32 A Son In Winterfell
Mid 278 Summer
"Mormont!" shouted the new bane of my existence since my arrival here in Winterfell to drop my son off with his new day care team, "Let's wrassle!"
Somehow, the Umbers discovered that I'd be visiting the Starks and Whoresbane Umber and his nephew Great Jon rushed down here from Last Hearth to meet me. I blame the Norreys, which sucks because I felt so appreciative of them before this. I hate having to about face on things like that, but the Umbers are my line in the sand. You sick those annoying cunts on me and I'll leave you out in the cold so long as it's financially acceptable.
"Umber!" I shouted back at the man before completely losing my enthusiasm, "Unless you spent two years working on your wrestling every day between now and last night, I refuse."
"So greasy!" Jon shouted at me with fake outrage, "As greasy in speech as ye are in the wrassle!"
"This is the third time you've accused me of greasing." I deadpanned back to the man, "At some point people will just assume you love being pinned down by a big greasy man."
"Not afraid of a little sword swallowing are yah, Mormont?" Great Jon sassed, "Hear all sorts about you."
"Remember that you're the one who called it little." I shot back and returned to my breakfast, a quickly diminishing platter that had the younger Starks looking like they might puke.
"I wot?" Great Jon mentally fumbled until he realized his misstep, "Greasy." he muttered and went back to his breakfast, a platter equally stacked as my own and then one slice of toasted bread extra to one up me.
Jokes on Jon again. The servants will soon bring out my second helping.
"Absolutely fascinating." Rickard Stark announced as he shifted his gaze between the two of us with a look of pure amusement on his face, "In all the years I've known Great Jon, I've never seen anyone win a verbal spar with him. He always drags them down to his level and beats them with experience."
"I hold the verbal high ground tighter than a Septon holds the leash of his little boy love slaves." I declared and Great Jon spat out his ale before he began beating the table in hysterical laughter.
Nothing like flogging the local Catholic stand in for pedophilia to get some cheap laughs, even if Jon is laughing hard enough to give himself a hernia. Honestly I can't even remember if the Faith of the Seven had that kind of side to it or not, and never took the time to investigate the faith either. It's just such a thin veneer of difference that I assumed it was a thing. Maybe I'm right, or maybe Jon is excited to have something new to hatefully shout at southerners. Maybe I just spread the kind of rumor that's so salacious people want to believe it's true.
I'll take Rickard's head shaking chuckles as it being something true-ish.
"Alright, enough of all that you two. There's women and children around." Rickard smirked as we sat together for breakfast, "We are getting closer to a new era for us, we'll have to put divisive speech like that down, no matter how many laughs it might bring. We're very close to having stronger relationships with the south than ever before, to be an actual part of the Seven Kingdoms, to benefit from that union like everyone else is."
"Aaaggghhhh." Great Jon scoffed, "The south will never be a place for us, for the First Men."
"Now that isn't true, Jon." Rickard scowled at his most stubborn vassal, "And you know it. Jorah here is living proof of just how much we can benefit from an open relationship with the other kingdoms. The man trades with four of them and now I hear he's building a new castle for himself, and four more for his neighbors. How's construction coming along."
"Cisterns are ahead of schedule." I told him, "So long as the next Winter isn't a big one we could be done as early as mid 84 on all of it."
"Mid 84, and the Flints and Ryswells have been bragging about how huge their castles are going to be." Rickard eyed me intensely, "Those are impressive schedules."
"Haven't exactly heard Manderly excited about trading what I got." Jon grumbled with a hard set to his jaw, "No market he says, save across the Narrow Sea, and they are happy with what they got access to already. How's a man to build big castles when he's still stuck trying to get enough food and firewood to survive?"
"I don't know much about trading in the east." I admitted, " But I've seen some maps that show the Forest of Qohor being bigger than all the forests south of the wall combined."
"Damn it." Jon cursed, obviously frustrated that his lands are falling behind.
"I find that pelts do well." I informed the big man, "Honey and beeswax too, but if you just show up with a pelt in one hand, your prick in the other, and no idea what you're doing, you'll be lucky if a merchant will even leave you your prick."
"I've tried to see if we could replicate some of your success with the eastern houses, and as our large and miserable friend here has so poignantly put," Rickard held his words for a moment as if weighing them in his mouth, "It's not going good."
