
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8237642.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Multi, Other
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A
      Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Jorah_Mormont/Daenerys_Targaryen, Lynesse_Hightower/Jorah_Mormont, Other
      Relationship_Tags_to_Be_Added
  Character:
      Jorah_Mormont, Alysane_Mormont, Maege_Mormont, Lyanna_Mormont, Tyrion
      Lannister, "Brown"_Ben_Plumm, Daenerys_Targaryen, Bran_Stark, Meera_Reed,
      Summer_(ASoIaF), Other_Character_Tags_to_Be_Added, Lyra_Mormont, Jorelle
      Mormont, Leyton_Hightower, Humfrey_Hightower, Samwell_Tarly, Jon_Snow,
      Ghost_(ASoIaF), Asha_Greyjoy, Stannis_Baratheon, Davos_Seaworth, Dacey
      Mormont, Hosteen_Frey, Melisandre_of_Asshai, Victarion_Greyjoy
  Additional Tags:
      Smut, Fantasy, Sci-Fi, War, Passion, Blood_Magic, esoteric, Magic,
      Politics, Love, Friendship, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Older_Man/Younger
      Woman, Intrigue, Dark_Tyrion, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD, Sex
      Positive, against_sexism, Romance, Eventual_Relationships, Eventual
      Romance, Eventual_Sex, Humour, Sarcasm, Sex, Foreplay, asoiaf/got, AU
      from_ADWD/TWOW, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Dragonriders,
      dragon_riding, Iron_Maiden_-_Freeform, Slayer, Tenderness, R_plus_L
      equals_J, Jon_Snow_is_a_Targaryen, Jon_Snow_is_King_in_the_North, Warg
      Jon_Snow, Masturbation, Canon-Typical_Violence, No_rape_descriptions,
      Porn_With_Plot, Porn_with_Feelings, Betrayal
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-08 Updated: 2017-04-10 Chapters: 6/? Words: 31791
****** Can I play with madness? ******
by BlackandPinkUnicornGuardian
Summary
     Many humans on Planetos are playing with madness, in different ways
     and forms. Some of them probably never wanted to. Others chose to
     play with it. Others want to master it, or to stop it. Too many
     simply are caught in it, and have to play with it or die without even
     trying. A small House is caught in the awakening of magic as well as
     in the game of thrones, in both cases thanks mainly to their liege-
     lords, but also in good part thanks to other Houses with a certain
     affinity to magic, power, or both. How will House Mormont fare in
     this madness? Better than the Starks, than the Targaryens? What are
     the elusive Reeds and Hightowers doing? Let us follow (almost) all of
     our characters from the ASoIaF world in this journey through
     madness…anyway, we will pay more attention to the fates of Jorah,
     Alysane and family. Because one hero - or two, or three for all that
     matters - is not enough when things start getting out of hand, no
     matter what legends tell. Ask the Children of the Forest, if you
     don’t believe me. [Book-verse with show!Hardhome and some show!stuff
     here and there. More information in the notes at the beginning of the
     prologue]
Notes
     Mainly book universe, I only take a few good ideas from the show,
     like the show!Hardhome storyline (which you can copy and paste into
     this universe). Of course, Season 6 left a few marks on my
     imagination as well, and also confirmed R+L=J. Other than this, AU
     and alternative timeline from the end of ADWD and some of the few
     chapters of TWOW we already know. Some characters will be just
     mentioned, because I don’t want to go mad (at least no more than I
     already am).
     A Mormont-centric fantasy fic with sci-fi contamination. Esoteric/
     magic, humour, romance and passion, porn with plot (I will warn when
     it goes really pervert), some inspiration from history 1880-1945, or
     from the mythology I grew up with, and whatever makes me tick.
     Featuring also “virtual soundtrack”, meaning suggestions for music to
     listen.
     Feel free to imagine show!Jorah instead of book!Jorah, of course. I
     know how hard it is not to think of insanely handsome Iain Glen!
     Anyway, the picture of Jorah featured on his “A wiki of Ice and Fire”
     page (http://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/a/af/Jorah_Mormont.jpg) is
     how I picture book!Jorah, and therefore will be the image I bear
     (LOL) in mind while writing. A tall and muscular man, his hair
     slightly receding and a small bald patch barely visible on the top of
     his head…not a canonically/conventionally handsome man but a man you
     can be attracted to, especially if you grow up and stop fancying only
     pretty boys. Yes, Daenerys, I am thinking about you right now.
     Finally, a disclaimer: I am not GRRM, neither am I D&D/HBO, I own
     nothing, I only borrow stories and continue them with my own style,
     my ideas and my imagination! In addition, I thank GRRM, JRR Tolkien,
     and all the music masters who inspire me.
     I am not a native speaker, so if you are one (and master your own
     language in grammar and style) feel free to suggest improvements!
     Guess where the title for the fic comes from?
***** Prologue *****
 He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and
  the green Dothraki Sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the
   fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred
                                                           beneath the sunrise.
                                                    A Game of Thrones, Bran III
                                                                               
