Hello and salutations fans and critics of old. It is so good to be typing out to you all again after my elongated break from the story. Again, many apologies for leaving you all in the wind for so long. Life had been hitting me very hard at the time and I needed to figure some stuff out and make some changes. Now that my crap is finally together, I'm back baby. Before we can celebrate this return however, I need to forewarn you all that this is not a continuation of the story I left you all with. So sadly, we will not see how Joran will influence the rise of the High Sparrow and how this will in fact aid the Northmen in taking over King's Landing and ending the war so everyone could move onto better things (or worse depending). In this story though, and I will be focusing on Joran's own journey, rather than how he effects everyone else's story (granted, he still does affect them), and I will extend his story into three books, going from the War of Five Kings, to the conflict with the Others, and finally the coming of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. Note, and spoiler, I will also be kind of adding some magical elements to the story, minor in some parts, major and climactic in other parts. But, enough about that, let's move on. And as always, I OWN NOTHING, except Joran.

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 1: A Good Morning

Joran

Walking barefoot through snow, beneath the black winter skies of The North, or what he believed was The North, Joran, a tall and broad-shouldered man of eight and ten years, wearing nothing but a long-sleeved shirt and a pare of woolen pants, didn't know where in The North he was and he couldn't remember how he got there.

A strong wind catching his brown hair and causing it to cover his face, Joran brushed the multitude of strands aside and scanned his surroundings. Everywhere he looked, there was nothing but a wasteland of snow and stone to be seen for miles around. And, despite the morbid landscape, snow fell hard from the sky to cover Joran and with it, wind strong enough to lift the Northman off his feet if he didn't brace himself.

Raising his arm to shield himself from one such gust of wind, Joran asked himself "How in all hells did I get here?"

As if in answer to his question, Joran began to hear what sounded like…a voice on the wind.

"Hello," Joran called out as he scanned his surroundings to find the sources of the voices. "HELLO!"

The falling snow thickening and obstructing his view of the surrounding area, Joran struggled to find the source of the voice. Unhindered by this though, the Northman moved on through the storm, figuring if he couldn't use his eyes to see where the voice was, he would follow its sound until he found the one speaking. But, as though the elements were against him, Joran didn't make it ten steps before the wind became strong enough to halt his advance indefinitely.

"Hello!" Joran called out again as he struggled against an invisible wall formed by the wind. "Can you hear me!"

"Joran."

What the hell, Joran thought. How do they know my name?

"Joran."

"Who's there!" Joran yelled.

"Joran."

…

"Joran, wake up."

Startling awake to find that he was back beneath the canvas of his tent, under a thin wool blanket and atop a fur blanket that had been lade down to protect him from the cold hard ground of Bear Island soil, Joran Mormont shot his bloodshot eyes towards the tent entrance. Finding his second in command and oldest friend, Garrett Snow, standing there, he merely grunted out, "Hrrgh."

"Good, you're alive," Garrett Snow said with grim enthusiasm. A Northern bastard in service to House Mormont, he had black hair, a thinner frame than Joran, and was two heads shorter than his larger friend. But, his physical form was not a hindrance to the man in a fight and he had proved the fact many times over.

"What is it Garrett," Joran asked groggily from his position on the ground.

"Arthur's back," Garrett answered.

Everything coming back to him as to where he was on the island and why he was there, Joran rose up to a sitting position, causing the wool blanket on top of him to fall from his form onto his lap. "Good," he said, "ready the men. I'll be out in a moment."

"Will do." Garrett said before removing himself from his leader's tent.

Throwing the blanket off of his body with newfound energy and pulling the basin of water he had laid out the night before closer to him, Joran proceeded to unceremoniously dunk his entire head into the freezing basin of water to shock him awake fully. Pulling his head out of the water, after he felt he had had enough, the man gasped water out of his mouth, shook his shaggy main and drew a hand across his bearded face and through his shoulder length hair in an attempt to get some of the water off before he tried to exit the protection of his tent and into the cold morning air of Bear Island. His eyes upon the water as it settled, Joran looked and saw his disfigured face staring back at him. More of an animal's visage than a man's. He sported a big nose, a top lip with a split down the middle, like the flews of a dog or a bear but covered with a mustache, enough hair on his face to actually make him look like a beast of legend, fangs in place of what a maester would call canines for teeth, and eyes that seemed primal, or feral at times to others, causing anyone to turn when Joran looked at them. But, having lived with his face his entire life, he'd stopped caring a long time ago about his looks.

