back to Winterfell! Oh! And Arya Stark or whoever was the one who killed the wanker with the spikes on his head. And then…Oh, what am I missing. Oh! Dead people came alive in the crypts—THAT was terrifying no doubt. A few casualties. I cried about it a lot. It was horribly sad. Creepy though, innit? All those old dead lords coming back to life? I’d just about die if I saw my granny come back to life. Though, I didn’t really know my granny. Think the one for my dad was a lady. Not sure. You know this already. I’m…Oh seven hells, I’m rambling.”

And still holding his hand. She dropped it like wildfire.

“ANYWAY! I should… Should I go tell Dany-uh Her Royal Highness… that you’re awake. I’m sure you’d rather see her right now. Um. Oh! Before I…take my leave. I am…knitting you a sweater. I hope you like it. It looks like shit.”

Wights. Thousands of them. And Daenerys, small and terrified and screaming with the fire reflecting off her wild, wild eyes. Khaleesi. His hand flung for a sword, urgent, and something stopped him before he could.

She’s safe and sound, Belladonna’s voice came to him, clear but faraway. She’s safe and sound...

He remembered. In a single breath, their bodies dropped to the snow and he lied cradled in her lap, growing cold, feeling colder. Safe and sound. Strong Daenerys, holding his face... he watched wordlessly as the snow fell into her hair, losing himself in those stained eyes, so purple and familiar, the sky at dusk. She was safe and sound... The bear sat half-straight in bed and she squeezed onto his hand rambling about Arya, the Night King, the end. She was safe, too, Belladonna... and slowly, the urgency left his body.

His bed creaked. She let go all too suddenly and Jorah's mouth parted, a stretch of silence filling the space between them.

“...You’re getting better." The sweater, he meant, vaguely human in shape. He started to shuffle to the edge of the bed, half-bent and bruised purple, and put his feet to the floor.

[I understand the sentiment. However, the headcanon was derived from something already established in the books, albeit a small mention, where Alysane says, “No. My children were fathered by a bear. Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows” (A Dance with Dragons). While I have not read the books, the Wikia page notes that Bear Island also has a woman warrior culture as a necessity for when their men were off fishing, leaving them the only ones capable of defending their home and cubs. This woman warrior culture is supported by Lady Lyanna who, in the show, insists that her people, including the women and children, are to train and fight in the coming Long Night for the North. These points became the cornerstones of my headcanon and I simply expounded upon what already existed.

hc: bear in man’s clothing

“Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows.” ---Alysane Mormont

It’s not an unheard of legend. Some say the Starks can enter the minds of their direwolves; Robb Stark himself able to shift to a wolf; and House Farwynd has their whales, walruses, and seemingly innocent sea lions. With the Mormonts, however, and indeed, the people of Bear Island, the tale goes beyond being able to enter the mind of an animal. All the Mormont women can turn into bears, and to a lesser, more rare degree, even the men.

This story didn’t come from nowhere, though. Throughout its history, Bear Island, in days past, had been besieged and vied for by raiding wildlings and those of the Iron Islands who sought to reclaim the land. With bloody skirmishes, to-the-death battles, and singing metal, the people of Bear Island fought for and protected their home with a ferocity few could ever match. One day, when the Free Folk came ashore to plunder their home, it is said that House Mormont and their soldiers emerged from the thicket of trees while draped in the pelts of bears. To the wildlings, it was as though no man was in sight, and that the Mormonts themselves had morphed into bears to defend their land. Few of the Free Folk that invaded survived to escape. And thus the story was born.

But there is a clear distinction as well: all the Mormont women can turn into bears. Not all the men. The day the story was born, on that fateful battle, a majority of the island’s men were gone fishing, leaving only their wives, sisters, and daughters to fend off enemies and to protect their cubs. When the wildlings attacked, most of those who warred against them, then, were women dressed in the skin of bears, commanded by their lords who were the largest and most terrifying of them all.

What a quiet, gentle thing, Daenerys, Viserys’ sister, more prone to folding in on herself in the temporary comfort of shadows than ever daring to say the word ‘no.’ Maybe these moments in the night were something of a refuge to her --- tales and stories of her home, as faraway and strange as they were to her. Or maybe they were painful. Maybe both. Perhaps both.

A plate sat beside her. A rabbit dish brought to her from Irri. Jorah glanced back down to a drawing in the book and thought it would have certainly captivated her.