They had beaten him again until they had no strength left in their arms, until
he almost had no life in him again.
Sounds died out. As usual, the bastards stopped only inches away from death.
Was it really the end, this time?
Lying in his own blood, unable to raise his head and open the slits he still
had somewhere on his face to look at the walls of Meereen, Jorah tried to keep
thinking of the only reason he had not to simply let go of his life and be done
with the pain, with the self-deprecation, with the continuous bad choices, with
everything. He didn’t have to look at the city walls to keep that reason in
mind.
Daenerys. She was so near, and yet so unreachable. But he had to hold on: he
had survived much; he could survive still and overcome more than he already
had. His only hope was to begin another day after passing out. Every day could
bring him closer to her, to her service, maybe to her forgiveness, or at least
to a death in her service, for her service.
He inhaled and exhaled, trying to make his nerves relax and his pain subside.
He then fell on the floor, knocked out cold. He didn’t even notice it: it just
happened.
Jorah Mormont, son of Bear Island.
A voice, somewhere, from somewhere. A soft Northern tone, like that of children
playing at a harvest fair so many lives of his ago. Maybe a dream? A memory
from a happier past? Talking of the two things he loves most, his lost homeland
and his beloved Queen. Was he hallucinating? He probably was.
You are a son of the North, yet you chose the dragon. Why her?
“I love her.”
You know that winter is coming, don’t you, Jorah Mormont? You know what’s
beyond the Wall? Your father saw.
A shiver went through Jorah. Memories of old tales seemed to take shape and
life in his mind. Silvery shadows danced a macabre dance on the remains of men,
women and children. Then they looked at a white glistening barrier. The Wall!
“Who are you? And what do you know about my father? And about my liege-lord in
Westeros?”  whispered Jorah, or at least he thought he whispered in his head.
I am not a dragon, yet I can fly too, and I can see far away. I saw you, I saw
your Queen, I saw your dragons. As I saw your island, your kin.
“Where is my father? How is he? And my family? Tell me, show me”.
The answer did not let him wait: Your father left you yet another task. This
time you cannot fail him. You will have to find a way. It does not have to be
his way, but it does not have to be only the tale of a faithful knight fighting
for his lady either. Your love for and her throne will not be worth anything if
we do not fight the real war.
The boy with wings and eyes that could see so far away took the bear away from
the stinking slave market outside the walls of Meereen, and brought him back
home, and even further north, to show him what bears and wolves should have
never forgotten in the first place.
 
***** The trooper *****
Chapter Summary
     Picks up from the moment Jorah kills the Yunkish nobleman and the
     Second Sons go to battle for Daenerys, in the Tyrion chapter of TWOW
     (right now it’s a preview: don’t panic! Reading it would be quite
     useful in order to understand this chapter of mine).
     Tyrion and Jorah have been developing a friendlier relationship than
     before, but a battle can put a strain on the “relationship” itself,
     especially when the two of them have their own differences. However,
     in a world where magic is awakening, a third factor can change
     relationships in a quite surprising way...this is the case for our
     little giant and our bear! Ready to follow them?
Chapter Notes
     Typos? Signs of multiple corrections managed badly or hastily? That
     taste of something written by a non-native speaker? Feel free to help
     by leaving a few notes in the comment section. I promise I will
     recruit beta- and proofreaders soon! Any other feedback will be
     appreciated as well, of course.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Krakens.
He was definitely not pleased. Not that what pleased him usually mattered, as
far as fate, or the Gods - or whatever forged the destiny of the world and of
men, he still had no idea what it was - were concerned. So far, he had gotten
used to seeing the worst possible scenario unfold in front of him, and he had
begun to think he was increasingly becoming goodin dealing with misfortune and
disasters.
This time, however, “fate” had determined he would have to fight side by side
with the Ironborn. He felt the butt of every God’s joke. Fortunately, they
would be joining battle in short: among steel, sweat, shit and blood, there
would be no time for thinking.
 “Mormont?”
The Imp, who had successfully adjusted his breastplate with Penny’s help, tried
to shake him out of his deep thoughts.
“Jorah Mormont…unless your supreme military mind is conceiving some superior
scheme that will lead us swiftly to victory, I am afraid I would like you to
stick to being a brute to Yunkish visitors. Or to the assertive role you took
upon you, as a commander-to-be of the Second Sons. No sullen silences. You are
not pretty enough to make me stand for that kind of behaviour.”
Always talking thrice as needed, the little Lannister lordling. Jorah grunted,
then took a good look at the little Lannister, another one at the men gathering
around them, finally another one at his longsword – summarily cleaned from the
blood – and got back to brooding.
A grunt. That was all I got out of the Bear. I suppose I must be glad he did
not hit me, or – worse - kiss me.
Tyrion was worried for himself, felt sorry for Penny, and was above all
worrying very, very much about the green dragon still flying above the bay.
Brooding was not a pastime he wanted to indulge in, especially considering that
he hadn’t had enough wine for his taste. Having to endure his own thoughts
sober was unbearable. It had almost ended up badly previously. There was only
one way to deal with Jorah’s attitude…
 
