"Show him in."
Moments later, a tall man with broad shoulders walked into the brightly lit hall.
He looked to be in his forties. His face was weathered by the elements, etched with a fatigue and melancholy that seemed carved into the bone. He wore a suit of heavily worn mail under a faded surcoat.
Stitched over his heart was the image of a standing black bear.
An exiled knight.
The man stepped into the hall, his gaze landing first on Daenerys. When he saw the signature silver hair and violet eyes, a complex flicker of emotion passed through his grey eyes.
He had already heard the rumors from Illyrio. Daenerys and Viserys had been taken by a mysterious young man—one who supposedly commanded a dragon. It had taken considerable tracking and inquiry to find this place.
He dropped to one knee.
"Jorah Mormont. I offer you my service, my Queen."
Daenerys instinctively glanced at Lynn. Seeing no objection in his eyes, she spoke softly.
"Rise, Ser Mormont."
Jorah Mormont stood up, his attention finally shifting to the young man beside Daenerys.
This is the mystery man Illyrio wrote of? The one with the three-headed dragon?
He looked far too young.
Jorah studied Lynn discreetly, trying to find some trace of the power required to command a mythical beast.
But a second later, his gaze froze.
He stared intently at the longsword hanging at Lynn's waist.
The grip was wrapped in black leather, but the pommel was a snarling wolf's head, carved from pale weirwood. Two red garnets served as its eyes, gleaming with a ghostly light in the candle flame.
Valyrian steel.
Longclaw.
Boom—!
Jorah felt his mind go blank.
How is this possible?
That sword...
That is the ancestral blade of House Mormont. It has been passed down for generations. Why is it here?
Why is it hanging at the waist of this stranger?!
Years ago, when he had brought shame upon his House by selling poachers into slavery, he had fled the North in a panic. He had left the sword behind on Bear Island, feeling he no longer had the honor to wield it.
Later, his father had taken it to the Wall, hoping it would guard the North forever.
It should be at the Wall!
In my father's hands!
"That sword..."
Jorah pointed a trembling finger at the blade on Lynn's hip.
"Where... where did you get that?"
Lynn didn't answer immediately. He simply looked calmly at the man before him, observing the mix of shock, shame, and pain on his face.
"A gift," Lynn finally said. "From the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."
Jorah swayed as if the strength had been drained from his legs, stumbling back a step.
The Lord Commander... Father...
Father gave the ancestral sword to an outsider?
Why?
A massive wave of panic and bitterness washed over him—the feeling of being abandoned, replaced.
"Who are you?"
Jorah looked up, his grey eyes bloodshot.
"Jorah Mormont. Heir to Bear Island. The only son of Jeor Mormont, the 'Old Bear,'" Lynn didn't answer the question, but instead stripped Jorah's history bare.
"For the sake of a vain woman, you broke the law by selling poachers to a Tyroshi slaver."
"A fugitive who was disowned by his own father, hunted by Ned Stark, and fled in panic to Essos."
Every word Lynn spoke was a dagger twisting in Jorah's deepest wounds. The shame he had tried so hard to bury over the years was now exposed, bloody and raw, under the lamplight.
Jorah's face turned ghastly pale. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
He had thought he was sent by Illyrio to guide and monitor these people. But now, standing before this young man, he felt like a jester stripped of his motley. He had no secrets left.
Daenerys was stunned, too. She looked at Lynn in surprise, then at the desolate knight standing before them. Judging by Jorah's reaction, every word was true.
Jorah's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his own sword—a warrior's reflex.
But he let go just as quickly, his expression bitter.
Resist?
With what?
The young man hadn't even summoned his rumored dragon. A few sentences were enough to shatter Jorah's dignity and will.
He expected mockery next. Or perhaps death.
But Lynn's next words left him completely frozen.
"Your father speaks of you often."
Lynn's voice was devoid of emotion.
"He says he misses the days on Bear Island."
"He misses you every single day."
