Blood In The South: Game of Thrones Fanfiction Book 1

by Norsebjorn

Joran Mormont, "The Berserker," is the only son of the disgraced Jorah Mormont. Disfigured, he is loved by most of his family, respected by the people of Bear Island, and feared by its enemies. When Joran is called to The War of Five KIngs, iron and fury follow.

3. Chapter 3

Hello friends, fans and critics, welcome back to Blood in the South. Thank you for all your reviews and welcome to any newcomers that are now following the story. Hopefully you newcomers enjoy reading this story as much as I do in writing it. Enjoy and remember, I OWN NOTHING! Except Joran.

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 3: Dreams and Drinking

Joran

After a week of traveling, the small party consisting of Joran in his cloak with his hood up, Maege Mormont adorning her bear skin cloak, guardsmen and servants in service to House Mormont, and Osha the wildling, had finally arrived to Winterfell. The majority of their journey having been on land, considering it only took mere hours to sail from Bear Island and land at Deepwood Motte, the group's journey had been unhindered by either man or beast. Which, although he didn't mind the break in the natural cycle of violence that plagued Bear Island, Joran found himself slowly succumbing to a laxed boredom. It wasn't a bad thing, he just didn't like the feeling of being comfortable out in the open. So much so that Joran had continually caught himself scanning the vegetation of the Wolfswood to try and spot some kind of threat that would be lurking in the trees.

With so many big names and faces going to Winterfell to attend to the King and the Warden of the North, it would be foolish to think that there wasn't going to be a group of robbers somewhere lying in wait. But that was Joran being realistic.

It wasn't all paranoia though during the journey through the Wolfswood. Looking at the brighter side of things, Joran saw the trip, which he still thought was a bad idea, as a kind of short break from fighting the raiders that plagued the island from time to time. When he really considered it though, this break would soon be extended when he began his way north to The Wall with Osha in tow.

Every time his mind came back to the Wildling's talk of Mance Rayder or White Walkers, Joran's eyes were drawn over his shoulder to look at Osha, who rode behind him on a mule that was tied off to his saddle by a rope so the beast would remain on track and not wander and allow its rider a chance to escape. Not that she could, considering as the mule was tied to the young Mormont's saddle, she was tied to the mule. And while this was how Joran had kept her in line in daylight, in the evenings under the canopy of the forest, he went to other lengths to ensure she remained in his custody, going so far as to tie her to his ankle while they slept in the same tent. Keeping one eye open while he slept, the young Mormont hadn't caught Osha attempting anything. Quite the opposite in fact, not wanting to bother him to such an extent that he always felt her at his back laying on the ground as stiff as a board. No doubt fearing that the slightest move could set him off.

If Joran could call her anything, it was wise. To a point anyway.

Pushing his multiple thoughts aside as the party entered the village that surrounded Winterfell, Joran took in the sights and sounds of the place known as Wintertown.

It was a big place that had a humble feel to it as Joran moved his hood covered head around to look at his surroundings. A lot of people were out and about their own business, some taking notice of the party and offering a wave to Maege, or a curious expression to Osha and the hooded figure leading her. Having been given looks like those and worse throughout his life, Joran didn't mind or care for that matter and just kept riding.

"Quite a day today," Maege said beside her nephew, drawing his attention from the road to her. "Everyone must be preparing to receive the Royal Family, not just Ned."

"Wouldn't you want the whole of Bear Island to be spotless if you were in Stark's shoes?" Joran inquired. "News must have spread from Winterfell and now all the smallfolk are preparing to show off their wares to the King and everyone with him."

"Speaking of wares," Maege said, nodding her head towards a certain building to their left. "Look at what's being shown off there."

Looking to the location his aunt gestured towards, Joran beheld a building with what looked like all of its occupants hanging off the railings of the first and second stories. It was a brothel, and its occupants, prostitutes, who upon noticing the party, started to catcall.

Not one desiring to be noticed by women, be they noble or lowly, Joran turned his gaze from the place and adjusted his hood to mask his face from the onlooking gaggle of hens trying to find a cock willing to pay.

"It doesn't hurt to look, lad," Maege said, having noticed his apparent disinterest.

"Hurts if they do though," Joran muttered through his scarf. Of the many facial expressions that girls had given him throughout his life, a few of the more common were those of suppressed laughter, disgust, or more commonly, fear. He hated the looks and knew that if ever Maege set him up with a noble lady to marry, if one was ever convinced to have him, that he would be cursed to live with those same looks until either he was in the ground or she was.

"You can't hide forever nephew," Maege said, sensing his discomfort.

"Samn thinks I can, and he says there isn't anything wrong with waiting," Joran said, the Maester being the only father figure the younger man had ever really known to care about him in his life.

"Lowther's a maester, Joran," Maege said, apparently disagreeing with the older man's sentiment. "You are someone important. Even though you don't think so or want to be. And regardless of your feelings of lording over Bear Island when I'm done, there still will be a need for more Mormonts to inhabit the Keep."

"Heh," Joran should have figured his aunt would bring up his reluctance to take the mantle of Lord of Bear Island. With everything surrounding his father Jorah, he didn't want to be the next worse thing to happen to the Island or the House's reputation for that matter, after working so hard to bring it back up. And besides, Joran wasn't lord material. He was too prone to be a violent personality, even when he didn't want to be. Gods, he slept in the dungeon for good reason. In Joran's mind, the title should go to one of Maege's girls, end of discussion. At least for him.

"Just try to keep an open mind, Joran. For the House." Maege said, trying to sound like his mother desiring more grandchildren. "But, while you do, try to behave while we're here."

"I practically keep myself on a leash," Joran said as the group finally came upon the gates of the keep of Winterfell. "I doubt you have anything to worry about."

Halted by Stark guardsmen at the entrance, who then proceeded to inform the Mormonts that the castle was going to be packed for the royal party and that those accompanying them would have to find lodging in Wintertown, Joran and Maege dismounted, the hooded man advising his house guards to keep an eye on Osha, then proceeded into Winterfell. Entering the courtyard, the Mormonts were welcomed by various servants rushing around the place, finishing preparations for the King's arrival without a doubt, on their approach to the actual castle. Walking up steps of stone and through the grand archway to the massive structure, Joran and Maege found themselves in the great hall, that seemed to be the calmest area in the place.

But not unoccupied. Standing in the middle of the hall, looked to be lords from each of the northern houses, all mingling like a gaggle of women. Until one of them, a rather tall fellow looked in the direction of the doorway and yelled out "Maege!"

With that, the other lords looked in the direction of the Mormonts, giving Joran an uneasy feeling with all the eyes on him, and the big man who had yelled, moved out of the group to approach Maege.

"Hello Jon," Maege said to the man as she walked up to him and embraced the man like he was Jeor himself. "How are you?"

Towering over the woman after he broke the hug, Jon answered "good and well. You?"

"I'm here aren't I. Must mean I'm still kicking."

The two older folk sharing a chuckle, Maege turned and waved Joran forward, saying "come here Joran."

Stepping further into the hall, his hood and makeshift mask still on, Joran must have seemed like a very questionable personality to all present, because all eyes were still on him. Coming to stand before the giant, who stood at an equal height with him, the young Mormont listened as Maege introduced him to Jon.

"Joran, this is Greatjon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth and an old friend."

"Pleasure to meet you," Joran said through his scarf, extending an open hand to the man before him.

"Pleasure is all mine," Greatjon responded before taking the offered hand. "I take it you're the Joran Mormont? One everyone's always talking about that keeps beating Wildlings off Bear Island?"

Finding it rather strange that a mainlander would know what he does best, considering the fact he never necessarily tried to broadcast his business to the rest of the world, Joran answered, "the same. And you're the famous Greatjon that Maege reminisces about from time to time."

"Well, I wouldn't call what she says about me reminiscing," Greatjon said upon releasing Joran's hand. "More like cursing."

"Ha," Maege scoffed before playfully punching Umber on the arm.

Smiling beneath his scarf, Joran agreed, "aye, more or less."

"You happen to have seen the Glover brothers here?" Maege asked.

"Aye," Jon said before turning to see two more men approach. Two men that Joran recognized to be his uncles from Deepwood Motte.

"Maege," the brown-grey haired Robett greeted in a happy tone before embracing Maege Mormont like a sister before turning to Joran and embracing him as well. "It's good to see you Joran. You got bigger."

"Nephew," the full grey haired Galbart said before drawing Joran into another hug once he had separated from Robett.

Drawing back after the hug was over, Joran, having not seen Robett or Galbart in five years, new that the two would be surprised to see him there on the journey to Winterfell and knew that despite their friendly faces, were surprised still.

"Good to see you both here," Joran said in a tone that he believed to sound genuinely happy.

"What have you been feeding this boy, Maege," Robett asked while patting Joran on his shoulder. "He looks like an actual bear rather than a man."