“I hope this enthusiastic mood is not how you intend to cheer, serve and honour
our gracious and beloved queen!”
“My sword is how I cheer, serve and honour Daenerys.”
Tyrion had to stop himself from bursting into laughter – an improvement,
indeed, when compared to the outcome of his previous conversations. It was
evident the man truly and honestly meant the longsword he just blooded, and
maybe his undoubted strength as a warrior, in a clumsy attempt at poetry,
but…did he realise the loaded statement he just spoke out?
No, he did not, Tyrion thought after watching him for a little while. I bet
deep down you think a lot about what your sword could do for her, Ser Bear the
Mighty.
“I often think about how charming and exciting your kin, your people and their
everyday life on that Gods-forsaken island amidst ice and even more ice you
come from must be, compared to the rest of Westeros”
Mormont, finally, reacted almost pleasantly to the merciless japing, confirming
Tyrion’s idea of a general improvement of the usually sullen knight and
botcher: a small grunt bordering on a suppressed laugh came out of his bear-
like throat, and his reply as well:
“I would have thought Tywin Lannister could afford better education for his
children than that: we also have bears, woods, and moss.
Anyway, you might discover that what causes our lack of charm also gave us our
expertise in matters that could be relevant for us in the next hours.”
Jorah Mormont’s mouth being the source of such words made the young Lannister
worry very, very much. The way he started to understand his former kidnapper
and current companion, the knight was, once again, dreaming of being the hero
without even noticing it, as Tyrion supposed was Jorah’s main flaw. Remembering
Ser Bear’s fists, though, he kept himself cautious:
“Jorah, if being admitted to Brown Ben’s tent is something that is very
important for all of us, I don’t think it is necessary to do much more than
surviving this day. Do you mean to try repeating your madness of Pyke? We do
not even have a mad red priest with a sparkling sword to follow... Try it for
once:  surviving, calculating, and scheming.  Even Robert could not make his
way to a long life with his warhammer. Ponder this: you might actually live to
tell the tale of our adventure to Queen Daenerys yourself, if you are careful
today” he said with a grin.
“Tyrion, the only time I tried to scheme and make a profit out of something I
lost my lordship, my home and almost had to give up my head as well.”
“So, you have some humour in you, after all. One more reason not to end your
life in the sands of Meereen”.
However, Jorah, in his brooding, took a good look at Rhaegal, still circling
above the bay. As much as he believed that Daenerys was in full control of
Drogon, and that she was alive and would be back soon, he didn't have much
faith in the fact that somebody else in Meereen would be controlling the other
two dragons. Being caught in some indiscriminate burning on the battlefield
wasn't the way he wanted to go.
Brown Ben Plumm put an end to everybody’s reasoning, or brooding: “It’s now
time to go pick up the Queen’s gratitude.”
---
Another battle. Nothing new to former Lord, disgraced knight, recurring
sellsword Jorah Mormont. His experience, his force, his size, his will to fight
for Daenerys were precious assets on the battlefield, and it showed again.
Flirting with death, or dancing with it, was not his style: his was, instead,
that of a man who wanted to go always one step further, hoping to arrive where
he wanted to. If he had to mow men down by the hundreds to go forward, so be
it. His size and strength were behind every single move of his sword; his mind
was bent on survival. One instant longer, one day longer, one year longer, it
did not matter.
However, when the Second Sons reached the centre of action, enclosing the
Yunkish forces between themselves and the Ironborn, Rhaegal changed his
behaviour and started a slow, controlled but clear descent. Was it a good thing
or a bad thing? The most likely way to interact with a dragon was probably that
of the unwilling piece of charred meat, caught in his indiscriminate fiery
rage. Considering that he had not seen the dragons in a while, and that his
departure from their mother’s court had not been exactly a peaceful farewell
between two friends, he had further reasons to worry about the beast’s actions.
His questioning gave way to a feeling of certainty - and despair, a lot of
despair - when the green dragon almost gracefully started to descend, and Jorah
noticed he would not find himself so far away from where Rhaegal would land.
Instead of a reunion with a pardon as he had dared to dream, instead of a –
possibly – clean cut on his neck by Strong Belwas as he sometimes dreaded, he
was probably going to be roasted in his mismatched armour, considering the way
all of his enterprises seemed to end. “At least, it might be Daenerys will know
that I was fighting for her, again, holding to my oath”, he thought, watching
enemies and companions try to steer away from the big greenish shadow
approaching.
Although…he had survived several wars, he had fled Ned’s justice, he had even
kept his head on his neck after being uncovered as a former spy. Therefore he
tried all his best to avoid being in the dragon’s proximity, but did not seem
to be lucky enough. Jorah Mormont started accepting that this might really be
the end.
Rhaegal landed about ten meters from him, facing him. He felt the air, he felt
the heat, he heard the thud of his talons. His despair gave way to a different
feeling: he was in awe of how bigger the dragons had become, judging from this
one – and this wasn’t even Drogon, the biggest of the trio. After all, he had
practically picked their mother and them out of the remnants of that pyre, and
he felt like seeing his children or nephews again after some time.
Anybody, not just Tyrion, would say that staying there admiring a dragon was a
stupid thing to do. But so had been selling two poachers to fund his former
wife’s lifestyle, after all…
Rhaegal simply adjusted himself on the field, and after a few instants directed
his snout and his gaze on him. 
Jorah didn't have time to think. Another part of him than his brains took
charge and cleared out fear and worries: he simply reacted instinctively,
looked at the dragon in his eyes and shouted “Rhaegal!”
Rhaegal moved a little and snorted. His tail swept away a few men on the
battlefield, his mighty paws adjusted and made the sands fly. Other men fled,
as quickly as they could, taking advantage of the terror that had made the
majority of them stop fighting each other. Jorah registered in the back of his
mind that the beast was quite nervous, but still hadn’t roasted him. Something
had changed inside him from the moment his gaze and Rhaegal's had crossed each
other. Did the dreams - or hallucinations - he had while in the cage have
anything to do with this? He couldn’t know, he wouldn’t know. He stayed there,
looking at him almost with pride, and felt a connection. “Rhaegal. We fight for
the Queen”.
After a few moments, Jorah remembered that they were on a battlefield, and that
they were both likely to be killed if they kept staring reciprocally at each
other like that. They were lucky the other participants were probably shortly
shocked as well, or they would have already been pierced by swords – in his
case – or spears – in Rhaegal’s case -,  or maybe arrows.
He soon had to raise his sword again to fend off a Yunkish soldier who had
recovered from the general shock before the others. He had felt their movement
instinctively, and showed no mercy. “Rhaegal…”he wanted to warn the beast, as
soon as the man lay in a pool of his own blood…
He didn’t have time to finish the sentence, because the beast itself turned,
moved forward and smashed away a few men that tried to throw spears at him.
Others were caught in his fiery breath, a reminder that, on the battlefield,
there was seldom a match for dragons.
And then Rhaegal moved back towards Jorah, picking up a man whose crime was the
desire to engage in a clash with the knight. The dragon cut him in half, and
threw one of the halves away.
Jorah did not know what to think of it. The lack of control on the dragons had
been one of the matters Daenerys and him would have had to solve in order to
lead on the quest for the Iron Throne successfully, if she had not exiled him.
On the other hand, he also knew Daenerys had flown away from Meereen on
Drogon’s back, and was somewhere with her dragon.
Soon the feeling of a connection was suddenly there again.
“Rhaegal. I serve you and your mother until the day I die. Now serve with me”
The dragon seemed to recognize him and listen to him. He could try doing
something.
He braced himself, inhaled and approached Rhaegal’s flank.
And mounted him, as if he were a horse, while saying: “Rhaegal, now I am your
rider. We will fight together”.
A strange feeling took possession of him. Power, but also the certainty that he
was going to see Daenerys again. Adrenaline stopped him from feeling the effect
that a creature of fire was going to have on his skin, and from worrying about
what could happen to him if the mount were to change its mind, or if he were to
lose his seat.
Of course, flying away from the range of enemies throwing spears and arrows was
the first and only thing he had to worry about, things being as they were.
“Rhaegal, fly!” he shouted in what he hoped was High Valyrian, his knowledges
and skills he had of the language as a noble Westerosi a little rusty after so
long.
Rhaegal took off.
Suddenly, Jorah thought that someone had to decide where to fly. He knew that
flying back to Daenerys without securing her position in Meereen was quite
useless, if not counterproductive.
He could not imagine Daenerys asking Drogon “What do you think we should do?”
He knew that his brave and fiery queen would have commanded Drogon, as she
apparently had done in the pit, according to some. He also remembered Astapor,
and the word “Dracarys”. Suddenly, everything became clear, and he felt
different, he felt Rhaegal, and he felt the sense of what he was going to do.
And thus the hero of Pyke became the dragonrider of Meereen as well. This time,
he did not need to win a tourney afterwards to crown a Queen, for he already
had a Queen, and she already had her crown.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Who do you think the “trooper”is here? Jorah? Tyrion?
     Spoiler: there is no right answer. Enjoy and interpret the story as
     you prefer.
     I named the chapter after Iron Maiden’s song The trooper, of course,
     the galloping rhythm and the battle-related lyrics making it a good
     soundtrack for re-reading and improving. I also thought of the
     several meanings of the word “trooper” …and I even discovered another
     meaning of it, apparently the main meaning according to my
     dictionary: “mounted police officer”. I knew then I had found my
     title ;-)
     Both Jorah and Tyrion are troopers in their own way, author’s opinion
     
