Author's Note: A varied take to the Jorah/Lynesse storyline. Not all details are canon, of course, but I think this will be fun! I also have another Jorah story called The Queensguard.
The brisk morning was falling right in line with Ser Jorah Mormont's life of late. Dazzling sparkles bounced over the waves, a pleasant breeze blew, and his cloak billowed behind him majestically. Perfection couldn't be achieved, but this felt quite close to it.
Jorah and his man Dorian were out on the water, fishing poles forgotten in the boat as they marveled at the morning. Bear Island was a cold northern land where sunshine was as rare as a red comet. That morning, though, golden rays smiled upon them like strangers.
He couldn't help but chuckle to himself. Ser Jorah, Lord of Bear Island. Both titles were new and foreign to his tongue. King Robert Baratheon had given him the first; he rode valiantly and perhaps foolishly, but survived the siege at Pyke. The second part of his title came from Jeor Mormont, his lord father. Not a week ago, he rode off to serve as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, leaving his only son in charge of his ancestral home and all those who dwell there. He was certainly old enough to rule, but the notion seemed a dream still.
Ser Jorah, Lord of Bear Island.
"Stop it," Dorian scoffed. "You look like an utter asshole." When Jorah shook his head at him and shrugged, he laughed. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
Dorian, Jorah's oldest friend and fellow northman, rolled his eyes. "The lord look. You'll be sure not to get all stuffy now that you're a lord, aye?" He cuffed him in the side. "I won't be m'lording you or bowing or any of that. You're still the bloke we chased girls around with in the pubs, right?"
"Right." Jorah grinned.
"But I'm sure after your big festival tonight, the girls will be the ones doing the chasin', eh?" He huffed jealously. "A knight and a lord. They couldn't have picked a more undeserving bastard."
Jorah rolled his eyes and gave Dorian a shove. Truly, he'd been regarding the feast to celebrate his ascension with a certain apprehension. Pomp and pristine ceremony had never been his preferred revelry. If he had a choice, the party would have been among friends and family and involved ale and games.
"Now," Dorian laughed, "promise me you won't-" His voice trailed off. He leapt to his feed suddenly enough to rock the boat. "What's that?" he interrupted.
Jorah turned. Pieces of wood were floating in with the tide. "We have no ships out, no ships due to arrive," he said cautiously.
"Too much wreckage to be a smaller vessel," Dorian added.
"The Starks always send a raven if they'll be traveling," Jorah worried. He reached for a paddle. "We need to look for survivors."
Dorian pulled a looking glass from his pocket and shook his head. "There's nothing but this for miles, it seems. No masts. No people. Nothing." Still shaking his head, he shrugged. "Whatever sorry ship this was will have broken up days and miles ago. We're no good." The looking glass clinked as he tucked it back in his pocket.
"Pity," Jorah growled. "Let's go back. Someone ought to survey the damage. I'll send a team. There will be bodies that need recovering somewhere."
Dutifully reaching for a paddle, Dorian sighed. "Those sorry bastards. A stormy night and a dip in this freezing water is no way to die."
Jorah mmmed his agreement before pausing. His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to one side. "Do you hear that?" When Dorian shook his head, Jorah dunked his oar into the water. "Row," he commanded.
"There's that lord's voice again."
"There's someone alive out there. Someone's calling!" Jorah barked. "Row!"
"Please," she cried out to the sky. "Please, Mother, save me. Stranger, save me. Someone help me!"
The shipwreck had been violent and sudden; lightning and flames and water, chaos in every direction. Crew sworn to protect her house shoved the lady out of the way and swore at her. At some point the ship lurched and she fell, hitting her head. Details beyond that were disjointed. Screams and the clash of swords filled the air. Somehow she ended up in the water.
"Alerie!" she'd screamed. Her closest sister was still on the ship as it splintered and sank. A guard shoved her back and she could see Alerie no more. Her head still fuzzy, the woman tumbled into the water. None cared. She screamed in horror, gasping and gulping and desperately clawing at the water to stay afloat.
When the ship went under completely, a safety boat floated nearby and she managed to pull herself into it, collapsing for who knows how long.
Now she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed as hard as she could to the gods. Weak without food or water, she already knew death was close at hand. Her fair skin was pink from exposure. Soft hands had dried out and cracked and bled. How many days had she been on the water, she wondered. It didn't matter anymore. Now her boat had crashed into some jagged piece of wreckage in the night and she was taking on water slowly but damningly. A few inches of water in the boat chilled her and soaked through her gown.
"A boat," a far-off voice came.
Her blonde head poked over the side of the boat. "Here!" she called weakly. For days she'd rued her upbringing. Had she been trained as a man, she'd know how to save herself. The sorrows of impending doom had mingled with anger at her uselessness and grief that her parents, siblings, and entire household staff were dead. Life was bleak. She prayed to die. Until then. A savior appeared and she would have wept in relief if she had any tears to spare. Instead, the lightheadedness finally took over and she knew blackness.
"Shit, it's a girl! She's alive!" Dorian lurched forward, nearly overturning the boat. "Fuck, and a right lady, too, by the looks of her."