Wincing in silence at the comment, Joran let it slide, considering he was family and the fact that it was probably meant as a compliment.

"Enough," Maege said with an encouraging smile for Joran while patting his back.

Before Joran could get a word in, he felt the hand of Galbart usher him forward and he began to lead the boy towards the rest of the gathered lords, saying "come nephew, let us introduce you to some of our old friends and comrades."

Coming face to face with the group, Joran, still feeling nervous with all eyes on him, felt Galbart's arm remove itself from his shoulders as he moved around the group, gesturing as he put each name he spoke to a face.

"This white maned bastard here is Rickard Karstark, from Karhold," Galbart said placing a hand on an elderly man with a great white beard wearing the white sunburst of House Karstark across his chest.

"Pleasure, lad," Rickard said with a nod of his head.

"Medger Cerwyn."

"Hello."

"Robin Flint of Flint's Finger."

"How do you do."

"Torghen Flint from the Mountain Clans to the north."

"Welcome lad."

Galbart went down the line of lords present there, practically the whole North as far as Joran was concerned, seeing as there were so many of them. The last that he came to however was one that seemed, queer to put it nicely. He was a man who didn't have a beard and seemed, rather skinny and frail looking.

"And this, is Roose Bolton."

"It is an honor to finally meet you, Joran Mormont." Roose said, extending a hand out to the younger man.

Accepting it and realizing who this man was, Joran shook it and said, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you as well, Lord Bolton."

"I trust that my son is doing well in your care?"

The man's expression was so plain and unemotional that Joran couldn't tell if he was really concerned about Garrett or just stating obvious formalities. "Aye, he's currently my second in command of the Oathbound."

"Sounds like quite the position," Roose said after releasing Joran's hand. "I'm glad that he's kept himself busy while under the care of your house."

Garrett had been sent to be a ward for House Mormont three years ago, and being a bastard, he hadn't been well received by Dacey or Alysane, who believed that they had been insulted by Roose for sending one of his bastard twins to the Island. Joran however, being an outcast himself, if only to Dacey, had slowly found an easy friend in the bastard and they had been best friends for all three of those years. Practically a brother to him, Garrett had helped the young Mormont found the Oathbound when the misshaped man had come up with the idea for its formation.

"With me as a friend, there's plenty of work for us both," Joran said with a fond smile.

"I admire the work you two do on Bear Island," Roose said, a small smile appearing on his lips. "Your skirmishes against the Wildlings are a marvel unto themselves. I would much like to see Garrett and talk to him about his…adventures with you."

Finding it rather unsettling that a normal man would find what he and Garrett did to protect the island, and sate his inner monster, a marvel, Joran said the only polite thing he could think of without sounding…put off. "Thank you. I'm sure he'd like to see you too."

Before Roose could continue to unsettle Joran, Galbart called out, "ah, and here is this famous old geezer. Rodrik Cassel."

Looking away from Roose to a man that his uncle had grabbed around his shoulders, Joran beheld the most ridiculous looking white sideburns caressing the sides of the man's face.

"Master of arms and practically a Stark himself, ain't you Cassel," Galbart said jokingly as he patted the older man on his chest.

"Eh, no more than you lot, Lord Glover," Rodrik said before turning his gaze to Maege and Mormont. "Lord Eddard would like to speak to you and your nephew Lady Maege."

"Does he wish to say hello, I assume," Maege asked.

"Aye, that and more," Rodrik answered as Galbart removed his arm from his shoulders.

"Well let's not keep Ned waiting, come along Joran," Maege said as she moved to follow the gentlemen, Joran following her in turn, leaving Roose Bolton with the other lords.

…

Following Rodrik through Winterfell until he stopped before a fine wooden door, Joran and Maege watched as the man knocked before entering the doorway to announce their arrival to the man within.

"Lord Stark, the Lady Maege and her nephew Joran Mormont here as you requested."

"Thank you Rodrik, send them in if you please," a deep voice responded in turn from within the room.

Stepping away from the entryway so that the two Mormonts could enter, Rodrik stood at attention as Joran and Maege stepped into the solar of Eddard Stark.

Taking the site of the Warden of the North in, Joran saw that he was seated at a desk that was covered in parchment. A long-faced man with dark hair, a closely trimmed beard that showed some hints of grey, and grey eyes, that caused the young Mormont, when they settled on him, to feel as though their stare was as cold as ice. Despite the apparent look of age that he showed, Joran believed the Eddard to be a strong and healthy-looking man.

"Welcome, Lady Mormont," Eddard said in greeting as he replaced the feather pen in his hand into the inkwell on his desk. Standing, he then moved to the front of the furniture and took Maege into a kind hug. "It's good to see you."

"Same, Ned," Maege said with a smile before pulling back from her liege lord. Looking him up and down, she then inquired, "you look thinner than last time I saw you, Ned. Have you been eating enough?"

"Of course," Eddard answered. "Have to stay firm for Milady."

"Good to hear that you aren't neglecting those duties, Lord Stark," Maege said before playfully slapping Eddard on his right shoulder.

Turning from the Lady of Bear Island, Eddard's eyes fell back upon Joran and after a moment of studying him, asked Maege, "so this is your nephew? Joran was it?"

"Aye, the same," Maege answered.

"The son of Jorah Mormont?"

"Aye."

Staring Eddard Stark straight in the eye, a habit of his when meeting certain individuals, Joran extended his hand out to the Lord of Winterfell and said through his scarf, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Stark."

"Pleasure's mine as well," Eddard said, firmly taking hold of Joran's hand and shaking it.

Wondering what his old man would think of his disfigured son shaking hands with the man who had wanted his head all those years ago, Joran said out loud, "I know you knew my father, Lord. And I don't blame you for trying to do your duty in the name of justice."

"You don't," Eddard asked, seemingly taken aback by Joran's straight forward words.

"He did something unlawful in the eyes of the Gods and men," Joran said. "And you did what was expected of you as Warden of the North. I'm just sorry my father disgraced himself by running away."

"I'm surprised to hear a son say so of his father," Eddard said, pulling his hand back. As though the cold words were enough o chill his fingers.

"He wasn't the best of men, my father," Joran said, crossing his hands in front of him in order to look more humbling to his liege. "But I hope that what good I've been able to do for the North by protecting Bear Island, reveals that I am not like him."

"You certainly aren't," Eddard said, giving Joran a look that said, you could be worse. "In fact, I hear that you go by another name? One that you've earned time and again in your fights."

"I do, Lord," Joran said. "I am called The Berserker."

"A good name for a warrior of House Mormont," Eddard said, keeping his eye on Joran as though he would jump out at any moment and bite him. "I am sorry though, for robbing you of a father."

"You didn't rob me, my Lord," Joran said, breaking his eye contact with Eddard to nod to his aunt beside him. "You gave others the opportunity to give a damn about me when he didn't. In a way, you did me a favor."

"Well, that's a good thing, considering the disfavor I have to give to my lords retainers while the King is here," Eddard said before looking at Maege. "I'm sorry that your guards and servants have to find lodgings in Wintertown."

"Don't worry Ned," Maege said nonchalantly. "They're grown men and women not babes, they can handle being away from me for a little while."

"Tell them that I appreciate their patience. With the Royal Family arriving sometime on the morrow, I can't afford to be short of space in the castle."

"I'll pass it on, and you be sure to pass on a hello to Cat for me," Maege said insistently.

"I will," Eddard said before looking to Rodrik. "Rodrik, please show these two to their rooms. I'm sure they've had a long journey and would like to get some rest."

"Eh, maybe just to get settled in before the big day," Maege said before giving a respectful nod to her lord. "I'll see you later Lord Stark."

Offering a curt nod of his own, Joran moved to follow his aunt out of the solar, when Eddard halted him with his name. "Joran."

Looking back to Eddard, Joran listened as the older man continued. "I know of your disfigurement and that you have strong inclinations to fight others. So, I would appreciate it if you did what you could to keep yourself in check while under my roof. Regardless of if they start the fight or not."

"I will do my best, Lord," Joran said, knowing that the older man would hold him to those words when the King arrived.

"That's all I ask, lad."

…

Leaving the solar and walking the halls of Winterfell to their rooms, Joran and Maege soon came to a stop with Rodrik indicating which rooms were theirs. Thanking the man before he left them, the Mormonts moved to enter their rooms, when the elder of the two said, "I wouldn't get comfortable yet, Joran."

"Why's that?"

"Because I need you to deliver our Lord's gratitude to our men in Wintertown. And check in on your…pet."

Realizing that he couldn't necessarily leave Osha with the house guards all night, and not expect her to try and escape, Joran conceded to do as Maege asked.

"Can I at least get a please?"

"Pretty fucking please."

"Yeah, I can go do that."

"Thank you."