     And yes, even the fic title is inspired by Iron Maiden (Can I play
     with madness).
***** Reign in blood *****
Chapter Summary
     Old powers reawaken, new powers arise. Alysane, her past, her
     present, and the king she bent the knee to.
     It’s not just Essos where the borders of magic seem to fade away.
     Featuring: flashbacks, digressions, and above all memories of a sweet
     bear. Amongst all this blood, there has to be some tenderness, or I
     will scare everybody away! ;-)
Chapter Notes
     I had the honour to have a proofreader and beta-reader for this
     chapter: all hail favor757, one of the Jorahphiles I stalk on tumblr
     <3
     Of course, we are all human, and something can still be wrong. Always
     grateful for suggestions about typos, errors, improvements!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
                                                         The sky is turning red
                                                     Return to power draws near
                                                                  Fall into me,
                                                        The sky’s crimson tears
                                                Abolish the rules made of stone
            Raining blood by Slayer, taken from their 1986 album Reign in Blood
 
Another squirrel. Not exactly the biggest treat she could find, but it had to
do for now. Her stomach had been aching for hours.
She was clever and smooth enough to get it. She studied its movements for a
while, then got into the rhythm, and jumped on it.
A crunch, then gory trickling into her mouth, the flesh surrendering to her
teeth.
 
Another movement, somewhere.
Muscles tensing, ears standing up. Sniffing.
Game.
With some efforts, she remembered a thought. She had to let it move towards the
camp. They were all starving, eating far too less to be able to fight in the
future.
She sniffed again…
 
“Lady Alysane!”
“Lady Mormont!”
“Aly!”
Finally, the young She-Bear woke up. She found herself where she remembered she
had fallen asleep, and that was already good news.
After some stirring, and huge efforts to focus on the new scenery around her,
her eyes found Asha Greyjoy’s face, betraying a sadness almost as deep as the
one pouring out from the face of the heart tree. A connection, this between the
two grim faces, she would have rather avoided. But until the storm stopped,
there was no way she was going to escape that view more than a few times a day.
 
