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Those tiny chubby hands made a grab for his fingers and he suddenly knew nothing. The masked priestess deposited that black haired babe on his arms, claiming it was his son, and even if he wanted to deny it, the babe looked like all his cousins when they were born. The boy was a Mormont, a bastard, but still a Mormont.
‘A little cub’ he looked at Quaithe, ashamed for saying that out loud, but as her back was turned, already busy in her books and magics, his focus came back to his son. Such a weird words from his lips, it has always carried death and pain with it before, but now-
Now, the word had a small nose, black hair and hands that were eager to squeeze his fingers. That was all what he wanted for a long time, it was what he wanted now.
‘My little Jeor, I’m sure we would kill your grandfather if he ever hear about you’ and he couldn’t help but thinking that it was “like father, like son”, when you are a Mormont, even a bastard one.