Once Maege had closed the door to her room which was further down the hallway, Joran turned with a grunt and began to walk back down the way that they had come. Taking his time though as he walked through the castle, the young Mormont's eyes scanned his surroundings, and found that he admired the architecture of the place. Stone walls bare, save for the occasional tapestry and torch, the place seemed to match the Starks perfectly. And, curiously, Joran found that he was comfortable in this place that was for the most part, foreign to him.

Making it to the great hall and approaching the exit, Joran, upon exiting the threshold, was met by an unexpected new face at the top of the stone steps. A wolf pup with silvery grey fur? No, must be just a regular hound, he thought. One that has more wolf in him than others maybe.

Looking down at the creature as it gazed up curiously at him with yellow eyes in turn, Joran wondered what a wild animal such as this could be doing here in the castle. As unnerving as the appearance of the little beast was, he said in a kindly voice to it, "well hello there."

Keeping eye contact with the wolf-pup, Joran squatted down before it and offered an open palm to it so that it could take his scent in. While it sniffed vigorously and licked his hand, the man started to scratch behind its ears and asked, "where in the world did you come from, eh?"

"There you are!"

Raising his eyes to find a boy with auburn hair running up the stone steps towards him and the wolf, Joran watched as the child stop the minute his eyes fell on him.

"Is he yours?" Joran asked, trying to sound friendly with his deep voice.

"Yes, sir," the boy answered as the pup turned from Joran and walked back to him.

"He's quite the pet," Joran said as he stood up from his squatting position to tower over the boy. "What breed of hound is he?"

"He's a direwolf, sir," the boy answered while setting a hand atop the pup's head.

"Direwolf? Really." Joran was surprised at such a coincidence. A direwolf in Winterfell. Seemed that the Starks took their sigil quite literally. "That's quite amazing. How did you come by it?"

"We, em, found a litter of them on the side of the road," the boy answered. "Their mother had been killed by a stag and we took them in."

"A litter eh. That's fortunate and quite decent of you, lad."

"It was my father who allowed us to keep them, sir," the boy said as though to correct the direction of praise.

"Who is your father?"

"Lord Eddard, sir."

"Ah," Joran said upon hearing the name and realizing that this was one of the Stark children. "And what is your name lad?"

"My name's Brandon Stark, sir. But everyone here knows me as Bran."

"Well, Bran. Allow me to introduce myself." Joran extended a hand down to the youngster as he stepped towards him. "My name is Joran Mormont. And instead of sir, you can call me Joran."

After the boy took his hand and shook it, Joran asked him, "and what pray tell is the name of your direwolf?"

"I haven't given him a name yet," Bran answered sheepishly after releasing the older man's hand. "It's been difficult to figure one out now that everyone else has got names for theirs."

"Well, I wouldn't rush too fast to find one," Joran advised. "A good name takes time to come to anyone, be they a Maester or a fool. I'm sure one will come to you when the time is right."

"You think so," Bran asked, his eyes lighting up to the advice.

"I know so." Joran said confidently before remembering that he had to be somewhere. "It was good to meet you Bran, you'll have to excuse me I'm needed out in Wintertown. I do hope to see more of you and your pup while I'm here."

Extending his hand out again to the young man, Joran found that it was grabbed faster than the first by Bran who said, "it was a pleasure to meet you as well, si-I mean Joran. And I hope to see you around as well."

Walking past Brandon, who walked into the main hall, Joran descended the steps with a smile on his face behind his scarf, feeling happy that he had met the young Stark. But then again, he always felt good after meeting children, be they of a high or low birth. In fact, some of his Oathbound had been children who ran away from home or orphaned at one point and Joran had allowed them into his band in order to give them a home. Making his way out of the courtyard though, he started to remember how some of those same children had immediately changed their attitudes to him after he had showed them his face at one point or another. The looks of fear and pity were more of the common ones that came to Joran's mind, and he wondered which one young Bran would give him if he saw what was behind the mask.

Shaking those thoughts out of his mind, Joran set his mind to the task at hand and walked into Wintertown.

…

After inquiring to the guardsmen who had halted his party and told them of the arrangements for the party about where they had placed the members of his household staff, Joran walked in the direction of the inn that would be catering to all those who had come with the northern lords. Walking the muddy streets of the town, and passing the Brothel that had been passed on the way to the castle, allowing the catcalls to fade behind him, the young Mormont had finally made it to the place. The Cold Wind Inn as it was known, was a broad two-story building that seemed to be brimming with activity. Joran saw a multitude of people on the porch, in the doorway, and inside the establishment, all about their own businesses, and realized that finding those that had come with him and his aunt would be almost close to trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Usually prone to just burning the haystack and searching the ashes for the needle, Joran knew that he had to take a different approach to things and, keeping in mind that he had to be civilized while in Stark territory, he marched into the Inn, each step with purpose. Passing group after group of men and women as he delved further into the building, he approached what looked like the establishment's bar and what looked like the proprietor and asked him about his company, being blunt in explaining as to who he was and why it was his business to know. The man immediately polite at the mention of his name, gave Joran directions to the room and after thanking the man, made his way up to the second floor.

Finding the room with little difficulty, Joran moved to enter when he heard unsettling noises from within. Noise of a struggle, which caused him to push the door open with enough force to bang it into the adjacent wall. Coming upon the sight of the Mormont Guardsmen restraining his Wildling prisoner, with servants looking on in what appeared like fright, Joran's presence alone caused the scuffle to end.

"What is going on here?" Joran demanded in an even tone.

"Pardon, milord," one guardsman, an older gentleman by the name of Holt, said in apology. "We were getting settled in when this woman tried to attack one of the Lady Maege's maids."

"I was only trying to offer her a wash and some fresh clothes, milord," a girl, Sasha was her name, said in a pleading voice. "To be friendly."

"And I told you to mind your own business, bitch," Osha hissed as she struggled in the arms of the guardsman holding her.

"Wildling," Joran growled through his scarf. "Calm yourself before you make me do something that we will both come to regret."

Doing as she was told, Osha calmed in the guard's arms and Joran said to the young man, Wylar, "you can let her go."

"Yes, lord."

After the man had released Osha, Joran immediately marched up to her and, with full intention of knocking her out, tapped her on the temple with a heavy fist.

With the impact incapacitating the Wildling, Joran picked her up from the floor and after throwing her over his shoulders, he said to the guards, "you will have to forgive me men, for having to deal with this prisoner of mine. From here on, I'll deal with her. You all just get some rest."

"Thank you, lord."

"Just let us know if you need any more help with her."

Before leaving the room, Joran then said over one shoulder, "Lord Stark sends his apologies for the arrangements."

…

Making it back to his room, having been seen by mostly servants as he made it back into and through the castle, Joran kicked the door open and walking in, flung the unconscious Osha onto the temporary bed that had been made for the duration of his stay at Winterfell. Turning back to the door and closing it as fast as he possibly could without ripping it from its hinges, the young Mormont then proceeded to glower down at the troublesome creature. What point of being respectful does this bitch not understand.

When he received no answer to his thoughts in any form, Joran just shook his head and proceeded to remove his cloak. Throwing the article of clothing atop a chair that was pushed into a small table beside the room's hearth, the young Mormont then moved to his belongings, which had so graciously been delivered to his room by the Stark household and set against a wall opposite the door, and immediately unstrapped his axe from his saddle bag. Joran knew he had given the woman fair warning and was now going to punish his prisoner the only way he knew how.

Raising his axe and about to deliver a quick blow to the unconscious Osha, Joran suddenly stopped himself. Looking upon the still form of the wildling, he saw that she appeared peaceful in her sleep, almost as though she was already dead. Slowly lowering his axe to his side, Joran moved towards the bed and putting a hand above Osha's mouth, checked to see if she was breathing.

Feeling air rise from her mouth and nose, Joran relaxed a little upon realizing that he hadn't killed Osha with his fist alone. Not that it matters though.

Lifting his axe again to kill Osha, Joran, somehow, was stopped again when he actually looked at her sleeping form. She was defenseless. A still form that was unsuspecting of its demise.

He knew he should kill Osha for disobeying him, kill her for trying his patience, but Joran couldn't bring himself to drop his axe like so many times before. Because he felt as though it all seemed, unfair to kill when the receiving party of the axe stroke, didn't have any chance of defending themselves or at least, knowing that it was coming.

"Heh, damn it all," Joran huffed, lowering his axe and brushing his hair back with a free hand as he thought more and more about the topic at hand. If he killed the woman in Winterfell, everyone would catch wind of it and he would immediately be breaking his promise to Aunt Maege and his word to Eddard Stark to not cause any trouble. And, mores the pity, he wouldn't even be able to enjoy the killing. What was the point if he couldn't see the grim realization in his victims' eyes that somewhere down the line, they had made a mistake in crossing him?

"Hrrrgh." At a loss for the moment, Joran reigned it all in and moved back to the small desk. Then proceeding to pull the chair out, he put it against the door and moving back to his bags, produced his whetstone and taking a seat in front of the door, began sharpening his axe blade.

