Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6999823.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jorah_Mormont/Daenerys_Targaryen, other_canon_ships
  Character:
      Jorah_Mormont, Daenerys_Targaryen, Other_canon_characters
  Additional Tags:
      Azor_Ahai, Trilogy
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Book_of_Mormont
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-28 Completed: 2016-11-04 Chapters: 17/17 Words: 58652
****** The Book of Mormont: Cub ******
by endlessmuse
Summary
     The tale of Ser Jorah Mormont using a mix of book and show content.
     Book One, The Cub, revolves around Jorah's early life up to his
     meeting of Daenerys Targaryen. This series works under the theory
     that Ser Jorah is Azor Ahai. We've read or watched Daenerys'
     perspective of her knight. It's time we read his side of the tale.
Notes
     Author’s Note:
     Hello, gentle reader(s)! Allow me a quick explanation for this fic.
     There’s a fantastic theory on how Jorah Mormont fits as Azor Ahai
     that you can listen to and watch on Youtube. I wish I could post a
     quick link here, but alas, Fanfiction doesn’t support such a feature.
     For those who question the validity of this fic, please, go see that
     fan theory on Youtube. I found it quite convincing, especially when
     considering the fact that GRRM hates the usual fantasy tropes and set
     out trying to subvert them. What better way than making one of the
     heroes of the books someone who has only ever been in our peripheral?
     Someone whom we are given just enough information about not to
     consider a stranger? This fanfic is a mix of book lore and shore
     lore. Though its emphasis is on Show-Jorah, I am attempting to use
     facts from the book to create a concrete backstory and future for the
     character with my own fictional imaginings. Once the story reaches
     the timeline that the show presents—Jorah with the Dothraki, for
     example—my story will follow along the show’s story arch. Everything
     before Season One and after Season Five, will be my own imagining
     based on lore that I am utilizing from the books. Obviously, this is
     a Pro-Jorah fanfic, and since I know there are many out there who
     look poorly on his character, I urge you to stop reading here if you
     think your opinion of the character cannot be swayed by the tale I’m
     about to tell. Of his character, I will say that what we know of him
     comes from a biased perspective, not his own. Granted, his own is
     biased as well, and this fanfic is thus biased. I should also caution
     those who read that I will be attempting to write in a style similar
     to GRRM. That being said, the content will be similar, which means
     you can expect gore, rape, graphic sex, and all the like. If any of
     these are triggers, either take care with reading, or look elsewhere.
     My hope is that in reading this fic, which will become a trilogy, my
     dear reader(s) might consider the character of Jorah in a different
     light, and perhaps jump onto the “A-Jorah-Hai” theory train. Even if
     none of that happens, I simply hope you enjoy this work of fiction
     and the journey it will take you.
     Thank-you.
***** Prologue *****
Prologue
Bear Island always held a bite of chill no matter what season reigned. Though
the winter was ending in the Southron lands, here on this island, the cold and
snow blew until the very flames in the fireplace shivered. It was no good time
to have a child. Yet the screams of his wife echoed from their chambers all the
same. Jeor Mormont sat in the Great Hall of the Mormont Hall. Like the rest of
the Hall, the room was crafted solely of wood with a bit of rock to keep it all
together. The island had always lacked in available rock, and so whilst many
other minor houses still managed to build themselves a castle of rock, the
Mormonts continued to thrive in their wooden longhouse.
Normally, the gruff Bears of the proud House would not complain of the chill
air seeping through the cracks and chilling the rooms. However, Jeor found
himself wishing they had found a way to import some rock, so a proper castle
could be built. His wife was suffering for it. She had been with child for nine
months, and now the culmination was upon them. He’d learn if he had an heir or
a daughter. Of course, Jeor would happily accept either. The Mormonts prided in
the strength and capabilities of their women just as much as their men. If his
wife gave him a daughter, she’d be Lady of House Mormont after he died.
Still, he worried. His wife’s pregnancy had not always been easy. It had been
plagued with nightmares and fevers. There was a time when Jeor worried his wife
might go mad during it. He could not bear to lose them both. He was not the
youngest of men anymore. His hair had turned white early in life, and the hard
life he lived were written upon his face in premature lines. Jeor wished to
think he was healthy, and he knew as a soldier, that he was, but as a husband
and a desperate father, he was not sure if his seed would be strong enough to
take should this child not make it.
The Great Hall was quiet and empty save for himself. The servants hovered in
the corridors, obeying his order to only disturb him once the child had been
born. For now, Jeor needed the solitude. He stared into the large fireplace
that sat at the side of the Hall, nearly taking up the entire wall. Along it
Bears were etched into the stone, playing or fighting or simply living in
peace. Jeor stared hard into the fire, as if transfixed by the flames. In
truth, his mind was in the Godswood near Deepwood Motte, where he took his
prayer on special occasions. If Bear Island boasted a weirwood of its own, he’d
likely be there, despite the blizzard.
Instead, he sat beneath the red leaves and before the carved face in the tree
in his mind. Silently, he prayed for a strong child and a healthy wife. There
was a cautious step beside him. “Lord Mormont,” a tired voice broke through his
prayers. The midwife. “Your child has arrived . . . but your lady wife . . .
you had best see to her now.”
A cold dread gripped his heart. He opened his eyes and looked up at the
midwife. Her eyes were strained from the day long labor. Blood stained her
apron and sleeves. Too much blood. Wordlessly, Jeor stood and pushed past the
wary servants in the corridor, making his way to his chambers. A few other
midwives were cleaning up. A squalling baby was held in his wife’s arms, red
with a slathering of blond hair. Between the babe’s legs, he saw a tiny cock.
He had a son. “Hush now,” the mother cooed to her child, her voice slurred and
tired. “Hush, sweet child.”
She smiled up at him, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was far too
pale. Never had she been this pale before. Jeor sat on the bed beside her, his
expression stoic. Yet his eyes bespoke his helplessness. Weakly, her hand
lifted and pressed into the side of his face. “Teach him, Jeor. Love him. He
will long for a woman’s love . . . without me . . . you must love him. Bears
are fierce, yes, but they have soft underbellies, too.”
It seemed as though every breath was giving her pain. Jeor hushed her gently,
his hand lifting to cup against her own on his cheek. “I will never take
another,” he swore to her. “You are my only.” This time the smile did reach her
eyes. The words themselves were never spoken. Those of the North found it
difficult to say those three words. Yet it was clear in his eyes, and by the
gentle squeeze he felt from her hand, she had received his message all the
same.
“Jorah,” she breathed, a gurgle rising up in her lungs. “His name is Jorah.”
Jeor felt her hand slack in his, and her eyes fell shut. A final wheeze left
her, and she was still. Grief washed over him, and he bowed his head, still
holding her hand to his cheek. He had prayed for a strong child . . . had the
price been his wife’s life? The squalling had stopped, as if the child knew
something life-altering had just occurred. Yet, he fussed in his mother’s loose
arm. Jeor wiped his eyes and set his wife’s hand down upon the bed. Reaching
for his son, he carefully picked him up. With his bear of an arm, he could
easily fit the small cub in one arm.
The baby made a mumbling sound and squirmed in his arm. Jeor just barely saw a
flash of a blue eye. “Jorah Mormont,” he repeated the name. “A prince, if I
ever heard one.” His servants came forward then, already bringing forth the
things they needed to prepare his wife for burial. His steward came forth, a
guarded smile on his lips.
“What shall I tell your people, my lord?” he asked, “and the people of
Westeros?”
Jeor looked him square in the eye. “Tell them the cub was born. Jorah of House
Mormont.” The blizzard seemed to kick up outside, the wind howling against the
windows and making the candles flicker in the room. “A true son of the
North—born of Ice. Tell them . . . their heir has come.”
***** Right of Passage *****
Before him, the forest seemed to stretch on endlessly. As a child, he had found
it an exciting prospect. How many times had he played Knights and Bandits
beneath those trees with the villages’ children? How many times had he raced
horses with his oldest cousin, Dacey? It had been a place of play then. Now it
stood looming and secretive. The moon above was barely full, the simple sliver
of it hardly breaking through the canopy of leaves and making the ground dark
and forbidding. Yet, in his heart, Jorah Mormont knew this would not be a test
if he did not feel fear.
Sixteen namedays had passed, and he stood poised to take part in the Mormont
Coming-of-Age tradition. It was as ancient as the carving on the gate with a
woman wearing a bearskin, a child in one arm and a battleax in the other. Being
so isolated, Bear Island had many customs of their own that others might
consider odd or foolish. The Coming-of-Age test was likely among the most
foolish. How many had died in pursuit of achieving manhood in their peers’
eyes? How many heirs had been lost?
Perhaps this was not the wisest course of thought. Jorah had to remain focused.
Though the test was no longer mandatory, not performing it made one look weak.
He was heir to Bear Island. He knew his father expected it of him, and since he
was a young boy, Jorah had felt a desperate need to make his father proud. It
had always just been his father and himself. One of the first things Jorah had
learned when he was a toddler was that he had been responsible for his mother’s
death. His birth had not been an easy one, and his life had been paid for by
his mother’s death. Perhaps it was because of this that his father did not
smile often upon him.
Though, one might argue, Jeor Mormont did not oft smile at all, regardless.
Still, armed with this knowledge, Jorah had tried to become what he thought his
father wanted the most—a capable son. So, he had trained hard with the Hall’s
Master-of-Arms. By some fortune, he seemed to be gifted with the sword. He
learned quickly and gained the wisdom to understand that one must always know
and observe one’s opponent if one wished to win against him. Though how he was
going to observe and know a bear . . .
His worries were interrupted by the heavy footsteps behind him. Father. Jorah
looked up at the massive form of his father. Though quickly growing himself,
his father always seemed to be a giant to him. Dressed in his usual black wool
and armor, he looked down at Jorah beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Are you ready?”
he asked him, simply.
Jorah gripped the sword at his hip tightly. Tradition called that a boy may
choose whatever weapon he wished to face the bear. As his father before him,
Jorah had chosen the sword. “I am, father,” he replied, his voice still
squeaking slightly, a sign that his body was struggling to push past the final
wall towards puberty. His blond hair was long and falling past his ears and
neck. He had it tucked behind his ears now, his smooth face only barely
threatened by the stubble beginning to grow in.
Jeor drew in a breath, his eyes hard and full of ceremony. “I, Jeor of House
Mormont, Lord of Bear Island, bless you, Jorah of House Mormont, on your
journey. I pray the Old Gods lend you strength of arm and sure of foot. As the
Mormonts of old, and those to come, go now into the forest a boy . . . and
return a man.”
With the old words spoken, Jorah turned and trotted off into the forest, the
trees enveloping him quickly. He had naught but his sword at his waist and a
leather set of armor. No supplies and no aid. The test was simple enough in its
requirements. He had to track down one of the many bears that shared the island
with the Mormonts and kill it. Though infinitely practical in many of their
ways, the Mormonts were especially superstitious about the creature they
displayed on their banners. They believed that a spiritual connection existed
between man and beast.
In order to access this spiritual connection, a man must kill a bear and remove
its fur and a claw or fang. The meat would be carried on one’s back and
returned to the Hall. The fur would eventually cover his tomb, as it did so
many other Mormonts who had successfully completed the tradition. As for the
claw or fang, Jorah would carry it with him forever. Within it, or so the
Mormont tales went, the spirit of the bear would be captured, and in battle,
Jorah would be able to call upon the spirit of the bear to make himself that
much more fearsome and strong. When he died, the spirit of the bear would help
lead him into the promised land of peace and rest, keeping his soul safe
through the journey.
For Jorah, he was more concerned with his reputation. He was young, he knew, to
be taking on this task. But his father had at his age, and he intended not to
disappoint his father by waiting for the usual age to undergo the test—that of
eighteen years. For those who never performed the test, though they were not
outright ridiculed, they were never quite regarded with the same respect than
those who did. If he could do this, Bear Island would see the man that would
one day lead them after his father passed. Jorah hoped his father might see
him, too.
Quickly, he hurried through the forest, putting as much distance as he could
between himself and the Hall. Though his people had set up homes and small
villages all along the coast of Bear Island, he knew that the bears had a
heavier concentration on the southern part of the island. There wasn’t a sound
beside his heavy footfalls and panting breath in the forest. Not even the
crickets were chirping. All was fast asleep. Jorah hiked past the furthest
point he had ever been in the forest—when not following one of the roads.
From here, he started to leave little marks on the trees, so he did not lose
his way. Looking up at the sky, he could barely see through to the top to the
stars to gain a sense of direction. Relying on his etched marks, he moved at a
slower pace. It was not just bears he had to worry about on this island.
Sometimes, shadowcats prowled Bear Island. He’d make a fine meal for them if
they caught him unawares. There were sometimes slavers and pirates who snuck
onto the island and took a few days’ refuge in the deep part of the island
where no one might see their business as well. Jorah rather wished to avoid
running into a group of five or more pirates intent on keeping their business a
secret.
To his fortune, he ran into neither. The sun was beginning to cut traces of
light in pink and gold across the sky when he finally heard some loud rustling.
Jorah froze immediately and ducked down behind some brush. There was a sniffing
and quiet growling. Someone was foraging. Jorah gripped his sword tightly in
his hand, a nervous sweat adding to the sheen already caused by physical
stress. He knew that surprise was the only way to victory. Though he was
strong, he was not as strong as a bear. Head-on would be the death of him.
Slowly, he unsheathed his sword, but his clammy hand made the hilt slip in his
grasp. Jorah frowned at that. Looking down at himself, he tore a strip from his
tunic under his armor and wrapped it around his hand. Satisfied, he held the
sword more securely and peeked out from behind the brush. As he had hoped, a
large brown bear was standing on its two feet. He was massive and obviously
trying to reach an old comb from honeybees atop a lower branch of the tree.
Jorah felt his moment was at hand.
With the bear distracted, he remained crouched as he quietly approached the
bear. His legs screamed at the trying position within seconds, but he grit his
teeth through the pain. His heart was pumping so loudly, he feared the bear
might hear it. But it was not his heart the bear heard, but an ill-timed snap
of a twig that his boot stepped on. Jorah felt a brief sense of dread that was
quickly replaced by unadulterated fear as the bear turned its big head and
stared directly at him. Immediately, the bear roared and turned to fend him
off.
Jorah dodged a swipe of the massive claw by rolling to his left. The claw
caught on his back though, and he hissed as he felt a faint stinging along his
spine. Continuing to roll away, Jorah scrambled back up to his feet as the bear
charged at him. Crying out in surprise, he stumbled back, holding his sword in
front of him protectively. The bear roared again, then stepped back a few
steps. Thinking that perhaps the bear was just threatening him, Jorah relaxed
only for a moment before the bear rushed forward in another charge.
The guttural and ear-shattering sound of its roar had him wincing. The bear
tore up dirt and grass as it came pounding toward him—a massive ball of muscle
and claw and fang. Jorah had no idea what gave him the idea to do it, but he
found himself running towards the charging bear. A scream sprang from his lips
as he charged right back, making the bear stop for a moment in confusion. Jorah
kept charging, his sword held firmly in his hand. The bear roared again, then
stood on his two feet, preparing to swipe at him. Jorah somersaulted in front
of the bear, just as the beast swung, his claw moving sideways above Jorah. As
he came out of the somersault, Jorah found himself nearly under the bear and
drove his sword with all of his strength through the bear’s heart.
His arm gave a painful twinge as he rammed the sharp blade through skin and
muscle and organ and bone. The bear stopped roaring immediately and seemed to
convulse for a moment before falling nearly on top of him. Jorah let go of his
sword and scrambled back, only partly becoming trapped underneath the bear’s
body. Grunting, he dragged himself out from under the heavy corpse and got back
to his feet. Wiping his forehead, he looked down on the bear. He’d killed it .
. . almost instantly. Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, though he
felt a vague exhaustion hovering in the background.
Recalling what was required of him now, Jorah knelt beside the body and closed
his eyes. “You fought well, brother,” he said, his hand moving to the top of
the bear’s head. “I ask that you give me your strength, your power, your
cunning and your protection. In this life and the next. As I respect your body,
so you too shall respect my soul when we meet again.” Jorah opened his eyes and
lightly stroked the soft—if not matty—fur. He felt a twinge of sadness for this
death. Perhaps that was another lesson this test was supposed to teach—killing
should never be easy, be it man or beast.
With some difficulty, he rolled the bear over and pulled his sword from its
body with a powerful tug. Then he set to skinning the bear and rolled the fur
up and tied it his side. Of the two choices, Jorah chose to take a claw and set
it in his pouch for now. Then came the difficult part of cutting the meat.
Making a skid out of the branches, he tied the meat down, and then dragged it
all the way back to Mormont Hall.
By the time he arrived, the sun was high in the sky. His body was near to
giving up from exhaustion as he pulled the easily two-hundred-and-then-some
pounds of meat up past the gate and into the courtyard. Somewhere, a bell was
ringing to signal his return. His father, Aunt, and some of his cousins rushed
to the yard to greet him. Others of the House, and some even from the closest
villages, gathered as well. Once he reached his father, Jorah dropped the skid
and wiped the sweat pouring from his face. He was breathing so heavily, he
almost felt faint . . . but the sheer pride of what he had done kept him
standing.
Jeor looked down at the skid, and then at his face. “You’ve returned, Jorah of
House Mormont, as a man.” His voice raised, and he addressed the crowd. “The
right of passage has been completed! Jorah of House Mormont is hereby a true
blooded Bear. A man in body and spirit. Treat him with the respect and honor a
man deserves.” With the old words spoken, cheers sprang up and there was a
quick bustling about to prepare a feast and festival to celebrate. The meat
Jorah had procured would be shared by all who attended, and the village and his
House would toast his name and cheer for his manhood.
For now, Jorah simply wearily checked his father’s face. When Jeor smiled, his
eyes bright and intense, Jorah felt himself smile in return, his sense of pride
blazing in his chest. Many would remember this day as the day he became a man.
Jorah would remember it as the day he made his father proud.
***** Blood *****
Five Years Later . . .
Cradled against his chest on a necklace, Jorah absently ran his thumb along the
bear claw. His thoughts were far away with his wife—Elena of House Glover.
Though married just under a year, he had managed to get her with child fairly
quickly. However, as of late, she had been experiencing pains in her belly. It
was cause for concern, as Elena was a rather frail girl to begin with. His lips
pressed hard together in deep thought. Elena. She would not have been his first
choice of wife.
She was beautiful, yes, but she did not inspire any great deal of desire or
affection in him. Jorah did not think himself a cruel husband—indeed, he knew
many who were—but he was aware that he was . . . an absent one. Though dutiful
towards her, Jorah found himself delighting in sneaking away with the wives of
fishermen while they worked the nets and whiled away the afternoon in such
manners. He was heir to Bear Island and a young, energetic man with a healthy
libido. His wife was oft too ill for him to feel comfortable in approaching for
such desires, and so he found readily eager substitutes.
Perhaps it was because of his youth and being trapped in a loveless marriage,
but Jorah could not rouse enough guilt inside of himself to stop. Perhaps once
his child was born . . . perhaps then he’d find some warmth in his heart for
Elena. Of that, his inability to feel tenderly for her, he did feel guilt. She
was a kind woman. Gentle. Yet, she was too soft-spoken and subservient. She
seemed almost afraid of him—afraid of everything, really. Jorah was unsure if
this was actually the case. Elena was from Deepwood Motte, which was not
situated very far from Bear Island.
Indeed, his father oft traveled there to take his prayers in the weirwood. It
was by chance that his father had taken worship once with Sybelle Glover,
Elena’s mother. The two had ended up discussing their families, and thereupon,
Jorah had found himself unwittingly betrothed to Sybelle’s youngest daughter.
Deepwood Motte and Bear Island had long since been friends. The two traded
frequently, and it was oft that Bear Island relied on Deepwood Motte for
additional soldiers whenever a Greyjoy—or those affiliated with the
House—decided to raid and pillage the island. From what his father had told
him, the Mormont’s payment for such beneficial military strength and resources
was his hand in marriage.
And so, before the Heart Tree near Deepwood Motte, Elena and himself had knelt
and become man and wife. She was taken to Bear Island and within a few months,
she showed signs of pregnancy. Jeor was quite excited about this. Jorah was
unsure of how he felt about it. He felt . . . too young. He was green yet. He
hadn’t shared in any battles or adventures. How was he to be a father now? His
own had not become a father until he was later on in age. He’d had many
adventures in that time.
Jorah gave an irritated sigh and removed his hand from the bear claw. Resting
atop a dock, he watched the water roll in and out. As dusk was beginning to
fall, the fishermen had returned home for the night. Jorah was alone in his
contemplations. Save until he heard the sound of galloping hooves behind him.
Turning, he saw his father riding up along the shore. Pushing himself up, he
met him at the end of the dock. At his questioning gaze, Jeor answered, “some
of our soldiers have captured slavers. Mount your horse. Justice must be
served.”
Without a word of protest, Jorah hurried over to where his horse was tied up
and mounted. Urging his horse after his father, Jorah wondered what the slavers
were found doing this time. As slavery was illegal in Westeros, such men had to
conduct their business in secret. Sometimes, the slavers they caught were
merely discussing plans. Other times, they had been caught in the act of
selling itself. Jorah wasn’t sure why they sometimes used Bear Island as a
place to smuggle their goods. Though their entire coastline was not defended,
Bear Island was on watch for such predators. Yet, they came all the same.
His father led him to the training yard behind Mormont Hall. Three soldiers
stood over two raggedy men knelt on the ground. Jeor was the first to dismount,
drawing Longclaw as he did so. Jorah was quick to follow, his boots squishing
in the mud of the heavily used yard. Casting an eye over the two men, they
looked like fools. Both had rather vacant expressions on their faces, though
one appeared to be sweating nervously.
“Told you this wasn’t worth it,” the nervous one muttered to his partner.
“Shut up,” the other hissed. “That girl was easily worth 10,000 Golden Dragons.
More if you hadn’t fucked her on the way to this piss pot.”
“SILENCE,” Jeor demanded, and the two men trembled, their eyes lowered to the
ground. Jorah took his place beside his father, though a half-step behind. A
woman then. They had attempted to sell a woman into slavery. For quite a price,
too. Jorah wondered what had become of the woman . . . but if the bloodstains
on the stoic slaver’s hands and sleeves were anything to judge by, she was gone
from this world. This was not the first that Jorah had seen this happen.
Slavers, in their desperate attempt to hide their trade, killed their product
and came up with a ruse.
It had never worked on his father, just as it had obviously not worked this
time. “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of
the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the
Realm, I, Jeor of the House Mormont, Lord of Bear Island, sentence you to die
for your crime of selling a human soul into slavery.” Jorah watched his father
lift their family sword above his shoulder and into the man’s neck. The sword
went cleanly through, the flesh parting with ease beneath the sharp blade.
Blood gushed into the mud, the body falling.
The other slaver cried out at the sight and tried to stand and back away, but
the soldier nearest to him shoved him back down. “Please!” the slaver cried
out. “I just needed money! My family was desperate for it! I won’t do it again!
Please!” he begged, tears running down his face.
Jeor was deaf to the man’s cries. He turned to Jorah and held out Longclaw,
which was stained with red. Jorah gave him a look of surprise as he took up the
hilt of the sword. “It was time you were blooded. My regrets that it is not on
a worthier opponent . . . but this is a lesson all men who will become Lords
must learn.” Jorah felt the weight of his destiny touch him in that moment.
Lord of Bear Island. These executions would be his duty and his duty alone once
he reigned.
Looking down on the man, he saw that he was crying harder, fear making his eyes
roll. He knew he was going to die. For a moment, Jorah felt pity in his heart.
Whether this man’s tale was true or not, he understood the fear. Though he
would never tell his father, Jorah questioned the legitimacy of the Old Gods.
Even the New Gods. In fact, he questioned Gods as a whole. Which meant that he
was unsure if there was any promised land of peace and rest after death. This
man was terrified of that as well. An ending was final. Not knowing was
terrifying.
Feeling his father’s gaze on him, Jorah pushed this pity away. It was time to
take a life. His first life. Gripping the hilt of Longclaw tightly, he repeated
the words his father had spoken. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon,
First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven
Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Jorah of the House Mormont, heir to
Bear Island, sentence you to die for your crime of selling a human soul into
slavery.” The slaver wept bitterly, muttering insensibly. Jorah lifted Longclaw
above his head, committing his heart and body to the task, and then swung it
with all his might.
The impact was more jarring than he thought it would be. Though the sword
sliced through the slaver’s neck with relative ease, Jorah had felt the push he
needed to apply to jam it through bone and muscle. His arms shook, and he
wasn’t sure if it was from the strain . . . or the trauma. The slaver slumped
into the mud alongside his partner, and the soldiers stooped to clean up the
mess, collecting the heads and bodies. Jeor nodded at him, taking Longclaw from
his hand and wiping it down. “He who gives the sentence must carry the
execution,” he told Jorah. “It is the old way, and the right way. Though we may
despise the other person at the end of our blade, we must always respect him
enough to look him in the eye when we kill him. If we cannot . . . then perhaps
that is not a life worth ending.”
Jorah nodded, acknowledging the lesson his father wished to impart on him.
Feeling something sticky on his palm, he looked down and saw a glob of blood
there. It must have run down the blade. Jorah stared at the foreign color on
his hand. Another man’s blood . . . sprouted by his own arm. There was an odd
fire in his belly. Jorah quickly distanced himself and examined it. He
recognized it as a rush, one that he might feel after an exhilarating horse
race or after successfully sneaking out of a woman’s room after nearly being
caught by her husband. There was a vague pull to repeat, so he could experience
the rush and make it grow with intensity. He understood now the bloodlust that
his father spoke of in battle. It enflamed a man and turned him into a beast
upon the field.
Jorah quenched the feeling. There was no battle to be won here . . . no fight
for his survival. A cold, grim acknowledgement replaced the rush. An
understanding that an unpleasant duty had to be done, and now was done, and so
it was time for him to move onto the next task. Jorah walked over to one of the
wells and filled a bucket with water. Washing his hands in it, he heard a shout
from the Hall. “Jorah! Your wife! Quickly!”
Feeling panicked, Jorah rushed after the servant and into the Hall. “What’s
happened? What’s wrong?” he demanded, chasing down the servant through the
corridors of the Hall.
“She fell ill! Collapsed whilst she was sewing! There’s . . . blood, ser,” the
servant added worriedly.
Blood? That could only come from one place. Jorah burst into his chambers that
he shared with his wife and found Elena weeping silently in bed. She was pale
and shaking. Some of the midwives were cleaning the sheets, which were soaked
in blood. “What’s happened?” he croaked, feeling utterly bewildered.
Elena released a soft sob, then forced herself to look at him. “I . . . I lost
him, h-husband. I’m so s-sorry,” she wept.
Lost the baby. Jorah stood, motionless, staring at Elena’s outstretched hand
which was as bloody as his own had been earlier. Was this her blood? Or their
child’s? He was surprised with how much this knowledge hurt him. Only earlier
he had bristled at the thought of being a father . . . but now . . . watching
the product of what he and Elena had made together be scrubbed away into a bin
. . . It was a loss. Slowly, he stepped to his wife and placed his hand in
hers.
She pressed her face against his arm, and Jorah sat upon the bed, his other
hand lightly stroking her hair. He was a Mormont. Pillars of strength. Elena
needed that strength now, even as he wobbled. “I was g-going to name him, J-
Jorah,” she sobbed into his arm. “Jorah, Second of His name.” She lifted her
eyes, obviously hoping that this news would please him. Jorah finally felt a
true pang of guilt over his disloyalty to her. She obviously felt the strain in
their marriage . . . and to appease him, she’d have named their son after him.
She was a gentle thing . . .
“Hush now, my lady wife,” he said quietly, stroking her hair as comfortingly as
he could. “We have many years before us. We will have many children yet. Mourn
for this one, but live for our future children,” he told her, leaning forward
to press his lips to her forehead. His words, at least, made her stop crying.
She gave a faint smile and released him, laying back in bed and letting the
midwives tend to her once more. Jorah slowly rose and looked at the mess of
sheets. Those would never lose the stain.
“Stop,” he told them quietly and took the soiled sheets in his hands. “I will
take care of these.”
Later that night, he buried his misery in the willing—and loud—body of the
first fishwife who smiled at him.
***** The Battle of the Bells *****
War.
It had come swiftly, and yet according to his betters, it had been a long time
in the making. The Targaryens had terrorized their subjects long enough. The
Mad King had likely started the downfall of his family when he killed the head
of the Stark family and its heir. As those men had been his Lords, Jorah had
felt the impact of their deaths among his own family, and that of his own
subjects. There was a distinction, he had found. Though his family and the
soldiers they possessed vowed revenge and immediate support of the Starks
should they call upon them—which they did—Jorah found that the fishermen and
hunters and trappers and lumbermen grumbled to themselves about the indecency
of it all . . . but then they just returned to work the next day.
It was a curious thing to witness. His people concerned themselves only
marginally, because their work remained the same. Here on this island, it was
unlikely that the war would come to them. All the same, Jorah had watched them
put a little more effort than normal in their collection of food and resources.
Everyone wished to stockpile during times of war. Looters abounded. Forests
were uprooted to build instruments of battle. Food was drained. Wartime was
fascinating.
It was also his first. His father was seasoned and drew up their forces neatly
and quickly as the North prepared to march down on the South. Lyanna Stark had
been abducted. Robert Baratheon, a dear friend of their Lord’s, had called up
his banners to come to her rescue . . . and topple a dynasty. Jorah, now
twenty-seven, felt the unique perspective of one who knew he was witnessing
history. More than that, he was a part of history. Though he was sure his name
would never be sung because of this war, with the enthusiasm of a young man yet
untouched by war, he relished the idea of a fight.
The fight thus far had been occurring without him. The Starks had linked up
with the Arryn forces whilst Robert Baratheon had shed the first blood at
Summerhall. It had been a victory for them, and their forces were spurred on by
the success of this win. In fact, Jorah was amused by how some of his men spoke
of the fight as if they had been there fighting in it themselves. Yet here they
were, riding hard for Stoney Sept to rescue Lord Baratheon after a defeat he’d
recently suffered at Ashford.
“I bet you a shiny Silver Stag he’s drawn and quartered by the time we find
‘im,” Jorah heard one of the soldiers say to his friend. “This rebellion dies
with Robert Baratheon. Erryone knows it. They’ll be hard pressed to find ‘im.”
“Shot up, Earnie. You ‘aven’t got anything silver,” his friend grumbled back.
“The Stag will bury ‘imself up in some whore’s cunt. That’ll ‘ide ‘im well and
good.”
“I’d mind your tongue,” Jorah said, siding his horse up beside the marching
men. “That’s your future king you’re betting against.”
“Apologies, m’lord,” the men said quickly, averting their gaze to the ground.
Jorah felt a dulled sense of pride at this, but catching his father’s eye, the
feeling quickly evaporated. His father gestured him up to the head of the
column, and he urged his horse forward. “They’re not wrong,” his father gruffly
said to him in an undertone. “If we lose Robert, we lose the Baratheon force.
Stannis is besieged at Storm’s End. That leaves the army in the hands of Renly,
the youngest. A boy as green as this grass.”
His brow furrowed. “But Lord Stark would not give up the fight. The Mad King
murdered his father and brother. More than that, he slaughtered them.”
Jeor nodded. “So he did. But Ned Stark is a wise young man. All the Starks are.
He understands that sometimes surviving means we have to swallow our pride and
bend the knee.”
Jorah shook his head. “We’re traitors now, father. We’ve taken up arms against
our King. It’s either victory or death.” Some of the soldiers might be able to
return home, but the Lords and a great number of their families would be
executed or treason should they lose this war.
“Remember that, son, when we go into battle. I’ve had you trained as much as I
can . . . but nothing can truly prepare you for the heat and madness of
battle.” Jeor seemed to steel himself, as if his willpower alone would armor
him. “Remember that a man who comes up against you is as desperate as you are
to live. Many have families. Children. Wives. Lovers. They intend on returning
to them. Remember that when your arm starts to go numb, and your lungs are sore
from breathing so heavily.” Suddenly, a call went up. Jeor lifted his head and
looked ahead of them. “Remember that, because we’re about to fight. Rally the
men.”
Jorah felt a surge of exhilaration as the war horns all blared. Ahead of them
rest Stoney Sept, smoke billowing above it. It would seem the Targaryen force
had already arrived. Gripping his horse’s reins, he turned and urged his horse
back to their line. The Mormont banners flew high around him as he rode up and
down the column. “Form up!” he called, his voice cracking slightly as he gave
his first battle command. Glancing back at his father, he saw Eddard Stark
speaking with his father from his horse. Jeor nodded, and Eddard galloped back
to his line of men.
His father turned to them and addressed the soldiers as loudly as his voice
could carry. “Our orders are to engage the Targaryen force ahead. Lord Arryn
will flank them once we are engaged. We’re to keep them distracted, so Lord
Stark can rush his forces into the city and find our future King.” Jorah stared
back over at the city. The glinting of armor could be seen just in front of the
gates. Distantly, he could just barely make out the flag of the Hand of the
King. Jon Connington was here then. Jorah sat in wonder for a moment. So many
tales he had heard of all the men they were facing. Brave heroes and warriors.
If he could prove his mettle against them, then he wouldn’t have to question
his strength again. His stomach fluttered lightly in apprehension and a trickle
of fear settled in. The reality of what could be his imminent death struck him.
However, the only one who could determine that fate was himself. If he died, it
was because he gave up.
Mormonts never quit. They stood their ground unto the very end. Hearing a
sudden clanging, he watched his father unsheathe Longclaw and hold it above his
head. “House Mormont! Serve your Lord! Serve your bannermen! Serve your King!”
A shiver ran down Jorah’s spine. There was a violent barbarity to his father’s
voice that he had never heard before. This was no longer his stoic and quiet
father before him. This was a warrior. A commander. “Remember the horrors the
Mad King has done to this country. Now is our time to rise up and return our
country to its former glory! Where do you stand!?” he bellowed.
“HERE WE STAND!” they bellowed back, driving their spears or feet into the
ground with each word, some even rapping on their armored chests. Hundreds of
men and women, line after line, all shouting back in reply to his father. Jorah
truly felt the power of being Lord of Bear Island then.
“For House Mormont and House Stark! For Westeros!” his father shouted.
“HERE WE STAND!” they echoed, and Jorah could feel the tension building. It
captured the entire column, a buzzing sort of energy and desperation to be
loosed, so they could butcher and slaughter.
“For the innocent murdered in cold barbarity!”
“HERE WE STAND!”
Jeor swung his horse to face the army ahead. “For honor and glory!”
“HERE WE STAND!”
A war horn sounded twice, and Jeor shouted, “CHARGE!” Jorah’s horse nearly
reared at the screaming as the men rushed forward towards the city. So swept up
by what he had witnessed, he had forgotten to ride to the front alongside his
father. So, with a quick jolt to his horse’s flanks, Jorah charged with the
rest of them. He grabbed his sword and drew it out of its sheathe. Men on
horseback galloped past him, screaming bloody murder as they raced by. It
seemed a race to try and shed first blood.
As the Mormont unit only had a few horsemen, they veered off the main part of
the army and worked at flanking and surrounding them instead. Jorah watched one
of the first Mormont horsemen jump into the line of Targaryen soldiers. Their
spears tore him right up, his horse screaming after him once it was dragged
down. The wind was whistling in his ears, and he could barely breathe from the
shock of it all. It was so loud. He barely even knew where to look first.