Lately, she only had two ways to escape from the remorse, from the cold, from
the hunger, from Stannis, from the ravens bringing news.
One was fucking Gunnar, a young and lively spearman in service to her House;
tall as many men on the island, and muscular as all of them, probably a few
years younger than her.  She had many opportunities to get to know men, to
choose them, among Northerners or even Southron knights. But Gunnar had caught
her attention because he seemed not to care for the snowstorm, for the hunger,
for the tensions among the people at the camp, for the impending battle that
could mean death for all of them, for the threat of the Freys. He constantly
looked amused by all of it. It was all a great adventure and he had said it was
worthier than dying on Bear Island from a Wilding’s spear. The way he moved
conveyed arrogance, but this only made him and the idea of having him more
enticing. In addition, he had big, strong hands and a light beard, and when she
started wondering how they would feel on her body, she knew she had to discover
it. And soon they found their pleasure together in every possible way, using
their bodies as they thought better, letting him inside her in every possible
way was a satisfying escape from the present situation.
The second way to escape her circumstances was a wolf she had found roaming
around the camp. There were no bears around Winterfell, or at least not as many
as they had back home. A fierce she-wolf became her other distraction conquered
by powers she had not really understood so far.
 
“I regret waking you, but Stannis wants to see you.”
Wants to see you again, both Asha and Alysane added in their thoughts. 
 
===============================================================================
 
She had volunteered.
The new storm had stopped all of Stannis’s plans. Ser Massey and her going to
the Wall with Arya, any attack to the bastard keeping Winterfell.
All plans except getting rid of mouths to feed. Prisoners’ mouths.
 
Neither she, nor Asha had wanted to see them all burned.
Alysane had then stood up and asked His Graceto honour the Gods of the North
along with his Lord of Light, to punish them in the name of Stannis Baratheon
but also of Eddard Stark.
Stannis had already heard similar words. Take him out across the lake to the
islet where the weirwood grows, and strike his head off with that sorcerous
sword you bear.  That is how Eddard Stark would have done it.  Theon slew Lord
Eddard's sons.  Give him to Lord Eddard's gods.  The old gods of the north. 
Give him to the tree. Asha’s words.
But the She-Bear had much more to say.
“Those who betrayed the North will fall to my sword. I will do the beheadings
myself, after pronouncing the sentence, as is our custom.”
 
Stannis had looked at her for a long moment, trying to read her thoughts. The
warrior woman, heir to Bear Island, had bent the knee. But the North had risen
before…and her blood…was her cousin’s nature in her family’s blood? That cousin
his brother had pardoned, yet he would not feel comfortable in welcoming him
back? Besides, what about his little sister’s words against him?
Was the She-Bear trying to help, or was she sneakily following onto the
footsteps of her older sister, who had put her sword at another self-proclaimed
king’s service and died with her king, whose name was Stark and not Baratheon?
Had she seen the opportunity to raise her House above their current station,
now that the Glovers were scattered, and few?
 
He was not Melisandre, who could see things in the flames, though.
He preferred to think that he was witnessing a woman grieving her sister, a
warrior (how strange it still seemed to him) defending the North’s honour;
maybe a young woman understanding another woman’s worries for her brother. He
had seen Lady Alysane’s reaction to the news of Jorah Mormont written on her
face.
 
And so it was that the Karstarks and the Greyjoy were brought to the weirwood,
and kneeled.
“In the name of Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of
Westeros, Lord of Dragonstone and of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the
Stormlands, by the name of Alysane of House Mormont, heir to Bear Island, I
sentence you to die.”
Alysane’s bastard sword swung six times. Blood rained down, spraying the heart
tree.
The trees saw.
The power of blood cannot be ignored. Forgotten, maybe, but it is always there.
 
===============================================================================
 
She still felt sorry for Asha. She had felt so from the moment she had cleaned
her sword up to every single moment she saw her, but they both knew Theon had
no hope. Aly’s hand was firm. A quick death for all of them it had been, in
front of the Gods they had all been raised with – even Theon.
If the king had been someone else other than Stannis Baratheon, they might have
tried to talk him out of executing Theon.
 
She had feared guilt would overcome her, maybe haunt her dreams.
Her dreams took another turn instead.
She found herself in the woods. At first she had thought she was dreaming of
hunting some game for her and the camp, a dream hunger had triggered. Soon she
understood. She hadn’t found bears, but she found a wolf.
A twist of fate, her joke about her mating – a metaphor of the Mormonts’ way of
life when love was not in the way – had become a reality. Stories told before
the fireplace took form and became real.
She was a warg.
It was difficult to say where her power came from. She did not know who gave
Maege the seed that made her, no better than her sisters knew. The Mormonts who
had to try to comply with their duties as lords and ladies sworn to Winterfell
had mainly sired the new generations with some offspring of other Northern
houses keeping the Old Gods, not necessarily from the main branches, but still
blood of the First Men. A few had had to leave to marry people from their
island, who were blood of the First Men as well.
 
Now, awakened by Asha herself, sorrow, pity, and maybe a little guilt surfaced,
only to be put aside to make space for feelings of nuisance and maybe worry.
His Grace wanted to see the Lady Alysane. 
What did Stannis want from her this time? She almost regretted the time when he
visibly felt uncomfortable in the presence of a woman, and a warrior woman at
that.
 