There were no windows to the room, and the only exit was the door he was sitting in front of, if she tried to make a run for it if he fell asleep in his seat, Joran knew that he'd handle her fast enough. Sharpening until he felt his eyes begin to drop, the young Mormont kept an eye open and drifted off to sleep, tense as a board.

…

Transported from Winterfell, Joran found himself walking through a land shrouded in darkness. Pelted by wind and snow, the young Mormont soon found himself shivering, as he was wearing nothing but a plain shirt and pants. Then in that instant, Joran realized that he was experiencing the same dream that he had had days ago on Bear Island.

"…Joran."

It was the voice from before, seemingly whispering Joran's name on the wind. And with it, he could've sworn he could hear the flap of a pair of wings.

"Hello!" Joran called out to the voice, hoping that whoever it belonged to would hear him this time. Why he cared, he didn't know.

"Joran…"

"Is there anyone out there," Joran cried before the wind began to pick up, pushing him backwards. "If you are out there, come to me. Please!"

Peering through the wind and snow that pelted him without mercy, Joran could've sworn he saw something. A piece of the darkness that was moving in strange rhythm. One that looked like that of a bird rather than a man.

What is that, Joran thought before crying out again "Hello!"

…

Startling awake, Joran with his scarf still on found himself back in Winterfell, in a chair in front of the door to his room, his axe on his lap, his whetstone upon the floor, fire burned to embers and Osha still fast asleep on his bed.

"By the gods," Joran whispered, realizing that his throat was sore and voice hoarse when he did. "What the hell did I see?"

Try as he might, Joran couldn't remember why his voice was cracked and sore. Did he yell at Osha? No, it wasn't that. Did he have an argument with Maege? Couldn't have, they were both in good spirits after talking with Eddard Stark. So why…?

Before he could answer his own question, Joran felt a knock on the door behind him and a voice call out to him. "Milord?"

Not recognizing the voice, Joran said gruffly, "yes? Who is it?"

"Brin, Milord."

"What do you want?"

"Just to see if your room needed tidying up, Lord."

Realizing that the woman was a servant, more notably a maid, Joran called back out to her, "there will be no need for your services, miss. Everything is still fairly tidy and whatever mess I have; I'll clean it up."

"Very well, Milord. Have a good morning."

Giving the woman enough time to walk away from his door and leave him to his privacy, Joran, knowing that she'd be back later when he wasn't present, moved over to the sleeping form of Osha and gave her foot a good kick. His action causing the wildling to wake up with a start, the northerner then proceeded to clamp a heavy hand upon her mouth before she could say a word. "Keep your voice low, woman," Joran warned her in a growl, all hint of hoarseness in his voice vanished, "or else I'll give you another love tap, you understand?"

When she nodded, Joran released her. Moving away from her then to his things, the young Mormont heard his prisoner give off a wince and silent moan. No doubt stiff from lying in the position he had left her in all night and feeling a headache from where he had struck her in order to knock her out.

"You call that a love tap?" Osha whispered.

"Could call it worse, but then I'd be lying," Joran said, his back still to her as he set his axe aside and rummaged through his belongings for more rope. "Not that you didn't deserve worse for yesterday for the way you behaved."

"Yesterday?" Osha said with a hint of surprise to her voice. "Been out that long, eh?"

"Aye," Joran said, finally producing another length of rope for his prisoner. "And you'll get worse next time."

"I was half expecting there to not be a next time after the lights went out," Osha said in what sounded like disbelief. "Why am I still alive?"

"The truth," Joran said as he approached the upright sitting Osha. "Because I figured that it wasn't your time."

"How'd you suppose that?"

Taking hold of one of her hands, Joran begin to connect the rope to it when he answered, "because, other than the fact that I'm in another lords house and not desiring to ruin a fine room by decorating its walls with your blood, I still figure I need to be fair with your life until I find out if you've been lying to me."

"Are you sure that's all, my Lord?"

Looking up at her from his work, Joran realized that she had a crooked smile upon her face and a glint in her eye that was rather…lustful.

"Or is it that you'd like to try something a little stronger than what your southern girls can offer." As she spoke, her dress covered legs began to spread apart, as if inviting Joran into them. Then, without an invitation, Osha's free hand began to move towards his legs.

Before she could touch him though, Joran quickly grabbed Osha's wrist in a vice grip that elicited a wince of pain from the wildling.

"Mark me, woman," Joran growled, his patience already growing thin with the day only barely starting. "I made a decision to spare your life again out of fairness to the truth of your words until you are proven a liar. Any other reason that may pop into that head of yours is nothing but a false fantasy that you created without purpose."

Releasing her, Joran added, "presume to try and coerce me again, and you're done."

"All right," Osha said as she shook out her wrist. "Was just trying to have some fun is all."

"You're a prisoner, you gave that up the minute you got caught."

"Can't blame a girl for trying, can you?"

"You'd be surprised." He knew he was.

Once he had tied both of her hands together at the wrists, Joran then tied her feet together at the ankles and finally, connected Osha's hands and feet together in the fashion of a hogtie, making it difficult for the woman to move. After he had completed his work, another servant had come to his room asking if he needed it cleaned. Instead of having the servant clean his room, Joran instead asked her to go fetch some guardsmen for him from the Cold Wind Inn, specifically Holt and Wylar, which she did without question.

His men arriving an hour later, Joran, somewhat cleaned up, dressed in a white shirt beneath a green tunic sporting a black bear upon his torso, black pants for his legs, bear skin cloak draped over his shoulders, a fresh scarf for his face, and his hair tied back into a ponytail, set them to guard his room. After apologizing for the inconvenience, he then asked them to check on Osha and help feed and water her until he got back. When they told him that they'd do it, the young Mormont told them that he would make sure they received meals and drinks for helping him in this regard, to which they thanked him in turn.

Leaving the two and going to his aunt's room to get the word of the day from her, Joran came to a stop before the door and gently knocked on it.

"Who is it?" Came Maege's voice from inside the room.

"Joran."

"Come in."

Entering the room, Joran beheld Mage Mormont sitting at a vanity, braiding her own hair.

"Glad to see that you're up, Joran," Maege said, looking between her nephew and her work in the mirror in front of her.

"Likewise," Joran said while noticing that his aunt was well beyond ready for the day. She was wearing a woolen dress dyed green with the head of their house's black bear over her left breast, and her black bear skin cloak was laying across her bed right next to her. "I was half expecting you to still be snoring away."

"Heh," Maege scoffed in mock offense before coming to the end of her braid and tying it off with a small hair tie.

"So," Joran began, moving further into the room. "any word on when the extinguished guests will arrive?"

"Rodrik dropped by earlier," Maege said before standing up from her seat and turning to look Joran over. "Passed on from Ned that word reached them that the Royal Family would be here by noon."

"That's good to know," Joran said with a nod. "Gives everyone else an ample amount of time to get ready for the occasion."

"Yeah," Maege said, her overlook of her nephew complete. "You look good. Would look better without the scarf though."

"It's the one you got me for my last name day," Joran said. It was a fine black scarf that he had packed away for the special occasion, when there was need for a clean touch rather than one that was…bloody.

"Oh," Maege said, looking surprised that she forgot. "Well, earlier comment retracted. It looks good on you. And I love what you've done with your hair."

"Best I could do without a mirror," Joran said honestly, while running a hand through his ponytail. "I've actually been thinking about cutting it down a bit."

"Really, that sounds like an interesting change."

"Yeah, for now though, best to keep up appearances."

"Speaking of appearances," Maege said, a look of concern on her face. "Are you ready? To see the King, I mean."

"Whenever he asks for me, I'll come. Simple as that," Joran said plainly.

"And, if he asks after your condition?"

"I'll maneuver my way around. With the King being who he is, I think I'll be able to manage well enough without losing it."

"I hope so, for our house's sake," Maege said before turning to her bed and scooping up her cloak. "So, shall we go and meet our host and prepare for the day?"

"I think we shall," Joran said, acting as the escort for his aunt from her room and down to the Main Hall where the other lords would be waiting.

…

Standing out in the courtyard of Winterfell, positioned near the back of the mass formation of northern lords and serfs, Joran and Maege Mormont patiently stood in wait for the grand arrival of the party of Royals. With everyone standing expectantly in order to show a kind of perfect presentation or picture for what everyone most likely thought of as their betters, the young Mormont felt a little ridiculous. Hands crossed in front of him, trying to put up a stoic front so as to not embarrass his house, Joran kept turning the notion over and over in his head as to what the real purpose was for such a visit north by the King and his family. And why he had to look like a groomed dog awaiting his master's arrival to the house.

