Chapter 111: Meeting Jorah Again!

At the gates of Winterfell, there was a bustle of activity. Solstark men, their breath misting in the crisp air, labored to load the goods that Damian had procured from the city onto carts. Hides of various animals dominated the cargo, their earthy scents mingling with the tang of wood and leather. Two carts stood heavily laden with books in steel boxes from the Stark Library, mostly related to the study of First Men Runes, or old books written in old tongues. 

Nearby, the Stark Household gathered, waiting for Damian and Ned to come back from the crypts. 

The moment of departure drew near, and Ned Stark and Damian emerged from the shadows of the crypts. The two men walked towards the gates while talking to each other.

"Take care, Damian," Ned said, his voice steady but tinged with the unspoken concern of a brother. "Don't hesitate to send word if you find any trouble."

Damian gave a nod of easy acquiescence, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. He turned to say his goodbyes to the children, who gathered around him with expressions of varying degrees of sadness. Robb and Jon stood close, mostly sad they spent so little time with their uncle. Sansa, misty-eyed, looked particularly downcast knowing her fun uncle who told her stories would be leaving.

"My good sister," Damian addressed Lady Catelyn, who stood with Arya cradled in her arms. "I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused you, especially bringing Adolf to the castle. You take care of yourself and the kids."

Catelyn's eyes met his. She gave a smile befitting a lady of a great house, a fleeting gesture of acceptance. "No harm done. You take care of yourself, Damian."

Damian's smile softened as he crouched to meet Arya's gaze. "I'll see you soon, my little warrior princess."

The smile on Catelyn's face wavered and then faded entirely, but the baby's response was immediate. Arya's giggle, a bright and infectious sound, filled the air. It was as if she had taken Damian's words to heart, finding joy in the affectionate title.

Next, Lady Lyarra stepped forward, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She embraced her youngest child with a tenderness that spoke of years of love and unspoken words. No words were exchanged, but the embrace carried the weight of countless emotions, the quiet understanding of a mother saying goodbye to her child.

"Come and see me when you get the chance," Lyarra murmured, her voice a blend of hope and regret. "Your mother will only be getting older."

Damian nodded solemnly, promising to visit her when time allowed. As he stepped back, the reality of departure settled over the gathering. The carts were ready, and the horses pawed the ground, eager to be off. 

With one final glance at the faces he would miss, Damian mounted his horse and rode out, the black wolf at his side.

. . .

On the night following his departure from Winterfell, Damian arrived at Torrhen Square, the storied stronghold of House Tallhart. As the first stars began to glimmer in the darkening sky, Damian was met by Ser Helman Tallhart, the Master of Torrhen Square. Though their interactions during the Greyjoy Rebellion had been limited, they were familiar with each other.

Ser Helman welcomed Damian with the grace and hospitality befitting his house.

Over mugs of mulled wine and plates of steaming meat, they exchanged pleasantries, their conversation easing into the comfortable rhythm of old acquaintances talking about war, gossip and trade.

As dawn's fingers crept over the horizon, casting a cold light upon the world, a sense of fresh purpose infused the chill air. Damian and Ser Helman Tallhart conducted the final strokes of their agreement. The trade deal between their houses was sealed, promising mutual prosperity in the seasons to come.

As they concluded their negotiations, Ser Helman presented Damian with a rare and sumptuous gift: a set of shadowskin pelts. Crafted from the elusive shadowcats of the northern wilds, these cloaks were not only prized for their warmth but also for their rarity. Damian accepted the gift with a nod of genuine appreciation. With the formalities concluded, he took his leave, setting sail upon the river towards Saltspear, the gateway to Blazewater Bay.

By the third day, Damian returned to the brooding cliffs of Pyke. The sea, ever capricious, had granted him passage with little trouble. As the ships cut through the waters and docked, the familiar sight of Lordsport greeted him. Yet, as he stepped onto the pier, he was met by a most unexpected guest.

"Lord Jorah," Damian called out, his voice carrying the surprise at seeing him here "Congratulations are in order for both your victory in the Lannister’s Tourney and for your recent union with the Hightower lady."

Lord Jorah Mormont stood there, looking proud, his imposing figure cut against the stark backdrop of the Iron Islands. His presence was an unexpected but welcome sight.

Damian approached with the casual ease of an old friend. The two men clasped hands, their grip firm 

“Lord Damian, thank you,” Jorah replied, his voice rough yet affable. “The winds have been kind, it seems, bringing me to Pyke at a most fortuitous time. My aunt Lady Maege wanted to see Dacey before returning home, so we docked here.”

"Oh, I see. And where are they now?" Damian asked wondering Maege went to Castle Pyke or what.

"Lady Lynesse wanted to take this opportunity to see Lordsport while she is here, so Dacey took her to sightsee along with her mother" Jorah said. 

"Then let us men have some drink as well. I would like to hear from your mouth how you won the melee and who you defeated." Damian said, not looking at all like he just came from a journey.

Lord Jorah was happy at the offer, appreciating the young man more than ever. 

There was only one inn in Lordsport and it was also a brothel. Most of Lordsport was destroyed during Greyjoy's Rebellion. Rebuilt after the war, the waterside inn of Otter Gimpknee is twice the size of its predecessor. Its lower story is made of cut stone, while the two upper floors are timber, the work on the third is still going on. The inn was owned by Greyjoys so naturally it became Damian's when he took the seat of Pyke. 

Damian had ordered for another building to be made on another street to separate the brothel from the inn as some guests or travellers with family might not want to stay where half-naked prostitutes serve drinks and give services not appropriate for children to see

"I faced Ser Jaime Lannister last, and after we broke nine lances to no result, King Robert granted me the victory, I was only lucky," Jorah said taking a chug of Ironborn ale as he retold the story of the Tourney.

Breaking nine lances with Ser Jaime is no stroke of luck,” Damian remarked, a grin tugging at his lips. “It’s a proof of your skill and tenacity. You earned that victory.”

Jorah’s gaze softened, a mixture of pride and humility in his eyes. “The tourney was a proving ground,” he said, “But the true victory came afterwards.”

Damian’s curiosity was piqued. “And how did you come to marry the youngest daughter of Leyton Hightower?”

Jorah’s face lit up with a rare, genuine smile. “Ah, that is a tale in itself. After winning the melee, I named Lynesse my ‘Queen of Love and Beauty.’ It was a gesture of affection and respect, and I seized the moment to ask for her hand in marriage. To my astonishment, Lord Leyton Hightower agreed to the match that very night.”

He paused, his eyes reflecting a mix of nostalgia and contentment. “We were wed in Lannisport and spent some time there. Afterwards, we came here en route to Bear Island.”

Damian’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m glad to hear you’ve found love so profound. The Old Gods must indeed be watching over you,” he said, though he couldn’t entirely suppress the thought that this union would strain House Mormont’s coffers. The lavish demand of the bride would make Jorah partake in selling slaves.