===============================================================================
 
“Come on, my ladies! Make yourself comfortable!” said Jorah, apparently so
amused by the irreverent use of courtly manners in this not so refined
circumstance that his eyes were twinkling.
“Why do we have to work with you? Shouldn’t your Lynesse be doing this?”
“I thought the two of you liked coming with me and doing things together!” said
Jorah with a tender but also mocking smile.
“We like FIGHTING with you!” said Dacey and Alysane in unison. Alysane made
sure the message came across by sticking her tongue out.
“Well, if you want to fight you will need to eat. If you want to eat…we will
have to store our food.”
“The food you bought from the Southron merchants. For her.”
“It is for all of us.”
“You seldom eat it, cousin.” remarked Dacey sadly.
 
Jorah spent a lot of money since he married his new doll-wife, but he was aware
of the coins running out and of the debts summing up. He was used to hard
labour anyway, but now he was working even more: in the Hall with the other
workers, and he also did whatever he could to save money or increase the value
of his performance. At the same time, he tried to let Lynesse and his little
cousins enjoy the rich food and drinks he let come from the South, rarely
tasting of the goodness himself. Maege openly refused to partake in the
“Southron gluttony”, as she called Lynesse’s food preferences, and always added
a few remarks about her disagreement with the whole situation. “Dacey is
growing up to be a beautiful lady as well, AND a warrior, and she did it
without your precious fancy food. Maybe if you started appreciating what the
island gives us you might grow some hand for a sword, or for an axe,” she had
once said. Lynesse had shown the pain and the outrage at the same time on her
beautiful face. Jorah had simply closed the discussion with his gruff but firm
tone: “Enough. You already made your thoughts known - many a time, in fact -.
Lynesse heard it. Now we all eat, before it goes foul.” He didn’t need to get
angry: his tone did not allow any reply.
 
“Well, this way there is more for you, your sisters and Lyn. Now, help me
shovel the snow and press it together. We are making snow shelters. It should
be fun!”
The two girls snorted, but fastened their mittens and took the shovels, heeding
his instructions. However, something was still brewing in their heads.
“Can we let Lynesse sleep in one of these shelters? It might toughen her up!”
“Alysane! Do you want a good spanking?”
Dacey jumped in with a more practical observation: “Do you think we can build
enough ice cells to store all the food, cousin Jorah? Shouldn’t we simply order
smaller quantities?”
“The price we pay takes the shipping into account as well. Those merchants
don’t come all the way to Bear Island just to pay a visit to our Hall. Buying
this much is a way to save money. Smoking, salting and keeping things cold is
the way to preserve what we buy.”
“You love her more than us!” cried Aly.
“I love you all the same… you, Aunt Maege, Lyn…but my wife isdifferent, so is
the love one bears for a wife, and so are my duties towards her”.
“You never tell us you love us!”
“I just said it!” answered Jorah, touching Alysane’s nose tenderly with one of
his big fingers. “Besides, can you imagine your mother’s response to a
declaration of love by me while we are all sitting together in the hall? Or to
my calling you - or her - sweet names?”
Alysane was not convinced, whereas Dacey smiled a little.
The trio got back to preparing the snow.
This time, it was Jorah who had thought things after: “Will you two promise me
that you will refrain from treating Lyn impolitely? She knows you are different
from her.  You are not going to help her by behaving as you often do. And you
are making her very, very sad.”
“But she has to become like our lady on the gate! That’s what a Lady of Bear
Island must look like! Somebody has to guide her!”
“Aly, would you be happy if I were to remind you every day you are not as
slender as Dacey?”
Jorah found the right spot: Alysane reacted by erupting into tears. Immediately
Jorah felt sorry, and picked her up in his big and strong arms, although not as
easily as it used to be. “See? This is exactly what you do to Lyn every time
you tell her something unpleasant, she cries, and I need to take her into my
arms.” He kissed his cousin on her puffy cheeks. “I love you. Every one of you.
Each one of you is different, but you, all together, are my treasure: Lyn with
her wits, her curiosity, her company, her passion. You five little girls, with
your misbehaviour and your cuddliness. Your mother with her constant
criticizing me and her brother, all the while helping me in my duties.”
Alysane tightened her embrace around Jorah’s strong neck, hiding her face.
Jorah reciprocated. Dacey added smugly: “You forgot to mention Lynesse’s looks,
cousin!” and grinned at him.
“Of course she is also very beautiful. It does not change the truth of what I
said!”
Alysane saw an opening for another blow:” Dacey is beautiful too! She can be a
lady and a warrior! Why don’t you send Lynesse back and marry Dacey in a few
years, when she is all grown up?”
“Alysane! What did I just say and show you about making someone cry?”
For all the tenderness Jorah bore in him towards the people he loved, this time
his eyes reflected his firmness. His jaw hardened as well. He did not let his
little cousin go, but instead used her position in his arms to look into her
eyes and convey that he did not want to hear such words ever again.
“Now. Since we all agree I have enough love for all of you, why don’t we see
that we also have enough food for all of you?” And with that he put Aly down,
patting her on the top her head and caressing Dacey’s cheek.
They had fun working with their big cousin, who had been a dear brother and
father figure to the girls every single day up to the time he left the island. 
They shovelled, pressed, and formed snow, making ice cells out of it, an idea
Jorah had gotten from his father’s letters from the Wall. 
She could not criticize the love he bore and showed to all of them, and for the
efforts he always made to keep things going on the island. She had never
understood why he had kept the real extent of their debts a secret, and why he
had never confided at least to her and Dacey about his idea of selling two
poachers. After all the secrets they had shared over the years! She could only
understand why he had kept the truth from her mother:  she  would have probably
knocked the idea out of his head with her mace. Dacey and Alysane found the
idea of selling someone quite horrible. Actually, Jorah believed it was a
terrible thing as well, as this emerged when he spoke of lords selling their
children or siblings in marriage, something he felt strongly about when siding
with Maege and Alysane on the matter. Jorah…was their beloved cousin: whatever
he was going through, they would either have counselled him otherwise, or maybe
helped him, if that was the path they had to take.
 