In a broad sense, Joran didn't owe anything to the King, or any southerner for that matter. What had Robert done for him that would require such obedience from a northman like him. He fought a rebellion to overthrow the Mad King. Sure, from what he read on the matter in his early years with Maester Samn, Joran new that Aerys was a crazy tyrant through and through. But that reign would've ended regardless of Robert's actions. He fought against the treasonous Greyjoys, who would dare rise up against him in rebellion, calling for secession, and crushed them without a second thought. That didn't really change the few random Ironborn raids that Joran himself had personally crushed, each time a man from the Islands thought he could be salty enough to try and attack Bear Island. Where was the King while he protected the smallfolk of his home? Drinking and whoring most likely.

So, why even bother being loyal to or let alone respect a man who did less than shit?

In this crazy world, Joran didn't really know.

The sound of trumpets recalling him from his personal thoughts, Joran looked on as the Royal Party began to pour in through the gates and into the Winterfell courtyard.

At the head of the column were guards from both of the houses Baratheon and Lannister, given the differing sets of armor they wore and the banners that were held aloft by a few of them. After the guardsmen, rode in who Joran assumed to be the golden-haired Prince Joffrey Baratheon, who was escorted by a few of the Kingsguard and Sandor Clegane, or The Hound as he was better known. Able to mark the large man out by his helm, which resembled the head of a snarling dog with its fangs bared for the world, Joran wondered why a killer such as The Hound would even bother with such a visual representation of feral savagery as the party continued to flow in.

Next in came a wheelhouse that was decorated with mostly the red and gold colors of House Lannister, which Joran figured to house the Queen and her younger children, no doubt in the most comfortable manners possible for such a long trip. And finally, King Robert Baratheon, atop a black stallion and flanked by Kingsguard, rode into the courtyard. Upon his appearance, everyone within the space, knelt to him, including Joran, though rather slowly.

Keeping his head down and masked face as invisible as he could, Joran realized that, given his prior thoughts, he felt really uncomfortable kneeling.

Becoming at ease when the silent order to rise had been given and everyone began to stand back up, Joran watched from his place in the back as Robert and Eddard exchanged their fond greetings to each other. They seemed like brothers the way they smiled and spoke to one another, to which the young Mormont could find a mutual understanding on the feeling of comradery between shield brothers, men who had fought at each other's backs for years. He had that same relationship with a few of his own men, most prominent among them being Garrett Snow and Arthur Swift.

While the two men spoke though, Joran allowed his eyes to wander and found that they landed upon the Queen exiting her carriage with her children in tow.

For an older woman, Joran thought, with the birthing of three pups under her belt, she looks as good as spring.

Noting her appearance and making a mental reminder to rub it into Arthur when he got back home, Joran's eyes then turned from the Queen towards who he assumed to be her twin, Jaime Lannister, as he removed his Kingsguard helm.

Having already figured the southern warrior to be pretty, Joran wondered if his blade was as good as everyone said it was whenever the Lion of Lannister was mentioned in conversation. Then, the young Mormont's thoughts wandered to what would happen if he were to test those seemingly fabled skills against his own. Joran had never lost and, as far as he was aware, neither had Jaime. It would be an interesting fight, but, in Joran's experience, the fighter who didn't play fair would always win.

And, considering his own strengths in a fight, Joran knew that his inner monster would be more than capable of giving the Lannister a run for his money.

Once the introductions between the King and the Stark family were concluded, Robert pulled Eddard away to go pay his respects to what, Joran didn't know. Then, after the two men left, the royal family were shown to their apartments to rest from their journey by the Stark Household, and then the Northern Lords were dismissed until the feast that was without a doubt, set for later that evening.

Given the fact that his legs were getting tired from standing around for such a long period of time, Joran was elated, even thankful, to have the chance to get away from all the pomp.

There were many things that came to mind when it came to Mormonts and standing. Joran doubted that standing in wait for people who didn't respect you was one of them.

…

Waiting at least an hour with Maege after the arrival of the Royal Party, talking with her and constantly promising that he'd behave, Joran soon became tired of just sitting and decided to get some fresh air in the castle's training yard. Going back to his room, he checked on Osha and satisfied that she was as comfortable as he cared for her to be traded his fine clothes for ones that would be more practical for the exercise he wanted to get in for the day, which consisted of a black gambeson with a wool shirt underneath and plain pants for his legs. Seeing no need to bring his axe along, Joran left it and made his way through the castle, his masked face drawing the eye of many southern soldiers as he did.

When he finally exited the keep and into the training yard, Joran, taking in a mouthful of fresh, cool northern air, looked around to make sure he was the only man there. Usually preferring to spar alone, given him being very prone to anger, the young Mormont felt a sinking feeling when he saw that he wasn't alone in the yard. There was a tall, black haired boy out there hitting a practice dummy with a training sword, rather vigorously.

Seeing that there was no way around it, considering he didn't want to go back into the castle after walking all the way through it to get to the yard, Joran conceded to simply avoiding any contact with the other boy while he took the edge off on a wooden dummy.

Finding one that was close to a wooden bench and a rack full of dull training swords, Joran, grabbing one such sword, began to warm up is limbs for the work he intended for the dummy.

After warming up, Joran faced the dummy and taking a stance, approached it and began to strike it. High, low, middle, arm, shoulder, head, rib, it was a constant flow of movement that he knew well from memory and constant application. Despite the feeling of restraint that he had had since arriving, Joran felt all the tenseness flow off of him and he became freer in those minutes than he had in the past few days.

But, before he could fully lose himself entirely to the calm flow of his own movements, that were his own rather than his true self's, Joran noticed that the black-haired boy was watching him. And when he realized he was caught staring, the boy started to walk away towards the castle.

"Oy," Joran called out through his scarf, causing the boy to stop and turn back to him. "Don't let me stop you from practicing lad."

"Forgive me, My Lord," the boy said, dipping his head down out of what looked like respect. "But, the Lady of Winterfell has commanded me to avoid the presence of all the guests."

"Is there something wrong with you, that she would tell you to do so?" Joran asked, looking the boy over again. "Some deformity that would offset a grown man?"

"No, Lord. I'm a bastard."

Realizing that this was another one of Eddard Stark's children that Maege had informed him about, this one being the bastard Jon Snow, Joran merely shrugged and said, "so what? Shouldn't stop a man from maintaining his form in my opinion. And as commendable as keeping to the wishes of the Lady Stark is, that shouldn't keep you from bettering yourself."

Having accepted a few notable bastards into the Oathbound in his time as its leader, Joran didn't really care if a man was a bastard or not, he was still a man and a man's merit was more important than his birth.

Seeming to have caused a dumbfounded look to come over Jon Snow, Joran merely shook his head and turning back to the dummy, he said, "never mind, do what you feel is right."

Engaging the dummy once again, Joran tried not to notice Jon's contemplation on the matter, but he couldn't help his eyes as they kept looking over to the bastard just standing in place, unsure what to do. Eventually, Snow made up his mind to move. But, instead of leaving the yard, or going back to his own dummy, Jon approached Joran as he pummeled the wooden dummy.

Stopping his blade work when Jon was too close for comfort, Joran turned to him and asked, "what?"

Looking as though he had just made a mistake, Jon started to apologize, "forgive me my Lord, I-."

"Don't call me that," Joran said sternly. "I'm no lord. And if the Gods are good, I'll never have to be."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me either. I won't hold it against you for doing something that's naturally respectful to others."

"All right," Jon said, seeming to try and figure out a way to address the man in front of him.

Meeting the other man half way, Joran moved his training sword to his left hand and moving closer to Jon, asked, "do you know who I am?"

"You're Joran Mormont," Jon answered, seeming to know his name already.

"Nice to meet you, Jon Snow," Joran said, offering his right hand to the bastard.

When Jon took the hand, Joran gave it a simple shake and after releasing it said, "there, now you don't have to feel bad about using my actual name. And if you think that you'll offend me because you're a bastard, don't worry, my best friend is a bastard."

It was better to be a blunt and simple man when you meet others rather than one who merely beat around the bush trying to be too kind.

"You have a bastard for a friend?" Jon asked, looking bewildered at the notion of a bastard being friends with a trueborn son of a lord.

"Aye, that's what I said," Joran said with a nod. "All men and women, no matter if they have a last name or not, are welcome to my house, my warband, and to my friendship."

"Warband?"

"The Oahtbound," Joran answered. "And if you say you haven't heard of it, it's because it has only been around for a few years."

Nodding in understanding, Jon remembered that he had something to say and said it, "I was wondering if, I could spar with you."

Confused, Joran looked between Jon and the dummy, and when his eyes fell back on Jon, he asked, "aren't there plenty of others things out here you could hit?"

"Well, yes, but," Jon said, starting to stammer in nervousness. "no disrespect to you, but I want to test myself. And, from what I've heard, you're a great fighter and I think I could learn something from you."

"How long have you been learning to fight?"

"Ever since I was boy."

"Under who?"

"Rodrik Cassel."

"Then there is who you should learn from," Joran said, more for the boy's safety than his benefit. "You know the other name I go by?"

"Aye, I do." Jon answered.