Once he reached the army, he turned his horse to the side and blindly stabbed
downwards, swiping his sword. It met with hard clangs, and he thought his arm
was going to be pulled right from its socket. Urging his horse on, he
disengaged and rolled his arm, wincing slightly. Glancing at his sword, he saw
with surprise that there was blood on it. He’d hurt someone. A brief sense of
remorse filled him, but he quickly smothered it and killed it. He had to kill
if he wanted to live. His father’s lesson rang in his head. They’d kill him
just as quickly.
As he rerouted his horse, the main bulk of their unit met the army then. Swords
and bodies clashed. The screaming died down to grunting and cries of pain. The
piercing clang and ring of metal against metal beat inside of his head. Jorah
rode forward once more, urging his horse into the fray. He slashed his sword
again, this time keeping his eyes on it. He was able to watch his sword slice
right through a Targaryen soldier’s neck. His head rolled up to the sky before
it fell beside the body on the ground. Blood splashed onto his armor and face.
He wiped it away and continued to slash and stab at the massive amount of
moving bodies around him.
At some point, and he wasn’t entirely when or how, because he could barely
think let alone strategize, his horse disappeared from under him. Jorah fell
hard to the ground and rolled just as a sword came swinging down to the spot he
had been in. Pushing himself up, he faced his opponent. Clad in the armor of
the Three-Headed dragon, the soldier came at him again. Jorah found that
fighting had less to do with recalling one’s training, than acting on one’s
instinct. So, he simply focused on what his gut was telling him to do. He
dodged another swipe—this one horizontal, aimed at his belly—and then countered
with a jab to the shoulder. His sword bounced off the man’s armor, and Jorah
winced as his hand rang from the collateral damage. The soldier stabbed, and
Jorah quickly deflected the blow with his blade, but he nearly tripped, and the
soldier grasped the opportunity. He felt a slice along the back of his shoulder
where the armor stopped, and he hissed at the white hot pain.
Despite the stinging and dull throbbing, he righted himself and focused.
Footwork was just as important as sword handling, he reminded himself. The
soldier, annoyed that his blow hadn’t gone as deeper as he had hoped, charged
at him, intending to impale him through the belly. Jorah quickly side-stepped
and lowered to one knee, holding his sword out. It caught the man’s ankles, and
they sliced clean off. The man howled in agony, blood gushing from the stumps.
Jorah looked down at him in surprise and a vague sense of guilty. The man
needed mercy. Jorah drove his sword through the man’s skull, killing him
immediately.
There were distant screams, and Jorah felt the mass of people around him move
in direction. Stretching his head, he could just barely see the Arryn banners
as they came rushing into the back of the army, flanking and cutting them off.
Trapped between two main forces, the Targaryen army started to give way. Jorah
was allowed a brief respite to watch the madness around him. Men were clawing
at each other, some of them had their swords forgotten at their feet. They were
in a desperate struggle of survival. Jorah was alarmed by the sheer beast and
animal that he saw these men become. There was no honor or glory in war, he was
beginning to realize. Only horror and death and the worst of our selves.
He was a part of history, and now he understood how ugly history looked
firsthand. It was with this new sense of grimness and cynicism that he turned
his blade on his next opponent. In the end, Jorah was uncertain how long they
had fought. It felt like a day had passed, but when the Targaryen soldiers
broke and fled the field, and the Starks emerged from the city with Baratheon
banners flying high, he saw that the sun had only moved a quarter across the
sky. Men cheered around him at their victory, though Jorah understood that
their tears of joy had more to do with their own survival, than with the
condition of their King.
Bruised, sliced and battered, Jorah picked his way through the bodies and
entered the city, searching for his father. To his surprise, he saw that the
fight had occurred here as well. Bodies were lined up along the streets. To his
astonishment, some were even on rooftops, the victors of those duels climbing
down ladders to boast of their victory. Jorah heard men groaning on the ground.
They would not survive their wounds. These were the sounds of the dead. He
hardened himself against them. Bells were ringing throughout the city, and only
once the Targaryen army had completely disappeared, did they stop. Citizens
poked their heads out of their homes and cast a frightened gaze on the force
that had taken their city.
Still, Jorah searched for his father, trying to find where the headquarters was
kept. If he was alive, he’d be there reporting to Lord Stark. One of the
Baratheon soldiers was raping a young woman on top of a destroyed market stall.
She squealed and pushed at him, crying out for help. Jorah’s lips pushed
together, but he walked on. There would likely be much of that tonight. Even he
felt the beast inside of him, now covered in blood, call for a final release.
It took considerable effort to reign it in. There were plenty of camp
followers. If he felt the need later, he’d just pay for one of their services.
At long last, outside of a brothel no less, he found his father with the other
Lords. He was relieved to see his father was unharmed. Indeed, other than a bit
of blood on his face, he seemed entirely unharmed. “Father,” he greeted quietly
as he approached the conversing men.
Jeor turned and looked at him. “Jorah.” To his pleasure, there was a bright
gleam of pride in his father’s eye. “You’ve shed your first blood. You’re a
soldier now. How do you feel?”
It was quite the question. Jorah looked about them. “Empty,” he answered
finally.
Jeor grew solemn and nodded. “Then you’re going to be a fine warrior.” He
turned to their Lord, Eddard, then and gestured to him. “My son, Jorah. You
remember him.”
He’d met Lord Stark a handful of times. The last had been Eddard’s wedding to
his new lady wife, Catelyn Tully. “My lord,” Jorah bowed.
Ned Stark gripped his shoulder. The two were close to an age, and Jorah
wondered then at this man’s wisdom and strength. He was Lord of Winterfell,
Warden of the North . . . and was among the leaders of the Rebel army. Jorah
felt bereft, as if he had been slighted with destiny. All he had managed to do
during the past twenty-seven years was fuck fishwives, fish, train and lose two
children to miscarriages. “A son worthy of our Old Bear,” he tossed a rare
smile to Jeor. “Do you have a taste for it now? War?” Eddard asked him.
“I have an understanding of it,” Jorah replied, “. . . and I think that’s
better than having a taste for it.”
“Ned,” came a loud and abrupt voice behind the two men. “I’ve just received
word.” A tall man with huge shoulders and arms—a giant Warhammer strapped to
his back—approached them. ‘The King,’ Jorah realized with an odd touch of awe.
This man with his thick black hair and bright eyes . . . This was a man born to
be King. He had the bearing of one, and he knew it. Robert Baratheon. “Rhaegar
rides for the Trident. If we march now, we can meet him there and end this
thing once and for all.”
Eddard considered this. “What of your brother? At Storm’s End? They were
unprepared for a siege . . .”
“I told Stannis to hold it. He will do so to his dying breath. I know the man,”
Robert cut him off. “Stubborn as nails. Or a penniless whore,” he added with a
loud laugh. But he became earnest once more. “We ride for the Trident. Now.”
Robert walked off, leaving Eddard standing awkwardly beside Jeor and himself.
“How are the men?” Eddard asked Jeor. “Did we lose many?”
His father shook his head. “We remain strong, my lord. As always, House Mormont
is ready to serve.”
Eddard nodded. “We’ll rest here tonight. Have them given extra rations and
water. In the morning, we march. I’ll see to the rest of my bannermen.” Jeor
bowed his head, and then turned to Jorah once more. The two walked off, and
Jorah rotated his shoulder, feeling the wound there start to sting more
profoundly now that he had nothing else to focus on.
Jeor eyed him. “You’re wounded. See to a healer. Make sure you keep that wound
clean. A clean wound means you’ll likely survive. A tainted wound means death.
Pass Lord Eddard’s command along the men.”
Jorah nodded and began to remove the armor at his shoulder, so he could get at
it. Whenever he passed by one of his men, he forwarded the news. Crows had
arrived on the battlefield. They picked at the men they still had to bury,
feasting upon them. Hurried graves were dug, the bodies tossed inside. Swords
and armor were collected and stored on carts. Entering their camp, Jorah saw
that those who had not been selected for field duty were celebrating their
victory already. For many, this meant drinking and whoring. He could hear the
drunken slurs and laughter throughout the camp. A few times they were punctured
by cries of pleasure.
A healer saw to him immediately. His wound was cleaned and dressed, and he was
sent off to his tent. As he had suspected, a camp follower who obviously knew
his face, was there waiting for him. She disrobed immediately and sprawled
herself on his cot suggestively. She had fine red hair like fire, and she was
obviously one of the cleaner, higher-paid whores. One reserved for officers and
nobility. Jorah thought to join her. How pleasant it would be to alleviate the
stress of battle in his mind—the chaos that waged there—and then rest upon the
soft flesh of a woman’s bosom. But his thoughts traveled to his father. He had
not taken to such distractions.
Jorah, wanting to be of sound mind and body, quietly dismissed her. She went
quickly, seeking her coin elsewhere. Laying on his cot, he stared up at the
canopy of his tent. Though the sounds of camp were loud, he could hear the
distant cawing over the battlefield. Reaching under his cot, he pulled out the
old books his mother had obtained during her life. No one really read them
anymore, and so he took to reading them himself. There was a peace one could
find in the pages of a book. These volumes contained songs and histories of
Westeros.
Lightly, he drew his finger along the penned name of his mother on the first
page. She had signed all of the books she had owned. Never having known her,
this was the closest contact he could have with her. “I learned about man
today, mother,” he murmured quietly. “I learned about war. And I learned about
myself.”
He was innocent no longer.
***** The Battle of the Trident *****
So many people packed in together. Having lived on an island, Jorah felt the
dense number of people almost like a suffocating force. He sat atop his horse
outside of the long and thick columns of men as they marched past. Banners flew
everywhere. Stag, bear, wolf, fish, white falcon and crescent moon . . . so
many others with their House colors. The men were dirty, their armor scratched
and bent. Some had no armor at all. Others had stolen pieces of Targaryen
armor. A rebel force, indeed. The mood was grim. Though they had successfully
saved their King from almost certain death, they knew another fight was in the
making. Perhaps just over the next hill.
Jorah looked up at the sky. Even that was overcast and gloomy. Their march was
unhurried. They were headed for King’s Landing. Now that the Baratheon force
had been saved—and not counting the part of it tangled up at Storm’s End—they
had their full numbers. Jorah watched them all now . . . nearly thirty-five
thousand men. All of them blooded. Himself, included. He felt different than
when this war had begun. Harder. Little surprised him anymore. Certainly not
the barbarity of men.
Turning his horse, he returned to riding along the side of the marching
infantry. His father was at the head of the Mormont unit. Riding up to him, he
settled beside him. “How are they?” his father asked him, his gaze intent on
the horizon.
“Weary, but holding fast,” Jorah replied. “Do you think we will camp or cross
the ford first?”
Jeor paused to look up at the sky. “We’re losing the sun. If Robert is smart,
he’ll wait until the morning. We don’t want half our army caught on the other
side of the crossing in the dark and suddenly under attack. Perfect place for a
slaughter.” Jorah looked ahead of them. The Arryn forces led the column. Ahead
of them, Jorah could make out the Trident. The water ran slower here. The
Arryns didn’t seem to be slowing, nor did Jorah see any messengers riding back
and forth. They might just cross yet.
Then the horns began. Jorah tensed at the sound. It had become instinctive
through the war—the immediate response to a horn. There was shouting ahead of
him, and he squinted his eyes, trying to peer ahead. “What is it?” Jeor asked.
“Do you see anything?” Jorah couldn’t see what had the Arryns suddenly blowing
their horns and flanking out . . . until he looked beyond the ford to see a
long line of glittering.
“Armor!” Jorah exclaimed, gripping the reins of his horse tightly as adrenaline
started to pump through his blood. “The royal army is ahead of us.” More horns
were blared, and he watched Robert Baratheon ride passed them with Eddard
Stark.
“Looks like we’re neither crossing nor camping.” Jeor moved to the side of the
column. “We’ve a fight on our hands!” he shouted towards his men, who sent up a
cheer. Jeor galloped after their Lord to receive their orders. Remaining
behind, Jorah watched the royal army form up. There were . . . thousands of
them. They marched down a hill that had hidden them from view. What had
happened to their scouts? Surely someone would have seen and reported the royal
army dead ahead of them. Behind him, he heard the soldiers talking amongst
themselves. It was a nervous murmuring.
“Hold fast, men,” Jorah said to them, turning his horse around, so he could
face them. “If you need to piss, I suggest doing so now, so no one mistakes you
shitting your armor during the fight. Don’t need your name in a song like that,
hm?” That caused a rumble of chuckles, and the tension eased just a little.
Jorah looked back at the front of the column. His father was riding back. Jorah
met him half-way, eager to know what was going on.
“We fight,” was all Jeor said to him. The rest of his words were put to their
men. “We’re to form the right flank! We’ll likely be drawn into the water, so
keep your feet. Shed armor if you think it will help.” His father paused.
“Rhaegar Targaryen heads the army. I don’t think I need to express how
important it is we win here today.” Jorah quickly looked back at the royalist
army. The dragon prince himself. The figures were too tiny for him to make out
any individuals. “Stand your ground, House Mormont. Remember our Words.
Remember your honor. Remember that the man standing on the other side of that
river kidnapped your Lord’s sister. To arms! To battle! To justice!” Jeor
roared, and the soldiers echoed his bellow, beating their chests.
All along the column, Jorah heard it. The bellowing of men. Distantly, he could
hear the echo of the royalist army shouting back at them. Jeor started to lead
their men to their place along the river. Jorah turned to follow, but his
father grabbed his reins. “Stay near the back, Jorah,” he told him sternly.
Jorah frowned deeply at this, confusion in his eyes. “Don’t let anyone leave or
anyone through.” This was a squire’s job, but before he could protest, Jeor
tightened his grip. “You are my heir. My only heir. Just this battle . . . stay
in the back. That’s an order.”
With that, his father released him and led the men forward. Jorah felt . . .
dismayed. No honor could be had fighting in the back. It was a coward’s place.
He could disobey once the battle began . . . his father would never notice.
‘And if he finds you dead at the head of the army? He’s trying to keep you
alive.’ Just this once. Frustration weighed heavily in his heart, but he
lingered until his unit had passed, then followed behind them, urging
stragglers on. The rest of the army was moving as well. Speed was necessary.
The Targaryen army was already near the water.
It was so loud. Armor, swords, shouting, horses, the rushing water, and all of
the horns. With their men lined up, Jorah was able to finally see the royalist
army. They looked more or less the same as those they had fought at Stony Sept.
Except these had clean armor. They had yet to face battle. Well . . . they’d be
receiving the shock of their lives then. There was suddenly a cheer as Robert
Baratheon rode along the front line of his army. Men threw up their arms and
swords and banners as he rode by, roaring and holding his massive Warhammer in
the air. Jorah felt goosebumps rise at the sight. Robert wore his famed
helm—the antlers tall and pointed atop his head. His beard was bushy and
fierce. He looked every part the warrior.
Once Robert had rode the line, he returned to the middle where he faced . . .
Jorah squinted his eyes and made him out . . . Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. His
armor was the most decorative Jorah had ever seen. He couldn’t see his face, as
it was hidden by his helm, but his long silver hair was unmistakable. As was
the helm itself, which sported wide dragon wings on either side. As for the
rest of his armor . . . it was inlaid with gems and jewels of all variety. He
looked like the Prince all the Songs ever sang about. The Prince suddenly
lifted his sword, and an eerie hush came across the two armies. Even the rebel
army quieted. Jorah felt the silence deep in his chest.
A moment passed. The river surged. The horses exhaled sharply. Then the Prince
lowered his sword in an arc, pointing it directly at Robert. Then screaming
began anew. Jorah’s horse nearly reared at the explosion of sound. The two
armies charged into the water, at each other. The clang of swords and screams
and grunts began once more. Jorah heard the whistling of arrows and thuds as
they came to a rest around him. He urged his horse forward into the water as
well, joining up with his men in the back and keeping the royal soldiers from
reaching their side.
Men all around him fell—either by slipping or by a foe’s blow—and disappeared
underneath the water, weighed down by their armor. Those who had decided to
shed their armor, resurfaced, sputtering and launched back into battle. Atop
his horse, Jorah stabbed downwards into the enemy soldiers, chopping off heads
where he could, or severely injuring their necks. One pikemen who had managed
to survive the charge jabbed his pike into Jorah’s leg. Crying out in sharp
pain, Jorah turned his horse away and managed to get his horse to kick the
soldier.
“Fuck!” Jorah swore and yanked the pike out of his calf. It hadn’t embedded
deep, but it had hurt a great deal. Keeping his injured leg firmly in his
stirrup, he grit his teeth against the pain and continued to fight. The battle
was exhaustive. Whether it was because they were not just fighting one another,
but the water as well, Jorah soon became fatigued as well, and he had been
mounted. At least . . . until now. Another man with a spear ran forward and
jabbed it into his horse’s neck. It drove through and nearly hit Jorah as well,
but he got out of his saddle and dropped down into the water. His horse fell
atop the spearman, drowning him.
Grunting, he pushed himself and put his weight on his good leg. Quickly, he
looked about him. Men surrounded him. He was still near the back, but the ebb
and flow of the battle had moved him towards the middle. Shouting came from all
sides. The water kept pushing at his legs, wanting to trip him up. If it wasn’t
the water, it was the litter of bodies that were beginning to pile up.
A Targaryen soldier pushed himself in front of Jorah, and he quickly dodged a
blow. Bringing his sword up, he parried another attack. Grunting, he met
strength with strength, each man pushing back only briefly enough to catch
their breath before coming at one another again. Jorah was concentrating on the
man’s sword, but he glanced quickly at his face. Bearded, the man’s eyes were
wild. He looked more beast than man. Jorah felt a brief spark of fear before
quickly killing it. Fear led to mistakes. Summoning up his calm, he held it in
place like a shield and started to go on the offensive instead.
The man, in his battle frenzy, moved faster and harder. The impact of his sword
had Jorah’s arms throbbing. With a sudden flick of his wrists, the soldier
countered his attack and was about to attack himself . . . when his sword
suddenly slipped out of his hands. The soldier stared at his hands in shock,
and Jorah seized the moment to drive his sword through the soldier’s neck. He
made it a quick death and decapitated a second later.
Panting heavily, Jorah shook out his arms and rolled his neck to ease it from
the strain and tension. He looked down at his own hands and silently thanked
the Gods for his choice to wrap his palms with fabric before every fight. His
sword would not slip. If it had . . . it could have been him headless in the
water. Wiping his forehead, Jorah looked for his next opponent. Again and
again, he attacked and sent them to meet their Gods. He was tiring though. His
sword was getting heavier. His chest was hurting from his panting. His leg was
close to giving out.
The Gods were good to him again. There was a sudden repeated screaming that
drifted across the river. “THE PRINCE IS DEAD!! FALL BACK! FALL BACK TO KING’S
LANDING!” The sudden pressure in front and around them dissipated as men
disengaged and ran off. Jorah stood with the other survivors, looking around in
confusion. There was a massive amount of movement at the center of the river.
The sound of fighting continued, though not with blade . . . but with fists.
Limping out of the water, Jorah made it to the other side of the bank that the
royalist army was running back from whence they came. Through the chaos, he saw
men of both sides punching one another and fighting as they dove under the
water and came back up with fistfuls of shining jewels and gems. Horns were
blaring once more, but these did not cause him to become alert. They were the
horns of victory. Worn, he collapsed on the bank and watched the men fight over
the valuables. He wondered where the Prince’s body had gone and what they would
do to it.
He also wondered if their own King was still alive. Jorah undid his kilt and
trousers and inspected his wound. There was a nasty puncture wound, but it
didn’t look as though it had moved much past tissue and some muscle. Grunting,
he got back to his feet and to where the men were starting to make camp. The
healing tents were packed full, so he simply took what he needed and retreated
to a campfire. He sanitized the needle, and then started to sew his wound back
up after cleaning it.
Hissing, he removed his gauntlet and placed it in his mouth, biting down on it.
He tried again and jumped from the pain. Giving a frustrated growl, he shoved
the needle into his skin and screamed past the gauntlet, white spots popping
before his eyes. He felt faint, but he held on. “If you want to sew your own
damned wounds, you have to watch what you’re damned doing,” he heard his
father’s voice. Jorah looked at him through watery eyes from the pain. Spitting
the gauntlet out, he looked his father over. There was a gash at his neck, but
his face was covered in blood, but he was standing. He was alive.
They had survived. “Let me see that,” Jeor knelt in front of his son. “Now
watch.” And he showed Jorah how to properly sew up a wound. “Change the
dressings regularly,” he finished, wrapping the bandage around his son’s leg.
“More death stems from infection than loss of blood.”
Jorah nodded and stretched his leg out. It stung like something else, but at
least he didn’t have a gaping wound anymore. “What happened?” he asked his
father. “I heard the Prince was dead and saw the men in the ford.”
“Savages,” spat Jeor, shaking his head. “Robert killed him. Blew his jewels
right off of his armor. Men whored themselves to get them,” he grunted. “The
royalist army is fleeing back to King’s Landing now. Likely to lick their
wounds. But we killed their Prince. The tide is in our favor.” Indeed, Jorah
could feel it. There was a merriness among the camp. Though the river was
clogged with bodies, it seemed every man knew that they were winning. Now,
officially, they were winning the war. “Robert was hurt in the fight. He’s
ordered our Lord to ride for King’s Landing and take it.”
Jorah groaned. More marching and riding. “The men can’t. They need to rest. A
day, at least.”
“A day could be what our enemy uses to lick his wounds and come back at us at
full strength,” Jeor retorted. “This war ends in King’s Landing,” he told him.
Jorah considered that. It had been waging for a year now. A year all he had
known was muck and blood. An end to all of that. He was tired of it already. He
could only imagine how the foot soldiers felt. Ending the war? He’d go back to
his wife and continue to attempt to have children with her. It seemed a distant
dream now. As if all of that had happened to another person. His father
interrupted his thoughts by saying, “they’re calling it the Ruby Ford now,”
Jeor scoffed.
“Never mind that a dynasty died in these waters.”
***** The Sacking of King's Landing *****
Upon the battlefield, it was not uncommon to smell the rancid odor of burning
flesh. Oft times there lacked the time to bury the hundreds of dead that
clogged the fields and road. Such bodies were then piled and stacked and burnt
to ash and bone. The wind had always seemed to favor Jorah and blow the other
way, so his stomach was spared from roiling at the stench.
No breeze could alleviate this reek. The city of King’s Landing was burning. It
was not the fire of the Targaryens either. Flags sewn with golden lions flew up
and down the clogged streets. Houses were burning everywhere as the Lannisters
sacked the city. What remained of the City Guard and last vestiges of the royal
army were being slaughtered in the streets. The Northern host stood aghast at
the gates. Jorah was among them. He’d seen his share of battle, but this was an
entirely different animal.
Innocent people ran for the gates, trying to get past the Northern army and out
of the city to some dream of safety. Jorah’s horse stirred uncomfortably as a
woman whose head had clearly been bashed in during the chaos stumbled by,
wailing and not realizing that she was minutes from death. He felt a cold sweat
trickle down his skin under his armor. This wasn’t right. War was not supposed
to be like this. They fought in the fields far from places like this, so this
exact butchery could be avoided.
“Mind your horses,” Lord Stark said at the front of the host. “Help the people
if you can. We do not yet know the intentions of these Lannisters. House
Mormont, Cassel, and Karstark remain in the City. Bring peace to it.” Eddard
led the bulk of the force forward, heading for the Red Keep. Jorah motioned his
bannerman to him. They’d take the eastern portion of the city. The fires burned
heavily there. Perhaps they could keep it from spreading to the marketplace.
Leading his battalion forward, Jorah silently observed the chaos.
Each scream and injustice made his jaw tighten harder and harder. Once they
reached a wide enough area, he turned his horse and faced his weary men.
“Restore order,” he commanded them. “Remember your honor. This war is finished.
Ensure your blood is not shed in folly.” His grim men marched forward, pulling
Lannister soldiers away from the looting and throwing water onto the scorched
buildings. Jorah rode further down the Eastern road, his horse jumping over a
few fallen beams of burnt wood now and then. People were running all about,
every single one panicked. A frantic screaming caught his attention, and he
searched the crowd for the source.
It was not difficult to find it. Brazenly, in the middle of the street, a
Lannister soldier was raping a woman against a crumbling building. She fought
at him, scratching and kicking, but the soldier held her fast. The scene
bothered him so much, that Jorah dismounted and pushed his way through the
crowd to the woman. “Get off of her!” he growled, grabbing the soldier and
hauling him off of the sobbing woman. “Lord Stark has taken command of this
City,” he informed the soldier. “Find your hole elsewhere.”
The soldier gave a drunken laugh. It seemed they had raided the alehouses and
taverns as well. More to be cleaned up. Lovely. “You cunt,” the soldier
slurred. “Who do you-hic-think I serve? Not sssome mangy dog. The mad dog. The
Mountain. He owns thissss city-hic-now!” he laughed.
Jorah frowned. The Mountain. He was unfamiliar with the name. “That name means
nothing to me,” he informed the soldier. “Go back to your bunk before you piss
yourself.”
“Soddin’ cunt!” the soldier spat, seeming to remember that he had a sword at
his side and was foolishly drunk enough to think he was an expert swordsmen.
“Gregor Clegane! Soon to be Ser, if I hear-hic-the truth of it. He just ended
the Targaryen line. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys? Nothin’ but a ssssmear
on the wall now. And that whore Princess Elia?” The soldier laughed wickedly
and nodded to the crying woman. “She should be so lucky. My touch is a lot
gentler than the Mountain’s. Rumor is he split her in two with his cock alone.”
The soldier laughed hard at that before being struck in the back of the head.
The man fell in front of Jorah, knocked out.
“Couldn’t stand hearing anymore of that filth,” Rodrik Cassel grunted, standing
before Jorah. “How are your men?”
“Tired,” Jorah replied, giving the older man a bemused look. “Ready to go
home.” The soldier’s words lingered in his mind, and he gave Rodrik a troubled
look. “Do you think there’s truth in what he said? That the Prince and
Princesses are dead?”
Rodrik worried at his whiskers. “I know the name Clegane. They serve Tywin
Lannister. If they are true . . . we know who gave the order.” He grunted then
and shrugged. “But then again, perhaps not. I’ve heard tale of Gregor before
this war. He was a mad dog before he started sitting at Twyin’s feet.” Rodrik
sniffed and looked up at the night sky. Normally, the sky would be glittering
down upon them, but the smoke choked the entire horizon black. “This was a
nasty war,” he said finally. “My men have cleaned up the Western side of the
City. Karstarks have taken the middle. Sweep through and meet us at the Keep.
If these rumors are true, I don’t think our Lord will want to sleep in this
place.”
The older man left then, and Jorah looked down at the woman who was still
sniffling and holding her slit dress to her body. His heart was touched at the
sight. Removing his cloak, he knelt and wrapped it around her. “Find somewhere
safe,” he told her quietly. “The Western side of the City has been cleared of
soldiers. You should be alright there.” Pulling her carefully to her feet, he
reached down for the soldier and grabbed his coin purse. “Here.” He placed it
in her hands. “It’s the least of what he owes you.”
The woman’s eyes misted over anew, and she held his cloak tighter around her
body. “Th-Thank-you, Ser.”
Jorah’s lips pulled into a small smile. “Just a son, my lady,” he said
graciously, warmed by the feeling of aiding one in need. She said a small
blessing for him, then slipped into the bustling crowd, disappearing from view.
Jorah turned his attention elsewhere in the street. His men pulled brawls
apart, extinguished fires and managed to send the Lannister soldiers packing
for the Keep. He saw relief and reverence in some of the innocent public’s
faces, and he understood that even in the chaos of war, there were moments of
remarkable chivalry and unity.
With the buildings saved that could be saved, and the plundering put to a stop,
Jorah ordered his men to form up and march for the Keep. Mounting his horse
once more, the flags of House Mormont joined with those of Cassel and Karstark
at the gatehouse. The portcullis was up, and men were walking to and fro the
Keep. Jorah rode over to Rodrik, who was looking quite grim. “Any word?” he
asked, sidling his horse up next to his.
Rodrik frowned heavily. “The King is dead. Lord Stark found Jaime Lannister
standing over his body . . . his sword driven through his back.”
Jorah understood the man’s concern. It was a tense moment. The King was dead,
and the throne was empty. Their King had yet not arrived, though Robert was on
the way. If the Lannisters wished to claim the throne, they’d have another
fight on their hands. “What of the Queen?” he asked.
“She’s fled. Her and her son, Prince Viserys. Last sighting was at
Dragonstone.” Rodrik tugged at his whiskers once more, his horse giving an
impatient snort. “She’s with child, don’t know if you knew. Makes three
Targaryens still alive out there, at least.”
“A mother and her children,” Jorah agreed. Surely, they did not pose a threat .
. . though he supposed a new King needed to assure himself that no one ever
threatened his newly claimed throne. Especially when that threat came from a
centuries-long dynasty. Jorah had always known life under the rule of a
Targaryen. As had his father, and his father’s father, and many of the fathers
before him. This was new. They faced a realm run by a new man with a new name.
Jorah realized then how odd it would be to live in a land no longer owned by
the Three-Headed Dragon.
There were a few shouts of, “get out of the way! Make way for Lord Stark!”
ahead, and he turned his attention to the gate. Eddard walked forward, looking
pale and tired. Jorah wondered if he had hoped to find his sister here. Had she
left with the Queen and Prince? Lady Lyanna was a strong woman. A warrior. She
was more Mormont than Stark, he sometimes believed, glancing back at the women
who made up his ranks beside his men. If she did not want to be held, she would
have fought and escaped. A pregnant Queen could not hope to hold someone as
wild as Lyanna.
“The Keep is ours,” Eddard said once he reached the front of the host. “Rest.
We wait for the King.” They were given their sleeping arrangements, and Jorah
saw that his men camped and were fed and watered. He left for his own tent once
his duties were complete and wearily sat down on his cot. Lighting a candle, he
pulled a piece of parchment towards him with a quill. Dipping it into ink, he
smoothed the parchment over a book and began to write.
Father,
By the time this raven reaches you, the news will likely have spread. We have
taken King’s Landing. Robert Baratheon is our King in all but name now. The
sacking of the city was barbaric. I thought men in the field were beasts, but
true savagery reared its ugly head to me here. The innocent were preyed upon
and butchered. We helped those we could. House Lannister has chosen to join
with us, albeit at the last moment.
I await further orders from Lord Stark, and shall write to you once I have
them.
-Jorah
Checking his message over, he blew on the ink to dry it, and then folded the
parchment into a scroll. He sealed it with the sigil of House Mormont, and then
carried it outside to the mobile rookery. Tying his message to a raven, he sent
it off to his father, who was traveling with Robert’s host. Returning to his
tent, he laid back on his cot, mindful of his injuries. Jorah stared up at the
canopy of his tent, listening to the bustle of the camp outside. It was louder
than normal . . . cheerful. The end of the war was at hand. The men were
beginning to realize they had survived and would be able to share these
stories—no doubt exaggerated ones—to their children and wives. His thoughts
turned to his own wife for the first time in a long time.
Elena. How was she fairing now? He had not written her in some time, and he
felt a stirring of guilt over that. Though he wasn’t sure if he felt guilty
because he had not written, or because he had barely given her a thought during
the campaign. Other men talked frequently about their longing to return to
their wives. Though he knew he’d be happy to see her smile and warm eyes, he
did not feel that passionate yearning to return to her arms. But, he knew his
duty. He’d have to share her bed and get with her child once more. He needed an
heir. A taste of this adventure had left him wanting more, and he could not
readily do so without an heir to take his place should something happen.
Perhaps his surviving the war was a sign. He should try to love her. For her
sake, if no one else’s. With that thought in mind, he turned on his side and
fell into sleep . . .
 
“THEY WERE HEIRS, NED. THREATS TO MY REIGN. IT HAD TO BE DONE,” Robert
Baratheon’s voice rang out over the Keep.
Jorah stood with the other leaders of the North, grouped quietly together to
await their Lord’s orders . . . and by accident, witnessing one of the most
heated verbal fights Jorah had ever seen. Reports of little bundles being
displayed to their new King had abounded over the City during the night and
morning. The remains of the Prince and Princess were cloaked within. Elia
Martell had also been discovered, dead and raped. Jorah had not seen the bodies
themselves, but it seemed that his Lord and the King had. Eddard Stark was
standing stiffly just in front of them, facing Robert, who was standing just in
front of the Iron Throne.
It looked like a beast of a chair. Thousands of swords melted together into a
giant bulk that resembled a place where one was supposed to put one’s arse.
Though why a King should feel the need to sit upon a seat covered in phallic
symbols, Jorah was uncertain. That drew a wry smile from his lips in spite of
the situation. The Great Hall was impressive, however. The ceiling stretched
high above with smooth columns. The Targaryen banners had been removed. As had
the legendary dragon skulls that were said to have lined the Hall. Jorah
regretted that he had not seen them, nor likely would be able to see them. He’d
read about dragons in the books his mother had left him. They ran through the
histories and songs of Westeros as commonly as blood.
“They were children, Robert,” Eddard spoke, his voice quiet. “And they were
murdered. Justice should be served.”
“This is WAR,” Robert thundered, his voice shaking the hall. He was still weak
from his wounds, but his fury had him standing tall and imposing. “You know as
well as I that so long as they lived, my claim to the throne would always be
second-guessed. It had be done Ned, and you know it.”
Eddard’s hands closed into fists. “I can’t support a man who dismisses the
slaughter of babes. Enemy or friend.” With that, he turned to his men. Jorah
straightened. “We ride for Storm’s End,” he said, his voice tight and gloomy.
His jaw was tight with rage, and it looked as though it was taking everything
in him not to unleash on his King.
“Ned!” Robert shouted after them as they filed out of the Keep. “NED, GET BACK
HERE. I COMMAND YOU TO RETURN AT ONCE! NED!”
The sound made Jorah’s skin prickle, and he half-expected a spear to be thrown
through his back. Yet, they were not attacked. The King and his portion of the
army remained still as the Northmen rode away from the Keep and through the
City. They joined up with their main force outside of the City and began their
march for Storm’s End. ‘So,’ Jorah thought to himself as he looked away at the
Baratheon banner swinging at the top of the Red Keep, ‘King Robert Baratheon
the First begins his rule atop the murdered bodies of two infants and a
discarded wife.’ His stomach tightened with apprehension. It was thick in the
air. His men understood the consequences of their Lord’s actions. If Lord Stark
and King Robert did not make amends, the relationship between North and South
would be forever strained.
Naturally, Jorah believed Eddard had the right of it. At least in regards to
one’s honor. There were some things too bleak even for war. Perhaps that had
been why Tywin Lannister had ordered it. The Lannister name was sullied instead
of Baratheon. ‘Clever way to ingratiate oneself to the new King that you only
recently decided to support,’ he mused. The ill feeling wormed at his stomach.
Had they traded one Mad King for a bloodthirsty one?
***** The Siege of Storm's End *****
“The castle has been sieged for almost a year now. I bet we find naught but
bones and a few cannibals inside,” one of the soldiers said.
“Trust the Tyrells and Redwynes to play guard to a bunch of dead men,” the
soldier’s friend jibed. “Gives ‘em a good excuse to just sit on their fat arses
and eat all day.”