“Dragons, my princess. As far north as you can go,” he drawled softly, his thumb pressed against a yellowing corner of the book. The words ‘Ice Dragon’ were inked above the drawing. “With scales of milk glass and flames cold as the winter that never ends --- Made of living ice.”

| @bearskeep |

How long had it been since Dany had a DECENT amount of sleep? Even she could not answer that truthfully. Now as she lay peacefully on the warm bed her slumber is DISRUPTED by another nightmare of losing those closest to her heart. Body writhing with discomfort as groans escape her. Suddenly she is being pulled out of the horror that played through her head, eyes as blue as the skies in Dorne look to the other. There is FEAR in them and Dany cannot resist the urge to hold onto Jorah as he saves her from the dream that haunts her.

“I’m sorry…”

She writhes. On bed, Daenerys thrashes over her blankets and a stream of too-quiet murmurs tumble from her mouth, her smooth forehead creased in tension and her face twisted as a sea of fear overwhelms and takes her, pulls her under. The death of Drogo, maybe. The sorceress and her blood magic. Doreah and Irri. Everything. Jorah nudges her awake, and suddenly, her eyes tear open.

"Careful now... Careful..." he eases, his voice low and rolling to a stop. She clutches onto him and her knight holds her arms, his presence steadying and warm. "Dreams, khaleesi... Gone as our days in Qarth."

          THE SILENCE WEIGHED HEAVILY UPON HER HEART, and when Jorah finally broke it, Ariadne felt her lungs release a breath so tense that her body visibly settled once rid of it. His gaze remained on her and she knew that, even in the dusty, dim lighting, there was little she could hide from him. It was nice, for once, not having hide.

“ A curse to some, a warning to others; his name means many things. ”

The chair creaked as she leaned forward, and Ariadne placed the book down on the table before her so that she could pull her legs up underneath her, careful to show no marred skin in doing so. Settling, her hands fell into her lap along with her gaze, toying with the fabric of her tatty robes as she continued,

“ To all, however, it is a lesson. Do not allow yourself to be misguided, or led astray. ” Smile lingering, she glanced up at her companion. “ That is why the Dalish refuse to bow to the humans. For our stubbornness, you can blame the Dread Wolf. ”

Do not let yourself be misguided or led astray. His mouth parted. "A lesson I should’ve learned.”

His focus draped over a shadowy spot on the floor, and then he was quiet. It wasn’t wholly uncommon; Jorah’s occasional lapses into silence, the introspective, faraway look on his face that didn’t beg for questions, to talk about it. He heard Ariadne settle his gift onto the table then fold her legs up under herself. She started picking at her tattered robes with those skinny, pale fingers, and her smile lingered on like the last moments of rain.

“Hard enough that men bow to each other.” Without war and backstabbings and political intrigue, that is. There was a smile in his eyes, too, as fleeting as it was. Softly, then, it waned. “I’ve seen them. Wolves of stone. They sit beyond your camps with eyes black as the sun that never rises --- Some say a reminder," he told her, the flame reflecting off his ring. "Fen’Harel ma ghilana... Don’t let him find you.”

but tyrion walked in and it looked like? only parts of the ceiling just sorta fell apart? the whole of it was intact? they would’ve been alive had they just stood at another part of the dungeon?? 

People had told her about him all her life - the man who betrayed the island. The residents of Bear Island had a hatred for their previous leader and the choices he had made, as well as his decision to run from punishment. But, even despite everyone filling her head with their thoughts, Lyanna never tried to make an opinion. If she was to meet this Jorah Mormont, she wanted him to prove his worth to her on what type of person hew as NOW, not who he was then.

“ He also said to treat a man on his worth today, not on his mistakes in the past, ”   Lyanna replies in a soft voice,   “ Come closer, cousin. Let’s talk. ”

The men stared at him. He knew the look. Disapproval. Ambivalence. The former Lord of Bear Island, the lord who sold men into slavery, who fled beheadment and the Watch, had finally returned and entirely and wholly devoted to no king in the North, but a queen. A Targaryen. ‘There’s no place for you here,’ Lyanna would say, her voice faraway and cold, and as she disappeared into the keep, the snow would fall and fill in the tiny footprints she left behind.

This wasn't what he expected.

"I serve beside you." It came with a small bow of his head, the words airy but curt. A bear through and through. “This sword is yours to have," he breathed. "---If you’ll have it.”

          JORAH’S WORDS RANG IN ARIADNE’S POINTED EARS far louder than the singing of metal or the rushing of water. Shadowed grey eyes remained forward, however, her raised hand shifting by such a delicate degree that no one but him would’ve noticed; her knuckle grazed against the armour that sat upon his chest.

