GOT: Heir of Dreadfort

Seeing that Jon had made up his mind, Domeric stood up and gave him a light pat on the shoulder.

"My domain at Lonely Mountain could use a fine young man like you. If you ever change your mind, you're welcome to come find me."

"Thank you, Ser Domeric."

After pouring his heart out, Jon felt considerably lighter, no longer burdened by the constant torment of indecision.

Just then, he realized the entire table had gone silent at some point. Everyone was staring at him—they had clearly heard what he said.

Jon regretted speaking so loudly. Years of humiliation and injustice tied to his status as a bastard had suddenly been laid bare before everyone, and he couldn't stop the tears that welled up and fell from his eyes.

"Excuse me," he said, clinging to the last of his dignity, and fled before anyone could catch sight of the tears spilling down his face.

He had drunk too much. His legs were tangled like knots, and he collided headlong into a serving maid. A pitcher of spiced wine crashed to the floor, spilling everywhere. Laughter erupted all around him.

Jon's eyes burned with tears, his sorrow and shame of over ten years streaming down his cheeks.

Someone tried to help him up, but he shook off the kind hand and stumbled toward the door, sprinting into the night beneath a heavy sky.

Domeric silently watched the whole scene unfold, and sighed inwardly.

That poor boy. Truly miserable.

...

The night had grown deep and dark.

But inside, the nobles' feast continued.

Domeric stepped out for some air. The castle around him lay cloaked in silence and darkness. Only the stones seemed to whisper ancient tales.

In the courtyard, there was barely a soul in sight. On the inner wall, a lone guard pulled his cloak tighter against the cold. He was an old man, curled in a corner, shivering.

Through the open window behind him drifted music and laughter—the very kind of indulgence Domeric now found distasteful.

Inside, warmth and revelry. Outside, an old soldier freezing.

Human sorrow was, it seemed, not shared equally.

Domeric took off his own cloak and gently draped it over the old man's shoulders, then turned and walked away.

....

At that moment, a breathless voice called out behind him.

"Ser Domeric! Something's happened!"

Domeric turned. It was his chief knight, the bald and portly Ser Wendel, panting as he hurried forward.

"What is it? Why the panic?"

"A raven—urgent message. The mines at Lonely Mountain have been attacked. Many are dead."

"Seven hells!"

Domeric swore loudly. Just what he'd feared.

He rushed back inside to say his goodbyes to the Stark family, offering a brief farewell. He gave Sansa a gentle kiss on the forehead.

If Lady Catelyn really intended to marry Sansa to him, Domeric didn't mind playing along for now…

He mounted his horse and, escorted by Ser Wendel and his guards, rode swiftly toward Lonely Mountain.

The distance from Winterfell to Lonely Mountain wasn't far, but Westeros had terrible roads. Outside of the Kingsroad and a few other major routes, most paths were rugged and wild.

It would take at least three to five days to return to his domain.

.....

Lonely Mountain.

The administrative hall.

Ser Jorah Mormont, the castellan, paced restlessly.

He was a large middle-aged man, dark-skinned, thick-haired despite a receding hairline, still strong and broad-shouldered.

The moment Domeric arrived, Jorah strode up to him.

"Ser Domeric!"

"What's the situation?"

Domeric gave the man a long look—Jorah Mormont, the "Bear" some called him, also known as the most lovesick man in all the realm.

Jorah had once been a disgraced knight, a former lord of Bear Island, head of House Mormont, and son of Lord Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear of the Night's Watch.

After being caught selling poachers into slavery to pay off debts, Jorah fled Westeros to avoid execution, crossing the Narrow Sea to become a sellsword in Essos.

In the original tale, he served House Targaryen and slowly became one of Daenerys Targaryen's most trusted and loyal advisors.

But two years ago, Domeric intercepted him.

Jorah, in truth, was a man ruined by women.

After his first wife died in childbirth, he fell for Lynesse Hightower at a tourney—a woman far beyond what he could afford.

Raised in the luxury of Oldtown and the wealth of House Hightower, Lynesse was utterly unprepared for the harsh wilderness of Bear Island. She soon found herself miserable and disillusioned.

Compared to the great southern cities, Bear Island might as well have been a barbarian outpost.

Jorah squandered everything to keep her happy, until he was utterly penniless.

To repay his debts, he broke the law of the Seven Kingdoms and sold poachers into slavery to the Tyroshi.

When the truth came out, it was Lord Eddard Stark—Warden of the North and a man known for justice—who sentenced him to death.

But by the time Eddard reached Bear Island, Jorah had already fled.

He never joined the Night's Watch or submitted to justice. Instead, he ran with Lynesse to Braavos.

There, he sold his ship to survive. Within half a year, they had burned through every coin.

While Jorah scraped by as a mercenary, Lynesse became the concubine of a wealthy merchant.

Heartbroken, Jorah wandered across Essos, drifting between the Free Cities and even living among the Dothraki for a time. He learned their language, their customs, their ways.

A fallen lord ruined by love—that had been Domeric's first impression of Jorah Mormont.

A perfect example of the saying: "A fool in love builds no house."

At first, Domeric had simply wanted to use Jorah as a link to the Night's Watch, hoping to build a relationship with Lord Jeor Mormont and perhaps one day make Castle Black a stronghold under House Bolton's influence.

After all, it bordered both wildlings and the White Walkers.

To that end, Domeric spent a fortune in gold and greased plenty of palms in King's Landing to secure a royal pardon for Jorah Mormont.

King Robert's pardon absolved Jorah of his crimes but stripped him of his noble titles.

Domeric, playing the generous benefactor, welcomed him in, made him a sworn knight, and granted him lands.

Over time, Domeric discovered that Jorah was far more than a fallen romantic. He was skilled in war, capable in administration, and reliable in governance—a rare, well-rounded man.

So Domeric named him castellan of Lonely Mountain.

"The situation's bad. The northern mines collapsed. Many are dead... but we were lucky. We caught the culprit."

"Oh?" Domeric raised an eyebrow. "Bring him to me at once. I will judge him personally."

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