The man reached out and lightly slapped my back, "Thankfully we have an expert in breaking into new markets on our side." Rickard nodded to me and withdrew his hand, "Braavos doesn't need more trade with us, and the Manderlys don't have your experience in developing new contacts and lines of revenue. I need you to start looking at options for us in lower Essos. Someone somewhere wants what we have access to, find them. You're our best hope of getting this done, Jorah. The North's Closer."
Well, thanks boss man. Just what I needed. More work.
"It'd take me years of research before such a thing would even be possible." I informed the man, "Here in Westeros I was aided by the fact that we all speak Common with only minor regional accents, and have a unifying culture as the Seven Kingdoms. It's easy to get into a man's head and know his thoughts and feelings when you share such things. How am I supposed to understand the motivations of a man screeching bastardized Valyrian with his hair dyed blue and his beard green while his slave holds his balls up to keep them from dragging in the sand?"
"Wyman, said something along the same line of thought." Rickard admitted, "Just let me know what you need and I'll see it through. You'll have the full support of The North behind you in this matter. And our expectations."
"I'll need dictionaries, histories, maps, translated tomes and copies of the original texts from the Citadel." I told my liege lord then continued, "I've got some pull with them through my relationship with the Hightowers, but an order from the Lord Paramount will put me up at the top of their lists."
I crossed my arms over my chest and sighed, "And Ulfric. When the boy returns home he'll need writ to take my place in the North Western Trade Federation. I can do a lot of the preliminary work while I carry out my duties and enterprises, but I'll have to spend a good chunk of time down at the Citadel, and then within the Free Cities themselves. Then when all that is done, maybe. Maybe I can help the eastern houses."
"Done." Rickard agreed, "I like that about you, Jorah. No big promises, false platitudes. Just the knowledge that you are going to grind away at the problem till it becomes something manageable. You don't just see, you think. That's very valuable, even more so given how short the supply of it is. Don't let those southerners hit you with too many lances to the head, The North needs you sharp between the ears."
Lord Stark looked down the table to where Ulfric and the other noble children sat and raised his voice, "Ulfric! Come here, boy."
My son recovered from his surprising call out well. Now twelve years old, he looked older than Brandon Stark, his really nice pair of testicles coming into full effect in the last few years as he entered puberty. He stood a few inches taller than I did at that age - likely due to his mother's prodigious height - but otherwise looked like my clone. Broad shoulders, barrel chest, with limbs like fleshy tree trunks coming out of his torso. Even if he started shaving no one would ever think him a boy on sight.
In the handful of days since our arrival he already kicked the shit out of Brandon Stark three times and been dragged off by the lad down to the brothel where he sired the next generation of Mormont bastards in Brandon's attempt to get a victory over him in the field of love since the field of battle seemed closed off. Man who could fuck the most whores wins.
They say when Brandon first saw Ulfric's genitals his mouth gaped open and he repeated, 'Not fair' over and over till someone put a horn of mead in his hand to help him steady his nerves. Obviously, the wild heir of the Starks suffered another crushing defeat from the boy who learned the ins and outs of sexual warfare at the foot of the master down in the passionate desert nights of Dorne. If you go to that brothel in Winter Town and listen carefully, you can still hear the pathetic whimpers of 'Not fair' to this very day.
If Rickard knew of the antics of our sons he showed no signs of it as he examined the boy who stood before him. Instead he nodded at the boy and reached down, pulling a sheathed sword out from under the table.
"This is a gift for you, Ulfric." the man stated as he unsheathed the sword and handed the hilt to the boy, "I've heard that you're father was an accomplished warrior by the time he was your age. Fighting Wildlings many times to keep the people of Bear Island safe. With this sword I bid you to do the same. Protect the people of The North and slay our enemies. Go forth boldly, Ulfric Mormont, and live up to your legacy."
"I will try." Ulfric stated as he examined the gifted sword.
"You already are." Rickard smiled, "Tempering expectations just like your father. Keep working as hard as he does and you won't disappoint. Dismissed."
As Ulfric returned to sit with the other children Rickard grinned and nodded to me.
He said, "Good kid."
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We are finally getting towards the end of the prologue.
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