Standing up fully, Joran moved to change his now wet shirt for a new one, when he thought better of it. Considering what work was about to be done that day, it would be a waste to get a clean shirt covered in blood. So, Joran tolerated the cold piece of clothing and moved to don his armor, which consisted of a long-sleeved gambeson, chainmail byrnie and a sleeveless leather vest that held the standing bear sigil of his house over his heart. Once his armor was secure, the Northman tied a scarf across his face to cover his most handsome feature, retrieved his sword and knife, tied them to his belt and grabbed his double bladed battle ax and shield before leaving his tent.

…

Joining his lieutenants at the front lines of his force of three hundred warriors, known as the Oathbound, Joran looked out from where they stood behind the tree line towards the northern shore of Bear Island. Where there sat an opposing force.

Turning to look at his master scout, Arthur Swift, a Northman from the Stony Shore who was of a similar height to Garrett with a head of blonde hair, Joran asked the smaller man through his scarf, "Wildlings?" Receiving a silent nod from the man, the commander then asked, "how many of them are there?"

"From what me and my boys have been able to make out of them," Arthur answered in his usual cocky tone. "At most, two hundred."

"Do they know we're here?"

"No, made it a point to our men to keep under cover of the trees so we could take them by surprise."

Taking this into consideration, Joran turned to Garrett and ordered, "pass it down the line for the men to step out from the trees."

"Aye," Garrett answered without question before moving down the line to pass the order.

"That's a bad habit, Joran," Arthur said, being outspoken to his commander. As usual. "One that the Wildlings wouldn't bestow unto us in kind."

Knowing full well that surprise attacks and ambushes had their place in certain battles, and that the Wildlings excelled at such tactics due to how small their raiding parties usually were, Joran silently forgave Arthur his habit of speaking out of turn. "I know Arthur. But, I'd like to give them a fair fight. Considering they probably didn't know we were going to be here to greet them."

Having been alerted a day ago to the Wildlings presence in the Bay of Ice by one of the many watchtowers that line the shores of Bear Island, an idea that Joran had come up with alongside his aunt Maege, and that tower's beacons lit all the way to Mormont Keep, the Oathbound had been brought to bear in a short amount of time and marched to the northern shore.

"Eh. Oh well," Arthur said with a nod. "Personally, I don't mind if my prey's a little squirmy when I stick a blade into it."

Agreeing with the sentiment, Joran, grinning evilly under his scarf, stepped out of the tree line with his force of warriors and presented himself accordingly to the Wildlings.

When he heard the first warning cries of the enemy from across the open beach, Joran readied his axe and shield, and then proceeded to shake out his arms to warm up the stiff muscles in them. As he did though, Garrett returned to his friend's side and drew his own sword by the side of the young Mormont.

"All right," Joran looked to Garrett and said, "Garrett, when the charge is sounded, you're with me." Then, turning to Arthur, he said, "Arthur, since you want to be a smart ass this morning, you can hold back with the archers. Tell them to cease fire after two volleys, then charge after us."

"Aye," Garrett said confidently.

"Aye," Arthur said in a disappointed huff.

Taking a deep breath, Joran relaxed his muscles, allowing his shield and heavy ax to hang limp to his sides, and closed his eyes. A habit of his ever since he could remember, the warrior always took a moment before battle to send a prayer to the Old Gods.

Protect my men, and deliver them to victory. Those were a few of the only words Joran ever spoke to them. He never asked for anything for himself, and he never got much when he did, save more blood.

Once he had said what he needed to, Joran took hold of the darker part within him that he always kept locked up, and opening his blue eyes he concentrated all of it out towards the force of Wildlings.

Letting out a roar that belonged to the beast within, Joran charged out ahead of his warriors to attack one of the natural enemies of his home and The North. The Berserker now unleashed upon them.

His battle cry matched by every man and woman in his band of warriors, the charge was sounded and the Northmen of Bear Island surged forth with a savage zeal that was enough to shake the very ground beneath their feet.

Charging out further than his soldiers with speed that would seem inhuman, Joran quickly closed the distance between himself and the enemy line and ploughed into the Wildlings in front of him with the strength of the monster inside him. Swinging his heavy battle ax with one hand, the possessed warrior proceeded to cleave heads from their bodies, arms from their shoulders, and legs from their hips. Whilst his ax cleaved and cut, Joran's shield punched and crunched into his unarmored enemies faces and bodies, crushing the skulls of the men and women standing against him or knocking them down for the man's ax to finish them.