Jorah blinked in disbelief. A lady, indeed. The woman was in distress, to be certain, but was still perhaps the most beautiful human he'd ever seen. Her long blonde hair had come down and clung to her pale neck and shoulders. Everything about her sharp features pulled at him. "Help me with her, quickly," he managed.
The deep green satin fabric of her gown made her heavier than she appeared, but with a solid heave they pulled her out of her waterlogged craft.
"Hey," Dorian demanded of the unconscious woman, "hey, get up. Is anyone else alive out there? Hello, hello in there?"
Dark eyelashes fluttered momentarily before green eyes struggled to open.
Dorian spoke to her then, Jorah knew, but he didn't hear the words. Something like love at first sight stirred in him. The woman was the living form of the image he'd conjured in his mind of the perfect woman. She was the Maid herself. The emerald eyes, though, were something he'd have never been able to fathom. "My lady," he murmured in wonder. "Tell me your name."
"Aren't you listening? She just said there are no survivors," Dorian snapped. "What's come over you?" He turned back to the woman. "We'll send out a crew anyway, to search. Who are you traveling with, my lady?"
"My family," the woman whispered before falling back into unconsciousness. "I'm the last one."
The maester blinked in disbelief. "My lord, who-?" He was a short, squat man who looked more the part of friendly innkeep than medical sage.
Jorah stood in the infirmary with a soaked unconscious woman in his arms. Her head lulled back and forth slightly though he tried to cradle it. "There was a shipwreck. She's the only survivor so far."
"Bring her," the maester urged him. "Come, come. She'll be chilled to the bone, the poor thing."
He carried her to the bed and gently eased her onto it. She moaned softly and clutched at the large black cloak – Jorah's – that he'd wrapped around her.
"Looks like you won't be getting that back in time for tonight," Dorian commented.
"It's hers, then," Jorah shrugged. "Doesn't matter." He clasped a hand on the maester's arm. "She said she's just lost her entire family. Be kind to her. Be-"
"No time to lose, my lord," the maester announced. "There will be time to catch up when she's awake." He brought a small blade and sliced the front of her dress open, tugging it harshly until it gave way. "These wet clothes have to go."
Jorah cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "I'll – I'll be nearby. Send for me when she wakes."
"My lord, you have a busy day ahead of you. Have no worry, she'll be well taken care of-" The maester grunted and gave another mighty tug. The fabric ripped noisily as the gown gave in and split down to the groin.
"Call for me when she wakes," Jorah repeated, turning and grabbing Dorian by the front of the tunic to pull him along.
"There it is, that lord voice," Dorian chuckled, craning and looking over his shoulder. "Perhaps we should stay, you know, just to ensure-"
"Shut up," Jorah snarled again.
The room was unfamiliar when she woke up. Shivering and naked, she glanced around. Stone floor, stone walls. This wasn't her room and it wasn't even a familiar room. Where am I?
A portly maester with a heavy chain appeared and smiled down at her. "Don't be afraid, my lady, it is just us present. No need for modesty, you must be warmed. Hypothermia is something I've treated at least once a month since my time on Bear Island." With that he pressed a warm damp cloth against her stomach and another on her chest. "The hunters think if they just chase that stag another mile, they'd get the kill, but instead they come back with black fingers when the storms catch them instead." He chuckled. "Northmen are stubborn, you see? I can tell by your lovely complexion that you are most certainly not of the North."
"N-no," her teeth chattered. "M-m-might I have a warm bath? I-i-it's s-s-so cold."
"I'm afraid not, my lady." The maester brought more warm rags and placed them on her groin, neck, armpits. "Warming you too quickly is dangerous. You'll be warm before you know it. I've just built up the fire. And here, this is heavier than any blanket I might have," he commented as he draped a large black cloak over her next. "He left it for you."
She pulled it snug around her. "He?"
He nodded. "My apologies, my lady. I wasn't sure if you were awake when they found you. Young Ser Jorah. Brought you here himself. Very concerned."
"The man in the boat," she breathed. "Ser Jorah Mormont?" She breathed in deeply and took in the scent of the cloak. It warmed her differently than the hot rags. A valiant knight pulling her from what would have been her ocean floor grave. It was too perfect to be true. I must be dreaming. The dream was far more pleasant than the horrible reality, though, so she embraced it. "You must be mistaken. We sailed for Pyke. We cannot be this far north."
Chuckling, the maester nodded. "I'm afraid you're as North as you can get, save for the wall. Ser Jorah is indeed lord of this land. I take it you were present for the tournament at Lannisport, then?"
She nodded. "He unhorsed the Kingslayer."
"That he did, my lady. And the lord is eager to see you when you're well." He suddenly brought a finger to his chin in thought. "I'll need to find dry clothes for you. There's going to be a feast tonight."
"A feast?"
"Why, yes, Ser Jorah's father has taken the black and left your knight lord of Bear Island. There will be quite the celebration this evening." He smiled kindly. "Ser Jorah says he'll be by this afternoon for a word. But might I ask your name, m'lady?"
"Lynesse Hightower."