To that day, she still had no idea if that had been just Jorah’s desperate
idea, or if that doll-wife of his had counselled him. Neither had she
understood how news of two poachers sold by Jorah had reached Ned Stark.
Dishonourable as his actions were, she would have preferred not losing her
cousin because of Ned Stark’s rushing to execute him.
 
===============================================================================
 
Similarly, neither she nor Stannis had understood why somebody had seen fit to
send a raven with Robert’s last acts, including a mention of Jorah’s pardon for
his spying – yet another desperate and deplorable move her beloved cousin had
resorted to.     
The raven had delivered detailed news of a dragon queen conquering Essos. 
Another  raven had come from Greywater Watch for Alysane with a message from
her mother letting her know she was  leaving Jorelle behind with Howland Reed
(and why was the man always hiding in his keep? Didn’t he notice they were at
war? She could not help thinking), whereas she would be joining Stannis’s army
with Lyra and their remaining men and women to help retake Winterfell. Stannis
had not been enthusiastic at the idea of having more mouths to feed, their
military advantage as far as numbers and experience were concerned already
stated by Theon’s information. Still, it was a fierce company of fighters, made
by her family and people she trusted.
 
Learning that Jorah had been alive, at least until some moons ago, and knowing
that nobody could oppose his return now, had triggered many memories of her
sisters and Jorah. In particular, one memory surfaced, that of Jorah teaching
her and her sisters to do other things with the snow than snowmen, or snowballs
to fight. She had then spoken to Stannis, and suggested they ration the food by
keeping it stored in ice cells. Moreover, she suggested they use the snow to
help their attack on Winterfell, and to fortify their position against the
Freys and the Boltons, by building ice galleries and trenches.
 
Stannis had listened with his usual uneasiness towards women at first then with
growing interest. 
At the end she had won the king’s trust as a commander.
They were to start working on the attack as soon as the small Mormont group
reached them, and the new snowstorm ceased. Stealth, hard labour and ice were a
job for Northmen, especially for Mormont warriors. The mountain clans could
have been fine as well, but they did not have the bond and the discipline of
the Bear Islanders.
Right now, they were just using the snow to fortify the crofter’s village
against any possible move  from the South or from Winterfell, meanwhile
planning possible actions.
“Lady Alysane”
“Your Grace. You sent for me?”
“Please, take a seat, my lady.”
Stannis was clearly worried about something. His jaw clenched, his brow was
furrowed, and he looked more anxious than he had been since the beginning of
their acquaintance.
“Any news? A scout came back? A raven found us in the storm?”
“Yes. A raven reached us alive in this storm, and this is not even the
strangest thing going along with it.”
Stannis stopped, only to tap his fingers on the wooden table with the plans on
it. Then he continued:
“But…I suppose there is nothing we can consider strange anymore, after the
tidings I received from the Wall.”
“Tidings from the Wall, Your Grace?”
“I had written to the Lady Melisandre, some time ago. I hoped she knew some
ways to make wildfire, or something similar to it, to help with our attack.
Apparently, she can do… much more than that.”
“It bodes well, I suppose?”
“I have always been sceptical of her Red God. I recognized her powers, but I
never asked myself what was their source. Now, I have to admit I am glad we
still have some Karstark men. It might be we are going to sacrifice them to
R’hllor instead of sending them to slaughter in battle, as we had planned.”
Sacrificing to the red god here, where the Old Gods just gave her powers? No,
that could not be. She had to come clean about her warging. But first she had
to know…
“What powers are we talking about?”
“Bringing a dead man back to life.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     Trenches, ice galleries…too much reading and researching about WWI on
     the Italian-Austrian front! ;-)
     "Reign in blood" by Slayer turned 30 in these days. I simply had to
     honour that masterpiece!
***** Serve somebody *****
Chapter Summary
     Barristan, Tyrion and Jorah have to decide how to serve from now on,
     in the aftermath of the battle. Meanwhile, we get to review how magic
     in Daenerys’s life rebirthed, this time with the help of Jorah and
     Tyrion instead of Dany’s PoV.
Chapter Notes
     "Slow train coming" marked Dylan’s entrance into the esoteric world.
     Yes, I wrote esoteric. It is true that this is Bob’s firs album as a
     born-again Christian…nevertheless, several fans highlighted how this
     spiritual turn of the Bard of Duluth meant probably something else
     than the average Christian rock fan would expect. In this album and
     in the followings there are many signs one could interpret as an
     interest for syncretic spiritual knowledge and wisdoms for initiates:
     although a few cryptic, hidden meanings seem to linger even in
     previous works, themes seem to shift completely from this album on up
     to "Oh Mercy". For more info, search on the web for Dylan + esoteric
     or similar keywords ;-) "Gotta serve somebody" is one of the most
     famous songs on that album.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                              You may be rich or poor, you may be blind or lame
                        You may be living in another country under another name
                            But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
                                            You’re gonna have to serve somebody
                                Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
                                        But you’re gonna have to serve somebody
                                                                            […]
                         You may be somebody’s mistress, may be somebody’s heir
                            But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
                                            You’re gonna have to serve somebody
                                                                               