“ I know, ” the young woman replied quietly, a faint smile of comfort and reassurance playing at her lips. “ I’m protecting my people. ”

Another step was taken towards the emerging elf, and in the brilliant morning light that illuminated his haggard, world-weary features, Ariadne stood, her own expression level and impassive. She lowered her arms.

“ Our lack of vallaslin makes us no less Dalish than you. ” The calmness of her words received a scowl, yet she continued. “ The elves’ heritage was stolen from us once, and that did not keep us from worshiping our gods and speaking our language. Slavery does not strip us of that which runs through our veins. ”

“ You speak collectively, as if the shem shares your blood. ” the shrouded elf remarked, features twisted by the very idea. “ He raises his sword to us just as he would raise it to you. They see us all as one and the same, and you are a fool to believe otherwise. ”

Silence lingered in the air, the tension so thick it clung to Ariadne’s lungs and caused her skin to turn cold. She knew, had the stranger been speaking of any other man, any other shemlen, he likely would’ve been correct in his assumptions. Fortunately for both her and Black Rat, however, he was mistaken.

She did not hesitate. Ariadne stepped in front of Jorah, and the elf’s eye narrowed. “ Fen'Harel ma ghilana, ” she told him, brow lowering over her eyes. “ This man freed us from a life of slavery. It is those who enslaved us who deserve your wrath, not those who stand against them… melana en atish’an las enaste. ”

My people, her whisper reached him. My people... Slowly, his blue eyes cleared with a dawning realization, and the touch of her hand left him.

What could he do? Nothing. Tens of arrows were trained on them and he knew if they wanted to, they could let their arrows fly and stick him like a pig before he ever swung his sword, and who would he have cut? No one. They were all too far away. The elf could see the problem stewing in Jorah’s head and he scowled, face twisting, every word coming from Ariadne’s mouth striking him as though the stench of a leaking animal.

“So you would have yourselves follow him like little more than mares. From one shem to another --- what’s the difference?” he jeered, tossing his hand at her. His eye was black like a gaping hole and his fish hook scar tugged viciously at his mouth. “They are the very reason you lost your freedom. Or did you forget?”

A quiet thud and he landed on the ground. Jorah reacted quickly, without thought, and took one step forward to Ariadne, holding her arm from behind with his sword still drawn, still shining. The commander paid him little mind and stopped by the edge of the lake, far out of sword’s reach. 

“I would say having no vallaslin would make you a great deal less Dalish, falon.”  There was a  tattoo on his face. An Elvish symbol. Most of it was hidden under his headwrap and the remainder was gone, flayed and burnt and scarred away with his skin pulled and leather tight. His teeth gleamed under the sun. “What elf has no vallaslin if not for those that dwell within the slums of human cities like vermin? Their kind relinquished our gods and the language you so cherish for a chance to lap at the human’s mercy, more dog than elf," he scorned, his stare dissecting and judging. A branch swayed in the wind and the only sound came from the lapping lake. “Tell me, falon, who was your keeper?”

         𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍 known as jorah the andal from afar; close enough to learn the routine he had, but far enough as to not arouse suspicion. the sons of the harpy had payed them handsomely for even considering their offer——&. would pay even more for his head. at first, they hadn’t given a second thought to it. why kill a man so closely associated with a would-be queen? it was a  𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐀 for the harpies, a means of weakening the breaker of chains; but threnn had little to no interest in the politics of lands so far away.

        spying, however, was something they could accept. it took several months, the trip to volantis; &. the harpies were particularly lucky that threnn had an unaffiliated favor they needed to fulfill there in the first place. but once that was done with &. they’d found the man in question, the decision to accept the offer so graciously given to them had been set in stone: a scroll sent on the night of their landing, confirming their participation.

        he looks so much like roluf, they had thought that night. but it can’t be him. no, roluf was slimmer, &. would never wear such armor——if any, at all. the andal looked like a  𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑, whereas roluf held the stature of a thief, a 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐋. but his countenance was almost the same, &. was ultimately the reason they agreed. not for the money, nor the political power the harpies offered, but for some gratification in killing a man who reminded them of him.

        correspondence had ( hopefully ) made its way into the hands of the man in question, with a location, &. a few words that read   𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔,   signed by a ’ friend. ’ now, they waited for him, hoping he was a fool enough to accept anonymous guidance. at the sound of footsteps, threnn called out, confident, despite their doubts.

        ❝ took ye long enough. ❞     |    〔 @bearskeep liked! 〕

The note was signed 'a friend.' He had no friends.

