White Harbour smelled of home.

Gods, it was good to be back North, where the sun did not parch the throat nor scorch the skin, amongst the spray of salt and water the cool winds blew aboard the ship, refreshing and cold. The skies were a familiar grey, hinting the autumn snows that were sure to grace the world soon, and the air was crisp and clean-- unlike that of King’s Landing.

Breathing in deeply at the thought of the Andal city, Joramun thought, as he had oft done during their journey back home, on the decision he had made on leaving when they did. Aye, they’d found what they had come for, and the trouble with Sunderland (with whom he’d never had the chance to converse with), yes, but leaving the Manderlys so abruptly had not sat well with the Magnar. Nor with Srelly, either, his wife having taken greatly with the Manderladies whilst he had conversed with their magnar-faðir.

So, when the opportunity to sail into White Harbor presented itself in the form of a shipwrecked crew desperately signaling for help, who was Joramun to refuse the will of the gods?

And truly, the gods had been with his household that day-- the night before, the sea had misted greatly, fog filling the air. The perfect cover for his ships.

He had led them, his thanes and thegns over the side of the ships, his huskarls and his wife close behind-- though, instead of an axe at his hand and a bellow on his lips, he went with naught but his hands and rope. His household rescued the survivors of the wreck, salvaged what they could from what was remaining, and left the rest for the Sistermen's Lady of the Waves to partake in.

Then Joramun had turned his ships for White Harbour. He couldn’t very well directly return to Skagos, now, not with the new passengers aboard his ships. They had homes to return to, no doubt-- a few he recognized as fellow Norðmenn, who had thanked him for doing what needed no thanks in the first place and had pleaded safe passage to the Merman’s lands.

Which is how, for the first time in his life, the Magnar of Magnar stepped foot on the Mainland North, wife and household in tow.

And now, even closer… could King’s Landing even compare to the splendor of White Harbor? It was larger, eye, and maybe wealthier as well-- but the streets in the Merman’s city were clean, as was its air. Joramun wanted to stop and close his eyes to take it all in.

If only Skagos could build such a place like this, he mused, before his wife brought him back from his ponderings.

“Tis just like they said,” she murmured. “This place… it’s beautiful, Jora. Like the Wall, but… not.” Srelly’s lips quirked upwards, and the woman took his hand. “But, methinks you should stop gawking at everything, Magnar o’ mine. You’ll catch a fly.”

Gods, I am gawking, he realized abruptly, closing his mouth. What am I, a start-struck child?

“This is for King’s Landing, isn’t it?” he groaned, hiding a smile of his own, and Srelly smirked that mischievous grin of hers. “‘You’ll never now,” she crooned sweetly, before abruptly turning away and moving towards the keep they could all see in the distance. “Come on now, love,” she called back. “We came here to talk to some of the Manderladies’ kin, aye? Let’s go find them!”

The grin in her voice was far too infectious for Joramun to ignore (not like he’d ever managed to ignore it before, or wanted to), and he returned it. “Aye, I suppose so,” he murmured, before making for his wife, huskarls and would-be slaves following behind.

Gods, he loved her.