“Mind your tongue,” Jeor rumbled low, his voice stern. The two men shut up
immediately, looking properly scolded. Jorah smirked, riding beside his father
along the column of men. He knew the sting of admonishment well. It was almost
a pleasure to see it used on someone else now and then. “Those men have faced
horrors worse than you. They deserve our complete respect. Or perhaps you’d
like to spend a few months with naught to eat but a bit of bread and some
unlucky mice?”
“No, m’lord,” the two soldiers grumbled, their heads lowered.
Jorah could just see the large castle looming ahead. Storm’s End was an
impressive sight. He’d read about it in his books, but the descriptions had
barely done it justice. Of the actual castle, Jorah could only see a huge tower
with battlements adorning it. The rest of the castle was hidden behind a huge,
thick curtain wall made of smooth stone. He’d heard the legends of this wall.
“It’s said that spells were woven into the stonework,” he said aloud, glancing
at his father. He had to be mindful of talking such nonsense to his father.
Jeor oft thought his head was too far buried in the clouds. A result of
spending too much time with his mother’s books.
Jeor eyed him now, giving a guffaw sound. He was saved by his Aunt, Maege, who
had decided to ride all the way from Bear Island to see the war end. “It’s kept
the Tyrells out. And they grow everywhere.”
“Durran, the first Storm King, was said to have built it during the Dawn Age,”
Jorah told her, seizing on the opportunity to tell the story. “The gods killed
his family and guests, and so Durran Godsgrief declared war on them. He built
six castles, each larger and more formidable than its predecessor, but all were
destroyed by the storms. Durran received help from the Children of the Forest
for this last one, the seventh. The Children used their magic to raise walls
which resisted the storm’s attack. The gods were unable to break this castle,
and Durran defeated them. Since then, Storm’s End has never fallen by siege or
storm.”
Jeor grunted. “And I heard tale a young boy who would grow to be Bran the
Builder instructed Durran on how to construct the beast. Stories are
unreliable. They change in each mouth they rest in.” His father gave him a
gruff look, and then rode forward to ride beside Lord Stark.
Maege clicked her tongue. “My brother has never had a soft heart or songs or
stories. I remember your mother would straddle him down just to share with him
her favorite new tale.” Jorah’s jaw tightened, though he greedily grasped onto
this new discovery of his mother. “I think they remind him too much of her.”
Maege lifted her head. “We bears are a tough sort. Coarse. Hard. We don’t say
the soft words so many others abuse. But I can say it for him. He loved your
mother something fierce, nephew. Sometimes you remind him too much of her, and
in the face of so much pain, all a bear can do is back away.” Jorah nodded in
understanding. Maege sighed and looked ahead wistfully. “Don’t suppose we’ll
have a fight, do you? Been some time since I killed a man.”
That pulled a small smirk from his lips. The She-Bear stirreth. “Depends on if
Mace Tryell has had word from King’s Landing,” he replied. “You may have ridden
hard for nothing, Aunt.”
She gave a disgruntled sigh at that. “More’s to the pity. Ah well. There’s
always pirates that need a good spanking with a bear claw,” she winked at him.
That brought a chuckle from his lips. The army rode forward, nearing Storm’s
End. House Mormont rode behind House Stark, and so Jorah was able to see the
Tyrell flags lower in surrender once they were close enough. A bloodless fight
then. Lord Stark rode ahead with his father and a few other men, meeting Mace
Tyrell and his own entourage in the middle of the field. The army stood, tense,
in case it was a trap.
The Tyrell and Redwyne banners were passed over, and distantly, Jorah could see
their armies laying their swords on the ground. A surrender in truth then. “Oh,
bother,” he heard Maege mutter at his side and smirked. Lord Stark rode back
and handed the banners to one of his men.
“The siege is over!” he shouted. “Storm’s End is ours! Aid those inside. They
have starved for a long time. They will not be able to walk.”
With that, they rode forward. From behind the rock curtain, Jorah could hear
weak cries of victory and relief. The castle was opened to them, and a few rode
within to help bring out those who had been holding the castle. Jorah rode in,
dismounting quickly when he saw . . . skeletons. They were men, but he had
never seen such gaunt bodies before. Their skin was stretched tight over bone.
Many were too weak to wear their armor, and so they sat here and there, in
clothes. Some were even naked. They’d eaten their clothes, he had later
learned.
Jorah was ill with all that met his sight. The suffering was . . . incredible.
Yet it was not equal. Obviously, Stannis Baratheon had been methodical in
choosing who would receive the most food. It took a cold but strong strategist
to do that. The—now—royal family was among those were more healthy. They were
still gaunt and weak, but Jorah didn’t see the deadness in their eyes as he did
with others. They were escorted quickly out of the castle.
Another man came out not long after, and those who saw him cried out, “Onion
Knight! Onion Knight! Onion Knight!” The man, who had a slathering of white
hair across his face, looked almost uncomfortable with the praise. He was
holding a bandage hand to his chest. It looked as though his fingers were
bleeding. The spectacle was so odd, Jorah moved over to a Baratheon soldiers
and inquired as to who the man was.
“That’s Davos Seaworth,” the man replied, admiration warming his tone. “He came
in not too long ago. Managed to sneak right past the Redwyne naval blockade and
brought us food. He’s a hero to us all,” hr soldier told him. “Without him,
we’d have likely started eating our dead.”
“Why ‘Onion’ though?” Jorah pressed.
The soldier laughed. “Because all he managed to smuggle was onions and salted
fish. It’s a wonder the reek didn’t get him caught. I can’t complain though. I
may vomit at the sight of another onion, but it saved my life. Think I’ll make
it a holiday in my family. The Day of the Onion!” the soldier laughed. It was
clear the relief of rescue had turned to giddiness. Not just for him either,
but for all. Everywhere Jorah looked, he saw men and women embracing and
smiling. Some were even crying tears of relief. Jorah was touched and thanked
over and over.
He helped a few men who were too weak to move onto his horse and led them to
the wagons which were being filled with the weak and injured. Food was being
laid out and given to the starved garrison and their families. Other men were
seeing to the surrender of their enemy. Jorah continued to lead his horse back
and forth, bringing food with him as he went to pass along to those who needed
it.
Later that night, they camped outside of the castle. Jorah sat beside a
campfire, eating his own meal and listening to the jokes and bawdy tales
surrounding him. The mood was lively. The war was over now. It had to be. At
least, their part in it was. Now was the time of celebration and feasting. Some
of the Mormont men and women were celebrating early . . . if the cries of
pleasure and passion from the surrounding tents were anything to go by.
“Lord Stark has gone,” his father said, sitting down beside him with a bowl of
food himself. “He’s taken a few others. They ride for Dorne. He’s received word
that his sister is there.”
Jorah frowned at this news. “Will we not ride with him?”
His father shook his head. “We have orders to disband and return home. The war
is over for us. We must see to our dead and wounded and return to work.”
It was over in truth then. “They’ll leave the Queen alone? And her babes?”
There was a tense moment, and Jorah knew the answer before his father even
spoke. “We received a missive shortly after nightfall. It was for Lord Stannis.
He did not share what his brother’s orders were, but he said he needed to
borrow some men to rebuild a fleet.” Jeor paused to eat some food. Mid-chew, he
continued, “only one place left that warrants a fleet.”
“Dragonstone,” Jorah finished for him. “Robert the Butcher then,” he frowned at
this. Jeor gave him a look of warning. He bit down on the rest of his words . .
. that Robert had already sanctioned the murder of innocent children and women.
What was another few skulls to add to the collection? To a newly made King?
Nothing. “A pregnant woman,” he shook his head.
“It’s a dishonorable deed,” Jeor agreed quietly. “But one we must accept or
else this rebellion will die in its crib.” His father sighed heavily. “Put it
from your mind, son. Let us turn our thoughts instead to the harvesting of
fish. I have a few new designs to test out for our nets . . .”
 
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER . . .
There were numerous funerals after that. As heir to Bear Island, Jorah had to
join his father to attend them all. Their own people, and then their allies.
The biggest funeral, however, belonged to Lyanna Stark. Their lord had been
unable to rescue her in time. She had been holed away in the Tower of Joy in
Dorne. A great legend had died that day as well. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of
the Morning, had fallen in combat against Eddard Stark. It was a remarkable
feat for the Northern Lord. Jorah had listened with some interest to the
accomplishments Ser Arthur Dayne had done over the years. It was a match Jorah
would have loved to have witnessed.
Winterfell was overcrowded with those who wished to pay their respects to their
liege-lady. All the way from Dorne, Eddard had carried her bones to be buried
here with the rest of the Stark family. Dressed in his finest black edged with
green, Jorah lowered his head respectfully when Eddard, his brother Benjen, and
a few others carried the platform into the tombs. None of those gathered at the
funeral were allowed to enter there, save the Stark family itself. The Mormonts
had a similar tomb, but instead of statues of their Lords, they had bears.
One day, he’d be buried there as well. The hide from the bear he had slew in
his youth would cover his tomb for the rest of eternity. His hand absently
lifted to the bear claw nestled within a leather strap across his chest. He
felt it through the thick wool he wore, and he felt bolstered. The platform
carrying Lyanna’s remains disappeared into the tomb, and they slowly parted
one-by-one. Catelyn Stark waited a moment before entering the tomb, carrying a
small baby to her chest. Another woman, a wet-nurse, moved to follow with
another babe, but Catelyn stopped her with a harsh word. Jorah didn’t catch the
word, but it stopped the nurse in her tracks. She bowed her head and carried
the babe away.
He lifted an eyebrow at the exchange, looking over at his father, who looked as
somber as ever. Did Catelyn Stark give twins? He didn’t remember the
announcement of such . . . Putting the thought out of mind, he followed his
father to the banquet tables where food—and mostly drink—was plentiful. King
Robert had brought with him—intentionally or not—a band of minstrels and lute
players. They sang sad tunes whilst the company talked quietly with one
another. Jorah helped himself to some wine, enjoying the rich flavor. The
Starks always had such good wine.
His father seemed troubled. His brow was more furrowed than normal, and he
looked deep in thought. “Did you know Lyanna well, father?” Jorah asked,
thinking that perhaps her death had caused him more pain than he knew.
Jeor looked up at him, finally, blinking, as if to clear whatever thoughts
plagued him. “Not as well as her father and eldest brother,” he replied. At
Jorah’s questioning gaze, he finally voiced his trouble. “. . . I’m considering
taking the Black.”
***** Tragedy Comes in Threes *****
SIX YEARS LATER . . .
Bear Island was unnaturally cold for the season. The chill billowed through his
thick cloak, brushing over the wool underneath and making Jorah shiver. He
pulled his cloak tighter around him. The spray of sea water from the Bay of Ice
kissed his face gently, but it was only adding to his chill. Standing at the
end of the dock, he watched the last of his father’s things be packed onto the
ferry from the Island to the mainland. Beside him, Jeor wore black, and he kept
the silence between them.
Ever since his father had admitted his desire to join the Night’s Watch, he’d
been increasing Jorah’s education on diplomacy and economics. They weren’t a
well-off House, and so careful financial education was required for the
survival of their people. Apparently, Jorah had proved himself to his father
during Robert’s Rebellion. He wished now that he had been a little less
successful. Perhaps then his father would have remained a while longer. No
matter what talk Jeor gave of honor and doing something worthwhile with his
grey years, Jorah still felt the sting of abandonment.
“We’re ready to shove off, m’lord,” the ferryman called from the boat.
Jorah stiffened. That rising feeling of loss reached its peak. It expanded
through his heart, and he grit his teeth tightly together against the emotion.
Jeor moved forward, turning to face him. Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze and
met his father’s hard stare. A true Northerner, his father was. Even in the
wake of this parting, his eyes were as hard to read as ever. Not even a hint of
emotion in its blue depths. A strong hand gripped Jorah’s shoulders, and Jeor
told him quietly—though urgently, “remember the lessons I’ve taught to you.
Remember our words. Remember your duty to our people. Remember that you’re my
son.”
A scoff nearly formed in his throat at that. His son . . . until he took his
vows and donned the Black. Then Jeor Mormont would have no family save for his
brothers in black. The day he uttered that vow was the day Jorah became an
orphan. There was distaste in his mouth. Why did his father feel it was
necessary to find a new family? And abandon the old? Were they all just
disappointments to him? Had he been a disappointment? But there it was . . .
the first sign of emotion in his father’s eyes. It wasn’t regret or sadness, as
Jorah had hoped it might be. No, instead he saw urgency. Jeor needed him to
understand. Parting on bad terms would do neither of them well. Jorah’s gaze
lowered subserviently, and he cleared his throat.
“I’ll honor my position as Lord of Bear Island and as your son.” He lifted his
gaze to his father’s. “I won’t let you down, father.”
Jeor’s hand squeezed his shoulder tighter. The only sign of affection he’d
receive, he knew. They were men of the North, after all. The hand was removed,
and Jorah watched as Jeor untied his sword around his waist and handed it to
him. Longclaw. Jorah took it reverently, his hand fitting into the bear etched
pommel. Valyrian steel. They were among the few Minor Houses to have such a
valuable sword. This blade, very likely, was worth all of Bear Island and then
some to the right buyer. “It’s yours now,” Jeor said, releasing his grip on the
sword. “Be worthy of it.”
Jorah nodded, then strapped it onto his belt. The weight of the ancestral sword
did not drag him to the side with it, but instead strengthened his spine. He
stood taller. Pride filled his heart. “Farewell, Father,” he said, the words
stronger sounding than he thought they would be.
“Farewell, Jorah, my son,” Jeor replied. “Send word when your child is born.”
Then he turned abruptly away and boarded the ferry. Jorah watched the ferrymen
untie from the dock and steer the ferry across the watery distance to the
mainland. His father never looked back. Jorah did not stop watching until his
father became a tiny dot. When he eventually returned to Mormont Hall, he was
greeted by his new title, Lord Jorah of Bear Island. Yet, the former Lord of
Bear Island’s last wish never came to fruition . . .
FIVE MONTHS LATER . . .
Wailing filled Mormont Hall, every room and every crevice of every room. Jorah
could not escape it anywhere he went. The sound of his wife’s agony followed
him like a ghost. The child was finally arriving, and since this was the first
time that his lady wife had carried to term, there was much hope that this
child would survive. Two others had been miscarried, oft times too young for
anything to have properly formed. This one had to survive. His first duty as a
Lord was to make an heir. It was the oldest rule in the book.
Pushing out of the Hall, Jorah took refuge on the balcony overlooking the
training yard. It was empty, as the night had approached them. Elena had been
in labor for the better part of the day. Surely, it must end soon? His hands
gripped the wood of the balcony, fingers clenching. Vaguely, he wondered if he
should have traveled to Deepwood Motte to pray in the Godswood. He was not a
devout man by any measure, but this standing here utterly useless was more than
he could bear.
Silence suddenly crept through the Hall, against the wails, it made the
difference stark and forbidding. Jorah felt his stomach tighten. For good or
ill, the deed was done. Pushing away from the balcony, he entered the Hall once
more, heading for his bedchambers where Elena had taken refuge to birth their
child. Every step led further weight to his apprehension. It was too quiet.
Where was the squalling of a newborn? The excited murmurs of the servants? At
the very least, where were the sobs of his lady wife?
“My lord,” a midwife greeted him at the door. Her hands and apron were covered
in blood. She even had a smear across her cheek. That was too much blood. His
body filled with dread. He could feel the beating of his heart in his chest in
trepidation.
“. . . Tell me the news,” Jorah said quietly when the midwife hesitated.
She gripped her hands together, then looked down shamefully. “The child was
stillborn, my lord. And . . . and your wife did not survive its birth. I am
sorry, my lord.”
Jorah felt the breath leave his lungs in a heavy exhale, as if he had been
given a blow to the stomach. Elena . . .? Walking past the midwife, he entered
the room. Other midwives and servants were quickly cleaning the mess. He did
not know where to look first. His wife rested on their bed, still and pale.
Sweat still covered her body, which was the palest he had ever seen. Her very
brow was still furrowed, as if she still yet strained to give their child life.
Jorah touched her more tenderly than he had ever touched her before. His
inability to love this woman had doomed her, he was sure of it. She had been
unhappy . . . and it had sapped all strength of her. Even if she had been
sickly to begin with, he had certainly never given cause to make her mood
better.
“Leave me,” he ordered quietly. “I will tend to it myself.” It was the least he
owed her. The servants and midwives bowed—or curtsied—and left the room.
Heaving a deep sigh, he reached for the bowl of warm water and finished
cleaning the blood from his lady wife. “I’m sorry, Elena,” he murmured to her
quietly. Jorah was surprised with the amount of grief he actually felt. Though
he may not have loved her, the two had shared a good friendship. She had oft
put up with his penchant for stories and even encouraged him to tell a few
tales before bed. This woman had shared many things with him for the past ten
years. Knowing he would wake on the morrow, and every day after, without her at
his side was abrupt. She had become something he had grown accustomed to, and
now there was an absence he felt keenly.
Once she had been cleaned, Jorah laid her legs out properly, and then covered
her with a fur blanket. Kissing her temple, he brushed her hair back and
smoothed her brow. Now, she would know rest. Perhaps, even, happiness. It was a
fanciful thought. For Elena’s sake, he hoped it was true. With her body tended
to, he finally dragged his attention to the still, small form wrapped in a
blood-stained blanket. Cold sweat broke out at his temple and at the back of
his neck. This was not something he wanted to see . . . but this was his child.
Slowly, he unwrapped the blanket and set eyes on his stillborn . . . son. His
hair, caked with blood, was as blond as his own. He was curled protectively in
the fetal position, arms crossed over his tiny chest. Everything about him was
tiny. This was the first Jorah had been able to see a child of his own. So, as
he lightly pressed his finger into the little palm of his son, he found himself
releasing a dry sob. The grief he felt here doubled. His son. Unable to even
breathe once in this world. It was difficult to tell why. Despite the blood,
the body looked fully formed and healthy. Nothing to his eye seemed out of
place, all Jorah saw was . . . perfection.
His finger gently cleaned the blood from his son’s body, afraid of using his
entire hand for fear of crushing the tiny body. He’d seen newborns before, but
there was something precious and singular in viewing one’s own creation. “My
son,” he breathed, almost a wheeze against the pain that constricted his lungs
and throat. “My son.” A longing filled his chest that had never been present
before. A desire to experience life as a father. To be more than just a Master-
of-Arms and Lord to his son, but someone warm and loving. His Aunt would likely
laugh at him, and his own father would probably disapprove, but the sight of
this stolen promise filled him with a tender love he’d yet to experience.
Fatherhood was something he’d always dreaded. He saw it as a means to end one’s
adventures. To become respectable and grim, like his father. Yet now that he
wanted it, craved it, the position was taken from him. So, Jorah quelled the
feeling in his heart before the savagery of his loss drove him mad. Instead, he
wept a few tears, releasing his sorrow, kissed the top of his son’s head and
bundled him in something clean.
Carrying the infant in his arm, he left the room, allowing the Maester to
perform final rights upon Elena’s body and prepare her for burial. Jorah walked
out of the Hall and into the crisp night air. Following the path down to the
Mormont tombs, he walked through the mausoleum-like entrance and walked down a
few steps into the tomb. Lighting a torch, he walked silently past ancient
members of his family until he reached his own tomb, created when he had
reached the age of manhood. It rested beside his father’s, which also stood
ready. Their respective bear furs already were draped over the top of the stone
tombs.
Setting the torch into a slot on the wall, Jorah gently set the body of his son
atop his tomb. Grabbing a shovel, he began to dig a hole beside his tomb. Only
those who had passed the Right of Passaged would be buried in the Mormont
Tombs, but he made an exception for his children. There were two other small
graves surrounding his tomb. Since Jorah could not tell if they had been boys
or girls, he had simply scratched ‘Child’ onto stone and placed it ahead of
their graves. Digging and digging, he released his pain from grief into the
work.
Once the grave was big enough, he set the shovel down and picked up the body of
his son. Kissing his forehead once more, he wrapped the body tightly in the
cloth, ensuring it would remain. “You would have made a fine heir of Bear
Island, Geralt Mormont,” he murmured, so naming his son. “Rest with your
brothers and sisters, and all the family eager to meet you until your father
joins you.” Tenderly, he rested the body into the ground, and then buried him.
A few more tears escaped his eyes as he did so, but he did not stop his work to
wipe them away.
Once the hole was covered, he chipped another piece of rock from the wall and
scratched, ‘Geralt Mormont’ onto it. Digging it deep into the ground ahead of
the grave, Jorah allowed himself to feel the pain a moment longer . . . and
then buried it, as a man of the North was supposed to. Picking up the torch
once more, he left the tomb, his face harder than when he had entered.
His night was not over. Retreating to his study, he lit a candle and sent two
messages. One was to the Glovers at Deepwood Motte, informing them of their
daughter’s passing. The other was to his father.
Father,
I find myself a widow and thrice-denied father. There is no heir of Bear
Island.
Your son,
Jorah
It was a short message, but it was all his father needed to know. Both messages
were sent off with ravens, and Jorah faced a long night without sleep. His rest
did not return in full until after Elena was buried at Deepwood Motte per her
parents’ desire. She was put to rest in the Godswood along with the rest of her
family. To their credit, her family did not blame Jorah for the death of their
daughter, though he supposed he was doing that much enough on his own.
He lost himself for a time in fishwives and drink when the sun fell, and he
could pretend he wasn’t Lord of Bear Island. Otherwise, he refocused his
efforts on the export of fish and maxing their profits. It was dull, but
necessary. Months passed without incident . . . until . . .
“M’lord!” came a call from an urgent rider.
Jorah, bare-chested and knee-deep in water where he was helping lay out a net,
wiped the sweat from his brow and walked ashore. The rider dismounted and
rushed to meet him. “Calm now, what news brings you to nearly killing your
horse?” Jorah asked, stopping just before the panting young man.
The rider thrust a scroll into his hands. The seal was a Direwolf. Through
heavy panting, the rider managed to gasp out, “House Greyjoy has declared war!”
***** The Siege of Pyke *****
The parchment stretched out before him, the Direwolf sigil broken and bleeding
on the oak desk. Candlelight flickered over the words, making them difficult to
see under the dim light, but Jorah had the words burned in his memory.
-Jorah Mormont
Lord of Bear Island,
Victarion Greyjoy has taken Lannisport. Rodrik Greyjoy is leading an assault
against Seaguard. Lord Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron
Isles and seeks to take the Seven Kingdoms. Form up your men and march South
for Moat Cailin. We’ll join our armies there and discuss strategy. Move
swiftly, time is not in our favor.
-Eddard Stark
Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North
War. Jorah brought his fingers to his jaw, scratching the stubble. There was no
Jeor Mormont to rely on counsel now. He had to make the orders. It was one
thing to look at a map in practice and order imaginary forces around to beat
his opponent in game . . . quite another knowing it was for real. His men would
be eager for it, he knew. House Greyjoy had always been a special pain in their
arses. If not pirates, their island was often under attack from Greyjoy
raiders, looking to pay the damned iron price for goods and women and gold.
Killing a few extra kraken would only serve to bolster his men and people of
Bear Island.
“What have you there, cousin?” came a voice from the door.
Jorah looked over to see his young cousin, of the age of 12, standing with her
hand gripping a training sword at her hip. Her hair was cropped and short, and
there was mud on her cheek. His Aunt’s eldest daughter, Dacey, was as fierce as
her mother. He’d watched her train, even sparred with her himself from time-to-
time. She was adamant about being a warrior woman from the Mormont legends of
old. She found the statue of the woman suckling a babe in one arm with an ax in
the other to be her personal heroine, even though the history of the statue was
not written. He oft spent afternoons coming up with stories for the statue with
her. They competed on who had the best story. Suffice it to say, he held a
fondness for his cousin, as if she were his sister in truth.
“Blood,” he replied, setting the parchment down. “The promise of it.” He rose,
lifting a hand to stroke through his blond hair, which was beginning to recede
prematurely. Resting his fist against his desk, he glanced over at her. She
looked eager. Dacey reminded himself so much of himself at her age. Eager to
prove her worth, to taste battle and forge one’s own adventures. Had she been
born a few years earlier, he was sure his Aunt would have wanted him to take
her on as his squire. It was likely what she hoped for now. “House Greyjoy has
attacked Lannisport and declared war on the Seven Kingdoms and our King.”
“Sounds like they could use a few bears,” Dacey said, her eyes level with his,
unwavering. “We’ve been fighting Krakens since the day we acquired Bear
Island.”
She knew her history. Jorah gave a light smile. “Aye, they could use a few
Mormonts. But you’re too young yet, cousin,” he told her, burying that hope
before it could grow.
“But I’m ready!” she declared, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to look
bigger, older, ready to fight. “Mother says I fight as well as she did at her
age.”
“Perhaps you do,” Jorah agreed, “but you need to fight as well as she does now.
You’re still a cub, cousin,” he told her gently. Disappointment was flaring in
her eyes, and it hurt him to deny her, but he knew he was the right in this.
Crossing to her, he lightly placed his hand on her shoulder. “A time will come
for you to go to war. As your mother did. Save your fire and bravery for then.
You’ll need both if you wish to survive.” Jorah allowed a small smile to grace
his lips. “Stay a child awhile longer, Dacey. I assure you, adulthood is not
all it promises to be.”
She heaved a heavy sigh but nodded. “Very well. Shall I fetch my mother then?”
Maege Mormont would need to take over the duties of Bear Island whilst Jorah
was away. He nodded, and his cousin left. His thoughts traveled to the numbers
he could call upon to take up arms. Men and women. His House knew how to fight
men like Greyjoys. As he began to look through the amount of food stored away,
his Aunt walked into his study. “Dacey told me we’re at War with the Greyjoys.
Are you ready to serve, nephew?”
His gaze touched on his Aunt. She was dressed in boiled leather and wool as
ever. Ready to fight at the smallest whisper. “Our Lord has called us to gather
our banners and ride for Moat Cailin. Seaguard is under attack, and they need
aid. I’ll give us a day to prepare, but we must ride at next morning light.
Until I return, I charge you with the welfare of Bear Island and its people.”
Traditional words.
Maege bowed her head. “Your first war all alone.” Jorah kept his expression
still. “You’re ready for it. You’ve been too long at the fishing nets. A war is
just what you need. Show those Greyjoys why they haven’t set foot on Bear
Island in years.”
THREE WEEKS LATER . . .
“Make way for Lord Jorah!” the crier shouted, the gathered soldiers moving
slowly off of the path as Jorah rode forward into Moat Cailin. A bannerman rode
at his side, the bear of House Mormont flapping proudly in the breeze as they
rode. The crier led them into the castle after dismounting, and he was taken to
a large table where two handfuls of men were gathered. Jorah recognized the
banners of the Umbers, Greystark, Karstark, Reed . . . yes, he knew all of
these men. Their Lord had called, and they had come to serve.
“My lord,” Jorah bowed before Eddard, who was at the head of the table.
“Lord Jorah. We’re pleased to see you,” Eddard greeted him, the chattering
voices quieting as order began. “Now that we have all assembled, we can discuss
our march.” He stood and gestured to a map of Westeros before them. Jorah took
the last seat available and gazed at the map. Carved wooden markers rested
above the Iron Islands, Lannisport and Seaguard. “As we speak, House Mallister
defends against an attack from House Greyjoy. The King’s brother, Lord Stannis,
sails to intercept the iron fleet here,” he pointed to Fair Isle. “The King has
ordered us to aid Seaguard, if House Greyjoy has not been thrown off by then.
If the krakens are returned to that bloody sea they enjoy so much, then we
march for Pyke. Lord Balon’s rebellion brands him a traitor. He doesn’t think
our King has half the loyal following as he thinks he does. We’ll show him how
poorly he got it wrong.”
Jorah looked at the map. Imagined the fighting. The iron fleet was a formidable
force. House Greyjoy was a seafaring family. The navy was in their blood.
Despite that, they had to contend with the navy of the entire Seven Kingdoms.
The Redwynes were formidable as well. He saw their marker beside that of Lord
Stannis. If the iron fleet did not break against them, then they’d break when
they came to land and found the rest of the Seven Kingdoms gathered to defy
them, fighting under the Baratheon crowned stag.
Division, if it had existed, vanished the moment Balon Greyjoy gave them a new
cause to rally against. Even Eddard and Robert had made amends. Jorah had seen
it during Lyanna’s funeral so many years ago. Grief brought people together,
replacing past-anger and hurt easily. “We leave at first light,” Eddard said,
and they were dismissed. Jorah rose and returned to his horse. Leaving the
Moat, he returned to the encampment for his forces. Dismounting in front of his
tent, he bent to tie his horse, when he saw a familiar crop-cut head duck from
view.
‘No,’ he thought, feeling a heightened annoyance spark as he marched over to
the spot where the head disappeared. Sure enough, a guilty-looking Dacey
Mormont was hiding herself behind a stack of sacks filled with grain. “Cousin,”
Jorah said tightly, his arms crossing his broad chest. “This is not Bear
Island.”
Dacey pushed herself up and stood her ground, giving him a fierce look. “With
all due respect, cousin, this is Bear Island,” she gestured to those around
them. “You didn’t notice me for weeks. A few more, and no one would have ever
known,” she huffed, her own arms crossing over her chest.
“Where does your mother think you are!?” Jorah asked, shocked that he had
neither noticed her before now, nor received an angry letter from Maege warning
him of Dacey’s disappearance.
This caused that look of defiance on her features to dim a little and guilt to
take its place. “She . . . thinks I am in Winterfell. Giving . . . Lady Catelyn
some extra help . . . while the men are away.” She bit her lip, then stepped
forward quickly. “Please, don’t tell her! Let me stay! I want to fight!”
A scoff left his lips. “And have your mother skin me for her new rug? I enjoy
my skin where it is, thank-you.” Dacey begged him with her eyes, desperation
written all over her face. “No, Dacey. You can’t stay. It’s too dangerous. And
I don’t just mean the fighting. War turns men into beasts. Before and after.”
Dacey burst, “but what if I write her and tell her? Will you let me stay then?”
Jorah sighed, giving her a measured look. “. . . Fine,” he finally relented.
“Write your letter. Until then, you stay in my tent. Don’t stray far from our
camp. And if we’re attacked, by the Old Gods, stay out of sight.” Dacey nodded,
a bright grin on her lips. She hurried into his tent and started writing her
letter. Jorah scratched his cheek irritably. “Damned wartime babysitter,” he
grumbled to himself, following in after.
By the time they reached Seaguard, Aunt Maege had written a reply to her daring
daughter. She was allowed to stay, but Jorah was to keep her far from the
fighting. So, he had taken her on as his squire. If she wanted a taste of war,
then he’d give her the bitterest. Next time, she might not be so willing to
leave her warm bed on Bear Island. To her credit, she obeyed his orders without
complaint. Even when he commanded her the most mundane of tasks.
Now, with the threat of battle near, he was mindful to keep her away from the
front line. It seemed his caution was unneeded, however. Seaguard had been able
to throw off the Greyjoys without their aid. Jorah rode ahead to join with the
other Lords. He felt a momentary surge of pride when he realized that the King
was also there. Robert Baratheon had brought all the forces of the South with
him. Thousands of men were armed and ready to storm the Iron Islands.
Considering the smoke clogging the island, Jorah suspected that some of his
forces were already there, attacking Balon Greyjoy directly. Lord Stark
conferred with the King and higher Lords, before he departed and joined his
Vassals.
“Castle Botley has been taken. Our men are fighting in Lordsport as we speak.
By the time we cross over, the town will be ours,” Eddard informed them.
“All that’s left is Pyke itself,” Lord Karstark pointed out.
“Precisely,” Eddard nodded. “We lay siege the moment we hit the island. Line up
your men like this.” He knelt and drew a map, showing them where to place their
forces. Jorah noted the watchtower that he’d be putting his men near. Easy to
remember. “King Robert is bringing the siege weapons. The moment the wall
falls, we charge. We end this rebellion today.”
“Aye!” came the firm agreements.
Jorah gripped Longclaw’s pommel, his fingers tracing over the bear absently.
All around him, the men bristled with excited, apprehensive energy. The moments
before bloodshed were always the worst . . . the waiting . . . It was almost a
state of madness, trying to keep the beast inside at bay until the moment it
could be unleashed. The promise of death hung heavily in the air. Riding back
to his men, he held himself tall in his saddle. This was his moment. He had to
prove his worth as warrior and commander now, if he hoped to gain the trust and
respect of his men for all battles to come. An army was only as strong as their
leader. His father had been a good commander. The men would die for him gladly.
He had to make them want to die for him as well.
Ordering them onto the ships, they squished in together and were sent off
across the water towards Pyke as soon as the last man jumped aboard. Jorah
stared at the island, at the smoke rising from the castle and town which were
already seeing action. His men around him kept moving, loosening themselves up
before battle. Some of the women gathered their hair up into pony tails before
putting their helms on, if they had helms. Each one bore the proud Mormont bear
on their chest. These were his people. They were here because of him. They
needed a speech. Father always gave them a speech.
As the ship rocked back and forth, he took a spot up near the helm where they
could see him. “HOUSE MORMONT!” he shouted over the roar of the water and wind.
His soldiers stopped jostling about and looked up at him. Many were weathered,
and Jorah felt how green he was. He’d served in Robert’s Rebellion, and even
still, he felt like more a green squire than a veteran under those hard stares.
Steeling himself, he grabbed Longclaw. He was Lord of Bear Island. “Across the
way rests an ancient enemy of our House! Men who have pillaged our homes and
stolen our families. They’ve grown bold. Or perhaps, even, afraid of us. They
seek to expand their raiding to waters south of our home. Why might that be?
Perhaps they’ve grown tired of being swatted down by the bear’s claw?” There
were cries of ‘aye!’ at this. “We’re Mormonts,” he told them, his chin rising,
the banners flying conveniently around him and aiding the heroic scene he was
attempting to set. “We feast on Kraken! Aye!?”
“AYE!” was shouted back at him, a few shield thumps as well.
“And no one—no one—knows how to kill their like better than Bears. Aye!?”
“AYE!”
Jorah eyed the shoreline. Almost there. “Then let’s have a feast!” His voice
cracked with the ferocity with which he spoke, the veins standing out against
his neck. “Let’s make them remember just why they always leave Bear Island a
few tentacles short! Make them shite their pants! Tell them who’s coming for
them! Brothers and sisters of Bear Island! Where do you stand!?”
“HERE WE STAND!” they chorused back, the thumping of wood and shield and steel
punctuating the words.
Jorah unsheathed Longclaw, thrusting it up into the air. His blood alit with
fire, carried away by his own words, and his soldiers’ response to them. The
entire ship was buzzing with energy. There was a bit of a jolt as the boat slid
itself into shallow waters. Anchor was cast away, and the men grabbed their
weapons and last bits of their armor. “You’re House Mormont. You’re worth ten
of every Kraken!” He moved away from the helm and towards the gangplank which
had been lowered into the water. “BROTHERS AND SISTERS!” he bellowed, mounting
the gangplank. “HOUSE MORMONT!” He waited until they were leaning in, and then
calmly said, “go eat.”
