Prologue

Bear Island always held a bite of chill no matter what season reigned. Though the winter was ending in the Southron lands, here on this island, the cold and snow blew until the very flames in the fireplace shivered. It was no good time to have a child. Yet the screams of his wife echoed from their chambers all the same. Jeor Mormont sat in the Great Hall of the Mormont Hall. Like the rest of the Hall, the room was crafted solely of wood with a bit of rock to keep it all together. The island had always lacked in available rock, and so whilst many other minor houses still managed to build themselves a castle of rock, the Mormonts continued to thrive in their wooden longhouse.

Normally, the gruff Bears of the proud House would not complain of the chill air seeping through the cracks and chilling the rooms. However, Jeor found himself wishing they had found a way to import some rock, so a proper castle could be built. His wife was suffering for it. She had been with child for nine months, and now the culmination was upon them. He'd learn if he had an heir or a daughter. Of course, Jeor would happily accept either. The Mormonts prided in the strength and capabilities of their women just as much as their men. If his wife gave him a daughter, she'd be Lady of House Mormont after he died.

Still, he worried. His wife's pregnancy had not always been easy. It had been plagued with nightmares and fevers. There was a time when Jeor worried his wife might go mad during it. He could not bear to lose them both. He was not the youngest of men anymore. His hair had turned white early in life, and the hard life he lived were written upon his face in premature lines. Jeor wished to think he was healthy, and he knew as a soldier, that he was, but as a husband and a desperate father, he was not sure if his seed would be strong enough to take should this child not make it.

The Great Hall was quiet and empty save for himself. The servants hovered in the corridors, obeying his order to only disturb him once the child had been born. For now, Jeor needed the solitude. He stared into the large fireplace that sat at the side of the Hall, nearly taking up the entire wall. Along it Bears were etched into the stone, playing or fighting or simply living in peace. Jeor stared hard into the fire, as if transfixed by the flames. In truth, his mind was in the Godswood near Deepwood Motte, where he took his prayer on special occasions. If Bear Island boasted a weirwood of its own, he'd likely be there, despite the blizzard.

Instead, he sat beneath the red leaves and before the carved face in the tree in his mind. Silently, he prayed for a strong child and a healthy wife. There was a cautious step beside him. "Lord Mormont," a tired voice broke through his prayers. The midwife. "Your child has arrived . . . but your lady wife . . . you had best see to her now."

A cold dread gripped his heart. He opened his eyes and looked up at the midwife. Her eyes were strained from the day long labor. Blood stained her apron and sleeves. Too much blood. Wordlessly, Jeor stood and pushed past the wary servants in the corridor, making his way to his chambers. A few other midwives were cleaning up. A squalling baby was held in his wife's arms, red with a slathering of blond hair. Between the babe's legs, he saw a tiny cock. He had a son. "Hush now," the mother cooed to her child, her voice slurred and tired. "Hush, sweet child."

She smiled up at him, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. She was far too pale. Never had she been this pale before. Jeor sat on the bed beside her, his expression stoic. Yet his eyes bespoke his helplessness. Weakly, her hand lifted and pressed into the side of his face. "Teach him, Jeor. Love him. He will long for a woman's love . . . without me . . . you must love him. Bears are fierce, yes, but they have soft underbellies, too."

It seemed as though every breath was giving her pain. Jeor hushed her gently, his hand lifting to cup against her own on his cheek. "I will never take another," he swore to her. "You are my only." This time the smile did reach her eyes. The words themselves were never spoken. Those of the North found it difficult to say those three words. Yet it was clear in his eyes, and by the gentle squeeze he felt from her hand, she had received his message all the same.

"Jorah," she breathed, a gurgle rising up in her lungs. "His name is Jorah."

Jeor felt her hand slack in his, and her eyes fell shut. A final wheeze left her, and she was still. Grief washed over him, and he bowed his head, still holding her hand to his cheek. He had prayed for a strong child . . . had the price been his wife's life? The squalling had stopped, as if the child knew something life-altering had just occurred. Yet, he fussed in his mother's loose arm. Jeor wiped his eyes and set his wife's hand down upon the bed. Reaching for his son, he carefully picked him up. With his bear of an arm, he could easily fit the small cub in one arm.

The baby made a mumbling sound and squirmed in his arm. Jeor just barely saw a flash of a blue eye. "Jorah Mormont," he repeated the name. "A prince, if I ever heard one." His servants came forward then, already bringing forth the things they needed to prepare his wife for burial. His steward came forth, a guarded smile on his lips.

"What shall I tell your people, my lord?" he asked, "and the people of Westeros?"

Jeor looked him square in the eye. "Tell them the cub was born. Jorah of House Mormont." The blizzard seemed to kick up outside, the wind howling against the windows and making the candles flicker in the room. "A true son of the North—born of Ice. Tell them . . . their heir has come."