Everywhere Joran looked his vision was masked in a red haze that made the blood that sprayed out of his victims, seemingly no different to him than water. One after another, all fell to Joran's wrath, regardless of their own shields of hide leather and any piece of scavenged armor they had upon their bodies for protection.

Hearing a great crash behind him, Joran knew it to be the sound of his fellow warriors meeting with the enemy lines and finally joining him in the carnage. Able to trust that his own warriors wouldn't get in his way as he slaughtered the Wildlings, The Berserker continued to viciously swing his ax to his heart's content. And if any of his men got in his way, well, there wouldn't be any guarantee that Joran could, or would, stop in his current state of mind.

Shoving a wildling warrior off his ax with his foot, Joran frantically scanned the battlefield in search of a warrior that would give him a proper fight. And one that The Berserker in turn, could give a proper end.

Four bodies later, Joran found him.

The man, though as unimpressive as the rest of the lot, was wearing a hauberk of rusty chainmail and he wielded a poorly maintained long sword and what appeared to be a worn-out broad shield of wood. Seeing that the wildling warrior was holding his own against one of the Oathbound soldiers, Joran moved to break the engagement and take on the savage champion.

Both combatants breaking away from each other, it was Joran's soldier who spied him coming first and quickly moved away to a different part of the battle. Confused, the wildling turned to where his opponent had and was met by the crazed, feral eyes of The Berserker.

"Fight me," The Berserker growled loudly through his scarf, brandishing his battle ax as though it weighed nothing.

Understanding, the wildling warrior readied his sword and shield for his new opponent and Joran charged to meet his willing prey.

With a mighty swing of his ax, Joran immediately cleaved through the broad shield that the wildling was holding, like it was a block of wood on the chopping stump. Quickly ripping the broken piece of equipment from its wielder's grip, The Berserker viciously tossed the pieces of the shield aside and blocked his opponent's counter sword stroke with his shield. Brushing aside the wildling's blade, Joran followed up with another swing of his ax in order to kill his opponent. Having some experience in fighting however, the savage parried aside the ax swing and viciously slashed at The Berserker. Dodging the attack and knocking the sword away from him with his shield, Joran thrust the head of his ax into the face of the wildling, feigned the attack and then swung the blade of his ax low, gutted his opponent from left to right, and spilling his intestines out of his body and onto the cold ground.

As the man fell to his knees before him in pain, steam rising from his entrails in the cold air, Joran raised his battle ax over his head and with a mighty roar brought it down to cleave the wildling's head in half, ending his brief period of pain.

Scoffing and kicking the corpse aside in disgusted disappointment, Joran looked around the battlefield to find that his Oathbound were cleaning up what was left of the Wildling force.

…

With much of its bloodlust sated, The Berserker proceeded to gather a few corpses of the wildling dead out of boredom and make a pile of them. Once he was satisfied with the amount he had gathered, he then proceeded to sit down and let his rage dissipate completely, drawing the beast back into its cage within his mind.

Unconsciously running his fingers across the broad blades of his ax head, his shield leaning against his legs, Joran brought his bloodied fingers up to his face and stared blankly at them in thought. His mind wandered to the memory of the first time he had ever became The Berserker.

When he was four and ten years of age, Joran had been riding alongside his aunt Maege on across the island, when they had been set upon by a group of robbers who had proceeded to murder the bodyguard that had been with the Mormonts at the time. Surrounded by enemies, with no help to be seen, the masked boy had done what would be seen as impossible to many normal men. He killed them all, using a rage that he had never known was there before to make himself as strong as they were, unleashing a beast that he never knew was there. Granted, Joran hadn't left the fight unscathed, he had saved his aunt.

From that point, Joran had used his anger to fight and survive many times over, whether he was alone against robbers or with his men against Wildlings and Ironborn raiders disguised as Wildlings.

But, the sword Joran wielded, was double edged and he had learned the hard way how true that statement was.

"Joran."

The voice of Garrett bringing him back to the present time, Joran looked up to find his friend looking back at him from a safe distance.

Waving the man over from his seat, Joran, exhausted from going berserk, said in a ragged voice through his scarf, "it's fine Garrett. Give me the news. How are our men and women?"

Nodding as though to assure himself that it was safe, Garrett answered, "there are a couple of ours wounded, luckily none of them serious enough to be unable to be saved. And, no dead."

"Good, good," Joran said before adjusting his shield and planting the butt of his axe into the sand so he could lean on it to keep himself from falling over in his weakened state.