Yelling erupted after that, and Jorah swung around, leading the way down the
plank and into the water. Lordsport was near, and he saw the others making
their way to Pyke, which loomed ahead on its rocky cliffs. The water collected
at his calves, and he had to fight through it to keep from slipping and
drowning in his armor. With Longclaw raised high above his head, he marched
them hurriedly to shore where some other of the forces were awaiting. He lined
his men up where the battle map had instructed him to do so and watched as the
siege equipment started firing. His soldiers were shouting at Pyke’s walls.
“Here, fishy, fishy!”
“Bear Island has chased you all the way down here, little squids!”
“HERE WE STAND!”
And so on. Jorah couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride at how much he had
roused them. He was rather hungry for it as well, and he was surprised by his
eagerness. Every time a rock failed to destroy the wall, the men groaned in
disappointment, and he shared that disappointment. There was no love lost
between House Greyjoy and House Mormont. Jorah was ready to hit back at the
people who enjoyed ransacking his own home for once. In their own home, no
less. “Jorah!” he heard a small shout, and he turned back to his line of
soldiers to see Dacey dressed in armor far too big for her, holding a mace
twice her head.
Exasperation filled his chest, and he walked over to her. “Dacey, you’re not
supposed to be here,” he scolded her fiercely.
“I’m here now. You can’t stop me from fighting,” Dacey told him just as
fiercely.
“You can’t even hold that mace. You’re going to get yourself killed. Get back
on the ship and wait there until I get back,” Jorah ordered her firmly.
Dacey gave him a look of defiance. “And what if I’m not there to protect you?
I’m your squire, I’m supposed to be at your side and watching your back. I have
to protect the Lord of Bear Island!”
Jorah released a small breath, reigning in his irritation. “If I have to keep
an eye out for you, I will get hurt,” he told her. “If you want to protect me,
then you need to stay on the ship and out of sight. That is the only way I will
know you’re safe, and I can concentrate on winning this battle.” Dacey frowned
heavily, though he could barely make out the rest of her face in the helm that
was practically eating her head. “Go, cousin,” he said softer. “I will see you
after.”
“. . . Promise?” she said, and this time, he could see the fear in her eyes.
“You have my word. Now—“ his words were cut off as a boulder finally smashed
into a watchtower, making it fall onto the wall and forming a breach. There was
wild laughter beside him as a man in red ran by with a flaming sword. “Bloody—“
that was a terrifying sight. “To the ship, Dacey, run!” Jorah urged, and then
ran himself in the opposite direction. “CHARGE!” he roared, and he took off
after the flaming sword.
The dust and smoke from the settling rubble was just clearing as Jorah climbed
through the breach and made it through . . . into a giant swarm of Greyjoy
soldiers. The man in red was cackling wildly and swinging his flaming sword
around, lighting this and that man on fire. Jorah fought a bit more
conventionally. The soldiers obviously hadn’t counted on him to just charge
into the thick of them, but he did just that. Longclaw rang out, slashing
through bodies left and right. Jorah found himself locked in a frenzy. He
wasn’t even sure where he was or who he was. All he knew was he needed to
strike here, parry there, punch and bite and smash.
Now and then, he became aware of some pain, but the sudden bloodlust which
consumed him had him barreling through the Greyjoys as if they were warm
butter, and he a sharp knife. His men and others made their way through the
breach, and he and the man in red were joined by a more sizable force.
Together, they pushed the Greyjoys back bit-by-bit. Some of their men were on
top as well, Jorah could see some of their banners running to and fro. Stark,
Karstark, Baratheon. His own men were around him. Jorah was pleased to see that
they were tearing into the Krakens with particular ease. Some likely had a
score to settle with the Greyjoys.
Along with the fevered cries of soldiers, there were also screams of agony as
men bled to death, or were trampled underfoot. Somewhere, Jorah could hear
someone shouting that they had lost their hand, that they couldn’t find their
hand. The heat of battle kept him from focusing, however, as he warded off an
attack from some foolish Greyjoy who was wielding a harpoon. It took one well-
placed strike from Longclaw to cut the harpoon in half. Aghast, the Greyjoy
could barely utter a plea for his life before Jorah had his sword embedded
through his chest, blood splattering everywhere.
There was no ebb and flow in this battle. The Ironborn were outnumbered ten to
one. They retreated further and further, bodies abandoned as the armies
pursued. They fought all the way to the Great Keep. The Ironborn did not
surrender easily. Jorah had to give them credit for that. They were a tough
sort. Yet, eventually, they surrendered. Jorah was among those who had pushed
and led the way into the Great Keep. The man in red was sitting comfortably on
a large table, his sword now extinguished. Bloodied and exhausted, his arm
aching from the reverberations one received when fighting with a sword, Jorah
took a few steadying breaths, then sought out his men to organize them and see
to the wounded.
It was time for the higher Lords to make their terms of peace. House Mormont
had done its duty. As had he, if his reception was anything to go by. Every
Mormont soldier he passed gripped his shoulder or shook his hand or bowed in
deference. Robert Baratheon may have won another war, but Jorah had won the
love of his soldiers. The pride in their eyes warmed his heart, and he
reflected it back to them. Never had he felt more assure of himself and his
rule.
Later, after they had returned to the mainland and were encamped, Jorah was
writing a letter to his father to describe the battle. “Cousin!” came Dacey’s
voice from behind him at the tent flap. Turning in his seat, he looked over at
her and smiled when she rushed in and hugged him. “You’re alive!”
“As I promised,” Jorah replied, ruffling her hair. “Here,” he reached into his
pocket and pulled out a compass that had an etching of a Kraken on its back.
He’d found it amidst the rubble, along with the body of another Greyjoy heir.
“A souvenir from battle.” Dacey took it with wide-eyes, holding it as if it
might break in her hands with any tighter of a grasp. “Remember the lessons
taught this day,” he told her. “Patience and responsibility.”
Dacey nodded and hugged him again. Jorah smiled warmly and patted her on the
back. “The King wished to see you,” she said suddenly, jarring Jorah
completely.
“What? He—“
“In here? Good!” he heard from his tent flap just as it opened and King Robert
Baratheon himself walked into his tent. “Jorah of House Mormont!” the big man
greeted.
Shocked, Jorah fell to his knee immediately and knelt before him. “Your Grace,”
he returned the greeting.
“Stand up, Mormont. Let me look at you.” Jorah did as he was bade and stood
before the King. Robert was shorter than himself, though not by much, but he
had a far wider chest and shoulder-span than Jorah. It was no wonder. The King
enjoyed his Warhammer. Judging by the brain fragments still clinging to his
armor and cloak, he had thoroughly enjoyed using his Warhammer today. Robert
grunted and clapped his arm. “I heard tale you were the second man to enter the
breach. Cut a hole the size of a whore’s cunt doing it, too. Allowed our men to
get in easily and really give them a good fucking.”
“I—“ Jorah had no clue what to say, and he was lucky in that the King seemed to
know exactly what to say.
“You’re being Knighted for your bravery. You served the realm well, and the
Crown intends on rewarding such bravery. Write to whom you must, but you must
ride with us to the Capitol to perform the ceremony.” Jorah could not keep his
lips parting slightly from shock. A knight!? “Two weeks from now, you’ll be a
bloody knight of the realm. Now shake my hand and pour me some wine! It’s a
time of celebration!”
***** The Tourney of Lannisport *****
‘By the Old Gods, do NOT let me piss on the King’s boots,’ his mind strained.
Why hadn’t he thought about his bladder earlier!? Casting an eye around the
Seven Gods that lined the Sept, he quickly realized that he might be offending
them, and his body might betray him yet. Quickly, he amended, ‘by the Seven,
let me hold on a little while longer.’Sixteen hours he’d been in this
decorative plate armor. His Aunt had insisted he buy something nice and new to
celebrate his knighthood, and he had, and now he longed for the easy-access of
his leathered kilt, cuisse and greaves.
They’d marched straight for King’s Landing, celebrating all along their way.
Jorah had never been so drunk in his life. Every Mormont man and woman wanted
to toast his health and congratulations. At some point, they had made it to
King’s Landing, and preparations were immediately put into place for the
knighting ceremony. He and another, Jacelyn Bywater, were to be honored at the
Sept. Jorah had spent the sixteen hours being fit for his armor for the
ceremony, and then watched the blacksmiths hurry through their tasks to have it
completed before he had to leave. The armor had still been warm when he had
finally put it on.
Now, here he knelt, humbled, certainly, but most of his consternation was with
the battle he was currently having with his bladder. If he managed to survive
this, he deserved another knighthood all together. The Sept was packed. Men of
the North, the Royal family, High Lords and all were crammed into the tiny
space to watch history being made. Jorah lowered his head as King Robert
approached. He just wished his father was here to witness his ascension.
There was a singing of a sword, as it was pulled from its sheath. Jorah pressed
his lips together and felt the tip press to his right shoulder. “Jorah of House
Mormont, in the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” The sword moved
to his left shoulder, and he felt its weight once more. “In the name of the
Father, I charge you to be just.” Between all of them, the sword moved, and
Jorah silently wished that there were five less Gods to go through. “In the
name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name
of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I
charge you to carry strength through all labors done. In the name of the Crone,
I charge you to measure wisdom in all matters. In the name of the Stranger, I
charge you to carry these duties as Knight unto your death. Arise, Ser Jorah of
House Mormont, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”
Jorah rose, and the Septon anointed him with holy oil, and then he turned and
faced those gathered who applauded and cheered. Bladder forgotten, he gave a
small, almost embarrassed smile, as the crowd cheered his name. It was . . .
something he could get used to. With Longclaw at his side, he joined the newly
made Ser Jacelyn Bywater and followed the King outside of the Sept. The bells
rang, announcing the celebration, and the common people gathered around the
Sept. Jorah knew they were here more for the possible chance to catch some
charitable coin than to see two newly made Knights, but still, he allowed
himself to pretend just for a little while.
Straight from the Septon, the party paraded through King’s Landing. Instead of
returning to the Red Keep, they turned towards the main gate to leave the city.
To celebrate the victory, Lannisport was hosting a tourney. The King intended
on joining, and so the royal family led the way. Jorah, feeling particularly
proud in his new armor, had entered his name into the tourney as well. During
the bustle of the parade, he heard a familiar voice call his name and looked
down to find Dacey running up to him. “Any word from your mother?” he inquired.
“She’s to meet us as the tourney. There will be a celebration of your knighting
on Bear Island, as well, once we return,” Dacey reported, falling in at his
side and admiring his new armor.
More celebrations? In his name as well. “Was there any word from my father?” he
inquired, his voice even.
“Not yet,” Dacey replied.
Jorah’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. Knowing his father, he was likely busy
training and leading raids beyond the Wall. News from the Watch was few and far
between. Once his father heard the news of his knighthood, he was sure that
he’d send along a letter. Until then, the young Lord of Bear Island fully
intended on drinking his fill of celebration.
LANNISPORT . . .
A rejuvenated, excited energy surrounded Lannisport as the competitors and
viewers filled the land surrounding the walled city. Tents were pitched for
miles. Jorah could have mistaken the encampment for one of an army during
wartime, if not for the laughter and drunken singing and general feeling of
ease. Whores walked to and fro, eager to earn their year’s salary by taking
advantage of a few drunken war veterans. Soldiers who had been green before the
Greyjoy Rebellion walked around with an arrogant gate, as if they had killed
one of the sons of House Greyjoy themselves.
House banners were pitched everywhere, some clumped together, but by and large,
they were scattered throughout the camp. North rubbed elbows with South. East
with West. The hum of conversation bubbled above the large encampment, as if it
came from the hovering smoke from the numerous campfires itself. If the realm
had been splintered before, it showed no signs of it now. Other than, of
course, the few expected brawls over whose knight would triumph.
Those who intended to compete in the tourney were given rooms in the city of
Lannisport. So it was that Ser Jorah Mormont wandered the city, admiring the
marketplace. Though Bear Island had its trade, its products were often simple.
Few exotic tradesmen ventured as north as the Bay of Ice. Yet here, he found
exotic silks and flowers and foods he had never heard of before, let alone
seen. Mindful of purse snatchers, he was just about to withdraw some coin to
purchase an odd-looking pepper . . . when he chanced to glance over at the
stall beside him and froze.
The Maid herself stood looking through baubles and flowers. Hair as gold as
wheat and skin as pale as ivory, the Maid took an Evening Star within her
fingers, pressing a sweet kiss to its yellow petals. Food forgotten, Jorah
found himself taking the few steps from stall-to-stall and approached the Maid.
Surely, this couldn’t be a woman of flesh and blood. It had to be a vision,
this . . . Goddess before him! Jorah stood awkwardly beside her for a moment,
completely at a loss. This was new territory for him. On Bear Island, he only
had to whisper a few racy things into a woman’s ear or give her a certain look
to allow him entry into her bed. This woman was no fisherwife, and he felt
entirely out of his depth.
Desperately, he looked to the flower once more. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said
quietly, the rich timbre of his voice catching her attention. The young woman
turned to him, lifting an eyebrow, as if surprised to be addressed. Jorah
became consciously aware of his woolen garb, simple Northern clothes in a place
as exotic as this. He didn’t realize then how much he stood out. “You’re making
a mistake in purchasing that flower,” he informed her.
The woman’s eyebrow raised further. “And who pray claims to be such a Master of
flowers?” she asked him, her voice teasing.
“Ser Jorah Mormont,” he replied, only lightly stumbling on the new addition
before his name.
“A Knight?” the woman cooed, tucking a strand of her blond hair behind her ear.
Blond. Lannisport. A Lannister then. He was a fool to think he might keep a
lion’s interest any longer, but he pressed on. “Very well, Ser Knight. Why
should I not purchase this flower?”
“Because you overshadow it,” Jorah replied immediately. “Compared to you, that
flower shrinks as if it’s been cast away from the sun.”
Her other brow raised to join the first. “Well. A Northerner who speaks poetry.
I was told they only spoke in long silences interrupted by irritated grunts.”
She gestured him closer, and he happily went, cherishing this small victory as
much as he did his knighthood. “Prove your worth, Ser Jorah. What flower will
accentuate my beauty?”
“None, my lady,” he said with a small bow of the head. “But perhaps something
to accentuate your grace?” he took a Moonbloom, its color a pure white and
offered it to her.
“Ah,” she gave it an amused smile. “These grow all over the place in Oldtown. I
have grown tired of seeing them. Something more exotic, my flower Knight.” She
replaced the flower, eyeing him with amusement.
Oldtown? She was not from Lannisport then. “Then red,” Jorah suggested next,
picking up the spiceflower and lightly touching her cheek with its petal. “To
reflect the passion you inflame in men’s hearts.” Her eyes danced at that, and
he felt his chest tighten.
“You speak poetry. How uncommon,” she looked him over, and Jorah felt his
imperfections keenly. Should he have shaved to appear younger? Did she like
facial hair? Should he have grown it out longer? He found himself sucking in,
and positioning himself in a manner which emphasized his own strength. “Are you
sure you are a knight and not a bard?”
“I read,” was Jorah’s simple reply. “More than most. Those Northern silences
gives ample opportunity for reflection and thought. We have learned to choose
our words carefully.”
“And, pray tell, what careful words would you spare for me?” the woman asked,
taking the flower from him and bringing it to her nose to inhale sweetly. The
red was a sultry contrast against her pale skin and golden hair.
“Only words of worship, my lady,” he replied quietly.
Silence met his words, and he thought he might have erred or spoken too
bluntly. Beauty had made a fool of his tongue, and he was itching to cut it off
now for betraying him so eagerly. Yet, at long last, the woman smiled. “You may
purchase this for me, Ser Jorah Mormont,” she informed him. Jorah released a
breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and quickly pulled out the
appropriate coinage to the florist. The woman handed the flower to him, then
held her hair back, exposing her ear. Jorah licked his lips, then gently
pressed his fingers against the smooth hair above her ear. Tucking the flower
behind her ear, he treated her as delicately as if she was made of the finest
glass. Drawing, reluctantly, his hands back, Jorah watched her replace her
hair, the flower nestled sweetly within.
“Do you fight in this tourney, Ser Jorah?” she asked him.
“I do.”
“Good.” The woman reached into her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief. “You
shall wear my favor. Let us see what luck it might bring you.”
“It will not bring luck,” he told her, taking the handkerchief as if she had
just given him silken gold. His fingers and hands treated it as something
precious. “Only strength. It is strength which will win me the tourney . . .
and what you have provided for me.”
“I expect a win then,” she teased and curtsied lightly. “Until we meet again,
Ser Jorah.”
“Wait!” he called, perhaps more vocally than he had intended, for she turned
back to him with a look of surprise. “Who . . . May I ask whose favors I wear?”
The smile was back on her lips, and his heart glowed in his chest. “Lynesse
Hightower.” Then, with another twinkle of her eye, she turned away and was
eaten up by the bustling crowd. Jorah looked down at the handkerchief in his
hands. It was a fine silk. Something rare on Bear Island. The embroidery was
well-thought and contained her initials. His thumb, rough and worn, gently
stroked over the letters. He had the Maid’s blessing herself. Tucking it
tenderly into the collar of his shirt, he felt it settle against his chest.
Turning away from the marketplace, he headed back in the direction of his room,
a single name on his lips.
“Lynesse.”
THE NEXT DAY . . .
With Lynesse’s favor tucked in his bracer, Jorah mounted his horse and rode for
the list. The day’s melee had been complete, and now it was time for the joust.
Jorah had watched the melee, though not for long. It was a hot day, and he
didn’t want to exhaust himself before his own match. Having never jousted in a
tourney before, he found himself unsure of what to expect. Pain, he was sure,
was to be endured. It was two men shoving large sticks at one another with all
of their might, on top of a galloping horse . . . Pain was a given. Yet, of the
actual sport, he only had a passing education. Now and then, he and a few other
lads would mount up, dress in cheap armor, and then ride the lists. Those were
common soldiers, however, these were knights.
His first match was against Lord Jason Mallister. Of the man, he only knew that
he enjoyed riding in tourneys. He was certainly a veteran. Lord Mallister had
also the credit of killing Rodrik Greyjoy when defending his home of Seaguard
against the Ironborn forces. This would not be an easy match by any stretch of
the imagination. With Dacey attending to him as his squire, he made his way to
the list. Dacey huffed and puffed beside him, carrying the heavy lance.
There was a snide chuckling coming from a group of boys at about the same age
of Dacey near the entrance to his side of the list. “Needs a woman to be his
squire. What kind of Knight is this?” one of the boys sniggered.
Dacey glared at them, then looked up at Jorah. True, few other Houses and
villages in Westeros allowed their women to train as warriors, but it had
always been this way on Bear Island. To not have women trained as warriors was
odd to him. If his Aunt was anything to judge by, then the fairer sex was fully
capable of it. It probably wasn’t very knightly of him . . . but he was a
Mormont. Jorah nodded to Dacey. Grinning mischievously, she spun once and held
his long lance out, knocking the group of boys right onto their feet with a
hard SMACK! Jorah couldn’t help but chuckle at their grunts of pain and
bewildered looks. Nor could he help the proud smile at the satisfied look on
Dacey’s face.
Entering the list when he heard his name called, Jorah brought his horse to the
end of the fence. Picking up his shield, he closed the visor of his helm, and
then glanced through the audience. Blond hair . . . blond hair . . . There were
many of them in the crowd, but none which hugged the visage of beauty he had
met yesterday in the Market. There was a horn, signaling the start, and he
looked down at Dacey who lifted up the heavy lance, her arms quivering
underneath. Jorah grabbed it and lifted it up. The balance was odd, and so he
corrected himself the best he could on his horse.
Flags were placed in the middle of the fence, and the crowd became silent . . .
Both his and Lord Mallister’s horse snorted and pawed at the ground, as if
sensing the chaos about to ensue. Jorah concentrated on the silver eagle on
Mallister’s shield. The best way to win, he knew, was to knock his opponent off
of his horse. One heavy thrust. He could do that. He did that all the time.
Smirking to himself underneath the helm, the flags waved, and he charged
forward. The crowd went wild, but he was deaf to it . . . deaf to all save his
pounding heart and storming hooves of his horse.
His focus became narrowed, already limited by the visor of his helm. The weight
of the lance was odd on his arm, since it was such a long weapon, but he
managed to point it where he needed to. Focusing just on the corner of
Mallister’s shield, he brought his arm back as the horses drew near, then
shoved forward with all of his strength. His lance shattered against
Mallister’s shield, and as he had hoped, the angle was odd enough that
Mallister could not counter-balance and rolled off of his horse. He’d done it.
In one bloody charge.
Lifting his shattered lance up in the air, the crowd cheered louder. Mallister
had been a favorite, so popular was he at tourneys. Jorah lifted the visor of
his helm and trotted over to the man. “Well done, Ser,” Lord Jason grimaced up
at him. “A good hit. A very good hit.”
“Thank-you, Lord Mallister. You are unharmed, I hope?” Jorah inquired.
“Only a bruised ego,” Jason winced, his squire pulling him up onto his feet.
“Which will heal with enough drink,” he winked and walked off the field. The
armor was his, as was the horse that Lord Mallister rode. Dacey hurried forward
along with a Mormont stable boy to bring the horse to their camp. Jorah rode
back down the list, waving at the crowd who cheered as he went by. His gaze
flitted past a familiar face, and he slowed just in time to finally make out
the face of Lynesse Hightower. She was smiling quite proudly at him. Jorah
inclined his head just a little towards her, his stomach performing the same
flip-flop Lord Mallister had just completed.
Back to his end he trotted, then removed his helm to take a drink water and
rest his arm. He only had a few minutes before the next match. His gaze
continued to search the audience, marking out the face of she who was giving
his arm such strength. The horns blew again, and he replaced his helm, then
picked up his lance once more. Checking the sigil of his next opponent, he saw
the colors of House Royce. Lord Yohn Royce was introduced to the crowd, and the
two men prepared for a joust.
They went around thrice, both knocking into one another and awarding themselves
points. On the third charge, Jorah managed to unseat Lord Royce, sending him to
the ground. He was awarded another victory. So, two, was the face of two
Freys—Ryman and Hosteen. They ate dirt, and Jorah rose in both favor and fame.
He was exalted by the end of the last match, which ended the joust for the day.
Battered and sore, he dismounted and gazed proudly over at the stands, but the
focus of his attention had already left with her family.
Later that night after tending to his bruises, one large scrape, and bathing,
Jorah joined the celebrations taking place within the city. It seemed everyone
was outside, admiring the sideshows. Men breathed fire, dancers entranced,
bards sang popular tunes, acrobats and jesters thrilled the crowd all around.
It was a festive mood, and Jorah felt the need to take part in it. It was
different, walking in the city, from the other day. The people recognized him
now and applauded at the sight of the woolen bear on his chest. He was not
supposed to win, he knew this. He was a Minor Lord and newly minted Knight. The
fact that he was doing so was entertaining to the people of Westeros. Well, he
certainly didn’t mind reveling in their attention. Perhaps they’d even make a
song of him if he won. Perhaps they’d sing it on the Wall.
Jorah searched the crowd for one. He had no guarantees that she was here, but
he swore he felt her. Somewhere around here . . . Blond-to-blond, he went,
searching for the Maid and only finding mortals in her place. Perhaps his
search was obvious, for he heard her voice behind say in quite the coy tone,
“is the Bear on a hunt?” Turning, he found her standing just behind him, a
glass of wine in one hand. She wore an evening dress of deep blue lined with
white, and it cut in a rather . . . bold . . . manner, revealing quite an
extensive amount of cleavage. It suited her. Everything suited her. “And what
is Ser Bear hunting tonight?” she pressed, taking another step to him.
“Religion,” Jorah replied, a lump forming in his throat that he desperately
tried to swallow down when she touched his arm. “I had hoped to find another
blessing with the Maid.” Reaching into his doublet, he pulled out her
handkerchief. “This one served me well today.”
Pleasure shown in her eyes. It seemed Lady Lynesse enjoyed being compared to a
Goddess. Though there wasn’t any comparison really. She was the Maid. All
paleness and gold and smooth features. A tiny, slender waist and delicate
hands. So different from the women which populated Bear Island. So different
from Elena. “You rode well today, Ser Jorah,” she told him, the teasing tilt
giving way to genuine surprise. “Have you been in tourneys before?”
“No,” Jorah shook his head. “It is my first. Do you often attend tourneys, my
lady?”
“Mm, yes, I’m afraid so. There is little for us Hightower maidens to do in
Oldtown, so we follow the court. As of late, the court seems to enjoy going to
this tourney and that. This festival and that festival. It can all become dull
after awhile.” Lynesse looked him over. “But you, Ser Jorah, are making this
tourney quite an interesting affair. I’ve inquired about you,” she told him,
and then she moved once more, a slow circle around him. Jorah felt his heart
start palpitate in his chest, keenly aware of being examined. “House Mormont is
a vassal to House Stark. And Ser Jorah Mormont was one of two men knighted for
his bravery during the Greyjoy Rebellion. You seem unfit for such a humble
place,” she told him, slowly reaching his front once more. “You’re a shooting
star, Ser Jorah . . . I do hope you do not burn out.”
“Order me, my lady, to remain aflame, and I shall do so unto the end of my
days,” he told her, his voice grave.
“A blessing from your Maid, you wished,” Lynesse considered him, then rolled up
onto her tippy-toes, for she was a head shorter than him—and pressed her lips
to his cheek. It wasn’t long enough to be scandalous, but it wasn’t short
enough to be chaste either. Regardless, it had his heart stop in his chest and
his blood spark into flame. “It is bestowed,” she declared as she sat back on
her feet. “Remain afire, my Bear. I order you to win tomorrow.”
There was such a promise in her eyes, that he could have fell to his knees
right then and declared his love and desire for her alone. Everything about
this woman was a tease. It drew him in, and he longed for nothing more than to
know the taste of her lips and the sigh of her pleasure. Judging by the way she
appraised him, he carried a slight hope that she felt the same. Lynesse smiled
once more for him, and he carried it in his heart, until one of her friends
scooped her away. He heard her friend ask, “is that Jorah Mormont? The rising
star?” and he managed to see Lynesse smile further, and the two giggle, before
they were entirely swallowed up by the crowd.
Her kiss he carried with him through the rest of the night . . . and then into
the list where he unhorsed Lord Whent, Ser Lyle Crakehall and Ser Boros Blount
the next day. Now all that remained was the Kingslayer himself. Jaime
Lannister.
Of the man, Jorah had only some vague opinion. His lord, Eddard, disliked the
man immensely. Jaime had, after all, stabbed the King through his back, a move
both dishonorable and unknightly. His lord’s disgust had thus imprinted on him,
as it had the rest of the Northmen under his command. Yet, of the man
himself—and not his deeds—Jorah held no concrete opinion. He didn’t know the
man, simply put. He did know, however, that he was a skilled warrior, both in
battle and in tourneys. Ser Jaime was notorious for winning tourneys. One was
oft the fool not to place one’s money on him.
So, as he entered the list for the final time, he measured his opponent
carefully. Jorah knew he was tired. He had spent the better part of the day
shoving big sticks into men’s bodies. Jaime had played a match here and there
as well, to arise to this final match now, but far less than Jorah had. He was
less tired. Somehow, he needed to use Jaime’s extra energy against him.
‘Unhorse him quickly and be done with it,’ he thought to himself.
The trumpets blared, and he lowered the visor on his helm. He glanced quickly
into the crowd and found Lynesse sitting beside her father, looking grave. Did
she fear for his safety? He felt the tight knot against his lance-arm of her
handkerchief. He had the Maid on his side. He could do this. Taking his lance
from Dacey, he lifted it, and then charged forward once the flags were waved.
Ser Jaime came thundering down at him, his lance angled perfectly. Jorah sat
just a little off on his saddle to make the blow glance him instead of hit him
full-on. For his own attack, he angled the tip of his lance in the small square
that often awarded an unhorsing.
They came at one another, wood splintering everywhere. Their horses screeched
at the chaos, and Jorah felt a hard blow all the same, despite his lean. He
kept his horse though, and turned to find that Jaime had as well. A brief
respite occurred while points were awarded, and new lances were brought. They
came again. Jorah broke his lance once more against his opponent, though Jaime
did not, but neither were unhorsed. Twelve rounds they ran. Jorah was becoming
more exhausted by the round. Neither were able to unhorse the other, but Jorah
was well aware that he was one point away from victory.
Normally, the way to win a joust was unhorsing. It was quick and simple. In the
event that both opponents were too well matched, points were kept. The first to
break nine lances against their opponent, which resulted in three points each
broken lance, won the match. Eight of Jorah’s lances now lay in ruin on the
ground against Jaime’s seven. Taking up his next lance, he turned to Ser Jaime
once more. His arm was sore, and his body battered, but he’d be damned if he
was going to let this chance slip by.
Time seemed to slow as the two knights charged once more. The crowd, who was
going utterly mad at this close of a match, lessened to a dull roar in his
ears. Jorah seemed only able to focus on the sound of his breaths, and of his
horse’s hooves and snorts. Gripping his lance tightly, he angled it up, gritted
his teeth hard together—so hard, he thought he might break them—and rammed his
lance with all of his might into Ser Jaime’s shoulder. His lance splintered,
and he felt a momentary victory, but then he felt Jaime’s immediate counter-
attack. The force of the blow was crippling, and it pushed him to the side of
his horse, nearly throwing him, but his legs gripped his horse, and he pulled
himself back up before he could topple.
That was it. He had won. Though Jaime had broken his lance as well, Jorah had
been one ahead. The crowd was screaming and pounding the ground at the upset.
Ser Jaime had been a favorite to win. He’d likely made a lot of gamblers
unhappy. Riding back around, he met Ser Jaime half-way. The Lannister removed
his helm and offered his hand. Jorah did the same, gripping his hand. “Well
fought, Mormont,” Jaime said in some surprise, looking him over. “Didn’t think
you’d have it in you.”
“Thank-you for the extended match, Ser Jaime. Allowed me a few moments longer
of fame before I disappear with all the rest of the Minor Houses,” Jorah
replied, all too aware of his fate.
Ser Jaime’s eyes narrowed a little then. “I shall not forget you. I never do,
you know, forget a face. Especially of one who’s beaten me. Probably because I
can count the number on one hand,” he added with his trademark smirk. “Go,
enjoy your victory. I’ll wallow a while before I’m scolded by my brother and
dear sister.”
Jorah nodded and released his hand. Turning to the stands, he rode in front of
the stage where the Royal Family sat. King Robert was red-faced and bright-
eyed. He’d obviously been drinking through the whole match. Beside him sat his
Queen—Cersei of House Lannister. She looked pale and vaguely unimpressed that
she was looking upon a victor that was not her brother. On the Queen’s knee was
a small babe. Prince Joffrey. He was wailing something horrible. Cersei shushed
him until he quieted.
It was only when Robert rose before him that Jorah felt the weight of what he
had just accomplished. He’d fucking won. Him! A newly made Knight from a poor
House! Pride reared brightly in his heart, and he felt a faint stinging at his
eyes and raw throb in his throat as Robert announced, “our victor of the
Lannisport tourney! Ser Jorah of House Mormont!” The crowd’s accompanying roar
only further increased the mist in his eyes, and he blinked it away quickly.
Now was not the time to betray his Northern heritage. “And now our victor shall
crown his Queen of Love and Beauty!”
The King placed a crown upon his own head, signifying him as the victor.
Honestly, it was a bit scratchy. Then he took the Queen’s. There was only one
woman who deserved this. Who matched exactly those details. Beauty. And love.
Turning his horse, he rode straight for her. Lynesse seemed to sit up
straighter and straighter the closer he arrived. Her hands clasped to her chest
when he stopped his horse in front of her. “My lady,” he bowed his head. “My
victory is yours.” And he placed the crown upon her head, claiming her as his
Queen of Love and Beauty.
Those around them clapped appropriately, but Jorah’s attention was solely on
her—his Queen. She stood and leaned over the stands to place a kiss to his
cheek. That made the crowd holler louder. His heart was jumping in his chest,
and the fierce look in her eyes was reflected with his own. The tourney
officially over, tired men and women left the stands. There was to be one last
festival that night, and Jorah intended on making the most of it.
After his newly won chargers, armor sets and gold had been collected, Jorah
dressed in his usual wool and left his room . . . only to be stopped by two
dainty hands pushing him back in. As soon as the door was closed, he felt sweet
lips against his own. Blond hair fell about him, and he knew this mouth. He
knew this shape. Lynesse. His eyes closed, and he kissed her back, returning
her hunger in equal fervor. His hand lifted to bury in her sea of gold, angling
her up against him. This was, by far, a better reward for his victory than the
kiss on his cheek she had bestowed upon him earlier.
They kissed until they were out of breath, and then satisfied themselves with
nuzzles to one another’s cheeks and soft kisses to their necks. Jorah was
currently nuzzling under her jaw, when she gripped him to her tighter. “Come,”
she whispered breathlessly into his ear, “I wish to celebrate this night with
you under the stars, for all to see. My bear, the victor.” Lynesse was smiling
broadly, her eyes so light, as she pulled back and took him by the hands.
No thought was given to how this might arise in a scandal, Lady Lynesse
marching into his room and closing the door behind her. Only warm thoughts and
warm caresses mattered here. With her on his arm, Jorah proudly joined the
rabble in the festival. Music played more lively than ever. Drink was flowing
in the torrents. Especially for Jorah. Everyone he met seemed to want to drink
with him. Over and over, his mug was filled, or he was a given a new one, and
he swallowed its contents down whilst toasting his House, the King’s health,
the bloody ale itself, for all he cared.
In just an hour, Jorah found himself well and truly sloshed. Lynesse was quite
drunk herself, giggling and giving him teasing looks and caresses as she
paraded him around. “This is my bear. Look, I’ve caught him!” she kept saying
those they met. Her friends found it especially funny, and they spent a few
minutes laughing over how Lynesse had caught the Great Bear of the Tourney. At
some point, and it was all beginning to become a blur at this point, he and
Lynesse had found themselves dancing.
Jorah didn’t know all of the steps, as this was more of a Southron dance than a
Northener, but he gave it his best. And whenever he did fumble, Lynesse was
giggling and setting him right with a kiss, and that really wasn’t such a
terrible thing. The minstrels started to play, The Bear and the Maiden Fair,and
Lynesse gasped when she heard the song. “My bear!” she cried, grabbing his face
drunkenly. “It is our song! Listen!”
‘Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair!
The maid with honey in her hair!
Her hair! Her hair!
The maid with honey in her hair!
The bear smelled the scent on the summer air.
The bear! The bear!
All black and brown and covered with hair!
He smelled the scent on the summer air!
He sniffed and roared and smelled it there!
Honey on the summer air!
Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!
A bear! A bear!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!
The bear, the bear!
Lifted her high into the air!
The bear! The bear!
I called for a knight, but you're a bear!
A bear, a bear!
All black and brown and covered with hair
She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,
But he licked the honey from her hair.
Her hair! Her hair!
He licked the honey from her hair!
Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!
My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!
And off they went, from here to there,
The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair!’
Lynesse laughed throughout the song, pulling him to dance once more. Jorah felt
lighter than air in her presence and under her attention. She was making him a
lusty fool, too, with her kisses and caresses. This reached a head when, at the
end of the song, she pressed herself against him and whispered in his ear,
“does my bear enjoy honey?” Jorah mumbled something, he was sure, though his
mind was currently full of heat and inebriation. “Ask my father for my hand,
and I will produce such sweet honey for my strong bear.”