Who could have sent it? Not anyone in Westeros. Aside from Ned Stark, the only person who could want him dead was Tywin Lannister, and they both already got what they wanted, one of them headless and wasting in a crypt. Someone in Essos, then. Jorah's sword rustled by his side and he wove through the buzzing crowd, never minding the swarm of gnats smacking against his sweating face, the stench of rotting fruits, or the nameless street girls smiling at him, cooing promises of a good night to help him forget all his troubles and pains and memories of a long lost sweetheart... Memories of his queen.

Daenerys, his khaleesi, too far away. Daenerys sitting in a throne within the Great Pyramid of Mereen. He could see her face so clearly it was like she was actually there, her warm smile now a hard line, her lilac eyes not burning but cold in a faraway stare, seeing past him. She called him her dearest friend once. Held both his hands. Don’t you ever presume to touch me again. Her voice echoed in the walls of his skull and the knight’s jaw tightened.

I can help you, the note read. No. They can’t. But Jorah was desperate for anything he could use to get back to her side, and anticipating, senses heightened, he ducked his head under a laundry line, disappearing deeper into a labyrinth of alleyways. It was quiet... the crowd further away. A rat skittered past his foot and he saw.

There, shrouded in shadows, someone stood. He gripped at his sword and lifted his chin.

"Took ye long enough. "

“Quick enough to catch you,” he said plainly, voice level, scanning the eyepatch and the scars that littered their face. He made out their blades and didn't flinch. “Who paid you.”

          THE TALES SHE WISHED TO TELL HIM didn’t lie within the pages of a book. She wished to tell him of the men and women who recited them around campfires, who kept what little history the elves had left alive and well. She wanted to tell him of her father, and how he would speak of Arlathan in hushed, precious whispers while her mother braided her hair.

But it was all too raw, aching and painful. She thought of her family and her chest constricted. The book in her lap remained closed.

“ Thank you, Jorah, ” came softly, her voice croaking a little as she spoke. Tiredness, perhaps; she would certainly like him to believe that was the case. Ariadne cleared her throat, rested her elbow against the arm of her chair, and placed her chin in the palm of her hand. Finally, she mustered enough strength to meet his eye– without allowing grief to show in her own. “ They tell of a time before the Dread Wolf’s betrayal, a time many shemlen would rather forget. ” A pause, and again, the elf smiled. “ Do you know of Fen’Harel? ”

Something was wrong. He could feel it. Slowly, an ocean of silence washed between them, and she sat there like a ghost in the wind, her gaze passing through the book in her lap as though it wasn’t there at all. Jorah watched her carefully before she finally looked up, and he noticed. Her face glowed in the candlelight. But not her eyes.

Another time, perhaps.

“Only that they call him the walker of dreams --- leads your people from their homes with words in the night. A great curse,” the bear nearly mouthed, his words a quiet lull. His gaze blanketed over her soft but steady. “Where they turn... no one knows.”

Fen’harel ma halam. The Dread Wolf ends you.

With the battle over, Daenerys was struck by the following silence. It was oddly almost as deafening as the gasping breaths of the dead, clang of metal, and screams of pain and fear. Exhaustion clung to the young woman. The single night felt like an age. Despite the cold, the Queen had clung to the knight who was responsible for saving her life–and not for the first time. 

Blood had seeped from his wounds, but she had done everything in her power to stem it. With Drogon beside her, she had even cauterized some of the more serious wounds. Her sweet Bear may have attempted to sacrifice his life for her, but she wasn’t going to make it that easy on him. She had need of him yet.

Jorah had fallen unconscious at some point, and she’d needed the help of both Grey Worm and Jon to carry him into the castle. Despite being worn to the bone, she followed them to Jorah’s room to ensure that he received the best care. There were a great deal of men and women wounded, she knew, but this one was especially important to the Queen. 

Despite her own bruises and small wounds, she sat with the knight while the remaining healers tended to him. It was only when she was assured that the knight would live that she allowed Missandei to sweep her back to her own chambers. The loss had been substantial. Daenerys wasn’t even sure of her numbers. 

It was too much information for the young Queen to handle at the moment. For now, she could allow the relief of her oldest friend’s survival to ease her into sleep. Dany stripped into her nightclothes, drank some wine, nibbled food, and then collapsed into bed. She rested heavily, if not fitfully. 

Her dreams were filled with the eyes and hoarse screams of the dead. The stench followed her even into her sleep. When she woke, it was in a cold sweat. Panting, she blinked, looked around wildly and only relaxed when she saw the stone walls around her. The battle was over. The dead had been put to rest. Dany rested in her bed a few moments longer. Seemingly out of nowhere, though it was a long time coming, tears burst from her eyes. 