"How about you?"

"Heh," Joran sighed. Every time he unleashed the beast within, afterwards, the warrior always felt too sore and tired to move. Granted, it had gotten better and he didn't need anyone to carry him to bed after he had finished his bloodletting, Joran still hated feeling weak after feeling so powerful. "You know how it is."

"Aye."

Wiping some brain matter from under one of his eyes and flicking it away, Joran's gaze became drawn by an oncoming group of bodies. It was Arthur walking towards him and Garrett, and he was being followed by two other Oathbound warriors with what looked to be a Wildling woman in between them.

"Joran," Arthur said in what sounded like a tired voice.

"Arthur," Joran said before inquiring about the woman, "who is that?"

"Someone," Arthur said, moving to grab the woman and bringing her to her knees before Joran, "who tells us she has vital information that would benefit you, Lord."

Having told Arthur that he hated being called 'Lord,' Joran, having given up all thoughts of that title due to his nature, ignored the stupid formality and took the sight of the wildling woman in. She was wearing a thick long-sleeved woolen dress that seemed too baggy for her to wear. Torn in some places, no doubt by the men who had caught her, it was held steady to her form by a belt at her waste. Her hair was brown and, much like the rest of her kind, wild and shaggy due to being unkept for a long period of time. And when she looked up to meet his gaze, Joran beheld a fierce pare of eyes that seemed to try and bore into the masked man.

Ignoring the glare, Joran, too tired to just kill the woman and be done with it, asked her, "so, who do I have the pleasure of speaking to."

If Joran sounded polite through his scarf, it wasn't because he was trying to be nice to the raider, he just didn't give a fuck otherwise.

"Osha," the woman answered before receiving a smack on her head from Arthur's hand.

"You'll address the man as 'Lord,' when you speak to him bitch!"

Transferring her glare to Arthur, Osha seemed to fume with the desire to kill the man.

"Osha," Joran said in a stern tone to bring her attention back to him. "Look at me."

Turning her glare back to the leader of her captors, Osha obliged Joran with her attention.

"You have information for me?" Feeling an oncoming migraine, Joran wanted to move along with his questioning before he became too irritable to continue and lash out at everyone near him.

"Yes…my Lord," Osha answered. "Information about our new King Beyond the Wall."

At the title, there came a kind of hush to the group, all of whom gave Joran an assortment of questioning stares. Knowing the question that they all desired to ask, that being if he knew about such a figure's existence, Mormont took a moment to think if there had been any word sent from The Wall to warn him of a new Wildling King. Concluding that his grandfather Jeor had either neglected to send him a raven on the matter or didn't know about the matter at all, Joran shook his head at his men in answer and turned his attention back to Osha.

"Really," Joran said while scratching his blood covered head in thought, ruffling his long hair in the process. "Do you have a name to give this, 'King,' of yours?"

"He goes by the name of Mance Rayder," Osha answered, "word was that he has…our blood in his veins. But, he was raised by the Crows of the Night's Watch. Learned their ways, was seen as a way for you southerners to breach the gap between our people and yours."

"What happened," Joran asked, ignoring the fact that the woman had called him a southerner.

"Figuring out what he was," Osha answered, "Mance deserted the Night's Watch and came back to us. In a few months, he united most of the clans and is now their King."

"But not yours?"

"Used to be," Osha said. "But that was before…"

Noticing the change in the woman's voice as she turned her glare onto the ground, Joran realized what it was. Fear.

"Before what?"

Returning her eyes to his, Osha's glare seemed to grow soft and fearful as she said, "before the Others began attacking everyone, and taking them."

At the very word 'Others,' Joran's men began to laugh.

"You do realize how ridiculous you sound," Joran said, feeling perturbed at the fact that, while her life was in his hands, Osha was playing him for a fool. The Others, or White Walkers, hadn't been seen in over eight thousand years and the woman was expecting him to believe her word that they had returned.

"I know it sounds like I'm mad, but–," Osha began to explain before Joran snapped his fingers.

His men jumping to attention and taking hold of the wildling, Joran then stood up from his throne of corpses, his shield clattering to the ground, and leaning on his axe like a cane to steady himself, commanded his men, "hold her down. She obviously wants to play games. And I am not in the mood for fucking games."

Forcing Osha to bear her neck to their commander and lord, the soldiers kept her steady as Joran, his anger growing again, prepared to cut off her head.