The words were slurred, but the intent in her gaze was steady. Jorah
immediately leaned forward and kissed her. Marriage. She suggested marriage!
Joy and apprehension mingled in his belly. But the boldness of drunkenness
spurred him on. “Take me to him!” he commanded, and Lynesse squealed and pulled
him through the crowd. Lord Leyton Hightower and his companions were
sequestered in a section a tad quieter. He was enjoying wine when Jorah
approached him. Lynesse dropped back, clasping her hands together and trying to
hide her grin.
“My lord,” Jorah bowed formally. Hightower was a far richer House than his own.
They also boasted the Citadel, where Maesters learned their craft.
“Ah, the victor of the tourney!” Leyton smiled at him. “Congratulations on your
win, Ser. And allow me to express my gratitude for honoring our House with your
crowning our Lynesse as your Queen of Love and Beauty.”
“My lord honors me,” Jorah replied, trying to keep the slur from his voice . .
. and to stand without swaying. “My lord, if my victory has proven anything, it
is that I am more than just a Lord from a Minor House. I beseech you. I am in
love with your daughter. May I have her hand in marriage?”
Surprise flittered across Leyton’s face at this. He studied Jorah, and he felt
a momentary panic that he might judge his desires solely based on drink and not
devotion. Then Leyton looked at his daughter over Jorah’s shoulder. “Does he
speak truth? Do you wish to marry him, Lynesse?”
“I do, father,” Lynesse came forward, thankfully trying to keep her inebriated
state downplayed as well. “I love him.”
Jorah didn’t dare look at her. He’d likely kiss her if he did, and that would
not aid his current cause. Leyton studied them, and Jorah looked behind the
lord. It was not just his companions here, but the rest of the Hightower clan.
Daughters. So many daughters. Some of them had husbands as well. He hoped
Lynesse would give him so many children. Elena had been too sickly, but Lynesse
was full of life and passion. They’d have golden-haired cubs. A whole slew of
them. Jorah prayed to every God he knew.
Finally, Leyton nodded. “Very well. I consent to the marriage. We shall speak
of ceremony arrangements in the morn.”
And with an explosion of joy and overwhelming tenderness, Jorah Mormont became
betrothed to Lynesee Hightower. For many years after, his joy would never reach
such heights as it did that night again.
***** Words of Love and Warning *****
The bells still rang in the Sept to announce the new marriage that had just
been blessed inside its walls. Those weren’t his Gods, not really, but they had
been Lynesse’s, and so they’d said their vows under the eyes of the Seven. She
now wore his Cloak . . . well . . . she had been wearing his Cloak. Jorah took
another sip of his wine, the rich flavor going straight to his head. Lynesse
stood before him, biting her lip and giving him such a coy gaze. It heated his
blood hotter than the blazing sun outside. The floor swayed underneath them.
They were aboard a pleasure barge . . . their honeymoon vessel to take them to
Bear Island—Lynesse’s new home.
“Have you come to devour me, Bear?” she cooed, her laces half-way done on her
dress.
Jorah felt a thrill of excitement in his belly. He set his glass of wine down
next to the private feast they had—mostly—indulged in and stepped towards his
lady wife. Without answering, he simply grabbed her around the waist and picked
her right up. She squealed in delight, her head throwing back in peals of
laughter as he spun her around before setting her on the bed. Her smile warmed
him, but when she took that lower lip and bit it seductively, the warmth turned
to a burning fire in his blood. In truth, it was a wonder they had managed to
wait after the wedding. Lynesse had been abundant in her affections and
generous in how deep those affections had ran.
Now though . . . no more waiting. He’d have her. His lips pressed to hers
eagerly, and he purred low in his chest as she accepted them just as eagerly.
Her hands gripped at the front of his shirt, pulling him atop her. Settling
comfortably between her legs, he felt her give a sigh and took that opportunity
to slip his tongue past her lips and into the cavern of her mouth. Lynesse
shivered underneath him, a moan rising up her throat. It vibrated against his
lips, causing his own pleasant shiver to occur. The two joined tongues, kissing
most intimately as their hands feverishly touched all that they now owned. For
himself, he was engrossed in her breasts and her hips. Each pass of his palm
over the cloth that separated him from her breast had Lynesse arching up
underneath him, rubbing something sensual against him.
Lynesse was eagerly running her hands down his back, her nails pressing in just
enough to cause goosebumps on his skin. This simple shared intimacy spanned for
quite some time. Kissing was oft so looked over between couples. They were too
eager to just join and race for their release. Kissing was a pleasure all in
itself. Jorah lifted his head after their extended snog and was delighted to
find her cheeks a rosy pink, her lips swollen, and such a bright light of lust
in her eyes, he thought he might melt under the heat of her gaze alone. His
mind felt hazy and sluggish with the weight of his arousal.
His rough fingers went for the laces of her dress that still remained done up.
With a hurried tug, he had them loosen enough, so he could rip it straight from
her body. She gasped at that, a look of shock and amusement on her face. “I
liked that dress!” she exclaimed, swatting his chest. “You beast!”
“I’ll buy you ten others,” he promised her, tugging the last strips of the
dress away. Smallclothes were removed, and she lay bare before him. Lynesse bit
her lip, having the grace to look a little shy. Jorah had never seen such a
magnificent sight. She was curved perfectly. Every mound came to a perfect
valley, the shadows cast across her skin only seemed to somehow make her look
more sultry. “My love,” he breathed, awe in his voice, “I am not worthy to
worship at this alter.”
Lynesse hummed at that, her hand stroking through his hair. “Anyone can gaze at
an alter,” she told him. “Prove yourself worthy by doing more than just
staring.”
Little encouragement was needed from there. Jorah began at her throat. Soft
kisses trailed down her windpipe, across her collarbone. She seemed to relish
each doting kiss, her eyes closed with a pleasant smile on her lips. His tour
of her body brought him to one of those beautiful mounds, where the cutest pink
nipple lay at the very tip. Eagerly, he licked over this little nub, and she
gasped, giving a hard shudder. Her hand came to wrap around his shoulders, her
legs instinctively widening around him. Indeed, it seemed the more Jorah played
with her nipple—tracing, sucking, licking just over the very tip—the more she
reacted. Before long, she was a moaning mess under him, arching under him and
pushing her hips up against his waist, trying to grind against something.
“I have found your weakness, my lady,” he purred low, his eyes amused. Lynesse
gave an impatient huff in response. A low chuckle left his lips, and he kissed
down her firm tummy, feeling her shudder and gasp. Her legs were spreading
wide, her thighs trembling with the weight of her arousal. Jorah pressed his
mouth into her inner thigh, tracing his tongue over the sheen of liquid that
had leaked there. Lynesse cooed, her hands hovering over his head uncertainly.
“Jorah?” she breathed weakly, a tone of uncertainty in her voice.
He did not answer. His mouth was too busy pressing into her most intimate lips.
Darling blond hair had been carefully shaped to attract him to her further, but
it was obvious Lynesse had not expected close inspection or attention to this
part of her. She tensed under his kisses, her hands finally gripping his hair.
Jorah toyed with her, giving her just a little further teasing, before he
finally pressed his tongue past those lips and inside of her cunt. Lynesse
squealed, her legs gripping his head, even as she pushed away from him, her
body not knowing how to react.
Jorah held her fast, clasping his mouth to her and pressing his tongue deep.
Curling his tongue inside of her, he flicked and thrust and swirled. Lynesse
was wiggling and squirming like a mad woman underneath him. Her fingers were
tangled in his hair, pulling now and then. The sounds ripped from her throat
were almost inhuman in their tone and pitch. She soaked his tongue after a few
licks, obviously enjoying his mindful attentions to her. “Oh, Jorah! Oh,
Jorah!” she kept crying, almost weeping. Jorah was elated with her response to
him. A satisfaction welled deep in his chest. There was no confidence quite
like the one a man received when he knew he pleased his lady.
His tongue curled once more inside of her, and he touched the area just under
the soft bundle that covered her clit. Lynesse released a sharp breath, her
hips bucking down against him. Her hands pressed him hard to her, not allowing
him to remove himself now. A throaty hum left his lips, giving her a little
vibration, and she cried out anew, her hips grinding down against him. Jorah
followed her body’s need and licked the spot faster, firmer, until her hips
were shaking and thighs trembling on either side of him. Her orgasm came
suddenly and expectedly, if her breathing was anything to go by.
Lynesse gave a hard shudder, and Jorah tasted an increase of her honey. Her
thighs shook hard, and her body arched until she finally collapsed back, her
hands releasing his hair. Jorah licked her clean, humming all the while in
satisfaction, before pressing a tender kiss to her swollen clit, which was
weeping for attention. Licking his lips, he wiped his chin as well and pushed
up to look down upon his wife. Her body was a lovely rosy color, flushed with
her orgasm. Her eyes were fluttering, and she looked genuinely shocked at what
had just happened.
Moving over her, Jorah pressed tender kisses into her neck and against her jaw.
She gasped lightly and started to revive herself, her arms circling around him.
“My bear,” she breathed at long last. “You must take me. Now. Forever.”
Since his own arousal was rather becoming a bother, he quickly moved to satisfy
her new desires. Jorah pulled at his tunic, throwing it to the ground. Lynesse
ran her gaze brazenly over him. Her fingers curiously traced scars over his
body. She seemed to delight in his warrior’s body. Jorah was quick at work at
the laces of his breeches as she trailed her finger over his form. The light
tease alone was enough to make him near mad with desire. He had wanted her the
moment he had laid eyes on her. With an impatient growl, he tugged his breeches
down and managed to free himself, his cock hard and pulsing for her.
Her hands flew from him at the sight and came to her lips in a surprised gasp.
“You are fit to injure me, Ser,” she murmured apprehensively.
“Never, my love,” Jorah swore, lowering his head to kiss her deeply. He laid
against her, nestled between her legs and simply filled his senses with the
taste of her tongue and lips once again. Their mouths moved in a slow-burning
desperate dance. Tongues and teeth came to play. Nibbles and suckles. Only
until their lips were newly swollen did Jorah break away and resume his
attentions to where they were most needed. She was slick once again, aided by
his attentions earlier.
His fingers took this slick honey and spread it over his aching length.
Already, the veins were stretched across the skin. His desire was near to pain.
Once he believed himself slicked up enough, he leaned forward and pressed his
tip against her. Lynesse stared at him levelly, her hands reaching for his.
Jorah held them fast, and then slowly pushed inside of her. She gasped and
jerked, but then held herself still. Her warm walls suckled him in with
surprising ease. There was no great struggle here, yet she was wonderfully
tight. Jorah released a low groan as he pressed his full length inside of her.
They held together for a moment, locked and desperately trying to remember how
to breathe. Jorah lifted his gaze to Lynesse’s, searching her face. Her brow
was furrowed in discomfort, but after she breathed a moment or two, she began
to relax, and then gave him a nod. Jorah braced himself on the bed, a hand on
either side of her, and he pulled back, the delicious friction of her cunt
sending a shiver down his spine. His hips pushed back in, and the explosion of
pleasure that racked his body stole his very breath. With it, a moan was pushed
from his chest, and he clutched the sheets of the bed, working them in a steady
rhythm together.
Lynesse gave a few whimpers at first, her hands moving to clutch his shoulders.
He felt her nails dig in for purchase. However, after a few more strokes, she
began to relax fully, and the nails were retracted and replaced with splayed
fingers that were pulling at him closer. Jorah shared in her excited breaths as
he thrust a little faster, the hot, wet pleasure he found within her coursing
through his very veins. His mind could only call for more! More! More!
Lynesse’s seemed to be echoing this statement, for she spread her legs wide,
her hands sliding down to his back to his arse, pulling at him in further.
Pressed chest-to-chest, Jorah worried less for her discomfort, since they were
well past then, and instead of giving them what they needed. His hips moved
harder, slamming his cock into her soaked hole, which was clinging greedily to
him with every thrust. Cries escaped her lips, her eyes rolling back in her
head as he sped up. Jorah echoed them with his own low grunts. Their union was
holy. Not because it was blessed by the Gods in the Sept, but because here,
between her legs, he had found heaven. As she clutched at him tightly to her,
he worked faster, faster, his hips adamant and slapping against hers.
“Jorah!” she cried into his ear, her teeth soon latching upon it. An intense
jolt of arousal shot through him, and he sped up further, taking her faster,
deeper. The bed creaked in its frame, and if the ship had been still, Jorah was
sure they’d have set it rocking with their passionate movements. “Oh-oh-oh!”
she cried harshly, her body squirming underneath him. Her hips started to buck
wildly, and her arms tightened, the nails returning to his flesh. Jorah groaned
loudly when he felt her starting to pulse around him, his cock driving into her
relentlessly.
“OH! MY-MY LOVE!” she managed to call before the force of her climax rendered
her speechless. Jorah cried out for her, his low timbre practically making the
walls shake as she squeezed and pulsed and undulated around him. Her hips were
moving frantically, and he moved to overtake her, fucking her right through her
orgasm. Jorah was panting furiously, his body hot and slick, but the pleasure
was so intense and building right in his core. She lay, boneless, underneath
him, her eyes glossy and unseeing as he sought his own release.
Lifting himself back up, he grabbed her hips and kept her steady as he drilled
into her, the sounds of their flesh a sharp staccato. His body began to tighten
as each explosive release of pleasure built up within him, reaching an earth-
shattering end. “AH! LYNESSE!” he managed to gasp, his muscles clenching, and
then he was bursting from all the pleasure swirling in his body and head.
Crying out, he groaned low afterwards as his seed spilled deep into her body,
adding further liquid to the sheets. His orgasm left him temporarily deaf, his
head ringing, and he stilled inside of her once it released him from its
overwhelming grasp.
The two lovers stared at each other in shocked wonderment . . . that they had
found another person who so thoroughly complimented and satisfied them. Lynesse
reached up and touched his cheek, her fingers lightly stroking the scruffy
hair. She pulled him to her and gave him a kiss that practically made his toes
curl. Jorah moaned into her lips, his heart full of love . . . of contentment.
This was the woman he had been made for. And he had found her. He had obtained
her. She filled his heart completely.
Their bodies cooled, but their ardor certainly did not. As soon as their lips
parted, Lynesse fixed him with a heated gaze. “Again,” she demanded, her hips
rising to already buck herself against him. Jorah released a sharp moan, his
blood immediately enflamed. Who was this woman? Why had he lived so long
without knowing of her existence? “Again!” she said again, her hips moving more
insistently against him. Jorah grinned and returned them to a rhythm of passion
and lust . . . and such did they remain locked through the rest of their
journey to the Bay of Ice . . . where heat soon cooled.
ONE YEAR LATER . . .
The muck made his boots want to stick to the ground, but Jorah forced them out
and came at his fencing partner again. “A little faster there, Dacey,” he told
her, easily dodging her mace.
“Any faster, and I’ll take that pretty head of yours off,” she replied with a
grunt, blocking his attack and countering with a swifter jab at his shoulder.
“Then what use would your wife have with you?”
Jorah chuckled, taking a step back to readjust his grip on his sword. “Let’s
say it’s not my face Lynesse married me for,” he teased back, his eyes glinting
happily. The heir of Bear Island had never smiled so much in his life. He was a
happily married man with a beautiful wife. The two were going to have beautiful
children, and none of them would ever know unhappiness.
Dacey grunted, making sure to hit him with the blunt part of her mace for that.
Jorah chuckled and darted to the side, getting back at her with a quick tap at
her back. “You’ll understand one day, cousin, how love can bring strength to
your hand and speed to your feet.”
“Oh Gods,” Dacey bemoaned. “Stop him now. My cousin speaks of love. Love, my
sweet cousin, is the bane of men. They destroy themselves for it . . . and each
other for it . . . all in the name of love. It makes them blind in one eye.”
Dacey paused in their fight, considering him. “You are blind to her, too. She
doesn’t like it here.” She hesitated, then asked, “why her, cousin? Of all the
women in the world . . . why her?”
Jorah swung his sword in a circle, keeping his wrist agile during their pause
at melee. “Her smile,” he replied. “I was not alive until I saw her smile.”
This caused another groan from Dacey, and Jorah’s mood could not be soured. Not
even by her. Dacey had always been his favorite cousin, even now, older and
harder as she had become under the careful tutelage of her mother. “Alright, my
wise cousin, tell me. What is the bane of women? Not love?”
“Hm,” Dacey gave a short laugh. “Not at all. Women use love as a tool. We’re
smarter than men, you see,” she said haughtily. “We can turn it on and off as
quick as a candle is lit or smothered. No, the bane of women . . . is the folly
of foolish men. Men, for example, who are in love,” she told him pointedly.
“Guard your heart, cousin.” She crouched back into a fighting stance, and Jorah
did the same. “You’re weak there.”
The two clashed together again, and Jorah noticed her foot sunk too deep to the
left and quickly darted right. She couldn’t move fast enough and left her right
side exposed. Jorah brought his sword to her belly and tapped it. “Guard your
belly, cousin, or someone will bury an ax in it,” he instructed, before
lowering his weapon and gripping her shoulder tightly. “Thank-you for the
lesson. We’ll spar again later on in the week.” Dacey shouldered her weapon and
nodded at him, giving him a serious nod before walking off. Jorah watched after
her. Dacey Mormont. She’d be as fierce as her mother one day. Jorah didn’t
doubt it.
She wasn’t entirely wrong either. Though he and Lynesse had experienced perhaps
one of the most intense and incredible honeymoon Jorah could have ever dreamed
of, he still couldn’t get her expression out of his head when she had first
beheld his home. She had taken one look at the statue of the woman with a babe
in one arm and an ax in another and the smile had frozen on her lips. It seemed
the more he had shown her of the humble, wooden Hall, the more the light had
died from her eyes.
He’d pressed her, of course, wanting to know what he could do to make it feel
more like home to her. After all, she had come from Oldtown. A city thick with
stone buildings and a marvelous castle, and the marvel of the Citadel. Bear
Island was quite the opposite. Instead of stone, they had wood. Instead of
buildings, they had trees and rocks and waterfalls. Instead of the bustle of
traffic, they had the whisper of wind and roar of water. She had told him it
was a lovely place, and she was sure she could be quite happy here.
Well, he was quite certain she’d be happy today. He had purchased a new
necklace for her. It would match the silk dress he had procured last month.
Jorah was sure she’d love it, and he’d see that heart-warming smile on her lips
once again. Leaving the training yard, he entered through the back door to
Mormont Hall and made his way to his study. His muddy boots were left for a
servant to clean, and he removed the thick wool of his training garb for a
softer tunic. On his desk rested the small box which held his love’s new gift.
He was half-way through tying his tunic when the door to his study opened and
Aunt Maege walked in.
“Good, you’re here,” she said. “We need to talk about the King’s taxes. The
collector will be here afore long, and we need to ensure we have enough.”
Jorah groaned. He hated this part of being Lord. Bear Island was a poor house.
Not overly poor, but they weren’t wealthy by any means. They produced and
exported enough to get by comfortably, if not leisurely. “Have you done the
counting?” he asked her, moving to his desk to find the papers which held their
accounts.
“I have,” Maege said, her expression hard and accusing. “We’ve enough, but not
enough to pay our workers. There was a significant withdraw recently.” Her eyes
fell upon the box. “And I see it now in the shape of finely carved box.”
Jorah bristled. “Fret not, Aunt. I calculated before I purchased. With the next
haul, the workers will be able to receive their pay. It will simply come a week
late. Surely they can go a week without pay. They catch their own food,” he
grunted.
“Go a week without an income, and then you can tell me how you found the
experience,” Maege told him shortly.
He turned and stared at her hard for a moment. Jorah slowly wavered under that
crushing gaze, and he relented. “Alright. I see your point. It won’t happen
again,” he murmured, his head lowering. Trust his Aunt to scold him well. She
had always been particularly good at putting men in their places.
“See that it doesn’t,” she said firmly. “Your wife could use less baubles and
more discipline, in my opinion,” she huffed. “I offered to give her a bit of
training, seems only right for the Lady of Bear Island to at least know how to
hold a sword or ax, but she wasn’t interested. Said it wasn’t a lady’s place.”
Maege gave a laugh at that. “She’ll soon find out a lady’s place is on her
hands and knees for a pirate intent on the raping with that sort of sense in
her brain.”
“Mind your tongue,” Jorah said tersely, “that’s my wife. She isn’t a lady of
Bear Island. She’s a proper lady.”
“Aye,” Maege agreed. “A proper lady of silk and cream. She isn’t fit for this
life, Jorah. She’ll never be a bear. Mind you don’t bring us all down in trying
to turn her into one.” Jorah glared. Maege was being unfair. Lynesse had done
much to adapt to her new life. It was unfair of his Aunt to expect her to just
accept the Mormont way of life after living as long as she had in a lifestyle
almost entirely different. She needed time and gentle coaxing.
‘Is that all?” Jorah asked, his tone clearly warning her that if she answered
anything but the affirmative, he would not be held responsible for the words
that came from him next.
“Aye.”
“Good. Despite your opinion of her, you’d do well to remember that she is your
Lady.” He waited, letting that settle over his Aunt for a moment. “I’ll come to
you later to finalize the accounts,” he said. Recognizing that she was
dismissed, and wisely obeying it, Maege nodded her head and left his study.
Once the door was closed, Jorah irritably punched the top of his desk—the oak
wood thudding. A lingering feeling of guilt welled in his stomach as he looked
at the box. Reaching for it, he opened it up and examined the sapphire-laden
necklace within. It sparkled beautifully against the silver chain of the
necklace. Each sapphire—five total—had been cherishingly placed within the
necklace. It was expert workmanship. A true gift for any great lady. And he’d
cost his people a week’s worth of wages for it.
Sighing, he closed the box and took it in his hand. Jorah left his study and
headed for his chambers. Lynesse oft buried herself in there—sewing, writing,
reading—as if it was the only place that felt like hers. Opening the door, sure
enough, there she was, working on one of her dresses. “Hello, husband,” she
greeted with a sigh. “Is training over already?”
“Mm. My Aunt told me she attempted to draw you out for training yourself,”
Jorah said, closing the door behind him and entering their room further. It had
once been a scarce room with naught but a bed, wardrobe and desk. There had
been a fur on the floor and against the wall. Now those furs had been replaced
with expensive rugs. The bed was adorned with a silk canopy and sheets.
Lynesse’s dresses and jewelry were overflowing, not having enough containers to
keep them all. This room was set entirely apart from the others. It was out of
place from the simple, scant interior of the rest of the Hall.
“She did,” Lynesse gave a single nod. “But then she took one look at my hands
and deemed them unfit to grip an ax, let alone a sword. Not that I minded. The
only weapon I shall wield is my needle . . . and the most potent one of all . .
. that which rests between my legs,” she said with a small smirk. “I don’t
require an ax to slay a bear.”
Good. Her mood wasn’t entirely in shambles. Jorah, smirking at her words, came
up behind her and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. “My sweet love. For
enduring such a coarse interaction with my Aunt,” he presented the box to her.
Her eyes lit up immediately, and she snatched the box with a squeal. Jorah
chuckled and sat back on the bed, watching her drop her needle and thread in
her eagerness to see what was inside.
Rising from her sewing chair, she opened it . . . and brought her hand to her
chest. “Oh, Jorah,” she breathed, her eyes misty. “My sweet bear. My doting
husband.” She took the necklace from within the box and held it up to her neck,
immediately running to the mirror to inspect herself. “This is the most
beautiful necklace I have ever seen,” she declared. Jorah felt his heart warm
at her joy. He had pleased her so. Yes, the week without pay was worth this.
Everything was worth it to see that treasured smile on her lips.
“You like it?” he questioned, and she spun around, running right for him. Jorah
gasped, and then released a loud, rich laugh as she tackled him onto the bed.
“I LOVE it,” she corrected him, covering his face in kisses. “Oh, wait until my
sisters see me in this. They’ll die with jealousy,” she purred pleasantly, and
then proceeded to put it on. Her tackle had landed her right on his lap, and
once the necklace was securely in place, she shoved his back down to meet the
bed. Lynesse’s legs tightened around his waist, and she smirked coyly down at
him. Jorah felt his blood start to rise, his heart pumping rapidly in his
chest. Her hips moved slowly, grinding against him in little strokes. Jorah
breathed out softly, his hands moving to grip her waist, fingers burying in the
fabric of her dress.
“You shall have to tell me how it looks, my love,” Lynesse whispered, and she
lowered her head, kissing him. Jorah lifted his hands to her back, fingers
splayed against her back. He was pulling her up against him, but Lynesse pulled
away with a little bite to his lower lip. That had certainly sparked his
hunger. Giggling, she pulled up and off of him, then disappeared behind the
divider where she dressed. Jorah groaned and continued laying.
“You are enough to tease a Septon to Sin,” he informed her. His hands were
already going for his breeches, intending fully to stroke one out, since his
wife was too occupied in trying out her new accessory with her clothes.
“Ah, ah,” he heard from the divider. Jorah looked up, and his lips parted.
There his wife stood—entirely naked—save for the sapphire necklace around her
neck. It stopped right between her breasts, leading the eye inevitably to those
beautiful, pink nipples. His cock throbbed in his breeches, but he was rendered
immobile by the lusty, playful look Lynesse fixed him with now. Her fingers
trailed down her body, playing with her nipples as she slowly walked up to him.
“What do you think, husband?” she purred, turning around slowly for him. Jorah
gratefully admired her arse before her front came back into view. “Does it
compliment my tone?”
“You wear it properly, my lady,” Jorah replied. “A dress would never be able to
do it the same justice as your skin does now.” She gave a throaty giggle and
made her way to him. Jorah felt his arousal double with every step she took.
His mind was clouded with his lust. He needed her.
She jumped onto the bed, standing over him. Jorah could see a delicious
glistening at her thighs, and his cock jumped in his breeches. “Then I am only
to wear it naked?” she said, moving her hips in a swivel motion above him.
Jorah gave her an entreating look, his hands sliding up her ankles and calves.
“Sounds as though it might lead to potential violence. My husband is very much
a bear, you see,” she said, her hand trailing along the glittery necklace,
fingers tracing each sapphire lovingly. That hand continued down to her tummy .
. . then rubbed over herself, spreading her honey over the lips of her quim.
“And he’d destroy any man who even dared to look at such a sight.”
Jorah was suffering. He was burning in his clothes, and his cock had become so
hard, it was causing physical pain in his breeches, which were stretched to
their maximum. “Lynesse,” he breathed desperately, his eyes wild.
She gave him a triumphant look and then sat right down on his lap. Grinding
herself into him, he felt the heat of her right through his breeches and
groaned loudly. “I have a bear to tame, it seems,” she bit her lip, and then
quickly grabbed his tunic, pushing it up over his head. Jorah sat up, trying to
help her. As soon as it was off, she was shoving him back onto the bed and
making quick work of his breeches. Before Jorah could even lean up to properly
remove them, she had grabbed his cock and sheathed herself on it. “OH!” she
shouted at the same time he swore aloud.
Drenched, she was. A delicious hot, wet trembling glove around him. His
breeches had made it to his knees and that was about it. Lynesse seemed not to
care, for she was grinding herself in his lap, moving her hips from side-to-
side and swiveling. He was panting harder, his brain fit to burst with his
desire. His hands grabbed at her thighs, fingers digging in insistently. His
wife ground just a little more before pulling up and thrusting herself down
upon him. She cried out again, her head throwing back. Jorah grunted, his hands
digging further into her thighs, leaving bruises behind, he was sure.
She had teased him enough, he’d direct now. He used his strength to pull her up
and down on his cock, his hips moving to meet her and drive himself just that
much deeper inside of her. Lynesse shouted out her pleasure, her beautiful body
arching towards him, her head thrown back, hair touching the top of her arse.
Jorah ran his hand over this arch, his palm engulfing a breast. Lynesse
trembled against him, her hips moving down faster as he teased a nipple.
“Jorah!” she released in a sharp breath, her hand gripping his wrist. Jorah
smirked and tugged the nipple, giving her a hard pinch. “Ah! YES!” she gave a
guttural cry and dropped both of her hands to his chest, using him as leverage
as she rode down severely against him.
The sound of their slapping flesh echoed in their chambers. Jorah felt each
stroke drive him further up the wall in this heady mix of pleasure and sharp
lust. The necklace was bouncing against her skin with every thrust, and he felt
a beastly need to tear it off of her. But that would be a ruin of silver, and
he dared not give into this animalistic urge. Instead, he merely tried to outdo
and thrust faster underneath her. Lynesse’s mouth dropped open in a silent
scream as he fucked her somewhere rather special. It was tight and nearly
overwhelming for himself as well.
“OHHH YES! RIGHT THERE!” she shouted, scratching at his chest. Jorah hissed at
the pain, but it served him to drive harder into that tight area over and over,
the pain mixing headily with the pleasure. Their bed rocked, the four poster
beams shuddering with their furious movements. Jorah was building far too
quickly. Their passion had always consumed him entirely.
“Lynesse!” he gasped hoarsely, the pulsing in his body all beginning to center
on one point. She was nearing her end as well. Her cries became low-pitched,
and she was grinding more than thrusting. “Ahhhh,” he shuddered as she suddenly
squeezed tightly around his cock, hugging and throbbing around him. She
released a sharp cry as her body strained. Jorah could feel her thighs
trembling and shaking on either side of him. The power of her orgasm sent him
right into his own, the undulations too intense for him to survive.
“LYN!” he shouted, his hips rising up a little as he clutched her against him,
emptying his seed into her. His orgasm rode through him in powerful waves,
leaving his skin tingling, and his head aching. “Oh gods,” he breathed as he
floated down, resting against the bed. Lynesse lay across his torso, and he
could feel her hot breath against his chest, tickling the hair there. The cold
from her necklace was making him shiver as well, pressed against his skin as it
was.
Lynesse slowly rose, pushing back up on him. They met each other’s gaze, and
she lowered her head to kiss him. Jorah returned it with every ounce of love he
had in him. His affection and adoration of this woman knew no bounds. Her lips
slowly left his, giving his ear a quick lick and suck. Jorah shivered hard at
that. She’d discovered that weakness the third day of their marriage and
delighted using it against him. “Come, my bear,” she said, crawling over him
towards the head of the bed. “It is mating season.”
Jorah lifted an eyebrow and turned on his stomach, looking up at her. She was
grinning back at him, on her hands and knees and swaying her arse seductively
at him. Jorah chuckled and felt new heat prickle against his skin, and he
rushed forward to attack her instantly. Yes. That necklace was worth far more
than a few weeks’ worth of pay. Her smile . . . that look in her eyes . . . it
was worth the whole damned island.
***** The Decision *****
TWO YEARS LATER . . .
'The treasury is empty.' The treasury was empty. The words echoed in his skull
as he looked down at Bear Island's account books. Worse than empty . . . they
owed. Cold sweat clung to his skin as a desperation took hold. What could he do
to amend this? To put money back into the island? Jorah rubbed his face
wearily, before slipping them through his thinning hair for the hundredth time
that day. Coupled with this hundredth was another hundredth heavy sigh. He'd
doomed his family. His people. He had no way to pay them. How would they feed
their own families? Buy clothes for their children?
"Fucking fool," he swore to himself in an undertone, shoving the account book
away from him violently. It skittered off of his desk and onto the floor with a
loud clunk. Jorah sat back in his chair, face buried in his hands. This hadn't
been a sudden change either. Little by little, he had drained their coffers of
profit. Lynesse's depression had worsened as the years went on. She smiled less
and less . . . the warmth between them was beginning to fade. In his
desperation, he had sought prettier jewels and finer silks. They had appeased,
but they had not fixed.
When they weren't fighting about Lynesse trying to adapt to Bear Island, they
were arguing about children. They'd coupled a lot. That they did not have a
child on the way yet seemed suspicious to Jorah. He believed that if Lynesse
had a child, she might feel more at home. More than that, he knew he had a duty
to Bear Island to provide an heir. More, even, than that . . . he wanted to
have a child with Lynesse. The boy or girl—whatever shape the cub ended up
taking—it would have its mother's beauty. They'd be the flower of Bear Island.
But there was no child. There wasn't even a hint of conception. Jorah suspected
that Lynesse was taking Moon Tea, but when he confronted her on the subject,
she became irritated and angry. Those were the worst fights. Jorah did not
share her chambers after those arguments. Suffice it to say, he was . . .
miserable . . . but he loved her. He loved her more than anything. Which was
why he needed to find a way to fix this problem. Jorah rose and left his study.
He couldn't stand to be cramped in that room any longer.
His feet eventually brought him outside of the Hall. The roar of waterfalls
echoed in his ears, but they did not lure him to their calming presence today.
Instead, he walked down the path that led to the nearest fishing village below
the Hall. If all he could do was lend more of his strength to hurry work along,
then so be it. He'd throw himself into the muck alongside the peasants to
increase their profits. "My lord." "M'lord." "Lord." He was greeted by those he
passed, and he gave them each a nod.
The village was alive with activity. Barefooted children ran to and fro,
playing games. Jorah recalled a time where he had been one of those children.
Feet covered in mud and scrapes, cheeks flush with the cold or exhilaration.
Jorah did not oft long for those days. He preferred the strength he had now.
However, with the misery attacking his heart, he found himself wishing he could
be among those tattered children playing along the coast instead of facing the
worries he had wrought with his foolishness.
Joining the men at the edge of the forest, he picked up a saw and aided them in
felling trees for lumber. Bear Island had two main resources—lumber and fish.
The fishing was done for the day. He could length his strength to the chopping
of lumber. Jorah worked tirelessly, that day, and the following seven. He was
up with the sun and did not return home until the light had faded from the sky.
Lynesse grew all the more depressed, thinking that he was out drinking or
whoring. He had little time to tend to her needs, if she had needs at all. The
profit gained by his aid was so minimal, however, that Jorah began to despair
anew.
It seemed as though he'd never return some inkling of wealth to the treasury .
. . when fate came to him in the guise of a messenger. "My lord!" he heard from
the village. Jorah wiped his forehead free from sweat, panting harshly at the
exertion of splitting log after log. Bare-chested, his body was coated in the
sheen of his sweat. Turning his gaze away from his ax, he looked in the
direction of the call. One of his couriers came galloping toward him. "My lord,
the rangers have captured a band of poachers. They're being detained for your
punishment."
Punishment. Execution, the courier meant. As Lord of Bear Island, it was his
duty to carry it out. And here he thought the worst part of his day would be
coaxing his wife into being warm towards him tonight. Jorah released his ax and
picked up his sword belt again, putting it on and feeling Longclaw's weight at
his side—the weight of his duty. Grabbing a green tunic, he pulled it over his
head and nodded for the courier to lead on. He was given a horse and followed
the courier into the forest.
They rode along a path for a time, over this cliff and that, and then
eventually left it and plunged into the untamed wild of the forest. The trees
were thick, but their horses found a way through it. Jorah was just beginning
to wonder how much further they had to ride when he saw light ahead. Five of
his men surrounded three ragged-clothed men on the ground. They had obviously
hoped to blend into the environment better with their state of dress. They
weren't starving or beggars. Their beards were too finely trimmed and shaped.
Likely some forgotten bastards of a Lord.
"My lord," his steward bowed his head, one of the five men guarding their
prisoners. "We caught these men poaching. We're confiscated the fine bear fur
they managed to pelt before we came upon them. They also were in the process of
skinning a shadowcat."
