The Humiliation of Lyanna Mormont

Shepherding a small group of Mormont bannermen towards Winterfell's north gate, Lyanna Mormont felt a heavy hand fall on her shoulder. She turned to face Jorah Mormont, her estranged first cousin. Her men-at-arms raised their spears protectively at the inappropriate physical contact, but she set them at ease them with a casual wave of her hand. Despite this kindness, her stony expression showed her displeasure at being disturbed by the disgraced sellsword so shortly before the battle was set to begin.

“You need not be out here, my lady. We have all we need to win this war,” Jorah pleaded, his suntanned face scrunched up in a frown of concern.

Does he truly not understand how precarious my rule is? Has he been away from home so long that he's forgotten how our kinsmen think?

She had pledged sixty-two fighting men from Bear Island to assist the Starks in reclaiming their castle from the treacherous Boltons. Of that number, little more than a third had made it out alive after the fighting was concluded. Now, she was ordering the survivors into another fight - this time against an army of nightmarish corpses that refused to die. If she chose not to fight alongside them, they would lose any remaining trust and respect they had for her command. Any true Northerner should know that.

“I have trained my men, women, and children,” she responded icily, hefting her battle-axe onto her shoulder, “I have fought before. I can fight again.”

The women and children of Bear Island knew how to fight — they weren't coddled and spoiled. Their island was frequently targeted by salt-bearded raiders from the Iron Isles to the south and barefooted Wildlings from the Frozen Shore to the north. The men were away fishing during the day; so it was upon the wives, daughters, sons, and babes to defend their homes. Many a raiding party had been outmaneuvered and turned aside by a gang of feisty Bear Island youngsters who had nothing but pointed sticks and sharp knives at their disposal.

Unfortunately, Jorah didn't seem to be convinced. He had forgotten how hardy the little girls and boys of his home were. His deeply bronzed skin told the tale; he had been away from the North for far too long.

“Please, listen to me,” he urged, “You're the future of our house!”

Had the girl been raised less properly, she would have scoffed in his face. Lyanna did not like it when men with more salt than pepper in their hair demanded that she listen to their sage advice. Just because someone was old didn't necessarily make them wise. Often times it simply meant they were getting on in years. She fixed the old man with a stare that could curdle milk.

The only reason House Mormont is at risk of dying with me is because you lost your inheritance when you were caught consorting with slavers and fled to the Free Cities with your pretty little southron wife. Like a craven. And you think to lecture me?

“I don't need you to remind me of that,” she said pointedly, treating him with the disdain one might reserve for a bothersome gnat that had landed on their delicately prepared lemon cake.

“You'll be safer in the crypt. These things we're fighting...” Jorah persisted, squeezing her shoulder as though he was a kindly uncle.

“I will not hide underground. I pledged to fight for the North, and I will fight,” she barked, shrugging the man's hand off of her shoulder.

Uncertainty lingered within her. She was unsure if his behavior stemmed from cowardice or genuine concern for House Mormont. Either way, she could not allow him to question her decisions in front of her subjects. She could ill afford to appear like an indecisive little girl needing to be instructed by an older relative. She needed to project confidence and strength. Her stern gaze told Jorah that their conversation was over and he stooped his head, defeated.

However, the sight of his sorrowful blue eyes stirred a feeling within her; this old man had somehow earned the respect of both Jon and his fair-haired dragon queen. He was risking his life to protect the North even after the Starks had tried to have him executed. He had earned some small kindness from her at least. She paused and turned around to address the man one final time.

“I wish you good fortune cousin,” she said as warmly as she could manage. With a polite nod, she spun on her heel and marched off towards the north gate.