"Then believe me when I tell you this. It's better to learn from someone who won't try and kill you without meaning to. You live a lot longer and you get more from it."

"I understand," Jon said, looking as though Joran just threw a cow pie into his face.

Not wanting to leave the matter at that though and leave the bastard downcast for trying, Joran put a hand on Jon's shoulder and said, "but, I could give you some advice to add on to what Ser Rodrik has already taught you."

The boy's face immediately lighting up, Joran nodded his head to the dummy he was just using and said, "stand in front of the dummy."

Moving aside so Jon could take his spot before the wooden man, Joran watched as Snow took a stance before the dummy.

"Stance looks good," Joran said. "Rodrik ever have you do endurance drills?"

"Everyday."

"Good. How long?"

"Forty-five minutes to an hour."

"Mhm," Joran said, walking around to the other side of Jon. "You ever try going for longer?"

"Sometimes, on my own."

"That's good. Instead of sometimes, I suggest you do it all the time. Make your session go a half hour longer than what it usually is. Work on the small things that Rodrik points out to you during the part of your session where he pays attention to you. Take your mistakes that he finds with a grain of salt and improve on them."

"All right."

"And after you take the time to amend those mistakes, use the rest of that time you take to go further and further build up your swings."

"My swings?"

"Aye, your swings. Hit every angle with at least fifty strokes of your blade, get your muscles even more acquainted with the movements, like they're natural. And don't worry about fluidity while you do these, that comes when you apply them to a sparring partner, which you then apply to a fight."

"All right."

"And as you keep improving, the movements becoming easier, increase the amount of time you apply to correcting what experienced teachers tell you that needs work and increase the volume of strokes to make those muscles stronger."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"It sounds so simple," Jon said, seeming to not believe Joran.

"Believe me, it sounds easy now, but when you apply it, you will realize that it isn't." Joran said this having applied this training method to a part of his daily routine, and knew that it worked. Where he was at currently, he could go for four hours striking nothing but a dummy before he became exhausted.

"When should I start," Jon asked.

"Now, give me fifty. Hard as you can on the dummy."

Jon did as he was told, and Joran counted the strikes.

After hitting the dummy about forty times, Jon, sweating profusely from the exertion and panting heavily, halted his attacks and allowed his sword point to drop into the dirt.

Joran, figuring the other man's arms felt like they were about to fall off, did not reprimand him for letting his guard down and said, "that was pretty good for your first time doing this exercise. I think you should take a quick breather though."

"No, I can keep going," Jon said, even though he didn't look like he could pick the sword back up.

"It'll be alright if you stop. Trust me." Joran said, knowing full well the toll that training like this could take on a man's body.

Taking the other man's advice, Jon nodded and moving over to the nearby bench, took a seat.

Joran, not desiring to let the dummy have a break, took Jon's place before the wooden man. And, taking his own stance, focused on his unmoving opponent and attacked it.

Going faster than Jon had when he had first began striking the dummy, Joran was relentless in his sword strokes. Offering it everything he had, each blow of the dull steel longsword he landed sent vibrations through his arms that transferred to his shoulders and upper back. Well acquainted with the sensations of pain, Joran, enjoying them, never let up in his assault force or speed. And, before he could reach his own fifty strikes, his blows started to shatter the various parts of the dummy. Its arms were cloven from the wooden body. Then off came its wooden head. And finally, Joran's strikes chopped the thick wooden pole that was left, down to nothing but a stump about as tall as his waist.

His arms, shoulders, back, and lungs burning from the intense assault, Joran maintained his intense focus and kept his berserk self from coming forth from the rush the exercise gave him. And instead of allowing his training sword to drop to the dirt, he shouldered it while maintaining his grip upon the hilt, before turning to an onlooking Jon.

Noticing the other man's shocked expression, Joran said casually, "looks like I broke him."

"I'll say," Jon managed to reply. "How did you-."

"I trained," Joran answered. "I kept hitting the dummy as hard as I could until my arms felt like they would fall off, in whatever free time I had available to me. And, I corrected any mistakes that others may have found in my form. The first method was how I was able to break a wooden man. The second, well, that helped me become a strong fighter."

"Woah."

Moving over to the bench, Joran sat down next to Jon and allowed himself a little rest before making a decision of still going with his personal training or just calling it and go back to waiting for the party to start.

"Could I get that strong?" Jon asked Joran.

"Aye. Any man could get that strong," Joran answered while looking at Jon. "They just have to want to become that strong. Maintain that focused mindset and you'll be where I'm at in no time."

"Well, isn't this a surprise."

Turning from Jon to look back over to the keep, Joran beheld Rodrik Cassel walking into the yard. And he wasn't alone.

As the group came closer, Joran discerned at least one familiar face among them to be that of Bran Stark. The few others he didn't know, and others that he could put names to, having seen them earlier that day, and they were Joffrey Baratheon, Tommen Baratheon, and Sandor Clegane without his snarling hound helm. The three other figures with the group consisted of a small boy who was younger than Bran but shared some resemblance to him, and two older boys who looked to be around Jon Snow's age. Putting two and two together, Joran figured the young lad to be Rickon Stark, the youngest of the Stark children, Rob Stark, the first trueborn son to Eddard, and the other lad to be the family's ward, Theon Greyjoy.

"Hello Joran," Bran Stark called out from next to the old master at arms.

Seeing the young boy wave at him, Joran waved back in greeting and said, "hello Bran, it is nice to see you again."

"I see you have become acquainted with a few of my charges, master Joran," Rodrik said as the group came closer. And, upon noticing the now stump of a dummy, the old man remarked, "and it appears you've been keeping yourself busy."

"Just trying to keep myself entertained before the party starts is all, Rodrik," Joran said as he stood up from the bench. "But I think I've had enough to last me for a time. I'll leave you to manage your charges without any disturbance on my part."

"I appreciate that," Rodrik said with a grateful nod.

"But Joran, can't you stay, at least for a moment to watch us all spar?" Bran begged expectantly.

"Sorry Bran," Joran said while taking in the others of the group. Or, at least those who would want trouble with him. The first among those being Theon Greyjoy, who without a doubt knew Joran's reputation, and might stir the pot trying to prove himself better than the young Mormont. Second, though perhaps not by his own desire, was the Hound. If Joran didn't take his leave fast enough, Joffrey, his reputation preceding him, may order Clegane to put on a show for him and fight The Berserker. So, in order to avoid such drama, the young Mormont resigned to leave without incident. "But I'm tired and will need a rest before the party starts later."

"Oh, all right," Bran said, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

Jon, following Joran's lead and not desiring to embarrass House Stark by being present among the highborn children, also rose and walked with the young Mormont back to the castle. Every step he took though, Joran could feel the eyes of the others on his back. And, as far as he knew, they were either old enough to know his reputation and be wary, or didn't know and wondered why he wore a mask. Just like everyone else did, which didn't bother Joran in the slightest. Or, at least that's what he told himself.

…

Once the sun had finally set over the horizon in The North, the feast held in honor of the Royal Family had begun. The Great Hall of Winterfell was full of many tables that sat all who had been invited to the castle to receive King Robert respectfully. All through the hall and even beyond in the lesser corridors of the castle, laughter and merriment could be heard as the guests of House Stark ate and drank their fill happily. Couples danced to the sound of music played by the local minstrels, the men bragged and boasted of their achievements over the past year while women and girls traded their gossip and lies that were heard only in a day.

In Joran's mind, this was quite the party indeed.

Having vacated his seat at the lower tables beside his Aunt Maege after the last course of the extravagant dinner had been served, Joran, his legs now thoroughly stretched, leaned against a pillar of stone with his arms crossed. Looking over the proceedings, his form like one of the many shadows cast about the stone hall from the flickering torch and candlelight from the walls and chandeliers of the ceiling, the young Mormont's eyes were like that of a caged animal looking for an escape from the chaos in the room. As much as everyone else was having fun, Joran was not, and until the chaos ended, he was to remain there, as per the wishes of his aunt with the King's desire to meet him in mind.

With the thought of the King come to mind, Joran looked across the way to Robert and found that, while wearing his golden crown and clothes made of the finest materials, he was among the lower tables of the gathering. Having been unable to see the man earlier when the Royal procession had first arrived, Mormont took the sight of the once famed warrior in.

Although his black hair and great beard did not appear to show any signs of grey in it to note his age, Robert appeared to be a very heavy-set man of fat, rather than a giant built of enough muscle to throw around a massive Warhammer. No doubt, his muscles had given way to fat and flab over the course of time with no use, as the King was wanting those days to only eat, drink, and, from what was known, fuck at his leisure. And inspecting the man, Joran was disappointed that nothing seemed to remain of the warrior, and he was rather amazed at the same time that Robert could fit into any article of clothing given his girth.

But then again, when you can afford the best seamsters in the Seven Kingdoms, I suppose anything is possible, Joran thought scornfully before watching as King Robert Baratheon pulled a serving woman onto his lap and proceed to bury his hairy face into her cleavage. Which, the woman didn't seem to mind in the slightest.