Jorah sighed heavily, about to order the men to drag them to the Hall where he
could execute them properly . . . but then paused. He wasn't sure from where
the idea had come, but it rose up in his mind then. This wasn't the first time
he had caught poachers on his land. Between his first execution, and the
culprits who sat before him now, he'd carried out a handful. But now he was
recalling a conversation that had occurred years before, when he had been just
a lad.
Slavers paid a great deal for those in Westeros. Since it was illegal, such
property was highly valued. Even these bastards could be worth quite a great
deal of gold. Jorah fidgeted atop his horse, the others stared at him in
confusion at his hesitation. He needed the gold. It would be enough to pay his
debts and put a little bit of profit back into the treasury . . . if he managed
to strike a good deal, at any rate. Of their plight, he gave no thought. To the
horrors he may be exposing them to, he hadn't a care. They were a means to
fixing a problem he had made. Convincing himself that he was giving them more
fair treatment than death, his jaw tightened—his decision made.
"Leave them here," he said to his steward and guard. "I'll execute them here
and see to their burial." The guards hesitated this time, their confusion
increasing. "There's no point in bloodying the Hall today. I'll see to their
punishment here. You're dismissed," he said in a sterner tone. They bowed, and
one-by-one, left him alone with the poachers.
"Please, m'lord, we didn't mean any harm," one of them immediately began to
beg. "We were starving!"
Jorah ignored their cries and merely dismounted his horse. Once the guards had
left the area entirely, he took the rope which bound them together and pulled
on it, bringing them to their feet. They looked at each other quizzically, and
then at him. Jorah said not a word to them, and instead lead them by the rope
to the coast. Slavers were commonly spot sailing by Bear Island. They had
business North of the Wall, where the Wildings sometimes traded in slaves for
supplies. Jorah tied his poachers to a tree, making sure it was impossible to
escape, and then sat out on the coast, waiting.
His thoughts did not touch the illegality of what he was doing. He also vastly
ignored the questions coming from the tree where he had tied the poachers. They
kept asking about their fate, and he blocked it out. Jorah focused on the gold.
On the relief he'd feel when it was over, and House Mormont's coffers were no
longer empty. When asked how he'd come by the money, he'd simply say he sold
some jewels that his wife no longer cherished. Simple and clean, and something
so banal wouldn't be questioned.
Another hour passed, and he began to fret that this may be the day where a
Slaver ship did not pass by. Just as he was considering where he might store
them—or if he should just give up the fool idea and execute them—he saw it. The
ship was small, built for speed instead of fighting. He quickly rose and took
out his dagger. He caught the sun and flashed them down. They had long since
discovered the code to hail a Slaver ship. Jorah just hoped they hadn't changed
it.
A moment passed, and he was about to signal again, when the ship turned in his
direction. A breath left his lips, though the unease only lessened marginally.
Replacing his dagger, he returned to the poachers and untied them. Hauling them
to the coast, they began to see where their futures were headed. "M'lord,
please. Kill us. I'd rather die than be a slave!"
"Shut up. Life is life. Besides, we can always escape," another argued.
"More than that, we can tell all who sold us," the last said, snidely, defiance
in his eye.
Jorah looked at this one, giving him a cool, measured look. He said nothing to
them, in the end, and instead moved forward to greet the Captain of the ship.
They came over in a rowboat, the Captain and a few well-armed man. They
obviously expected an ambush. Jorah placed Longclaw against a rock as show of
good faith. The Captain disembarked and approached him then. He was bronze-
skinned with a purple-dyed beard, though no hair atop his head. Tyroshi. "You
signaled us," he said, his accent heavy. He was covered in coins and jewels. He
obviously aimed to intimidate through his wealth alone.
"I have men for sale," Jorah said without preamble. "How much?"
The Captain clicked his tongue in thought, giving him a smile. He knew well
that slavery was illegal in Westeros. Jorah was painfully aware that he was at
this man's mercy. Again, he focused on the gold. Watching the Captain examine
the men, removing their shirts—even grabbing their cocks—he went so far as to
check their teeth before patting their cheeks and turning back to him. "Three
hundred dragons. For each."
Jorah clenched his jaw. "Make it a thousand. You and I both know you'll receive
twice that amount for Westerosi stock."
"Nine-hundred and fifty," the Captain countered, rolling on his feet with a
smug look on his face.
Jorah extended his hand. "Nine-hundred fifty . . . and burn out their tongues.
Slaves don't need to speak." The Captain eyed him curiously. The men behind
them protested loudly. Yet the Captain understood Jorah's reasoning. Mute
slaves could not betray the one who had sold them. He nodded and shook Jorah's
hand.
"Done." Gesturing his men forward, he counted out the coins, so Jorah could
see, whilst two of his men grabbed each newly minted slave and lit a fire. Once
the flames were burning brightly, they took a dagger and heated it in the
flames. The slaves struggled, but the Captain's men held them fast. Jorah
clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore them. Gold. He needed the gold. His
House needed the gold. He was the Lord of Bear Island, and he needed to save
his House . . . and his marriage. ". . . and fifty," the Captain finished,
placing the last coin in the bag. He placed it in Jorah's hand. "Pleasure doing
business with you. Hope to see you again."
Jorah said nothing. He pocketed the bag and turned away. The dagger had just
come off of the fire, and one of the sailors was grabbing onto his target's
face. Jorah mounted his horse and rode off, back into the forest . . . the
sound of screaming followed him for a mile.
THREE WEEKS LATER . . .
The Great Hall in Winterfell was loud with the roar of chatter, laughter and
music. Lord Stark was hosting a feast, one that had last a fortnight already.
It was a time of great merriment. Jorah met the Stark children and had murmured
warmly to Lynesse that he would like to introduce their children to the Stark's
someday. She had smiled and kissed him. Though he was no great dancer, he took
Lynesse to the floor oft during those days. She loved dancing and delighted in
it now. Though she was surrounded by Northern men and women, she found some
comfort in the companionship of Catelyn Stark, who was the most Southern-est
lady there.
On their last night, Jorah was engrossed in a game of chess with Eddard.
Scratching his jaw, he examined the board carefully. His Lord had him in a bit
of a tangle. He certainly knew his strategy. Jorah could learn a few things
from the man sitting across from him. "How fairs your father?" Eddard inquired.
Jorah continued to worry the patch of hair under his chin, his brow furrowed in
concentration. "I have not received word from him in three months. It is not
uncommon. He is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch now. His duties are many.
Writing to his former son must come last." Perhaps this was spoken too
bitterly. Jorah tried again. "He did make mention of your brother's rise in his
ranks. Benjen performs well. Father said he was born to wear the Black."
Ned nodded at this, as grim as himself. "Benjen was always a serious lad. When
we were young, I'd find him at the window of his bedroom, staring up at the
stars. I asked him what he was looking for, and he'd reply, 'purpose, Ned.
Meaning.' Boy of eight," he smiled after that. "My older brother, Brandon, was
getting into fights and already interested in girls at that age."
Jorah finally made his move, settling back in his chair afterwards. Picking up
his mug of ale, he lifted it to his lips and looked over at the high table
where Lynesse was situated. She was whispering in Catelyn's ear. Her cheeks
were flush. So, his lady-wife was quite swollen with drink tonight. It make her
quite warm to him. He wondered what the two whispered about. Children, perhaps?
The sound of brass against wood made him turn back to his Lord, where he saw
that Eddard had placed him in another tight spot. "I am a poor opponent, my
lord," he remarked with a smirk, studying the board once more.
"Nonsense. To boost your ego, I shall tell you that you have kept me on my
toes. A game such as this merely requires time. When I'm not running after my
son and daughter, it is all I have to do. I understand that Bear Island has
kept you busy."
He nodded. "Our wealth is not made easy, my lord, but it is not my place to
complain. We've always worked hard. Perhaps one day, we'll dig deep and find
we've been sitting on a mine of gold," he joked. Ned smiled at that. As Jorah
made his next move, a messenger came up to Eddard.
"My lord. A raven for you," he said, handing Ned the letter. Eddard unrolled it
and began to read its contents. Jorah sat back with his ale once more, his gaze
returning to his wife. She looked his way, and he offered a smile. She returned
it, and his heart warmed, making him tingle far more pleasantly than the ale
did.
What was spoken next, however, chilled that warmth to the very bone. "Someone
has sold slaves in the North," Ned said aloud. Jorah's heart dropped in his
chest, sinking to his stomach. He turned his head back to his lord, who looked
very grave. He rolled up the letter and tucked it into his belt, bringing his
hand to his face and stroking his beard. "Have you noticed anything odd on your
island? It would have been on the coast, most likely. It is the easiest place
to perform such a transfer."
Jorah swallowed and fought to look and sound still. "I haven't noticed anything
of worth," he replied. "Does the letter say who the slaves were?"
Ned shook his head. "But a sailor recognized them as Westerosi. Their tongues
were burned out, so they could not speak the culprit's name, but by the look of
them, they were able to distinguish that they were of the North."
Jorah frowned at that. "How so? The paleness of their skin? That doesn't
necessarily make the North exclusive," he pointed out. His heart had restarted,
but it was pounding too heavily now. It would give him away. His hands were
clammy as well. "I shall make inquiries all the same," he added, bowing his
head to Eddard.
"I shall do the same," Ned sighed, bringing his own mug of ale wearily to his
lips. "If you find the criminal, detain him. The punishment for slavery is
execution. I shall do it myself." Jorah felt icy prickles against his skin, as
if the blood was draining from it.
"As you command, my lord," he replied.
"Excuse my departure of our game. I must speak to the rest of the Lords. We
shall continue at a later time," Eddard said and rose.
"OF course," Jorah said simply and sat back, taking a breath for what felt like
the first time. Someone knew. Either they had seen or heard. If the Captain had
decided to betray him, Jorah would find that snake and cut off his head. Or
perhaps one of the sailors had done it? Did one of the slaves know how to
write? No, if that was the case, Ned would have had his name. All the same, he
no longer felt safe in Winterfell. When morning dawned the next day, he packed
up their things, and he and Lynesse returned to Bear Island.
As soon as they arrived, he made preparations in case they needed to flee in a
hurry. A week passed. Then another. Then a month. Jorah began to think that he
might be in the clear . . . until he received word from an anonymous letter
that Eddard had discovered that he'd sold the slaves and was on his way to
execute him. Jorah packed a trunk immediately.
"I don't understand," Lynesse said, looking at the piece of parchment that had
served as their warning. "You never sold slaves. Surely, you can just speak to
Eddard and tell him this is all a misunderstanding." Jorah did not stop
packing, nor did he look up at her. "Jorah . . . Jorah, you didn't." Her tone
had become pleading. Looking up at her, he fidgeted, rubbing his thumb against
the palm of his hand nervously. That was all she needed. "Why?"
"Because I couldn't afford you anymore!" Jorah exclaimed, louder than he had
intended. It burst right from his heart. And now that that was out, he couldn't
stop. "I put my House into debt for you! You're so fucking unhappy here, and I
tried, I tried, to make it better by buying you nice things. But we don't
produce enough for the sort of wealth you're used to. We were about to default
. . . Robert's damned taxes needed to be paid, and we had nothing. Then these
poachers surfaced, and I thought . . . I thought I could get us enough gold to
put us back on even ground." Jorah took her hands in his. "I did it for you.
For us. We'll just . . . we'll leave this place and go somewhere warmer.
Prettier. We'll be happy again."
Lynesse removed her hands from his. "I never asked you to buy me nice things. I
didn't ask you to beggar your House."
His jaw tightened, irritation rising. "No, but you never accepted my House as
your own either. Your words betray you. My House. It's your House, too,
Lynesse. If you had taken the time to know this place, and its people, you
might not be half-so miserable as you are now."
She glared at him then, and it was such a cold glare, that he feared he had
lost her forever. "Very well. Then tell me your plan, husband. Where shall you
drag me now?"
Jorah returned to packing. "I booked passage to Lys. A ship is waiting for us
as we speak."
"Lys," she repeated. "So you take me further yet from home?"
Jorah closed his eyes, reining himself in. "Lynesse, if I have stoked all the
love from you, then you are free to return home." He turned back to her. "But
if you love me still, then trust me. I will make this right. And I will make
you happy."
Lynesse stared into his eyes for a long moment, measuring him. Jorah's hand
trembled. If she left him . . . it would destroy him. She was his happiness.
Even now, with his life thrown into disarray and shame, he only needed to see
her smile, and he knew he'd be calm and content. She took a slow breath, then
nodded. "Lys, it is."
He smiled at her, lightly touching her hand and bringing it to his lips. "It is
a place where the pleasure slaves learn the art of the Seven Sighs. We'll find
peace there, I'm sure." She gave a small chuckle.
"We'll learn something there, I'm sure."
Later that night, they dressed in dark cloaks and made preparation to leave
without light to aid their journey. As of yet, his Aunt and cousins didn't know
about their Lord coming to call on them and . . . execute him. Lynesse was
already outside, mounting her horse. Jorah remained yet in their bedroom. His
hands gripped Longclaw. Valyrian Steel could fetch them a pretty amount. They
wouldn't have to worry about money again. They could settle comfortably in Lys
and spend the rest of their lives pleasing one another . . . but this was
Longclaw. This was his ancestral sword. It had been with House Mormont for five
centuries. Before that, he knew not where the sword had come from. His gaze ran
over the dark ripples within the blade. He settled on the bear pommel, roaring
proudly at its foes.
His thumb ran over the carved features. He felt in that moment the full weight
of his shame. He'd tainted not just himself, he realized, but the House Mormont
name. Until he faded in obscurity, he'd be remembered as the man who sold men
into slavery. That would forever be attached to his House. The family who
raised a slave trader. This wasn't his sword anymore. He wasn't a Mormont. He
wasn't a Lord. Jorah had thought to compose a letter of apology and explanation
to his Aunt.
This would serve as both. Feeling as though he were saying a final farewell to
an old friend, he set his sword down on his bed, the pommel resting against his
pillow. "I'm sorry, father," he breathed. Grief washed over him, and he closed
his eyes tightly against the ache of it in his chest and throat. He felt more
the scared boy then than he did facing that bear when he was a lad. His hand
gripped his bear claw around his neck, running his finger along its edge.
Breathing in and out a tad roughly, he cleared his throat and turned away.
Lynesse was waiting for him at the front gate. His face was stony. Silently, he
mounted, and the two rode off into the dark. Jorah led them down a side-path,
out of direct sight of the villagers, until they reached the same area where he
had sold the slaves. A rowboat was waiting for them. They got in with their
things and were rowed to the ship—a small trading ship. They boarded, and the
ship set its sails, heading South. They'd need to travel quickly if they hoped
to make it Lys before King Robert sent someone after him—if they sent someone
after him. He hoped Eddard would just give up after finding he had fled into
exile.
As Lynesse vanished to find some comfort in their cabin, he watched Bear Island
disappear from view. The sea breeze chilled him to the bone, but it was
familiar. The smell, the taste of it, was all he had grown up with. Before
long, the water would change. The tall pines eventually became faded into a
green blob . . . and then his island disappeared from view—home disappeared
from view. He was an outcast now. Jorah felt entirely alone. Helpless.
It seemed one did not understand the meaning of home . . . until one lost it.
***** Lys *****
The city of Lys appeared to them as a paradise. The harbor was full of galleys
and ships with deep and startling colors. Having lived in a world of green and
brown and black—the colors of the North—these vibrant shades were alarming to
Jorah’s eyes at first. Lynesse cooed at the sight of them, leaning over the
railing to see them better. They disembarked once they landed, pressed into the
busy docks. It was bustling with people. Most of them were slaves. Jorah could
see their shackled hands and simple clothes. They were all beautiful, however.
Each one had sharp cheekbones and vibrant eyes. The infamous bed-slaves of Lys.
Jorah felt entirely out of place. Everywhere he looked was beauty. His wife, on
the other hand, fit right in. Her golden locks shined warmly under the sun, her
eyes just as dazzling as the citizens around them. He felt like a wart,
standing out even more ugly next to so much beauty. Lynesse seemed entranced by
it all, walking into the flow of traffic with ease, as if she had been born to
it. He supposed she had. She was from the bustling city. She likely felt more
home here—in a different country—than she ever had on Bear Island.
Hiring a cart to carry their trunks, Jorah led her from the docks and into the
city. The traffic lessened only a little. It seemed every inch would be
bustling with activity. Merchants littered the streets, trying to sell their
wares. Those who boasted the largest crowds were selling flesh. On small
stages, a line of young men and women stood naked. The merchant displayed their
assets as if they were cattle. He even pumped the young men until their cocks
were hard, as if he were showing them a stallion. Jorah averted his gaze,
feeling a bad taste brewing in his mouth. This was not Westeros.
That was made even clearer when he came to notice the engravings and
decorations that lined the city’s walls and buildings. Erotic depictions of men
and women and women and women and men and men lined the great arches throughout
the city. They were carved into fountains and sign posts. It was a wonder there
were so many temples littered throughout the city, too. If a Septa ever saw the
liberal works of art, their hearts would likely stop in their chests
immediately. Somehow, Jorah doubted they had a weirwood here as well.
Lynesse was wide-eyed as she examined the statues and people. No doubt she was
well aware of her husband’s ugliness as well. The majority of Lys’ citizens had
the Targaryen coloring—silver hair, purple eyes, pale skin. Seeing the
Targaryen family in Westeros had been rare, and they had looked exotic then.
Now, surrounded by their ilk, Jorah felt as though he had stumbled into some
mystical land. At any moment, he expected a nymph or Child of the Forest to
make an appearance.
They entered a marketplace which was as crowded as the docks. “Here,” Jorah
handed his wife a pouch of coins, “get yourself something to eat. I’m going to
speak to the magistrate and find us a home.” He hoped there was something
available, though knowing their finances, he didn’t expect half-as-glorious as
some of the buildings he saw. This was a city for the Merchant Princes and
Slave Owners—not the exiled. Jorah made his way to an official building and
waited in the queue to be seen. That alone stole an hour from the day.
When at last the Magistrate saw him, as Jorah had expected, the only homes
available were rentals and in the poorer part of the city. Since he could not
have his gentle wife sleeping on the street, he paid for one of decent size and
monthly payment, and then received the keys. Jorah returned to the marketplace,
searching for Lynesse. Though a great deal of the crowd was silver-haired,
there were croppings of browns, blacks and blondes. Visitors from Tyroshi added
in a few blues, greens and purples, too. It was her laughter that eventually
led him to her.
Though he hadn’t heard it in awhile, it came lofting over to him above the din
of chatter and shouting to settle pleasantly in his ear. Following the sound,
he found her in front of a large stall selling trinkets and perfumes. She was
not alone. Beside her was a man dressed in fine silk with as much jewelry as
his wife owned dangling from his ears and throat and fingers. “Lynesse,” he
announced himself, lightly touching her arm. “I have a place for us to stay.”
“Oh, lovely. I’ve grown tired of traveling for the day. Tregar, this is my
husband, Ser Jorah,” Lynesse introduced him.
“Ah, so this is the bear,” the man gave a slimy smile to Jorah. “Your wife was
telling me about you. A Knight of Westeros. What brings you to our humble
little island?” Tregar asked.
“A change of weather,” Jorah replied stiffly. “We desired something a little
more temperate.”
“No doubt for those old joints, eh?” Tregar nudged him.
Before Jorah could respond with something rude, Lynesse showed him a small
bottle. “Look, my love, at this little gift Tregar has given me.”
“A potent perfume for a beautiful woman. Your husband will quite enjoy it, I am
sure,” Tregar winked at Jorah, who only stared stoically back at him. The
longer they remained in this man’s company, the more uncomfortable Jorah felt.
He smiled too much . . . looked at Lynesse too much . . . and who bought
another man’s wife perfume?
“I am sure,” he replied coldly. “Until another time,” he bowed his head in
farewell and took Lynesse’s hand, pulling her from the crowd. Once they were
far enough away, he asked idly, “what did he want?”
“Want?” Lynesse gave him a confused look. “Only to give me this bottle of
perfume. He said that a drop of sunshine should smell like a drop of sunshine.
I was quite grateful—I smell like fish.” Whether this was a jab at his home or
not, Jorah wasn’t sure, but he cast a stormy eye at the bottle of perfume in
her hands.
“You should be careful,” he told her. “Poison is common here. There’s little
honor found beyond the Narrow Sea.” Which was precisely why it was the only
place for them to flee. He was not just an exile, but a disgraced exile. These
were his people now—vagabonds and thieves and slavers. The topic displeased
her, if the twisting of her lips had anything to say about it, and so he
ventured on a new subject. “They did not have any homes for sale. Not in our
ability to pay, anyway. So, I found us a place to stay that we must rent. I
will have to find employment and quickly.”
Lynesse frowned at this. “I thought we’d be together here. Living in leisure
for the rest of our days. What will you do?”
Jorah wasn’t entirely sure. He was educated, but in the ways of how to rule. He
had no great skill in managing finances. That was obvious. He supposed he could
try and join with a fishing crew, but the wage for that was likely too small to
pay for both home and food. “I shall search tomorrow,” he told her in answer.
They left the busy city center and wandered down streets that were becoming
rapidly poor. Lynesse’s smile lessened the further they walked. A few naked
children ran past them, chasing a chicken. Shit clung to sides of the street at
certain turns. Jorah had seen worse states of living in King’s Landing . . .
though not by much.
At last, they came to their home. Jorah unlocked the front door and allowed her
in first, dragging their things in behind him. They lit a few candles, opened
up some windows and found the place—other than needing a good-washing—to be
agreeable. There was a large sitting room with fire that doubled as a dining
hall. A small kitchen was in the back. A loo in the front near the door. There
were steps on the right that led to a loft area which served as their bedroom.
It was just low enough to fit a wardrobe.
“What do you think?” Jorah turned to his wife anxiously. “Can you make it your
own?” She glanced around once more, her hands clasping together in front of
her. Then she looked at him, examining his face. She came to him, lightly
cupping his face in her hands and pressing a kiss to his lips.
“We can make it home,” she murmured. Jorah smiled, relieved, and watched her
step back. “Even more so because we don’t have servants to do the unpacking for
us now.” He smirked at that. “If my mother could see me now . . . she was
always on me about cleaning up my room myself. Well, mother, I’m making my room
now.”
Approaching her, he gently ran his fingertips over along her spine through her
dress. He wished for her thoughts to be taken from that pretty bottle of
perfume. “I suggest we make up our bedchambers, first,” he purred low. He felt
her shiver and turned to him with a heat in her eyes that made him believe that
everything was going to be alright.
“Who says we need to make up anything for that?” she replied and grabbed him,
pulling him to the floor with her.
THE NEXT DAY
As he had worried, the wages paid to fishermen was not enough to get by. Not
with a wife like Lynesse. Jorah searched through the city, asking for
employment. Since Lys’ primary product was slaves—bedslaves, at that—he kept
hitting dead ends. It seemed if one was not born into a Merchant family, then
one was a slave. There were very few in-betweens except for one course of
action. He’d seen their flyers stationed at the taverns, promising blood and a
lot of coin.
Lys had recently declared war against the Braavosi over some disputed territory
on the Rhoyne. Since they had no standing army, they simply paid troupes of
sellswords to fight their battles for them. He supposed there was some wisdom
to this approach. Why waste one’s own men when others were willing to do it for
oneself? Yet, he was wary of sellswords. These were men who killed for coin.
Honor was not among their number either. But he needed to stop thinking of
himself as an honorable man, anyway. He’d buried that back home.
Entering the Shy Maiden—a tavern the flyer had said to sign up at—he glanced
around. Men dressed in leather and armor sat about the tables, drinking their
fill and trading war stories. He saw a queue in front of a table and joined it.
When he reached the front, he was met with a large man—not of fat, but with
muscle. His jaw was crooked, and had quite the large nose. He wore armor, a
blackheart emblem etched upon his chest. “Name,” the man said gruffly, eyeing
Jorah up.
“Ser Jorah Mormont,” he replied, feeling a pricle of unease by giving his last
name. If there was a warrant out for his head, he wouldn’t put it past a couple
of mercenaries to betray him and turn him in. The man didn’t seem to recognize
the name, however, and he released a slow breath of relief when he simply
pushed a paper in front of him.
“Sign here. It’s a contract for a year fighting the Braavosi. You survive, you
get paid. We split it even. Simple as that. You die, you don’t get the gold.
Sort of failed the job if you died, didn’t you?” he grunted. Jorah didn’t say
anything, simply scanned over the piece of paper before signing his name below.
“’Ser’ you said,” the man looked him over. “Another exiled knight, huh?” Jorah
glanced up at him at this, a cold prickle running down the back of his neck.
“You’re in good company in the Gold Company. We’re a bunch of exiles. Myself,
included.” He checked Jorah’s signature then held out his hand. “Myles Toyne.
I’m Captain-General of this crew. Folks call me Blackheart.” Jorah gripped his
hand and shook it firmly. “Welcome to the Golden Company. We leave at the end
of the week. Meet us at the harbor at dawn.”
Toyne flicked a golden coin to him. Jorah caught it and tucked it into his coin
pouch. That would settle the rent for a few months, at least. Before he left,
Jorah glanced over the men he had just joined. They all looked battle worn. Had
Toyne meant it by saying they were mostly exiles? Perhaps this was meant to be
then. A bunch of men without a home searching for one. He supposed he was in
good company, after all. Jorah left the tavern and returned home to break the
news to Lynesse.
“What do you mean you’re not sure how long you’ll be gone?” was her immediate
question. “You’re going to leave me here, alone, in a place I don’t know? With
no friends or families to visit and depend on?”
Jorah shifted uncomfortably under the pained stare of his wife. “It’s the only
way to make a decent amount of money. I can put enough away to allow us to live
comfortably for a time. They pay well. We’ll be set for a few years. By then, I
can find something more suitable to us both. For now, though, I need to make
coin quickly. Or else we’ll be sleeping on the streets.” He lightly took her by
the waist, holding her against him. “I’ll write when I can. It may not even be
that long. A few weeks. Surely, you can last that long?”
Lynesse did not smile. “You’re leaving me here alone. In a place I don’t know.”
“Would you rather ride with me? Be so close to fighting? With men eager for a
wet cunt after battle? I can’t protect you there. You’re safest here,” Jorah
insisted.
She sighed heavily at that. Jorah knew she wouldn’t want to be out there in the
muck and so close to battle. “Fine,” she said at last, a tone of resignation in
her voice. “But if you die, I’m selling everything that’s yours and going back
home.”
A kiss was pressed to her forehead. “I won’t die. Not if I have my lady’s
favor.” She smiled lightly at that. “I’ll coat your cock in my favor,” she
murmured, pulling him towards the stairs to their bed. “And something to take
with you, too. Come, husband, if you’re going to leave me for an extended time,
then you need to make me feel it for the months to come.”
***** The Return *****
A permanent, skeletal smile transfixed Jorah that night. From the campfire's
light, the toothy grin gleamed yellow and bright. A skull—one of many—hung off
of the Captain-General's tent. It was the Golden Company's way, he had learned.
Whenever a Captain-General passed, their skull was removed and cleaned, and
then dipped into gold. Numerous skulls littered the tent now. Did one of them
belong to Aegor Rivers? Vaguely, Jorah wondered if he remained in the Golden
Company . . . would he work his way up the ranks to become Captain-General
himself? Would his skull adorn the next Captain-General's tent? Perhaps they'd
be kind and send it to Lynesse. She'd likely need the gold.
"Do they scare you?" he heard beside him. Jorah looked and saw one of his new
'brothers' making himself comfortable at the fire. Black Balaq, the man was
named. He was the commander of the Company's archers.
"They interest me," Jorah replied, offering the Summer Islander his flask of
ale. The commander took it and sipped heartily. "History decorates our Captain-
General's tent. Stories. Immortality, even. These men live on because their
followers remember them. With so physical a presence, it's likely difficult to
forget them," he added with a small smirk.
Balaq grunted and gave a grin, handing Jorah his flask back. "It is true. I
could give you the name of each skull and how he died and in what battle. For
us, it gives us strength. We have a tradition of doing our job . . . and doing
it well. For our enemies, it strikes fear in their hearts. When they see the
glint of gold, the ghoulish smile . . . they tremble. We will need such
trembling tomorrow. We fight the Braavosi."
Jorah frowned at this. "I've never fought a Braavosi before. What can I
expect?"
Balaq gave a distasteful look towards the fight. "Water dancers. They like to
dance on the battlefield. They're no easy fight, that much is true. They have
light swords, light armor, so they can move quickly. You are a knight, no?"
Jorah nodded. "Your armor will weigh you down. I suggest wearing leather
instead." Jorah bristled at this. It went against every instinct he had as a
fighter. "They will not fight you like a Westerosi knight would. Do not worry
about form so much as your footwork. And don't try to get fancy. Leave that to
them. Just stab to kill. Not to wound. The faster you put him down, the better
for you."
It sounded exhausting, all things considered. Jorah grit his jaw, wondering if
he should finish that letter to Lynesse, after all. Fighting the Braavosi
sounded like an entirely new animal to what he was used to fighting. Bringing
his flask to his lips, he took a long drink. Balaq gave a throaty chuckle
beside him. "Worry not, Ser Knight. You have my archers. We will pierce through
those dancing cunts before they can take a step." Standing, the Islander
clapped his shoulder before taking his leave.
Jorah was left alone at his campfire once again. They had been camped on the
Rhoyne for a month now, waiting for their targets to arrive. They'd trained and
drilled every day since their arrival. Discipline was the Golden Company's
bread and water, he had learned that. Jorah hadn't minded the physical
activity. It kept his thoughts from turning black. Being so far from Lynesse,
he felt the pangs of homesickness all the more keenly. It was hot in Essos.
Oft, he longed for the cool breezes of Bear Island.
He had exchanged letters with Lynesse through most of that time. From what she
had said, she was finding ways of keeping herself occupied. There were a few
like-minded ladies that she had taken as friends and wished to introduce him to
them once he returned. That comforted him. So long as Lynesse had friends, she
would be happy. It was what she had lacked on Bear Island—women able to connect
with her. Tonight, the quiet, still night before battle, he longed for her the
most. Her calm and sure hands on his face. Most of all, he missed her smile and
the way it lit her eyes and dazzled him. He needed that smile now more than
ever.
As pink lines began to appear across the sky, he knew what he needed even more
than her smiles was sleep. If the Braavosi sought to tire him, he wouldn't make
it that easy for them by having a sleepless night. Rising, Jorah turned and
went into his small tent. His cot and saddlebags were the only thing that
really fit in the tent. He had to stoop upon entering and walk a fine line in
order not to step on anything to get to his cot. Falling upon it, he reached
under his pillow and took out Lynesse's letters.
'Come back safely to me, my Bear.'
'Your loving wife.'
'My body nearly aches as much as my heart from the distance between us.'
Eagerly, he read his favorite lines from her letters. They were not poetry, but
each word had been etched with love, and so they were all the more beautiful to
him. Tenderly, he tucked them away once more and rested on his back, staring up
at the canopy of his tent. Outside, horses snorted, men murmured or laughed
drunkenly. Armor clinked, fires cracked, and beyond that, the Rhoyne roared.
Tomorrow, the river would run red.
THE NEXT DAY
The red sky was reflected by the red earth. Jorah was sent with the second
battalion of men across the river. Since the Braavosi were too cowardly to come
to their bank—as Toyne had said—they would sail to their bank instead and ram
their swords down their throats. Toyne left with the first battalion, and
Jorah's unit was fast behind them. The roar of battle was already louder than
the river. Some of the fighting was spilling into the river itself, drowning
men both ally and enemy.
Stretching his arms, Jorah unsheathed his sword once their barge neared the
shoreline. He'd taken Balaq's advise and left his armor in his trunk. Instead,
he wore a quickly-assembled leather jerkin with matching greaves and vambraces.
Wrapping cloth around his hands, he took a few breaths and steadied his
rattling heart in his chest. One would think he'd be used to battle by now . .
. but this was against a foreign enemy, and he had no real friends here to
watch his back. Breathing in deeply to calm his body and focus his mind, he
glanced at their commander—a man whose name he had yet to learn.
"Ready yourselves, men!" he shouted, hoisting his sword in the air. "Let's go
give those cunts a real dancing lesson!" Around Jorah, the men cheered and
roared, the fire of battle already lit in their belly. Jorah grit his teeth
together and prepared to charge. There was a sharp jolt as the barge skid onto
the shore, and then the gangplank was dropped, and they were rushing forward
into the fray. Toyne's men were holding a firm line, keeping the Braavosi from
pushing forward, but it was clear they needed reinforcements.
The Golden Company was not one's typical sellsword company either. Instead of
charging blindly and without impact, the disciplined and seasoned warriors
attacked according to strategy. Jorah's unit was sent to pincer the Braavosi
from the side. As their enemy became aware of them, they turned from Toyne's
men to deal with this new force. Jorah was swallowed into battle, blindly
parrying at the swift strikes that seemed to come from all around him.
Yet despite this, he couldn't seem to actually find an enemy. They were moving
too quickly. Darting in and out. Odder still, when he finally found one to
face, the man was standing to the side, holding his sword out towards Jorah
with one hand. Where the bloody hell was he supposed to attack!? The Braavosi
noticed his hesitance and struck first. The slender sword came swinging down as
quickly as lightning. Jorah just barely managed to parry it in time. But as
soon as the sword bounced off, the Braavosi was striking again, moving with the
momentum. This time the attack came too quickly, and Jorah's arm was sliced.
The sharp pain made him grunt, and the Braavosi grinned, performing some
ridiculous twirl before coming at him again. Jorah backed off, mindful of his
opponent's quick agility. He needed to get a hit in, or else he was done for.
Ignoring the ache in his arm, Jorah tried to match the man's footwork. Though
he was slower, it was only by a half-step. Had he worn his metal armor, he'd
have been woefully slow and likely dead. Holding his sword in front of him,
Jorah took the offense.
To his annoyance, the Braavosi kept stepping back, his body still held to the
side, so Jorah's target was essentially absent. Their swords clang and bounced,
the Braavosi quickly fending Jorah's attacks off and keeping out of his reach.
Growing frustrated, Jorah quickened his step, charging faster and faster. A
sword strike to the left, right, above—all were deflected, but he was backing
the Braavosi into a wall—or, rather, a line of men. The Braavosi, sensing this,
did something Jorah had never seen before. As he came in to attack, the
Braavosi leapt up and flipped right over Jorah's head. Seeing a glint of steel,
Jorah dove to his knees, ducking, as he felt the air from the sword brush his
hair in a near miss. The Braavosi had jumped over him! And landed on his feet!
Jorah quickly spun and righted himself, his astonishment showing on his face.
The Braavosi grinned broadly, bowing his head. "Fuck that," Jorah grunted. So,
the Braavosi were acrobats. No one had thought it wise to inform him of that!?
Right, what was the strategy against men who could leap and twirl like damned
dandies? The Braavosi advanced this time, obviously wanting to implement the
plan Jorah had been intending to use against him earlier. He'd just have to
think on his feet.
The strikes came again. Jorah parried at his right knee, then at his head and
side. The blows were fast, but not rushed. They were smooth and calculated. It
was terrifying. He'd never fought against something like this. He was giving
ground, and he knew he was quick to running out of it. His arms were tiring as
well, fending off the attacks as he was. The Braavosi was likely counting on
this. He jumped up, twirling, his sword whipping like a whirlwind at Jorah.