It was a lie.
But for an exile tortured by guilt for years, that lie was sweeter than the finest honey.
Jorah's eyes instantly welled with tears.
"He hopes that the heir of House Mormont will take up Longclaw once more and fight for the honor of his House," Lynn continued.
"Instead of serving as a spy in the shadows for a fat merchant, wagging your tail for a pardon that may never come."
"Instead of pledging loyalty to a Beggar King who would sell his own sister for an army."
Lynn's words shredded Jorah's last layer of pretense.
Yes, he had been working for the Spider, Varys, in King's Landing. spying on the Targaryen siblings in exchange for a chance to go home. It was a filthy trade.
"There is no place for you in Westeros as you are now, Ser Jorah," Lynn said, stepping forward until his tall shadow loomed over the knight.
"But I can offer you a new choice."
"Swear your fealty to me."
"Not to the Targaryen princess. To me."
Lynn's voice echoed in the empty hall.
"Help me take this city. Help me liberate every slave within these walls."
"When it is done, I will petition the Warden of the North to pardon your crimes."
"And if they refuse, I will pardon you myself—in the name of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and the King Beyond the Wall."
"You can live in the Gift, or you can return to Bear Island with your head held high and reclaim your father's seat."
"Perhaps..." Lynn paused.
"You might even take back your family's Valyrian steel sword from my own hands."
Jorah Mormont's mind was reeling.
Home.
A pardon.
Reclaiming Longclaw.
These were things he hadn't dared to dream of.
He looked at the young man. He wasn't mad like Viserys, nor did he reek of coin and grease like Illyrio. He was calm, powerful, and possessed a force that could destroy the world, yet he was willing to challenge a city-state for the sake of slaves he didn't know.
He had the aura of a true leader—something Jorah hadn't seen in a long time.
Perhaps... this is a King worth following.
Jorah looked at Lynn, then at the sword on his hip—the symbol of his family's honor and his own shame.
The last of his hesitation vanished.
Slowly, he dropped to one knee again.
This time, it wasn't out of protocol. It was true submission.
His metal greaves clanked sharply against the cold marble floor.
"I, Jorah... Jorah of House Mormont... pledge my sword, my life, and my broken honor to you."
His voice was rough, but incredibly solemn.
"From this day forth, I shall be your loyal blade, cutting through the thorns that bar your path."
"Jorah stands ready to serve."
Lynn looked down at the man kneeling before him, and a faint smile finally touched his lips.
He had secured a guide who knew the lay of the land in Essos, spoke the languages, and knew how to fight.
"Good. Rise, Ser Jorah."
Lynn reached out and helped him up.
"You won't regret the choice you made today."
"Your father has stepped down as Lord Commander. He's off enjoying his retirement. I've arranged for brothers of the Watch to ensure his safety, so you have no need to worry on that front."
"If we move fast enough, you might even make it back to Westeros in time to walk with him through the final leg of his journey."
"Don't wait until he's dead to have regrets," Lynn said, patting him on the shoulder.
The people of Bear Island, men and women alike, were warriors worth ten mainlanders. Not just because of their strength, but because of their spirit.
Barren lands don't breed weak men; they forge unbreakable wills. That was the real reason Lynn wanted Jorah.
Jorah stood up. He felt as though an invisible shackle had been shattered. He felt lighter.
"Now, I have a task for you."
Lynn turned, looking out the window at the city lurking in the night like a dormant beast.
"I want to buy every single Unsullied in Astapor."
Jorah paused, stunned, then realized Lynn's intent. He wanted to secure the army without bloodshed.
But...
"My Lord, the price of the Unsullied... it is astronomical," Jorah warned. "Even Magister Illyrio couldn't afford to buy them all at once."
Lynn turned his head.
"Tomorrow, go to the Good Master, Kraznys mo Nakloz."
"Tell him I have enough coin to trade for every Unsullied he has."
"Set up the meeting."
---