"I swear," came a voice from Joran's left that almost made him jump. "The King's grown since I saw him last."

Turning to the sound of the familiar voice, Joran put it to a face and beheld Benjen Stark standing not a few feet from him, wearing his black Night's Watch clothing and sporting a black beard that gave his wolfish features a more pronounced appearance.

"As I live and breathe," Joran said through his scarf. "Benjen, how are you?"

"I'm still alive, that's a start," Benjen said as Joran pulled him into a hearty hug. And when he pulled away, he looked the younger man over and said, "Gods, lad. You seem to have grown three times the size you were last I saw you."

"Just like the King I'd wager," Joran said jokingly, causing Benjen to laugh. "Aye, it's been no thanks to my aunt's methods of feeding her sleuth of cubs," Joran said, patting his stomach comically.

"I bet," Benjen said with a fond nod. "How have you been?"

"Well," Joran answered before returning to leaning against the pillar. "Good to say the least of it."

"I've been hearing the name you've been making for yourself on Bear Island, it's so big it's reached all the way to Castle Black," Benjen said over the din of music and laughter. "Fighting Ironborn and Wildlings, practically doing the Night's Watch's job for us by keeping all those buggers who sail past the Shadow Tower off the mainland, in regards to the latter."

"Only the ones who've been stupid or desperate enough to land on my island," Joran said in response to the Stark's words.

"And, how's your, condition, been treating you," Benjen asked, almost cautiously.

"For one, I've learned how to better keep it under control now," Joran answered. "Been finding it helpful to use whenever battle is afoot. Only problem I've had is the few times I can't come back from it. Which hasn't been too often an occurrence mind you."

"I'm impressed," Benjen said. "Considering what I saw you do the last time we were in the same room together, you sound to have come a long way since that long night making sure you didn't break out and start killing everyone."

"Well, I owe it all to my family, Benjen," Joran said, a small smile forming underneath his mask. "They gave me enough motivation to learn to control that part of me and put it to good use."

"And I'm happy to see that you've grown into a fine man, Joran," Benjen said, putting a kind hand onto the younger man's shoulder. "And for what it's worth, Jeor is proud too."

As Benjen removed his hand from his shoulder to look out across the hall at the merriment, Joran thought back to when he had first met the older man.

It had been back when Joran had almost tried to kill Dacey after a sparring match that she instigated. When she had been bleeding and Maester Lowther had been trying his hardest to keep her alive, the young deformed boy that he had once been, so ashamed of what he had done, ran away from the Keep and had escaped to the mainland with full intentions of joining his grandfather at Castle Black and take the Black. Upon getting there though, Jeor had questioned Joran and told him that he couldn't allow the boy to join the Night's Watch. His grandfather's desire to give him a chance at life away from lifelong servitude had sparked an anger in the boy then, because he believed that he didn't deserve to be out in the world. Especially if he only hurt people. So enraged, Joran had attacked Jeor with his fists rather than a weapon, and had only stopped when he was restrained by brothers of the Watch. Chained up in his room, the young Mormont was forced to calm down over night, and when his grandfather spoke to him again, he was convinced to leave Castle Black and go back home. And Joran did, once he had apologized to Jeor and Benjen for causing so much trouble for them.

Then, upon remembering his grandfather, Joran brought up the topic of his journey north with the Black Brother.

"Actually, now that you mention him, I have been planning on heading up north to Castle Black."

"Is that so," Benjen said in surprise. "I thought you would've learned the first time you tried joining the Watch to avoid it lad?"

"You mistake me, Benjen," Joran said in order to put the Ranger's mind at ease. "I'm not fixing to take the Black. I actually need to talk to Jeor about something that's come up back home."

"Oh, and what might that be," Benjen asked.

"I've come into some information," Joran answered. "Information that will keep me up at night if I don't hear its authenticity from Jeor himself."

"Perhaps I can put your mind at ease," Benjen said. "Keep you from wasting a trip north to the Wall only to go all the way back to Bear Island."

"I appreciate the help Benjen, but I'll need to find out from Jeor," Joran said in earnest.

"Well let me at least try to answer before you right me off, lad. Do you a favor," Benjen said, not taking no for an answer.

"All right," Joran relented. "I've heard that the Wildlings have a new King Beyond the Wall. A Mance Rayder, who was a brother of the Watch. Is that true?"

"Aye, it is," Benjen calmly answered with a nod of his head. "Mance was one of ours before he left us to join the Wildling Clans, considering he was one born of their blood. He is now their king as it would seem, and my gut tells me he won't be wasting any time gathering an army to him to try and cross the Wall."

Having the same feeling, Joran kept the feeling to himself and presented another question to the man. "There's also something else, Benjen. There have been reports of the dead rising beyond the Wall. Of White Walkers being seen in the dark forests beyond."

"And where'd these reports come from?"

Feeling no reason to lie to Benjen, Joran answered him plainly. "A raiding party came to Bear Island a week back. Me and my lads took care of most of them. One of them though thought to be useful and she spilt her guts out about Mance and the dead rising."

"For a wildling facing the executioner, she was honest," Benjen said before reluctantly going on. "Things have been a right mess up north. From the Shadow Tower to Eastwatch by the Sea, lads have been disappearing in all areas north of the Wall. I won't say it was Others who did it, but I've been unable to find the cause of it, and as far as I'm concerned, whether it is the Wildlings or something worse, either way it isn't good."

"Seems like grim work up there," Joran said. "Maybe I could be of some service while I'm visiting my grandfather. Give you an extra set of eyes to go looking for monsters."

"As much as I would appreciate that, I'd rather not put you in harms way. I know you could handle yourself, but up there it's a different kind of war. And as a favor to your grandfather, I'd handle the business myself instead of mixing you up into it."

"I suppose you're right," Joran appreciated the thought of Benjen caring, he just didn't appreciate the lack of confidence.

Benjen then patted Joran's shoulder and said with a small smile, "talk of evil business aside, it'll be good for the Old Bear to see you again. Give his heart some warmth in the coldness of Castle Black."

Leaving the subject alone, Joran said, "I know it will. I can't wait to see him."

"I know the feeling," Benjen said, gesturing with an open hand to where Eddard Stark was standing across the hall, looking upon the festivities. "I best go over and say hello to Neddy over there. Looks like a bear in a trap."

"Go on, I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."

"I'll be seeing you lad," Benjen said before moving on to his brother and leaving Joran alone to brood.

"Where's that ugly bastard Mormont at!"

Forced back to the party at the bellow of his name from the center of the hall, Joran turned to the source and found the King sitting beside Greatjon Umber and Rickard Karstark. With one arm around the servant he had been fondling earlier and the other gripping a mug of beer in his hand, the older man waved the mug around, sloshing beer onto the floor, inviting the masked man over to join him when his eyes landed on him.

"Get over here, boy!"

Looking over to the place at the lower tables where his aunt was sitting, Joran sought Maege's help in placating the bad situation he knew would come by being around a drunk old man like Robert. But she only shrugged in answer to his silent plea, unable to do much considering the fact that a king was higher in authority than a lord. So, taking the situation with a grain of salt, or five, and bracing himself, Joran moved across the crowded floor to where Robert was sitting, everyone in his way quickly clearing out of his path.

Coming to stand before the King, Joran, smelling the alcohol in the air around the drunk man, crossed his hands in front of him and knelt down before Robert and said, "your Grace."

"Get up, lad. I didn't call you over here to look at you kneel in front of me," Robert said, waving his mug up and down to gesture the younger man to rise, spilling more wine in the process.

Standing back up, Joran crossed his hands in front of him and remained silent, waiting for the King to say what he wanted to so he could then leave.

"I hear from Umber and Karstark here…that when it comes to fighting nowadays…you're the man north of the Neck to talk to," Robert said through his beard, his voice slurred from the amount of drink in his system.

Directing brief glances to the Greatjon and Rickard, men who he had only just made acquaintances with yesterday, Joran understood that they would know about his reputation. That they would talk about him behind his back, while not surprising, was rather strange. Joran didn't think that his reputation was all that entertaining a topic.

"I suppose they wouldn't be wrong to presume as much, your Grace."

"Heh," Robert looked Joran up and down with a gaze that almost felt familiar to the younger man: a predator judging its prey. "I also hear that you're an ugly son of a bitch. People say that you're as hairy as a bear, have teeth like one, and the face of one as well."

Wondering what Robert was playing at, Joran, not taking the bate to snap too quickly, said in agreement, "what you've heard is true, your Grace. I am disfigured and seen as abnormal to others."

"I would like to see such a face."

"My face isn't one to be witnessed in person, your Grace," Joran said, immediately trying to play defense while appearing compliant. "Every time someone looks at me without my mask on, it causes them to get sick. And since you have been drinking-."