Then it hit him. He wasn't moving. He was just trying to keep the battle in one
place. If he wanted to get close to his enemy, he needed to his dance against
him. Jorah saw another strike coming his way, but instead of parrying it, he
dodged. The momentum of the Braavosi's swing had him stumbling forward, not
having expected the momentum to follow-through, but rather ricochet, so he
could easily swing into his next step, but without that ricochet, his dance had
been interrupted. Jorah quickly kicked down on the sword, embedding it into the
dirt and brought his sword up at the same time, slamming it through the
Braavosi's chest.
The man sputtered in disbelief, coughing up blood. Jorah wrenched his sword
freed, kicking the man onto the ground. He'd be dead in seconds. Leaving him
there to bleed out, he took only a few steps before being confronted with his
next opponent. This Braavosi, younger than the first, seemed eager to show off
first-thing, for he was jumping into the air already, intending to soar over
Jorah's head and attack his unguarded back.
But Jorah was not surprised at this feat anymore. As the Braavosi moved over
his head, he quickly deflected his sword blow and wrenched his sword upwards
through the Braavosi's neck. As the body came to the ground, it was short one
less head—which came to a fall a few feet from it. Jorah took a quick breath
before throwing himself back into the massacre, his battle lust engaged and
thirsting to shed more blood.
They were victorious their first battle, but Braavos was not going to give up
that easily. According to their scouts, more battalions were on their way. A
few months of fighting quickly became six. During small periods of peace, Jorah
was unable to return to Lys, for he had received letters informing him that his
debt was rising in Lys. Lynesse was spending the money he earned faster than he
could send it. His furloughs, thus, were spent no other than in Braavos, where
he borrowed money to cover his debts, so his wife could eat and have a home.
The war continued. Six months turned into another six months, and finally,
Braavos called a truce. The disputed land they had been fighting over was given
to Lys. The Golden Company—and the other hired sellsword companies—were
successful. They were going home. Jorah took the last of his money and sailed
home. He knew he needed to speak with Lynesse again about her spending habits.
They could not live so extravagantly. Not yet, at least.
Despite this slightly sour conversation brooding over his head, Jorah was eager
to see his wife. It had been far too long since he had seen her, held her,
kissed her. He spent most of his journey daydreaming of their
reunion—particularly of her smile. The war with the Braavosi had hardened him.
His skin was tanned and rough. He bore more scars than when he had left. But he
was well and whole and eager to lay with his wife. He was determined to get her
with child before he had to leave for the next campaign—wherever that might be.
At last, the ship pulled into harbor, and after he had said his farewells with
the rest of the Company, Jorah took quick steps down the crumbling streets to
his home. With his treasures—small little trinkets he had taken from his fallen
opponents—in a bag around his back, Jorah eagerly opened the door . . . and
found Lynesse giggling and sitting in the lap of an overly dressed, perfumed
snake. Not just any snake either. Jorah remembered his face. Tregar Ormollen. A
quiet, cold fury seeped into his bones as he froze in the doorway. "Lynesse,"
he said quietly, his gaze never leaving Tregar's, "I'm home."
She paled, the laughter dying on her lips, but she did not move from Tregar's
lap . . . did not come to him. "You are wrong, Ser Exile," Tregar smiled
pleasantly at him. "This is my home now. I could hardly let the lovely Lynesse
here sleep on the streets. When she told me of her precarious financial
situation, I took it upon myself to lend a helping hand. This house now belongs
to me . . . along with everything in it."
Jorah's jaw was clenched so tightly, he heard it click. "Lynesse," he said
through his grit teeth, "come with me. I have enough coin to find us somewhere
nicer."
"Actually," Tregar countered, "you don't. I did a little digging, you see. Ser
Jorah Mormont, you owe quite a great deal to the moneylenders in Braavos. I'm
sure whatever you have in that sack of yours there might pay for . . . half? .
. . of what you owe?" he smirked, his tone patronizing. "But I am a giving man.
Quite charitable and generous. I will pay those debts . . . in exchange for
your wife," Tregar ended in a purr, his lips pressing to her cheek. Lynesse
smiled at him. "Well . . . former wife. We've already had it annulled, I'm
afraid."
This was a blow. Jorah visibly teetered for a moment. "How? I was not there. I
did not sign a paper."
Tregar waved his hand. "A mere trifle. For all intents and purposes, you are no
longer married. Though if you do sign, I can give you . . . oh . . . her weight
in gold, shall we say? You could start a nice new life with that amount." Jorah
was silent, his gaze hard. "No, I thought you might not. Ah well. Concubines
come in all shapes and forms. You would not be the first married woman I've
brought into my home," he hummed to Lynesse, his arm wrapping tightly around
her waist.
"Lynesse," Jorah managed to release, a breath expelled from his lungs. Pain was
etched into his face . . . pained confusion. He didn't understand . . . what
was happening.
"If you insist on making trouble, however," Tregar said, and his voice became
far less pleasant. "I can arrange to have you enslaved for your debts. The
choice is quite simple, all things considered." Slavery? Jorah inwardly scoffed
at that. How fitting for him, really.
Before he could even think to answer, Lynesse spoke. "Leave, Jorah." His gaze
touched hers. There was sadness in her gaze . . . but not remorse. None that he
could see, anyway.
"Lynesse, I—"
"Go," she interrupted him a tad sharply. "I do not love you anymore." Another
blow. Jorah felt it nearly cripple him. His lungs could barely fill with
oxygen. Nausea washed over him, cold prickling kissing his skin and making him
sweat. How had this happened? "Leave. I never wish to see your face again."
Tregar gave him a pointed look at this. Jorah made some blind move. He was
reaching for something, though he wasn't sure what, but Tregar clicked his
tongue.
"As I said, everything in this house is now mine. What you own is on your back.
Leave Lys. If you ever come to this city again, I will see that you are sold in
the next slave market," Tregar informed him.
Jorah barely registered any of this. Blearily, he turned and left the house.
With the door closed behind him, he was able to breathe again. With a deep
intake of breath, agony wrested itself on his heart. He'd lost his wife. To a
damned merchant prince. The cold fury returned, and he had half a mind to
charge back in there and throttle the man to death . . . but Lynesse would not
want him even then. She'd likely hate him for killing her only salvation.
Entrapped in his ceaseless torment, Jorah was unaware of where he was going,
yet at some point, he found himself back at the harbor—one scar added since
last he had walked its planks. Blindly, he traded coin with the first Captain
he met and boarded the ship. Questions circled his mind as he sat upon a cot in
the belly of the ship. What was he to do now? Where was he to go? But the most
pertinent came around and around again—
Why had she left him?
The passengers who shared his space avoided the large man dressed in assorted
armor who quietly wept into his worn and dirty cot. The man who had lost his
home, honor, family . . . and wife.
***** What Comes Next *****
Somehow, his wanderings led him to Volantis. It was a strange city, though more
familiar than Lys had been. The slaves crowded this city, making the already
hot and humid temperature all the hotter. His clothes stuck to his skin, and
his hair curled from the moisture. It was not a comfortable city to be in for
someone used to dry and cold temperatures. The smell, however, was extremely
familiar. Since Volantis was situated just off of the Rhoyne, fish was
plentiful. The reek of it reminded him of home. It was pleasant, despite how
poignant it was, and it was this smell that convinced him to stay in Volantis
for a time.
With little gold in his pocket, Jorah slept in an inn his first night—just off
of Fishmonger’s Square. The next night, he slept in an alley. The desire to
spend his remaining coin on drink was prevalent. Some part of him hoped a
crazed fool might find him and put him out of his misery. But even in wishing
for death, he was unlucky. When he was awake, he spent time exploring the city.
It was large and cut into halves. There was the Old City, which was surrounded
by a black stone wall. Jorah learned that it was dragonglass. It shimmered
under the light, but touching it was enough to scald the skin under the hot
sun. The New City was situated across the Long Bridge, built over the mouth of
the Rhoyne.
It was the Fishmonger’s Square, in the end, that he stuck the closest to. The
people here were populous. He spent most of his day sitting on the edge of one
of the decoratively carved fountains—no doubt likely sculpted during the time
dragons flew—watching the merchants sell their wares. The Priests and
Priestesses of R’hllor were almost as common as the slaves. They could be
easily spotted in their cloaks of road. They took positions on the corners of
the square preaching about their Lord of Light, and the Night that was full of
terrors. They just gave him a night full of headaches.
Jorah did have to admit, however, that the Temple of the Lord of Light was an
impressive sight. It was thrice the size of the Great Sept in King’s Landing.
Towers and buttresses and bridges and pillars were all carved in such a way
that made it appear seamless. And the color . . . Jorah did not know that stone
could be such a color. Oranges and red and yellows all mixed that it made the
stone appear to be fire itself. Though Jorah doubted the validity of
R’hllor—and even less now the Gods in general—he could not help but be moved at
the impressive feat of architecture.
However, the stares the Priests—and especially the Priestesses—sometimes fixed
on him made him uncomfortable. Which was why, primarily, he was looking for
work. It seemed that fate would not let him die, and so he had best stop
wallowing and continue to live. For what reason, he was unsure, but it seemed
he was not meant to die here. With nothing but his sword and the clothes on his
back, Jorah approached the Merchant’s House. It was the busiest inn in
Volantis, and if there was to be posted work anywhere, he’d find it here.
Entering, he was nearly pressed into the wall immediately. The inn opened on a
dining hall—as most inns did—but this one also had a stage. A band of musicians
were currently playing, and it seemed to have drawn in a crowd. Jorah pushed
his way through the people, trying to get to the notice board near the desk
where one procured a room. Squeezing between two rather tubby blokes, he
reached it and read over the notices.
‘Looking for a copper pot. DO NOT send me a chamber pot. Last one I got had
urine still in it. I will report you to the Triarch if you do.’
Jorah snorted at that, moving on to the next notice.
‘Child. Female. For sale. Family has run out of money, and we have too many
mouths to feed. She’s pretty with a promising bust. Pleasure and labor Masters
welcome to inquire.’
‘Tired of being unsatisfied by your husband? Have a scratch you just can’t
itch? Stop by Nine-Inch-Nevos’ and he’ll pound you until the Black Wall comes
down. No men.’
‘Coin for fighters. Need an escort to Qohor. Half-now, the rest is given upon
reaching Qohor safely. Veterans preferred. Inquire Vhalaso at Vhalaso’s
Valuables in the Fishmonger’s Square.’
Well, that would do. Jorah turned and was immediately shoved back into the
counter. Grunting, he hit the corner and felt a sharp pain erupt in his lower
back. A body had fallen back into him. The man pushed off of him and charged
forward, seemingly towards the one who had shoved him in the first place.
Looking over the man’s head, he saw a pair of Dothraki horselords. Fighting
broke out, the crowded room becoming even more chaotic as men either joined the
fight or tried to get out of the way.
“What happened?” Jorah heard someone shout, likely the inn owner.
“Some fool tried to barter with a Dothraki with coin. Idiot obviously doesn’t
know they’re a bartering people.”
Jorah wanted no tangle in this. He needed to reach the market before this
Vhalaso went home. Getting out, however, was easier said than done. With all of
the bodies crammed together, people were being pulled into the fight whether
they wanted to or not. Jorah was among them. He was suddenly face-to-face with
a rough-looking sort who charged the small distance between them. Jorah ducked
the fist that came flying towards his head and shoved the man face-first into
the counter behind him. The impact wasn’t enough to knock him out,
unfortunately, for the wild—or drunk—brawler stood back up and elbowed Jorah in
the mouth before he could move.
Grunting, Jorah clasped his hand to his mouth. No broken teeth, but he had bit
his lip, and there was a trickle of blood running down his chin. “Fine,” he
murmured in irritation and punched, but the brawler blocked him, instead giving
Jorah a good whack into his chest. The breath left his lungs, and he gasped
sharply. Gritting his teeth, Jorah grabbed the man’s arm, breaking it with a
sharp tug. That had him screaming. Jorah punched again, this time not blocked,
hitting the man right in the face. It felt . . . damned good . . . to alleviate
some of the agony in his soul. The man mumbled something, and Jorah stopped.
His knuckles were bloody and bruised. The attacker was worst off. The left side
of his face was swollen and bleeding. Jorah dropped him, breathing sharply. He
spat out some of the blood clogging his mouth, and shoved more violently
through the people to get out of the inn. Chairs were being used and tossed. He
had just managed to get to the door as one smashed into the wall right beside
him. Those who had escaped the fight were outside of the inn, looking anxiously
within. Noticing that more Dothraki were showing up, Jorah took that moment to
disappear. This was a fight he didn’t need to be any further a part of.
Shouts from the fight followed him for some time, since the Merchant’s House
was close to the Square. Pushing past slaves and horses—and ducking under
palanquins—he searched stall after stall. At long last, he found the sign
‘Vhalaso’s Valuables’ and stepped up. “Greetings!” came an accented voice. “It
is not often that I receive the pleasure of doing business with a Westerosi.
Has one of my exotic and reasonably-priced items caught your eye?” The man was
stout. It was clear immediately to Jorah why this man required an escort. His
head only came to Jorah’s chest, and his skin was milky white. This was a man
of soft pillows and silks. He’d never fought a day in his life. The merchant
was smiling pleasantly up at him, his hair oiled back and beaded. He wore a
carefully trimmed mustache that sprouted around his mouth and joined a goatee.
Jorah thought it looked like a giant worm that strangled his lips.
“I’m here for your notice,” he said.
“Ah,” the pleasantness left his eyes a little, no doubt due to the fact that
he’d be giving Honors rather than receiving them. “Well,” he eyed Jorah, “you
seem the rough type.” Jorah noticed the merchant was looking at his bloody
knuckles and lip. “Half now and half later. Three hundred Honors.”
“Qohor is a long distance. A lot can happen during that time. Five hundred
Honors,” Jorah countered.
“You are not the only man escorting me,” Vhalaso informed him. “Four hundred.
No more. There are plenty of other ruffians in this city.”
Jorah nodded his head. “Done. When do we leave?” Vhalaso reached into his
pouched and took out two hundred Honors, placing them in Jorah’s large hands.
Quickly, Jorah put them in his own pouch, where they rattled against the other
coins from Lys, Braavos and Westeros.
“Two days. Meet at the harbor. We’re taking a ship to Qohor. Word has spread
that the pirates at Dagger Island have become . . . feisty . . . as of late.
Make sure you’re prepared to fight. I won’t lose any of my cargo,” Vhalaso
warned him.
Jorah nodded, his hand falling to rest at the pommel of his sword. “You’ll
reach Qohor safely. I swear it.”
Vhalaso smiled at that. “Spoken like a true Westerosi. Now, away with you.
You’re scaring away my customers.”
With the new coin, Jorah did not sleep on the streets that night. He found a
bed in an inn less popular than the Merchant’s House. The next day, he took the
time to buy supplies for his journey. Bandages, healing herbs and tonics, some
fresh oil and a whetstone for his sword . . . the necessary items for any hired
guard. It was during his journey across the Long Bridge that he saw it . . .
Grey and ginormous, the elephant moved past him draped in silk and jewels. Atop
it rode one of the Triarchs, he assumed. The elephant was decorated to ornately
to be anyone else’s.
His jaw slacked slightly as he watched the lumbering animal pass him by on the
Bridge. He’d never seen anything so large. Tusks—brilliant white and as long as
his entire body—curved and were ordained with glittering gems and a banner that
read ‘Doniphos Paenymion.’ Well, that was certainly a way to catch one’s eye
and announce one’s presence. Behind the elephant walked slaves with flies
tattooed on their cheeks. They paused to shovel some of the elephant’s
droppings into large bins on their backs. Jorah glanced back at the elephant,
moved by its majesty. Beneath him, he could still feel the ground rumble from
the animal’s steps. A wonder had just walked by him.
The next day, he arrived at the harbor with a small pack of his supplies—really
all he had to his name. His mother’s books were wrapped securely in leather and
burlap, the last tie he had to home. He found his employer and two other men
boarding a small cog. The ship was small but serviceable for their needs. It
seemed Vhalaso wanted to travel as cheaply as possible. Climbing aboard, he
checked in with Vhalaso, and then put his bag in the belly of the ship where
he’d sleep. Then he resurfaced and met with the other two men who were hired to
protect Vhalaso.
They were a pair of Braavosi brothers looking to gain glory. Jorah thought they
were looking rather desperately if they hoped to find it aboard a merchant’s
ship against some pirates. Regardless, they had brought some rather potent
alcohol and were happy to share it. “You will soon see, Jorah the Andal,” one
of the brothers—Bobono—said with a boastful grin. “Above the Titan, you shall
see our statues standing on his shoulders—looming even higher!”
“So, the Titan will dangle between one of your legs. Which of you will dangle
under your brother?” Jorah inquired, mirth appearing in his eyes.
Roggo, the other brother, glanced at Bobono. “I am the oldest. I will be the
tallest.”
“Ah! That is because my cock is the largest, and you fear it will touch your
head if I am above you,” Bobono decreed.
Jorah chuckled, the sound almost foreign to his ears, it had been so long.
“When I travel to Braavos next, I will look for your statues,” he promised
them. The poor fools. They’d likely be dead in two years. Quests for glory oft
ended the same. The sails were eventually unfurled, and they began their
journey down the Rhoyne. Jorah positioned himself at the bow, watching the
river past. It was a large river, perhaps even larger than the Trident. As they
broke off from the city, it seemed to wind around them like a lake more so than
a river.
“Jorah the Andal, look!” Roggo joined him at the bow, pointing into the water.
“Old Men.” Jorah peered over the railing and saw a large shell. Two more shells
swam by it. Each had five limbs stick out from under the shell. Tortoises. They
ambled rather quickly beside the ship—though steady and calmly. “They make for
an excellent soup.”
“We call them tortoises. Or, in their case, giant turtles,” Jorah told Roggo.
“They are Old Men of the River here,” Roggo told him. “Is this your first time
sailing the Rhoyne, Jorah the Andal?”
The incorrect ancestry nearly made Jorah correct the Braavosi . . . but he let
it go. Andal. First Men. They were likely all the same to the people in Essos.
“It is,” Jorah replied, “though I’ve fought in its waters before. Against
Braavosi, no less,” he added with a smirk.
“Oho!” Roggo gave him a challenging grin. “If you survived against our water
dancers, then you must be a fine fighter, indeed! Perhaps we will duel some
time, hm?”
Jorah gave a small smile—fleeting—and then turned his gaze back to the river.
Stories flooded his mind that he had read over the years about the Rhoyne. “I
heard legend once that during the Rhoynish Wars, the Rhoynar used water magic
against the dragonlords of Valyria. They conjured soldiers from its essence who
were immune to the flame of a dragon. In one battle, a dragon even drowned
beneath the depths of the river, and its bone can be found there still.” Roggo
smiled knowingly, these were tales he had obviously heard before. “And during
the Long Night, the water froze all the way to Selhoru.”
This made Roggo frown. “The Long Night?”
Jorah clarified, “you may it call something else. A winter that spread across
all of Westeros and parts of Essos, even. It froze the land and led to
starvation. The stories say there were monsters as well in that winter, but
they say that if you don’t say your prayers at night, these monsters sneak into
your bedroom and take you away to their Land of Winter.” Children’s tales. His
father had always gone quiet when stories about the Long Night were told. They
were good stories, but Jorah believed they were just that—stories. Monsters
were an excellent scapegoat when people didn’t want to admit to themselves that
they had massacred one another over bits of food. Or that they had eaten their
own children to ease the ache in their stomachs.
“Ahhh,” Roggo nodded. “We call it the Darkness. It ate the Rhoyne, turning it
to glass. Until a hero brought together the many children of the Mother Rhoyne,
like the Crab King and the Old Man of the River, to join together and sing a
song that brought back the day.”
Jorah lifted an eyebrow. “Singing?”
“Yes, my friend! The right song can stir any beast’s—or stubborn
woman’s—heart,” he nudged him with a bright grin. “I shall show you!” And Jorah
sat through Roggo’s half-talented vibrato until dusk fell. Such was how the
journey progressed. Stories were passed, songs were sung, and on occasion,
Jorah trained with the brothers. For a time, he was able to keep his mind off
of Lys and the woman he had lost there. He wasn’t happy. But he wasn’t treading
in the bottomless pit of despair either. Their games came to an end as they
neared Dagger Lake.
They had already passed by a flaming ship earlier that morning, and all three
of the hired guards were on high alert. It was Jorah who spotted it. “STOP THE
SHIP!” he commanded. The sails were immediately doused, and the anchor thrown.
“Ahead, look.” Just under the water, there was a chain stretched across the
river. It was spiked and obviously used to halt ships and rip their bellies
open. Just as the anchor hit the water, there were shouts from either side of
them.
“Pirates,” Bobono growled, unsheathing his thin sword.
“Someone needs to cut through that chain, or we can’t go anywhere,” Jorah said.
Vhalaso hurried to them, looking even paler and panicked. “What do we do!?
They’re upon us!”
“Go to your room. Barricade the door. Don’t let anyone through unless it’s one
of us,” Jorah told him, urging him towards his cabin. “Thoughts?” he turned to
his comrades.
“I will take care of the chain,” Roggo declared. “If I can fall one of its
pylons, then it will sink, and we can sail over it.” He grabbed Bobono’s
shoulder. “Fight well, brother.”
“Oh, they’ll all be dead by the time you get back here,” Bobono winked.
Jorah was grateful for their confidence . . . he supposed. Hooks were thrown
onto the sides of the ship, and he quickly unsheathed his sword. “Cut the
ropes. Don’t let them climb aboard.” They were a crew of two. Two against . . .
however many pirates decided their ship was a prize worth taking. Rushing to
the port side, Jorah cut the rope, sending two pirates falling to the water
below. They were lining up alongside the ship with rowboats—quick and with five
men in each. Back and forth, he ran, cutting the ropes that appeared.
Eventually, however, they started climbing the side of the ship, and he had
nothing to drop on them. As he stabbed one through the head, another managed to
get on board.
Jorah wrenched his sword free and stepped back as the pirate came lunging at
him. Cutlass against longsword clanged together. Jorah parried high and low,
all too aware that every second he failed in killing the pirate was a second
that another used to climb on board. At last he swung love and drove his sword
through the pirate’s belly. Leaving him to die, he checked over at Bobono who
was also fighting his first pirate. Two more came on board, and Jorah
challenged them.
One struck to the left, the other to the right. He parried both, turning his
body quickly to deflect. However, one of them outmaneuvered him, and he found
himself in the middle—one in front, the other behind him. Jorah circled as best
he could, but they kept him trapped. Gritting his teeth, he turned and parried
an attack from the back, then quickly spun and parried an attack from the other
pirate. The one now behind him, however, wasted no time and pierced his side.
Jorah grunted, jerking to the side further, so the sword did not pierce
anything vital.
His leg was weakened by it, however, and he slumped a little to the side. His
teeth gnashed together, clutching his sword tightly. He attacked the one he was
facing, but he was easily parried. Jorah stepped forward on his weaker leg and
fell to the side . . . but in so doing, the other pirate—who had apparently
been about to plunge his sword into his back—ended up running it through the
other pirate’s belly. There was a moment where they all looked at one another
shock—Jorah looking up at them from the ground. Quickly, he grabbed the
surviving pirate’s ankle and pulled, tripping him into the ground as well. With
a loud groan, he rolled over and broke the pirate’s neck.
Panting heavily, he felt his side twinge painfully. His hand touched there, and
he came away with blood. Stumbling to his feet, he picked up his sword and
faced his next opponent. The fighting seemed to drag on all afternoon, but long
last, he heard a boastful singing as Roggo rejoined them. He’d never been
happier to hear that bastard’s singing. The pirates were rebuffed, and they
quickly donned the sails again. The anchor was yanked up, and they continued
sailing past Dagger Island.
Only once they had made it a few leagues past did Vhalaso come out from his
cabin. “That was terrifying,” he squeaked. “I’m taking a horse back. I’m done
with pirates.”
Jorah cauterized his wound—after getting blearily drunk—and bandaged himself
up. He rest the entire next day, and when it dawned next, they were sailing
into Qohor. As soon as they arrived on the docks, Jorah knew that Qohor was a
city unlike any else. The atmosphere alone was somehow . . . eerie. Goosebumps
rose on his skin, and he wasn’t sure they were from the moist air. “What do you
know of Qohor?” he asked Bobono, who was disembarking the ship with his things
beside him.
“Qohor? Suspicious place,” he replied. “They practice blood magic here. Spells
and enchantments. I wouldn’t look anyone in the eye here, lest they cast some
curse on you.”
Jorah shivered at that. Blood magic. Westeros had strong ideas about magic like
that. It was barbaric, for one. This city was ancient, too. How many had been
sacrificed in that time? How much blood stained its streets and walls? He
didn’t like it. He didn’t want to enter . . . but enter he did.
After Vhalaso paid them, Jorah decided to stay around the two brothers a little
longer. His purse was heavier, and he had something a bit more suitable to live
on for a time. They walked through the gates, passing by soldiers with spears
and round shields. The guards didn’t move an inch the entire time—their
discipline obviously unquestionable. Their helmets triggered something in his
memory. “Are those the Unsullied?” he inquired.
“The best fighters in Essos. After the Braavosi, of course,” Roggo grinned.
“Slaves. Eunuchs, too. An army of three thousand Unsullied protected the city
of Qohor against a Khalasar of fifty thousand. Ever since then, they have kept
an army of Unsullied to guard their walls.” Jorah glanced at another Unsullied
guard, an impressed look on his face. The eyes behind the helmet, however, were
dead. As dead as all the other slaves Jorah had seen. Etched everywhere in the
city was the symbol of a goat. It seemed where Volantis had its Fire God, Qohor
had its . . . goat.
The harbor opened into a large lumber yard. Men and women worked at cutting and
preparing long logs for shipping. The famed trees of the Forest of Qohor. Jorah
saw one yet uncut. Its trunk itself was nearly as large as the gate they had
just passed through. It was at least four men abreast on one side. A part of
him wanted to see the forest that this tree had come from. If they were all
this large, the forest must have been an impressive sight.
His friends were headed for the nearest inn—one with a roaring tavern. He
wasn’t sure if they’d find that here. The air was heavy here. It seemed that
something as frivolous as boisterous laughter might be illegal. He was eager to
be away from this place. Eventually, they found an inn, and Jorah tended to his
wound before sleeping with some difficulty—a goat’s head was staring at him on
the wall.
The next morning, the search for work began once more. Jorah went to the market
first, curious to see what they sold in a place like Qohor. As soon as he set
foot, he heard angry voices. Following the voices, he discovered a Westerosi
merchant—who was quite far away from home—apologizing profusely to a group of
Dothraki. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean! It’s twenty Gold Dragons!” he
said, then cowered when the Dothraki shouted something at him.
The other merchants, who were obviously used to working with the Dothraki,
watched in silent amusement at the struggling merchant. Jorah bit his lip, then
joined the argument. “They don’t use coin,” he told the merchant as he
positioned himself between the merchant and the Dothraki. The dark-skinned
horselords looked at him questioningly.
“Fin yer? Fini hash yer zalat?”the Dothraki in front of him said . . . or asked
. . . or commanded, Jorah wasn’t sure.
Right. This was going to be difficult. Clenching his jaw, Jorah pointed at the
item in the Dothraki’s hands. “Trade,” he said. He made a motion with his
hands, one of exchanging. “Trade for?” he gestured to the items on the
merchant’s stall.
The Dothraki stared at him, then looked at his companions. One whispered in his
ear, nodding towards the stall. “Trade,” the Dothraki grunted, the word somehow
sounding like growl in his heavy accent. He pointed to a bell on the stall.
Jorah picked the bell up and placed it in the Dothraki’s hand. The Dothraki
rang the bell, then smiled, pleased with the sound. He thrust the item in his
hand—a bundle of some sort of animal’s skin—towards Jorah. He took it and
placed it on the stall.
The merchant shook his head. “The bell was worth more. I’m being cheated.”
“You’re getting away with your life. I’m sure that is valued higher than your
precious bell,” Jorah muttered to him, a look of warning in his eyes. The
merchant caught the hint and silenced himself. Turning back to the Dothraki, he
nodded his head to him, and was about to walk away when the Dothraki pushed his
chest.
“Fini yer hake?” the Dothraki said. Jorah stared at him, trying to make out
what he was saying. The Dothraki touched his own chest. “Thirro.” He touched
Jorah’s chest then.
Oh. Name. “Ser Jorah Mormont,” Jorah replied, the title coming off in an old
habit.
“Westerosi. Jorah the Andal,” Thirro grinned. “Jorah uh . . . brave.” Or a
damned fool with a death wish. “Jadat,” Thirro gestured him in a beckoning
manner. Jorah hesitated, then took a step with him. He followed the group of
Dothraki outside of Qohor where an encampment had been set up. Hundreds of
Dothraki were settled in the camp, men racing horses back and forth. Jorah was
led into a large tent where a massive man was sitting, braiding his long mane
of hair.
Thirro saluted the man. “Khal Drogo, anha asshilat Jorah the Andal Rhaesh
Andahli.” Jorah was urged forward, and he wasn’t sure if he had just agreed to
become a prisoner or what.
The large man glanced at him, and then rose. He was even larger standing. Jorah
was lucky that he came up to the Khal’s shoulder. The Khal looked him over,
then gripped his shoulder. “Welcome, Jorah Andal. I Khal Drogo.”
***** The Deal *****
The Dothraki were a strange people. Jorah had never met anyone like them. They
were barbaric in their ways of life, and yet incredibly simplistic. They valued
strength and that was all. Having left his two Braavosi friends behind, Jorah
rode with Khal Drogo instead. After many attempts at communication, he had
managed to learn that his barging into the bartering disagreement had been a
brave thing to do. Apparently, it was lucky that they had not simply killed him
for butting into a business that did not concern him. Again, Jorah wondered if
he was just a willing captive amidst this nomadic people.
But they did not keep him in chains—and he saw many others in chains—and they
did not keep him from coming and going as he pleased. The Khal, it seemed,
liked having someone near who could speak the Common Tongue to the merchants
and slavers with whom they did business. So, Jorah rode with them and learned
their tongue little-by-little. One of the Dothraki who had been a great help in
this regard was named Rakharo.
He was young and eager to bring glory to his name. His father, Jorah had
learned, had been bloodrider to Khal Bharbo, Drogo’s father. When Bharbo had
died, his father had killed himself as well, per was the custom of a bloodrider
after his Khal had fallen. It was a brutish custom, but he supposed it made the
position of bloodrider all the more significant. Rakharo oft rode alongside
him, pointing at things and giving him the name of it in Dothraki until Jorah
could recite it from memory. It was a difficult language to learn. The grammar
wasn’t fluid, and there were many words in the Common Tongue that the Dothraki
did not have a word for. The pronunciation was another beast to tackle. Jorah
had found himself with a sore throat after the first few days of speaking the
tongue frequently. It was guttural and harsh.
But he was learning, and from his position, the Dothraki were a fascinating
people to study. He learned that they worshiped The Great Stallion and that
horses were revered. They had no lasting homes, save the ones in their holy
place—Vaes Dothrak. They were riding there now to attend a wedding between a
Khal who was a friend to Khal Drogo, and whatever bride the Khal had chosen for
himself. Jorah had to admit that he was quite curious to witness a Dothraki
wedding. He had a feeling it didn’t involve standing before a tree and wrapping
hands in a silk cloth.
They were traveling through the Dothraki Sea when the attack came. Jorah was
reciting Dothraki to Rakharo when cries ahead of them made them halt their
horses. “Fini?” (What?)Jorah questioned. The grass—as tall as his head—seemed
to move all around them. Rakharo pulled out his arakh and gripped his reins
tightly. Jorah pulled out his sword as well.
“GWE!” (Here! Let’s go! Go!”) shouted a Dothraki as he rode past them.
“Kisha eth lajat!” (We must fight!)Rakharo cried. Lajat. Fight. Jorah looked
around, but who were they fighting? And then he saw it. It wasn’t a who . . .
it was a what. A large white lion was racing down the path. Dothraki were
urging their horses out of the way of its violent charge. Everywhere around
him, Jorah heard shouts of, “Hrakkar! Ogat!” (Hrakkar! Kill!)
He knew the word for kill, Hrakkar could only be the large roaring beat
currently headed his way. His horse reared, nearly making him lose his seat.
Jorah clutched on with his legs and tried to urge the horse forward. As soon as
his hooves met the ground, Jorah kicked his heels into his flanks and galloped
into the tall grass. The lion went roaring past, intent on some other slow
prey. Jorah was circling back when he heard another horse whinny.
Thirro grinned when he saw him, and he felt a moment of relief as well.
“Hrakkard—AHHHHHHHHH!” It happened in a second. One moment, Thirro was there,
the next, a white streak launched itself over the horse and took Thirro down.
Splattered everywhere, even landing on Jorah, though he was at least five feet
away from the man. Thirro’s death cries ended quickly, only the sound of
crunching bone remained. Jorah turned his horse around and sped away from the
sounds.
Panic was threatening to ripple from his surface. They were sitting targets in
the tall grass—unable to see the predators hunting them. And Thirro . . . he
may not have been as close to Thirro as he was becoming Rakharo, but Thirro had
been the one to introduce him to the Dothraki. The man had a wife and two
daughters. A nearby roar stopped his grief, and he focused on the chaos around
him.
Gripping his sword tightly, he angled his horse, making him side-step a little.
The grass surrounded him, ticking his face and making it difficult to see.
There was another roar to his right, close enough that it sent his horse into a
frenzy. He bucked again, and this time Jorah did not have the chance to hold
himself securely. He fell onto his back, grunting and momentarily losing the
breath in his lungs. His horse raced off, leaving a faint path behind of
smooshed grass. “Damn it,” he grunted, pushing himself to his feet.
His sword had landed next to him, and he picked it up immediately. The roaring
had turned into a low-rumbled growl. It practically vibrated the air. Jorah
turned towards the sound, pointing his sword in front of him, in the two horn
guard stance. Suddenly, as quick as a blink, the sound was behind him instead.
Jorah quickly turned, his ears straining for the slightest change in sound. It
was difficult to focus—all around him men were shouting and screaming. It must
have been a pride of Hrakkar, for he could hear other roars as well.
A flash of white from the corner of his eye made him spin again. Was it one?
Two? Fear crept into his bones. Fighting man was one thing . . . this beast was
intelligent and deadly. He refused to end his story in the belly of a lion. The
tiniest snap of a twig behind him had him whirl around just in time. A Hrakkar
was in mid-leap, soaring right at him. Gasping, Jorah dug his heels into the
ground and drove his sword up. There was a high-pitched yowling as his sword
split sinew and bone.
The heavy weight of the lion crashed down on him, and he fell to the ground
underneath it. The Hrakkar tried to tug on his sword, but it was already near
death. It gave a few pulses and then rested entirely on him. Jorah released a
sharp breath, suffocating under the weight of the animal. He couldn’t expand
his lungs to breathe. Desperately, he clawed at the grass and dirt, dragging
himself out from under the lion. With a few tugs, he escaped and breathed in
sharply. Kicking the rest of his way out, he got back to his feet and wrenched
his sword free from the Hrakkar.