"I'm not playing games with you, my Lord," Osha screamed in terror in an attempt to appeal to Joran's better nature. "I swear I'm not–.!"

"Prove it then," Joran shouted down at the wildling in front of him, all of his calm composure evaporated from his body to be replaced with an anger that was entirely human and not out of his control.

"I can't," Osha said, turning her face up towards Joran in order to look at him, "but I swear, on the life of my late husband, Bruni, that I'm not lying to you! I swear by the Old Gods that I speak true! And if they deem me untrue, let them strike me down through you!"

Her words halting him from lifting his axe, Joran, hearing the conviction in Osha's voice, took a minute to think about actually ending the woman's life. The wildling was truly terrified, not of him, but something else. It was something that most would believe to be long dead and gone.

Interesting, the beast inside of Joran thought behind its cage.

"Let her up."

When the men looked at him as though he had truly gone mad, Joran repeated himself with more force to his voice, "I said let her up!"

Bringing the wildling woman up to stand before their commander, Joran, standing a head taller than Osha, proceeded to wrap one firm hand around her throat and draw her face close to his own masked one.

Speaking low, Joran, his eyes boring into hers, said to Osha, "you know, I've killed plenty of women like you. Spearwives, all of them following their husbands towards my island in hopes of bringing back some form of plunder. But, very few of them would have given up information about a leader of this, Mance's caliber. That alone will grant you your life."

When Osha attempted to move from his grip, Joran only held her firm so she could keep meeting his eye. For he wasn't finished.

"But, that doesn't include your freedom. For when the time comes for me to find that you have been untrue the words you have spoken to me, I shall be the one to collect your debt to the Old Gods. And when I do, I shall personally hang you up from a weirwood and cut you open, so that your blood may feed its roots. Am I understood?"

Nodding, Osha said, "yes, my Lord."

Releasing the woman so she could be taken back into the custody of his warriors, Joran nodded and said to her, "good."

Before anyone could say anymore, Joran noticed a horseman riding towards their position across the blood strewn sands of the northern shore.

"My Lord Joran," the rider called out before bringing his horse to a quick halt before the gathering.

"Aye," Joran said in response, ignoring the irritating title again and placing his axe over one shoulder as he waited for the man to come to a halt.

When he did, he dismounted and moved to stand before Joran and speak. "Word from Mormont Keep, sir. Your aunt, the Lady Maege orders you recalled."

"Well," Joran looked over the bloodied beach and then back to the messenger. "Seems I was already heading that way anyway. Why did Maege send you all the way up here to tell me?"

"Because, she's been invited to attend a feast at Winterfell in honor of a visit by King Robert."

A little surprised at such news of the king coming to the north, Joran didn't let it phase him. "And that pertains to me, how?"

"As the Lady of Bear Island, she has ordered that you shall escort and attend the feast with her, sir," the messenger answered.

The hell? "Why," Joran asked. Sure, he was a capable escort, but aunt Maege new he didn't like to attend parties of any kind, given…condition.

"Along with her presence being requested by Lord Stark," the messenger answered. "Yours was requested personally by his Grace, King Robert."

Now truly dumbfounded, Joran didn't know what to make of the information.

Heaving out a sigh of annoyance, Joran figured he could ask Maege what all the fuss was about when he got home, and said to the messenger, "alright. You can ride back with us. No need to be rushing back to tell my aunt what I mean to say when I get there." Granted, she might already have an idea of what I plan to say.

"Thank you, sir," the messenger said as he moved back to his steed so as to lead the horse back to the Oathbound's camp.

"An invitation to a feast," Arthur said, smiling cockily at the thought. "At the King's request. That's quite an honor I'd like to have, especially if the Queen will be there."

"Yeah, right," Joran said before retrieving his shield, feeling aggravated at the very prospect of sitting in a hall filled halfway with soft southerners all acting like pretty little girls around real men. All of their eyes looking at him. The freak. Gods help me.

"Well, might as well get moving, don't want to keep my aunt waiting."

…

Dacey

Alone in the training yard at Mormont Keep, Dacey Mormont, eldest daughter of Maege Mormont at two and twenty years, and heir to Bear Island, violently let out the day's frustrations out on a wooden dummy with her mace. Though she kept her anger in check and remained in control of her movements, so that she could get something out of this kind of 'training,' the young woman didn't bother pulling any of her swings and fully intended to break the wooden man before her. Or, at least, the beast that she envisioned the practice dummy to be.

Bastard! Dacey thought as she delivered another heavy blow to the dummy's shoulder with her mace, causing the wood to chip and splinters to fly.

