06x09, 'Battle of the Bastards'

Time becomes incalculable during the long weeks at sea.

With no coin to his name, Jorah doesn't have the privilege of a cabin of his own. That means he must spend his time sequestered away in the corner, glowering at anyone who might wander near to deter them from approaching. He doesn't want to run any risk of accidentally infecting the whole population with greyscale.

He sleeps when he can, exhausted by the hours of idleness. Whenever he has the chance, he checks that patch, scaled ivy that creeps ever closer to his shoulder, like a snake binding its prey.

In the hours when he isn't contemplating his own mortality, he thinks of Daenerys. Wonders if she's made it back to Meereen yet. Wonders what her plans are now.

He's fairly confident that she will set sail for Westeros soon. Her numbers have swollen significantly, and there is little more for her to achieve in Meereen. He knows that she won't leave until she is certain that it can be stabilised, but she was never meant to be there forever. No doubt she will leave it in capable hands, though Jorah doesn't know who. Perhaps Tyrion Lannister will come up with a clever solution, or—and Jorah thinks on this hopefully—he will remain behind himself. He wouldn't complain if he never had to hear another one of the dwarf's jokes ever again.

Whatever the case, he knows Daenerys will succeed.

The thought of her is the one bright spot he still has left. The twinkle in her eyes when she finds something amusing, the silver-gold of her hair, perfumed with scented oils; the rare sound of her laughter cracking her queenly veneer…

Those thoughts must sustain him until they dock.

As the sun crests the horizon, Jorah Mormont steps onto Westerosi soil for the first time in years, breathing in the heavy scents of salt and sand that have never truly left his memory.

He is halfway to a home that he isn't sure feels that way any longer.