The onslaught was still happening. Somewhere, he could hear Drogo’s loud,
booming voice ordering his men. With thoughts only of finding his horse and
having some small advantage, he took off down the faint path his horse had left
behind. Jorah knew he wasn’t alone either. Of the caught flashes of white
darting by. Men still screamed to his left and right as they were taken down. A
few Dothraki rode in front of him, chasing down a Hrakkar and screaming in
bloodfury. He found his horse close to the path, kicking nervously.
Dead horses and Dothraki were strewn on and off the path, their innards
spilling out of them. The Hrakkar intended to feast. Soothing his horse, Jorah
mounted again and rushed after the sound of Drogo’s voice. If there was to be
an organized fight, it would be near the Khal. Jorah found him and his
bloodriders making sweeping arcs through the grass, their arakhs stained with
blood. Drogo was stained with blood, too, and even from his distance, Jorah
could see the man’s eyes were wild with bloodlust. Those eyes, however, did not
see the Hrakkar lining up behind him.
“DROGO!” Jorah shouted, kicking his horse forward. “BEHIND YOU!” he lacked the
words, but he hoped his pointing was clear. Whether Drogo heard him and did not
understand, or he did not hear him at all, Jorah wasn’t sure, but the Khal kept
his charge going, chasing down a Hrakkar in front of him. Jorah grit his teeth
and held his sword out. His horse teetered a little in his line towards the
lion, obviously not wanting to get near the beast, but Jorah kept his hand
sturdy on the reins. Closer . . . almost there . . .
The Hrakkar was just about to leap onto Drogo’s back when Jorah raced in from
the side and swung his sword down in a wide arc. Holding tightly onto the hilt
of his sword, he felt the blade hit the hard flesh and bone. Even though his
arm was nearly pulled out of its socket, he groaned—or was it a growl?—and held
on, following through until his sword had separated head from body. The Hrakkar
fell dead to the ground. Jorah turned just in time to see Drogo launch himself
from his horse and onto the back of the Hrakkar he had been chasing.
The ferocious Khal tackled him to the ground and slit his throat open with his
arakh. With the cheering of his bloodriders, the other lions were either killed
or fled with what carcasses they could carry. The Dothraki regrouped around
their Khal. Despite having lost quite a few people, they did not seem too
terribly upset. Instead, they laughed at their wounds and showed off the
severed heads of their trophies. Jorah was happy to see that Rakharo had
survived the ambush.
“Jorah Andahli. Yer savidosalat anna. Yer okeo.” (Jorah the Andal. You
protected me. You are a friend.) Drogo gripped Jorah’s shoulder and squeezed
it. The power in that hand was frightening. The Khal did not need his arakh to
kill him if he wanted to. Not all too clear on what Drogo had said, Jorah
thought the appropriate response was to nod his head. Drogo nodded back, then
turned to his people. “Ajjalan! Kisha vitteyqoyi!” (Tonight! We feast!) The
Dothraki cheered at that, splitting off to make preparations. Once they were
clear of the Dothraki Sea—at least out of the tall grass—they camped.
Jorah was seated beside the Khal that night—a place of honor. The Khal himself
taught him more words of Dothraki, and Jorah learned and listened with extreme
patience and interest. If he had learned anything that day, it was not to piss
off the Khal. Pit against him or a Hrakkar, he’d take the lion any day. They
feasted heavily. The ambush had given them plenty of meat. The taste of Hrakkar
was a little too tough for Jorah’s preferences. The lions were all near lean
muscle. Apparently, his prowess in battle against the lions had spread. He felt
more welcomed than ever by the Dothraki. A few women even danced in front of
him, obviously attempting to lure him to their bed, but jealous eyes followed
these women, and Jorah was anxious to remain just a guest among them—a welcome
guest.
So, he went to his tent alone that night—though perhaps begrudgingly so. His
heart may have still been torn and bleeding, but his body was prepared to find
refuge in another. His ex-wife seemed to be quite happy with giving her body to
another, after all. That night, he slept soundly . . . save for whenever a
distant roar startled him from his sleep.
Days passed until they reached the statues of proudly rearing stallions—the
gate to Vaes Dothrak. Even here, there was hardly anything one would call a
road. However, there were buildings of stone, clay and straw. None were larger
than the one constructed in the middle of the village. Just passed the gate,
two large warehouses waited them with grim-looking Dothraki. Rakharo rode up to
his side. “No vov.”
Jorah stared at him. Rakharo patted his arakh, which he was handing to one of
the grim-looking Dothraki. “Ah, weapons,” Jorah said.
“Weapons,” Rakharo repeated. “No weapons.” Jorah felt a little uncomfortable at
giving up the only means he had of protecting himself if he came across a
drunken and excitable horselord. Rakharo, sensing his hesitance, said slowly,
“no . . . ah . . .qovvolat qoy (shed blood).”Rakharo mimicked killing someone,
then spread his hands outwards.
“No killing here,” Jorah. Well, that was a fine law. He just hoped they
followed it. Reluctantly, he handed one of the Dothraki his blade and dagger.
Once he was free of weapons, he was able to ride forward and join the khalasar
as they suddenly came upon a road—a single road—that led into the center of the
village. They were engulfed in the buildings not long after. There were no
walls that protected the village or gave it its boundaries. The road they rode
upon cut straight the village, leading towards the large mountain that loomed
over the village. Buildings were built on either side of this road, and beyond
that, they were constructed in an almost thoughtless manner to district and
private space. Jorah shouldn’t have been surprised by this—the Dothraki didn’t
really understand the concept of privacy.
Though the village was quite crowded due to the wedding, Jorah could see that a
great deal of the buildings were uninhabited, at least currently. Also, the
village boasted more slaves than Dothraki. They walked to and fro whereas the
Dothraki rode their horses. Khal Drogo led them right to the large building in
the center of the village and dismounted. The others followed suit, and Jorah
was quick to copy. He looked curiously over at Rakharo, who had a reverent look
on his face. Examining the others faces as well, Jorah saw similar expressions
of respect and reverence. Was this a holy place?
“Dosh khaleen,” Rakharo said to him.“Khaleesi she driv Khal.” (Wife of dead
Khal).He used his hands for words until Jorah understood what he was saying.
The widows of past Khals then. He hadn’t thought about what might happen to the
wife of a Khal after he had died. He assumed they were either killed by the
victorious khalasar or were enslaved. He realized that he was too quick to
judge the barbarity of the Dothraki people. They showed respect to the women
who had once led them alongside their Khal . . . it was more than could be said
of the Westerosi tradition of their treatment of former Queens.
They watched as the doors opened and a group of women came out. Some were old,
some were young. The eldest approached Khal Drogo who bowed his head to them
respectfully, and then presented them with the skins of the Hrakkar they had
killed as well as gifts of gold and silver. The head of the dosh
khaleenaccepted them and kissed the end of Drogo’s braid. With the ceremony
over, the widows returned into their home and Drogo gave a wave to his
khalasar. They disbanded, seeking places to sleep and rest in the homes that
were available.
Rather eager to have a stone ceiling over his head again, Jorah joined Rakharo
in claiming a home for themselves. A few others joined them, though each had
their own room. Stretching himself out on the bed, he sighed in relief. As much
as he enjoyed the Dothraki—and as much as he enjoyed learning their language
and about them—he was going to need some time in civilization before long. He
rested there a day, and it was at the early dawning of the next day that the
wedding took place.
The Khal who was getting married painted himself in black ink—across his face
and chest—making him look quite feral. His bride, also of Dothraki stock, wore
similar ink. Jorah dressed in his fine wool for the ceremony, wanting to be
respectful. He sat near the back and watched as men presented gifts to the
bride—a whip, bow and arakh—which she refused and were instead given to her
husband. A tradition, he learned. It was also tradition for the wedding last
the entire day.
Feasting occurred immediately—and as did the drinking. The Dothraki didn’t seem
keen to slow down either. Jorah paced himself, but even then, by the time the
sun started to go down, he was thoroughly drunk. He knew he was drunk because
he was dancing—and he did not dance. Nor was he now really, either. If
anything, he was stumbling to a rhythm. The woman he was dancing with, however,
seemed to be doing enough dancing for the both of them. She kept pressing
herself against him in a delicious manner that had his blood pumping in
seconds.
Despite the fact that his world was spinning, Jorah heard shouting nearby.
Peering blearily past the grinding body against him, he saw two Dothraki men
shoving one another as a woman clad in a crimson veil watched them. The two men
were dragged off from the site—no doubt outside of Vaes Dothrak where they
could shed one another’s blood. There was cheering as they passed, and the
woman with the crimson veil merely found another man to dance with while the
others fought over her. Noticing that the woman he was dancing with also had a
crimson veil, Jorah had the good enough sense to extricate himself.
Just in time, too, for a horselord snatched her up and pushed her to the
ground. To his astonishment, they started to fuck in the dirt for all to see.
Tearing his gaze away, Jorah came out of his own dizzy head to find that they
weren’t the only ones. Dusk had fallen, and even the Khal was now burying
himself inside of his wife. Did all Dothraki weddings end in an orgy? It
certainly sounded like it. Grabbing another horn of . . . what had Rakharo said
this was? . . . fermented mare’s milk? Whatever it was, the taste was enough to
kill his taste buds, but it kicked him like a mule.
Taking a swig, he stumbled towards his tent. As enticing as the thought of
fucking was, he could barely see straight. Jorah tripped over some bags on the
ground, falling into the dirt with a hard grunt. Hearing low chuckling, he
looked up to see Khal Drogo being pulled into a building by two women. Well, at
least the Khal was going to have a nice evening. Getting back to his feet,
Jorah staggered back to the building that he had claimed as his own—after
getting lost for a time, of course. By the time he found his bed, he was
passing out before his head even hit the pillow.
Two sensations greeted him when he woke the next day. The first was the more
prevalent. His head was pounding something awful. Groaning, he clutched at his
temples, burying his eyes in his palm and refusing to look towards the
daylight. “Never again,” he grunted, feeling bile rise up in his throat.
Swallowing it down with some water, he rolled on his side and came to the
second sensation.
There was a piece of parchment in his hand. When had that gotten there?
Sluggishly, he opened the small scroll and read a single line:
‘Missing home? Meet me in the Western Market to discuss making your prayers a
reality. Come alone.
-I.M.’
It took a few passes for the message to click in his mind. Home? Who could
possibly know he was all the way out here? The initials meant nothing to him.
Still, the single word struck such a chord of desperate longing in his heart,
he found himself washing up and dressing despite his body’s complaints. Donning
his wool once more, he felt the heat of the day quite keenly. He needed a new
shirt—something light and more breathable. Taking along his pouch of coins, he
slowly made his way out of the building.
It was quiet. Dothraki who had not managed to make it back home were still
passed out on the ground. Some were even naked. Slaves moved to and fro,
cleaning and tending to the horses whilst their owners slept off their
hangovers. Jorah wished he was still sleeping. The sun was far too bright, and
he felt might vomit at any moment. Gritting his teeth, he headed for the
Western Market—which was alive and thriving.
Those from the Free Cities called the Western Market their home. He saw
familiar trinkets and goods for sale from Volantis and Braavos. There was a
line of Lysian pleasure slaves for sale as well. Jorah wasn’t sure who he was
supposed to be looking for. If this ‘IM’ knew he was here, he figured he or she
would approach him. So, he went in search of clothing stalls. Much of the dress
was Essosian, and he wanted something familiar to home. Stopping at stall which
sold tunics, his eye was caught by a bright yellow shirt.
“Ah, the color pleases the sir, no?” the merchant asked, taking the shirt and
pressing it against Jorah’s body. “And it is a perfect size!” Jorah had to
admit that such a color was unused to him. He had wanted bright . . . and this
material seemed thinner than the wool he was currently wearing. After little
deliberation, Jorah pressed coin into the merchant’s hand and took the shirt.
Just as he was turning around, he nearly ran into a large—cloaked man.
“Excellent purchase. The color will really bring out your eyes,” the man said.
Jorah lifted his chin, not fooled for a second. “I.M, I presume.”
“Just so,” the man bowed his head. “Come. There are too many eyes and ears
here.” The hooded, portly, man led Jorah down one of the alleys, away from the
market. Wishing more than ever that he had his sword, Jorah kept his ears and
eyes pricked for the slightest sound or twitch of foul play. Though he was sure
he could run circles around this mysterious stranger, all he needed to do was
sit on Jorah’s chest for a few minutes to properly suffocate him. They walked
down the winding alleys, the buildings becoming almost a labyrinth in the
unplanned and disorienting layout they were in. Distantly, Jorah could still
hear the market, but he had no idea where they were.
“This shall do,” the figure said, and he pushed his hood back to reveal
himself. A fat face—with at least four chins—peered up at him. Blond hair
parted in the middle somehow managed to grow long enough to cup his fat cheeks.
The most absurd of all, however, was the oiled forked beard that the man
stroked in a rather suggestive manner. “Illyrio Mopatis, at your service,” he
bowed—as much as he could bow—to Jorah. “No need to tell me your name, Ser
Jorah Mormont. My friend has had his eyes on you since you landed in Lys.”
That bothered Jorah a great deal. Who had been watching him and for what
purpose? “I am sorry that you lost so much . . . love for a woman does tend to
make fools of us. I, myself, denied the wishes of a Prince for a woman. I could
have been royalty—or rubbed elbows with the like—but instead I followed my
heart. So, really, I quite understand the pain. We wound ourselves deeply for
those they love.” Jorah said nothing through this. He did not know this man,
and he hardly doubted that he knew exactly how Jorah had felt. “But that is in
the past now, of course,” the man continued. “You’re here because of the gift I
can offer you.”
“A pardon,” Jorah spoke, at last. “How can you get me one?”
“That friend I mentioned before . . . He has the King’s ear. A little whisper
from him, and you receive your royal pardon.”
Jorah clenched his jaw. “Your price?”
“Simple, really,” Illyrio tapped his fingers together. “In a few years, when
the time is right, we’re going to have a lovely bride available. When that time
comes, a messenger will find his way to you. You must tell your dear friend
Khal Drogo about the benefits of marrying this bride. Bring him to Pentos and
let him see her for himself . . . and when they marry—for I’m quite sure they
will, she’s a lovely creature—you will . . . stay in touch. Not with me, no. By
that point, you’ll be writing to our mutual friend. Where they go . . . any
changes in their health . . . and so on.”
His arms crossed over his chest. “You wish me to spy on this bride,” he said.
“And her brother,” Illyrio added. “And that is all. Hardly any work, really. In
time, your pardon will come, and then you can return to your home. You must be
missing it so. I’ve only been away from Pentos for a few months, and already,
my heart longs for it.” He gave Jorah a sympathetic look. “Wrenched from your
home as you were, I can only imagine how terrible it must feel for you to be
away.”
He was right on that account. More and more, Jorah found himself aching for the
cool summers and rough natures of his cousins. Of the food and songs and
smells. What was he doing here? So far from home? His lips pressed into a firm
line as he considered the job. It seemed harmless enough . . . easy enough. Why
someone wanted to spy on a bride and her brother was beyond him—nor did it
concern him. It was certainly easier than he thought the price would be.
Illyrio’s eyes gleamed, sensing victory as the exiled knight relaxed his
stature. “A few years, you said?”
Illyrio nodded. “Yes, yes. The girl must bleed first. But do not forget. We
certainly won’t. Shall I be able to count on you, Ser Jorah?”
The man extended a fat hand with chubby fingers adorned with all sorts of gems.
Jorah’s stomach roiled at the thought of touching that hand. It had ‘merchant
prince’ written all over it. And hadn’t he learned that all merchant princes
were snakes? Feeling as though he was selling his soul, Jorah slowly extended
his hand and gripped Illyrio’s, giving it a firm shake. “Aye. I will answer the
call.” Illyrio returned his shake, positively glowing at this news. Jorah
released his hand quickly, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his gambeson.
Mopatis bowed, and then put his hood back on, preparing to leave. Curiosity
overtook him suddenly, and he called out, “Mopatis.” The man paused. “What is
the bride’s name?”
Illyrio turned to him, but Jorah couldn’t make out his face. His voice,
however, came out in a low purr. “Why . . . her name is Daenerys Targaryen.”
***** Pentos *****
It was the year 298 AC. Jorah was unaware of how much time had passed until he
saw the year neatly scrawled at the top of a parchment. There was only one
sentence on the missive.
‘It is time. –I.M.’
Years had passed since he’d had the mysterious conversation with the merchant
prince Illyrio Mopatis and sold his soul. A part of him had wondered if the
missive would ever come. A part of him regretted that it did. The rest was
eager. At last, he had a chance to return home. His time in Essos had been one
adventure after the next. He’d learned a great deal about the Dothraki and had
rode with some of the other khalasars that were friendlier to Khal Drogo’s
band. During that time, he had picked up their language entirely and had ridden
as far east as to the Red Waste.
Fate, it seemed, favored this new mission, for he had just returned to Khal
Drogo’s khalasar. Sitting in his tent, he scratched through his scruffy beard,
contemplating how best to broach the subject to the Khal. It was true that it
was time he married, but the general belief was that he would marry another
Dothraki girl. There were many who were trying to catch his eye. After all,
Khal Drogo’s khalasar had increased rapidly in number over the past few years.
Even now, Jorah was astounded by the numbers he saw. No other Khal commanded
quite so many horselords.
With some vague idea in his head about how he was going to approach the
subject, Jorah left his tent and walked over to the Khal. The beast of a man
was sharpening his arakh when Jorah arrived. He smiled at him, and Jorah bowed
his head respectfully.“Khal Drogo, anha zigerelat astolat ma shafka.”(Khal
Drogo, I need to speak with you.) Drogo nodded at him. “Haze voj fin chiorikem
ha Khal. Lain ma ershe qoy. Me viqaferat shafka jadat tihat mae majin vokkerat
hash mae oakah sajat.” (There is a man who has a wife for a Khal. Beautiful
with a royal bloodline. He begs you to come see her and decide if she is worthy
a mount.)
Surprise crossed Drogo’s face at Jorah’s proposition. The bear watched the
Dothraki consider his strange request. Leaning forward, Drogo asked, “Finne?”
(Where?)
A smile touched Jorah’s lips. “Pentos.”
In the end, Jorah was unsure why Drogo agreed to see this mysterious bride.
Perhaps it was simply because of the mystery. Perhaps he was bored and desired
to dwell near a city for a time. Perhaps someone owed him tribute in Pentos.
Whatever the reason, when morning came the next day, the khalasar packed and
turned west for Pentos.
The entire journey was spent with Khal’s bloodriders and kos protesting and
questioning Drogo’s choice. The Khal was patient with this insubordination for
a time, before he punched one of his kos, knocking him right off of his horse.
The questioning stopped after that, and only in hushed tones was the matter
discussed further. According to Rakharo, the Dothraki did not understand why
the Khal was interested in a Westerosi whore. If he wanted something exotic,
why not take one of the bed-slaves from Asshai or the mysterious women from
Sothoryos. It was becoming clear to Jorah, that the Dothraki thought the
Westerosi women were weak. If only they knew his cousins and Aunt.
After a few months, they finally arrived in Pentos. Drogo led them immediately
to his manse. It was large, nearly a palace in itself. It contained nine
towers, the manse made of brick which was covered in pale ivy. The manse itself
sat on the Bay of Pentos. It was a home fit for a King. No wonder the magisters
of Pentos had given it to Drogo in the hopes of winning his favor . . . and
keeping him from ransacking the city. Jorah dismounted and joined the others
inside. Drogo had chosen to decorate his home with the trophies of all his past
victories.
In one room rested the scalped braids of Dothraki warriors he had killed in
battle. In another, he found an assortment of weapons and shields. In a more
heavily guarded area, Jorah found precious gems and gold bars. Drogo was an
incredibly rich man. It was almost astounding the wealth he had in this manse
alone. Joining them in the dining hall, Jorah saw the familiar skin of a white
lion stretched above a large fireplace. In front of the fireplace was the seat
of honor, in which Drogo sat drinking from a flagon.
“Anha astolat ma Illyrio Mopatis ma nesat mae she yeri jadolat.”(I will speak
with Illyrio Mopatis and tell him of your arrival.)Jorah received a nod from
the imposing Khal, and he swept from the manse to begin the negotiations. He
was hopeful that his part from here on out was subtle. This was near to
politics, and he had abhorred that part of being a Lord. Pentos was a large and
flourishing city . . . and a smelly one, at that. Every person seemed to wear a
certain perfume. It reminded him of the oppressive odor awaiting him in the
form of Mopatis.
The scent of spice was also poignant. Since Pentos was built on the coast, the
city flourished with trade. It’s close proximity to Westeros aided in this
wealth. The rich aroma was more pronounced near the harbor and markets. As
Jorah ventured his way further into the city, where large manses walled off
entire sections, the scent dimmed. He kept a close hand on his sword. Cutpurses
ran rampant here. By the time he reached Illyrio’s manse, Jorah had noticed
that those he had passed by had only increased in size and grandeur. It was a
fine thing to be a magister, apparently.
He was not stopped at the gate like he thought he might be. Instead, the guard
glanced at him once and nodded for him to enter. It seemed he was expected.
Walking through the gate, Jorah ran an eye over the splendorous garden he had
entered. Flowers and fountains were crammed between the space from the wall to
the house. A desperate attempt to demonstrate wealth. To the Pentoshi, he
imagined that such a display was awe-inspiring. To Jorah, he saw wasted space.
Walking along the path through the garden, Jorah had just reached the small
marble steps that led to the front door when he was stopped by a voice. “Ser
Jorah! My friend! Welcome! I received your raven not but two days ago!” Illyrio
Mopatis. Jorah turned and found the large man waddling up to him from the
garden. A wonder that he had not seen him. “When I heard word that Khal Drogo
had returned to his manse, I started preparations immediately. You have come
with good news, I take it?”
“Aye,” Jorah confirmed, turning to the man completely and running an eye over
him. The magister wore free-flowing robes instead of a hood. Sweat-stains clung
to his pits and chest. Yet, the magister was all smiles and grace. Meeting him
now was no less pleasant than meeting him in an alley. At least there was a
strong enough breeze to keep the smell of him away. “Khal Drogo has agreed to
see the bride, but he has not made a final answer as to whether he intends to
marry her or not.”
Illyrio made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Of course he intends to marry
her. He rode all this way. And Drogo is not like your common Dothraki. He’s
intelligent. Once he sees the bride and understands who she is, he’ll snap her
up in a second.” Jorah was silent, his lips pressing together. There was no joy
in this matter for him. The quicker he could rid himself of it, the better.
Illyrio seemed to sense his darkened mood, for his smile only became
wider—bracing. “It’s been quite hot, has it not? I do envy those winters the
North always boasts about in such seasons. When you return there, you’ll have
to bottle some of that winter up and send it to me, eh?” Jorah’s lips only
pressed hard together—a brood darkening his features. “Well, never you mind.
I’ll send a messenger to Khal Drogo. We shall have a dinner tonight. The two
parties shall meet, and we shall see how fortune favors us. In the meantime, I
have someone for you to meet.”
Jorah lifted an eyebrow, wincing lightly when the magister placed his hand on
his shoulder to guide him. They did walk inside of the house, instead they took
the porch that ran along to the back of the house where an even larger garden
awaited them. This one was made with gentler care. More ornate fountains
interrupted the growth, but the true majesty rested in the view. The garden
overlooked the blue water of the Narrow Sea. The cries of gulls washed over
distantly, and the sound invoked such a strong longing in him. That was a sound
he knew well. He had awakened to those cries.
“A word of caution, my friend,” Illyrio dropped his voice as they walked into
the garden. “The prince is . . . he has a bit of a temper . . . and an ego to
match it. Such is the way princes are, I’m afraid. It would do best to appease
him and give him the deferential treatment he deserves. Winning his loyalty
will only further make your duty easier. He is . . . most eager . . . to have a
knight of his own. Your title should aid you in forging a tight bond with him.”
Jorah stared down at the magister. Was he asking him to bootlick? Gods, this
job was becoming more and more costly the longer he was a part of it.
A clanging of steel against steel met his ears before they found the one Jorah
was to meet—the prince. He was unmistakable. Silver hair and bright purple
eyes. Jorah thought he looked quite out of place here. The Targaryens were
dead. Yet, here one lived. The prince was sparring with a servant, the both of
them training with dull blades. Jorah watched the servant make a calculated
wrong step, and the prince’s blow landed squarely on the servant’s arm, making
him drop his sword. The prince grinned and pointed his sword at the servant’s
chest. “You’re dead,” the prince proclaimed.
“Well done, Your Grace!” Illyrio cried joyously, applauding. “You fight as well
as your brother! A true dragon’s might!” This pleased the prince, who gave a
smug smile and accepted the help of those removing his training wear. Jorah
felt ill. “Wouldn’t you say so, Ser Jorah?” Illyrio asked, turning the
attention to him.
Bloody Gods . . . “Aye,” Jorah said slowly, even though he had seen the fault
in the prince’s own form. “A true warrior in the making.” That would have to
do.
Illyrio moved on quickly, not wanting to leave it to chance that Jorah’s words
were less than ego-stroking. “And you can count on this man’s eye. He served in
two wars. With your father’s forces during Robert’s Rebellion, and then against
the cowardly Krakens during the Greyjoy Rebellion,” Mopatis said. Jorah glanced
at him. He had fought for the Targaryens? The lie was making him itchy. “A true
knight—though exiled from the same King who butchered your family.” The prince
frowned at that, giving Jorah a measured look. “Allow me to present Ser Jorah
Mormont, Your Grace. Ser Jorah,” Illyrio turned to him now. “You have the honor
of standing before the last Targaryen prince . . . Viserys Targaryen.”
Home was worth it. He had to remind himself of that. Home was worth every lie
and discomfort. Bowing to the prince, Jorah declared, “I am honored and humbled
to stand before such a great name again, Your Grace. I hope you will permit me
into your service, to obey any order you may give and protect you with my
life.” Illyrio’s smile was easier now, he must have done well. Indeed, for when
he straightened, the prince was smiling as well.
“I have not had a knight in my service since Ser Darry passed away,” Viserys
mused aloud. “Your wish is granted, Ser Jorah. Serve me well, and when I take
back my throne, I shall see that you are amply rewarded for your loyal
service.” This promise surprised him. Was this Illyrio’s game? To aid Viserys
to the throne? Then why did he insist on marrying Viserys’ daughter to Khal
Drogo? The Dothraki did not cross the ‘poison water’ as they called it. Was he,
perhaps then, preventing Viserys from seeking the throne? Jorah glanced at the
magister, but the man was as telling as a stone wall. Perhaps even less so.
Ser Jorah bowed again, and Illyrio excused them from the prince’s presence.
Once they were safely from earshot, the magister grinned up at him. “You see?
He likes you already. I thought he might. Every broken prince enjoys the
thought of being served and having an army of knights to fight their battles
and bring them glory.”
“He believes he is going to return to Westeros. To the Iron Throne,” Jorah
interrupted, not having paid attention to what Mopatis was saying. “What folly
is this?”
Illyrio’s many chins lifted into a haughty expression. “A game far larger than
the likes of you can understand, Ser Knight. Worry not. Our world shall be made
better by it. You know your orders. Follow them. And then you can go home and
never worry about dragons and spiders and thrones again.” Jorah felt the acid
in his stomach building. Such oily schemes did not settle well for Northerners.
Illyrio patted his shoulder again. “Now, return to your horselord. And remember
the part you’re playing.”
By the time he returned to Drogo’s manse, the Dothraki were preparing for a
feast. They intended to host the bride’s family and retinue for a dinner. Jorah
spoke to the Khal, coaching him as he could about what to expect with a bride
from Westeros. Though the princess had only been in Westeros for a short time.
From then, he wasn’t sure where she and her brother had been hiding. To entice
the Khal, he told him stories of the great dragons and their riders of the
Targaryens of old. Drogo and his bloodriders made their quips about their
horses fucking said dragons and riding circles around them until the dragons
became so dizzied, they fell straight from the sky.
The atmosphere remained jovial and thoroughly masculine until the sun set and
the nighttime feast began. Drogo had decided to hold it outside in his own
gardens. Tables were laid out with freshly—cooked meats and fine wines. The
Dothraki who he had deemed important enough to be present were helping
themselves to the wine primarily. A few other Khals had joined as well, if not
friends of Drogo’s, allies. Men he was not familiar with also attended. Bravos
and sellswords traded stories and showed off scars from skirmishes. He did not
know them, but Drogo greeted them as warmly as he did the Khals. It was a feast
solely for men, he also noticed. There were no dancers. No female servants.
Tonight, the only female to be present, would be the supposed Khaleesi herself.
Wearing his formal green wool with his family’s emblem etched on the front,
Jorah was relaxing in his own solitude when movement near the entrance to the
gardens caught his eye. Illyrio had arrived . . . along with two silver-haired
guests at his sides. The prince he saw first—tall and important-looking. Beside
him stood the princess. Jorah rested his shoulder against a marble pillar that
sat in the garden, leaning against it as he examined her.
Daenerys Targaryen was small. If she were to stand before him, he doubted she’d
even reach his chest. She looked quite young . . . she could not be more than
thirteen years of age. From what he could see of her, she was silver made
flesh. Pale skin and paler hair made her seem to be illuminated when the moon
touched her. Her eyes were darting around nervously, and she walked with
purpose, though he saw the strain in her shoulders. The poor girl was scared.
This marriage business had obviously not been her idea—when was it ever?—and
the large brown-skinned men around them did not seem to comfort her any. The
Dothraki were a wild-looking bunch, he knew. They had the lifestyle to match
their looks, too. He wondered where she had been kept to avoid such contact
with these people.
The dress she wore was a light purple . . . but the fabric was sheer enough to
practically show her entire body. From his distance, he was not able to make
out detail, but she was adorned in a manner that a sheep might be for the
slaughter. They were talking amongst each other, though Jorah was too far—and
the party too loud—for him to hear what they were saying. Illyrio eventually
parted from them and approached Drogo. Ahh, here it was. The fate of the poor
girl was to be decided at last. Jorah brought his wine glass to his lips,
taking another sip. He was enjoying the feast, himself. Particularly because of
the wine. It was uncommon a drink when riding throughout Essos with the
Dothraki. They preferred their mare’s milk and it was readily abundant with
their livestock constantly around them.
As Illyrio spoke with Drogo, his gaze returned to the princess. Her brother was
whispering in her ear, and she seemed panicked. Her entire body language was
screaming that she wanted to run. Her plight moved him. He had not wanted to
marry his first wife either. Though his own experience had been the simpler
one. He was the dominant one, and he had treated his wife gently. Drogo was not
the kind to take her concerns and well-being into consideration. It simply
wasn’t the Dothraki way. It’d be a wonder if the girl survived the bedding.
Her brother said something to her that made her straighten and cling to
whatever strength she possessed. The reason was walking to her now. Jorah
watched as Illyrio introduced Drogo to the princess. She spoke. He did not. The
feast continued around them, not bothering to quiet for the life-altering
moment occurring. Jorah could not see Drogo’s face, but the man’s body was
stiff . . . until he gave a single nod, and then turned away and returned to
his bloodriders. Illyrio was all smiles though the prince looked confused. It
was done then. Drogo had agreed to take her as his wife.
The magister waved him over, and he gulped down the last of his wine. He needed
the aid for sharing that man’s company twice in one day. “Ser Jorah,” Illyrio
greeted him as if they were old friends. “Such good news. Khal Drogo has agreed
to marry our princess. This is a historic moment!”
“Indeed.” Viserys looked pleased. “With Khal Drogo’s army, I can reunite with
the people loyal to me in Westeros. Within a year, I will slay the Usurper and
reclaim the throne.”
Ser Jorah glanced at the princess at her brother’s claim. She did not seem to
have any feelings about it. Or perhaps she was still shocked at her future.
“When the time comes,” Jorah said finally, looking back at the prince, “you can
count on my sword to be the first in battle.”
Viserys smiled proudly, rolling on the balls of his feet. “You are in my
service now, Ser Jorah. You no longer need to live such a primitive way of life
with the Dothraki. Please, stay with us this night. I will likely have need of
you in the morning,” the prince told him.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Jorah bowed his head to him. His gaze moved to the
princess again, who had yet to speak. “Perhaps the princess would like some
wine? I find it strengthens for any occasion.”
At last, she blinked and looked up at him. Jorah found she possessed violet
eyes as well. He’d never seen such a color . . . or such a sadness held within.
“Thank-you . . . Ser Jorah, was it?”
“Aye,” Jorah bowed his head to her. “Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island.”
Recognition flashed in her face. “You’re from Westeros.” This seemed to please
her. “Thank-you, Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. I will try some wine,
provided my brother thinks it wise.” Viserys nodded, already glancing at some
of the bottles himself. She moved away from him then, and he noticed that the
very cadence with which she walked seemed to be . . . other-worldly . . . as if
the ground she walked upon was not the same as his.
Once both siblings had left to mingle with the crowd, Illyrio remained at his
side and murmured, “isn’t she beautiful? I had half-a-mind to marry her myself.
But alas. The price we pay for guaranteed prestige and wealth for life.”
Mopatis gave a quick grin and jiggled his way into the feast, making quick work
of grabbing some food and gesturing wildly in his enthusiastic greetings of
‘old’ friends. Something about his words had touched a nerve in him. Which was
why, as the feast ended, Jorah did not immediately go to bed as many of the
other drunk guests did.
Instead, he lingered long in the halls. Drogo had made guest bedrooms for the
princess and her guests. The wedding was to be held tomorrow morning. Per
Dothraki custom, it would last well into the night. Already, he could hear
slaves and servants taking extra food and tables and chairs from the garden and
into wagons. The wedding itself, he had learned at the feast, would take place
in a field just outside of Pentos. It was likely the only place Drogo could fit
his entire khalasar.
As such, Jorah found himself restless despite the long day and night. Chewing
an apple, he meandered through the halls of Drogo’s manse, nodding to a
guard—Dothraki and Unsullied—as he passed by. He did not expect to find another
nightwalker . . . but the soft padding of feet told him otherwise. There was a
shadow—large—quickly cast in a corner, and he frowned, following it.
The shadow stole towards the section where the princess and prince were
resting. Jorah reached for his dagger at his back and ducked behind a corner.
Peeking around slowly, he saw . . . a fat outline—an outline he knew well.
“It’s late for social visits, magister,” he spoke, his voice a low rumble as he
moved to stand in the hall. The magister jumped and turned to him. Jorah was
surprised that such soft footsteps could come from the large man before him.
The man was even more a mystery to him now.
“Ser Jorah. I was . . . merely . . . I thought I might ensure the princess did
not need anything,” Illyrio said, looking surprisingly startled and guilty.
Jorah glanced down and saw the tell-tale erection pressing against the
magister’s silks.
“I assure you, she does not need that,” Jorah said, and there was a warning in
his tone that had Illyrio standing taller. Jorah’s hand removed from his
dagger, and he bit into his apple instead, looking—for all intents and
purposes—quite unbothered. “I do not think the Khal would appreciate a wife who
was promised a virgin . . . only to find that she was not so. I imagine that
the man who sold her would pay a hefty price for such a slight.” He bit into
his apple again, chewing and swallowing. And he did not think the princess
would appreciate being raped the night before her wedding either.
Illyrio turned away from the princess’ door completely, albeit begrudgingly.
“As I said. I only wished to ensure her comfort.”
Jorah gave a nod, the look in his eyes making it quite clear that he was not
buying his story. “It’s time you returned to your bed, magister. There’s a
wedding to attend tomorrow.”
 
THE END of BOOK ONE.
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