Bear Island had received word that morning of a feast at Winterfell. A feast in honor of a visit from King Robert to The North. For what purpose, it wasn't known and Dacey didn't care. It was something exciting that was happening in the region, and all the northern lords, including her mother, would attend so as to give his majesty a warm welcome.

Fucker! Dacey thought as she swung into the dummy's ribs.

The only one though who would be going with Maege Mormont however, was not going to be her composed daughter, who was the match of any man in strength of arms. It was going to be the monstrous, ghastly, beastly, and most barbaric of creatures that had ever come from Bear Island stock in centuries. Dacey's cousin, Joran.

Cunt! Dacey screamed in her mind as she delivered a finishing blow to the head of the dummy in the form of a horizontal swing. The impact took the wooden man's head clean off and caused a shower of splinters to fall onto the young lady.

Furiously panting, her limbs covered in sweat and shaking from the exertion, the muscles of her arms swollen from the constant exercise, Dacey halted in her attack and was content to glare at the now headless dummy while she regained her breath.

"I think you finally killed him."

Turning around, Dacey found her mother Maege, in a green dress with a bear skin upon her shoulders to ward off the cold air, looking at her eldest daughter with curious eyes. Leaning her mace against her shoulder, the younger Mormont said, "I don't think so. Even without a head, he's still standing."

"Eh, I think if you give him one good push, he'll fall over without much complaint," Maege said, trying to sound amusing.

Dacey, not amused, demanded, "there a reason you're out here watching me, mother."

"Last time I checked, I didn't need a reason to walk the grounds of my home," Maege simply answered, waltzing closer to her daughter. "Considering the fact that I currently lord over this house."

"Heh, must be so easy for you to brush off questions," Dacey growled in response.

Stopping a few feet from her daughter, Maege said, "you've been out here for hours child. I was just checking up on you to make sure that you hadn't frozen to death."

Only adorning a shirt and vest for her torso and pants and boots for her legs and feet against the cold air that came from the Bay of Ice surrounding the Island, Dacey hadn't been too worried of catching a cold in the training yard. So long as she kept beating on the dummy that is.

"Well, I'm alive, so you don't have to concern yourself with me," Dacey snapped at the older woman.

"Dacey," Maege exclaimed in surprise at her daughter's tone. "What is the matter child that you have a mind to talk to me like that?"

Realizing that she had allowed her temper to get the better of her and caused her to disrespect her mother, Dacey calmed herself down a little and apologized. "I'm sorry ma. I didn't mean to take my frustrations out on you."

"Frustrations?" Maege asked puzzledly.

"I'm, just mad that's all."

"At what?"

"Not what ma. Who."

"Oh Dacey," Maege said while shaking her head in exacerbation and placing her hands on her plump hips. "You can't mean to be angry at Joran."

"Why not." Dacey demanded. It was bad enough that Joran was the one who always got to jump onto the first sign of trouble that came to the Island and take care of it. Now his skill, or face, was recognized by the King, and invited to partake in the festivities about to be at Winterfell.

"Well for one thing, it isn't his fault that he was invited by King Robert to Winterfell," Maege simply put. "If anything, you should be happy for him."

"Being happy for that monster is like being happy for a dog who just learned a new trick."

"Dacey! You shouldn't talk about your cousin so."

"Well it's true. He is nothing but a dog. He's blunt as a training sword in his talk. He has little to no manners at the table. And, the minute he gets angry, all bets are off in his book."

"Dacey," Maege said, her tone hinting her own anger towards her daughter's behavior. "I thought I raised you better than this. Talking bad about your cousin is less than what I would expect from you. In fact, you should be happy that one of our House is being recognized by the King after our long-time disgrace."

Knowing that her mother spoke about how Joran's father, Jorah, had brought a great dishonor to their house by selling poachers into slavery, Dacey withheld any comment she had about how her cousin had the potential to be worse than his sire and took Maege's words with a grain of salt.

"Dacey," Maege said softly as she moved closer to her eldest. "You can't harbor this anger against Joran forever. What happened back then-."

"I think I'll retire for the evening," Dacey interrupted her mother. Moving past Maege towards the Keep, she said over her shoulder, "killing that dummy seems to have worn me out."

Feeling her mother's eyes on her back as she walked away from her, Dacey, gripping her mace so hard that her knuckles were white from the strain, kept on her path. All the while, the memory of that day flooded back into her mind. The day when Joran had almost killed her.

…