"You saying I got a weak stomach for drink, boy?" Robert demanded.

Noting the anger in the older man's voice, Joran quickly said, "no, your Grace. I'm just saying that I wouldn't want to unsettle you."

"I bet I've seen a lot of things uglier than your face, boy," Robert growled, growing rather impatient with the younger man. "Now, you take off that scarf, or I'll have Clegane come over here and take it off for me."

Turning his gaze towards the large armored man at the back of the hall, Joran saw that Sandor Clegane, burned face in broad view of everyone, stood resolute as a statue. Or a dog waiting for its master's order to strike.

Not wanting to disrupt the party, Joran turned back to the king and knew that, in order to keep his promise and keep things civil, he had to take off his mask.

"All right," Joran said plainly before raising his hands to untie his scarf. Reaching up to the back of his neck, he started undoing the knot he had tied earlier that day, easily noticing the eyes of the king and two lords on him, rather expectantly. Which, given what they've heard, Joran wasn't surprised that they were.

Feeling the knot loosen and the long piece of wool begin to fall from his face, Joran took hold of the scarf in a tight fist and looking the King in the eye, he waited. Waited for the laughter, waited for the horror, or at most, an expression of terror.

What he got wasn't surprising.

King Robert Baratheon, laughed at him.

"So, this is what all the fuss is about? He…looks like any other hairy bastard with…a split lip. Ha!"

Breathing heavily through his nose, Joran, his eyes switching between the now somber Umber and Karstark, who kept their mouths shut, the barmaid, who seemed shocked beyond all belief, and the King, who was beside himself with giggles, kept composed and calm. He knew that he couldn't lose his mind, not here, not now, he couldn't let the beast out. If he did, a lot of people would die until he was stopped, and he couldn't let that happen. So, Joran let Robert have his laugh and he refused to look around the room to anyone else looking at him, he refused to see anymore expressions that would set him off.

Robert's laughter dying down, Joran, holding steady, said, "if that'll be all, your Grace, I think that-."

"Keep it off," Robert said before setting his mug on the table top behind him and pouring a fresh one. When the cup was full, he picked it up and offered it to Joran. "Drink with me."

"I don't think that is wise-."

"Drink, your…King commands it."

Seeing no way out for him, Joran took the cup from the King and took a sip. Having never drank before, he had always made a point to avoid anything that would make him lose his focus. Tasting the alcohol now, Joran immediately disliked the sour concoction, but managed to not spit it out.

"Have a seat," Robert said before tapping the maid on her rump and telling her to pull up a chair for Joran.

Sitting before Robert, beside the Greatjon and Rickard, Joran took another sip of what he figured to be wine and waited for the King to continue with his babble.

"Tell me, Mormont…or Joran. You don't mind if I call you Joran, do you?"

"Doesn't really matter does it," Joran answered, feeling miserable with his face out for everyone to look at, even though he refused to look around at all the eyes.

"Well, Joran," Robert went on, ignoring the sullen man before him. "Tell me about your work."

"My, work?"

"Aye, your work," Robert said, while raising his cup to be refilled by the maid. "Must be taxing, defending the realm from wildlings and pirates."

"Ah," Joran said, realizing the king wanted to know about the work he specifically excelled in. "It is indeed taxing, to say the least about it."

"Then say more," Robert said before sipping from his cup.

"What would you like to know, your Grace," Joran asked.

Lowering his cup from his face, Robert swallowed and said, "how's about we start with something simple. When was your first time?"

"My first time?"

"First time you killed a man, boy."

Wanting nothing more than to throw his cup of wine into Robert's face for asking such a thing, Joran kept his composure and taking a sip of his drink, he looked at the monarch with eyes of iron and answered him.

"I was four and ten. My aunt, the Lady Maege, decided that it was high time I got acquainted with Bear Island proper and took me with her on a trip across the island. It was part patrol for brigands, part visit to each village and hamlet under our protection." Joran didn't mention that with each village they had come to, he had been rather frightened to be seen by other folk, even though at the time they held his aunt in high regards so they wouldn't talk bad about him while they were there.

"It was after the third, that we found ourselves traversing through a denser part of the island. The road was flanked on both sides by and army of trees it seemed then. Wasn't until we were well in when we found out we weren't alone." Joran took a long sip from his wine cup, hoping that the drink would numb any sudden excitement he may get from the memory of the first time he let everything wash out.

Removing the cup from his lips, he returned his eyes to the King, who was waiting expectantly with a glare of anticipation, and Joran continued. "The guardsmen we had with us, Jason and Tom were their names, were the first to go. Felled by arrows they were. Next thing I know, I'm bucked from my pony, I hear men shouting from the trees, feet running, and Maege roaring like a madwoman. When I look up from where I had fallen on the ground, I see her fighting off three men at a time, while a fourth grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and hauled me to my feet.

"His arm around my neck and a knife at my cheek, he warned her that he would kill me if she didn't stop. Reluctantly, Maege did, and I watched as the other men began to beat her down into the dirt with their fists and clubs."

Feeling his blood race, Joran took another sip of wine. "I couldn't stand watching them hurt her. I struggled and writhed in the man's grip. Got free for a moment, but the man gave me the back of his hand, put me flat on my back.

"And after he struck me, something inside me…woke up."

The images of that day flashed through his mind like a rolling storm. "I rushed to my feet and leapt at my captor before he could bring his knife to bear to protect himself. Took hold of him and sank my teeth into his throat fast as I pleased." Joran said this with a smile to show off his long canines to his King in an evil grin that was half his, half The Berserker's. "He screamed, and screamed some more when I tore the patch of meet in my mouth from his neck. The man fell down, and without too much thought, I grabbed his knife and rushed to the onlooking bandits to save Maege.

"They were strong, they were big, they had clubs in their hands and knives at their belts. But I was possessed by something fierce. One of them stepped before the others, swung his club in a hard-downward strike to bash my brains out. I moved without meaning to, out of the way and with a simple hop and thrust, I plunged the knife I had in and out of his exposed throat before he could know what had happened. Almost felt like it was a casual thing.

"When the next one came, he didn't have a mind to knock me out no, he went straight for the kill, swinging his club and knife at me like his life depended on it, which at that point, it did. But I was a small, moving target. I didn't know how I was doing it, but I dodged everyone of his swings and every opening he had, I took with a quick peck of the knife in my hand. Legs, body, arms, every opening. He got tired eventually, bleeding everywhere, and I ended him.

"Turning to the last, who was struggling with Maege at this point, I ran up behind him and I leapt upon his back and stabbed him over and over again." As Joran recalled, he thought of himself like a little demon, screaming and laughing with each downward swing of his arm and each speckle of blood that made it to his face.

"He fell down on top of me. Maege got the dead man off of me and we rode back to the hamlet we had come from." Joran didn't mention how he had almost tried to punch the lights out of his aunt when she came into his view. And thinking back on it, if the knife hadn't been stuck in the bones of the bandit, he probably would've tried knifing her too. Luckily though, it was only his hands and he got tired out so fast, the rage taking its toll, Maege had to throw his sleeping form over his pony to get him back to safety.

"By the Gods," Rickard Karstark said, his eyes wide with shock.

"Damn," Greatjon Umber growled, looking at Joran with eyes hard as stone.

"You ever find out who they were," Robert asked, his mouth agape and his eyes giving Joran a hint of something he had never thought he would get from the old bastard. Respect.

"Aye," Joran said, turning his eyes away from the older men to look down into the wine in his cup. Looking at his hairy, disfigured face, he said, "they were farmers and fishermen. Desiring to only ransom us for money so they could get food for their families. And I gave them more than they bargained for." It was a lie, but Joran figured there'd be no reason in talking about how he and Maege had found out that those same men were the brothers and fathers of men that his father Jorah had sold into slavery only a year before they thought to try and get their revenge. He had enough trouble talking about himself, he didn't want to have Jorah come up and have to talk about him too. So, with that, Joran, at the end of his rope, downed the rest of his wine, stood up and walked out of the Great Hall, scarf in one hand and empty cup in the other.

…

Whew, my goodness, this chapter was long and needed. If this chapter seemed like Joran was getting too self-conscious about himself, I don't care because it gives him some depth as a character. Going into this chapter I always used to wonder back when I was brainstorming the rewrite how Joran would fair if he had been summoned to Winterfell to receive the King, I wanted to give him interactions with a few members of the Stark Household, specifically Bran and Jon, I did want to give some interaction with Joffrey, Theon, and Sandor, but figured I shouldn't because it would have led to unnecessary filler material that in the end I could just use later on, so don't worry, I plan on Joran going head to head with at least two of these characters and you can all already figure who they are. Thank you for your patience, give me some feedback, positive will immediately be accepted, constructive criticism will be mightily appreciated, and any negative comments I will just ignore. You can have your own opinions, I just won't care about them if they try to bring me down. Good night my fellow Fanficiton readers and writers until next time.