Though she didn’t know the names of the fallen, she mourned them in that moment. She knew the number was large, at least. Far too large. Larger than it should have been. Cersei would have to answer for that. In the privacy of her room, the Queen wept. 

But once she heard the knock at her door, she wiped at her face. Missandei appeared with another handmaiden. A bath was drawn. One aspect of Winterfell that she had grown to enjoy was the hot springs that filled their baths. It was quite a convenient luxury. 

The bath was healing. Dirt and blood was scrubbed away. Her tears as well. Once she was scrubbed raw, Dany dried and slipped on another gown of furs. A part of her hoped with the ending of the Night King, winter would be broken. The idea of an eternal summer wasn’t exactly an unpleasant one. She was having her hair brushed when Missandei drew her attention to the door. “Your Grace, Ser Jorah is here.”

What in the name of the Seven was her Bear doing out of bed? “Show him in and leave us, please,” she said, rising from her chair. Missandei opened the door wider to reveal the haggard man and slipped out of the room with the other handmaiden. Dany remained still until the door was closed. Only then did she rush forward and take the knight into her arms. She wasn’t mindful in her embrace, squeezing him tightly. 

Too close had his life come into question. Never again. “What are you doing out of bed, Ser Knight?” she scolded, slowly releasing him. “Sit. I lost my first husband due to foolishness. I shall not lose my great protector for the same reason.” 

@bearskeep​

She was all he thought about. He thought of her the moment he woke up, his body burning in pain as he staggered down the broken halls. He thought of Daenerys holding him, cradling him, her soft, familiar face wet with tears and don't ever leave mes, her cheeks red with frost and grief. He thought of her when she cried crumpled over the snow. He thought of all the things he wanted to say.

starter for @bearskeep

Bella sat next to the bed they’d set up for Jorah, trying to knit. She’d never been particularly good at it, but by the old gods and the new, she tried. Holding up what she had thus far, she frowned. The left arm was longer than the right arm.

“Fuck’s sake,” she grumbled. She’d be better off making him a damnable scarf. With the freezing cold up here, she’d be better off doing that.

She tried to even out the arms while she waited for him to wake up—because he’s would wake up. She wouldn’t let him die. They’d all been through too much shit. Too much, indeed.

It’s the thought of him dying that brought tears to her eyes, and she cursed herself inwardly for letting herself be so soft. She was a sellsword. She’d killed people. Killed men who needed it. Killed some who probably didn’t. She’d stolen, lied, and cheated… And yet the idea of her friends dying just yanked on the thread holding her together.

She squeezed the jumper she’d half-knit and closed her eyes. She wished her mother was here, like she always did. But her mother was dead, and her friend, the bravest man she knew, was unconscious from a stupid battle with stupid dead people.

“You’d better not die, Jorah Mormont. Or I’ll bring you back and give you…a stern talking to.”

Voices. Or maybe just one. He couldn’t tell. The words were too warbled and far, far away, muffled in his head like whispers from beneath the surface of a pool... Another sound, then. Crackling fire. He could smell it, the burning wood and something damp like wet stone, his sweat and old, dusty rooms. His finger twitched slowly and Jorah Mormont, atop an ocean of sheets, finally stirred.

“Or I’ll bring you back... and give you... a stern talking to...” The voice again, in and out, swimming in his head.

“Aye... I imagine you would,” he rasped. Belladonna. Her white gold hair swirled in his vision and beside her, the bear struggled sitting up. “A moment...” 

Everything hurt. Everything in him screamed. His arms, his legs, his chest. It was like every muscle had been torn apart and his chest stabbed and stuck with a knife a hundred times over, his broken body bleeding out on a slab of pavement, and he remembered. He remembered the Long Night. Winterfell. Daenerys keening over him, her face red with grief and her purple eyes drowning behind her tears like a sunset behind the hills. Daenerys. His queen---

“A man is worth two things,” Jorah’s voice rolled, “...the truth of his word. And his weight in steel.”

And she had both in spades. Familiar words. Jeor’s words. Had she heard of them?

Jorah held his hands before him and stopped where he stood. Snow was coming down now, a light dusting of it, biting at his skin still sun-kissed from his long years in Essos, but he was still accustomed to it, still at home with it. The Lady of Bear Island was hardly five feet off the ground, her sword in hand ready to face the ending of the world, ready to die by her word for the North, and Jorah stood in her shadow, head bowed.