         Gotta serve somebody,from the 1979 album Slow train comingby Bob Dylan
                                                                             --
“It is not a matter of gold of horses. This is bloodmagic, lady. Only death may
                                                                 pay for life.”
                                                     “Death?” [...] “My death?”
                 “No,” Mirri Maz Duur promised. “Not your death, Khaleesi.” […]
                                            Dany trembled with relief. “Do it.”
                                                                            […]
                                     “Am I truly your princess?” she asked him.
                                         “You know you are, gods save us both.”
                                                            “Then help me now.”
                                  Ser Jorah grimaced. “Would that I knew how.”.
                                                                            […]
  The curved blade slipped past the straight one and bit deep into the knight’s
                                                 hip where the mail gaped open.
   Mormont grunted, stumbled. Dany felt a sharp pain in her belly, a wetness on
                                                                    her thighs.
                                                                            […]
   Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled
                              the world. The shapes! She screamed. The dancers!
                                         Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.
                                                                               
                                               A game of thrones, Daenerys VIII
                                                                               
It seemed like every time somebody wanted to regain some honour, or make amends
for mistakes, this person was caught in even more dishonour, faults, turmoil,
and who knows what else. At least, such were Ser Barristan’s thoughts while he
was tending to his wounds, and not just the ones he received on his body:  it
was the sense of despair he was drowning from within his soul, even though he
came back from the battle alive, conscious, and with yet another entangled
situation in Meereen was as compelling as the cuts, the scratches and the
burns.
Since he was still the Queen’s Hand and regent, de facto, he also had to start
planning. He did not have the luxury of lying down to speed up his recovery.
Therefore, he was already planning the call for the first official meeting of
his council and his new allies. He needed to keep court as soon as possible.
The brief meeting he had with the captains, some of the council and a few
representatives of the allies wasn't enough. There were many things to solve.
Of all the possible outcomes of the battle, he had not expected the scheme of
the Second Sons – namely feigning to go over to the Yunkai’i, when in reality
the plan was to spy on them.  Still, he had welcomed it. Battles were also won
with luck. May the Seven always send luck his way, and to Daenerys’ as well.
He surely hadn't seen the Ironborn coming. The Greyjoys were not the simplest
of all allies to deal with, but they had brought a navy with them – or at least
a part of it. According to Victarion Greyjoy, his ships -  and much, much more
than that, to be honest - were here to serve Queen Daenerys. Barristan shivered
while recalling Lord Victarion’s exact words. Along with Victarion Greyjoy,
there was a strange red priest. He still didn’t know what to do about him,
especially considering that there was already enough complexity between the
Westerosi Faith of the Seven and the local Ghiscari religion with that strange
Green Grace. However, the knight had to admit that the priest seemed to be a
fervent supporter of Queen Daenerys, and the R’hllor cult was quite widespread
in Essos…maybe it was good to have him along, too.
He had been pessimistic about the possibility of seeing the hostages again, but
he had forgotten that Daario and Jhogo were fighters…and so it was that, in the
chaos of the battle, those two hostages had first found a weapon, and then
fought their  way back into the Queen’s forces. Every single man could make the
difference between victory and defeat, and thus he had welcomed the two
faithful servants of the Queen back, all other matters that divided them were
put aside for now.
While rushing out to battle, Barristan had forgotten about the hostages they
held, not to mention about King Hizdahr, and that had been his gravest mistake.
He had come back to the pyramid to find a slaughterhouse instead of a court.
Skahaz denied any involvement in the death of the hostages, and he believed
him. He had not mentioned the king, though, which was curious, to say the
least. The king had probably suffered more than the Queen’s cupbearers: he had
been stabbed in several parts, including his bowels, and left to die alone in
his cell, whereas the poor girls and boys had had their throats slit.
He would have never imagined welcoming a Lannister in Meereen after being
dismissed by a court in the hands of the Lannisters.  But apparently, this
particular Lannister had quite a few disagreements with the rest of the
family.  And now he held the Second Sons in his hands thanks to an agreement
made by him. The man truly was Tywin’s son to bargain things with his gold like
that.
Above all, Ser Barristan didn’t think he would ever  see Ser Jorah again, and
was not pleased to welcome him back. He wasn't sure about the man...he had
showed a great devotion towards the Queen prior to his banishment, and the same
devotion was confirmed by his choice to risk his life to save Meereen for a
Queen he may never see again. Nevertheless, his dealings with slavers and
spymasters placed him in a category of people he was prone to despise. But he
had somehow managed to become a dragonrider, and this could not be ignored. The
issue with his banishment was postponed until the Queen's return, even though
he knew he had to mention it.
Barristan had resorted to a clear plan that would keep everything under
control. He had commanded Ser Jorah be given a comfortable room and a few
guards outside his chamber. His treatment was ambiguously similar to that
reserved to a prisoner of honour. His idea was that in this way he could
respect the command given by the Queen regarding his exile, all the while
keeping the man – and his dragonrider skills - under control. Moreover, he was
keeping him safe from Victarion Greyjoy and vice versa – the bad blood between
the two families could not be ignored.  He did not have much faith that the two
would work together for Daenerys especially when one of the offerings on the
table was marriage to either King Euron who remained on the Iron Islands or to
his very present brother Victarion.
…
One thing finally went as Ser Barristan had wished: Jorah Mormont appeared at
the pillared hall, which was being used to keep court, without making him wait
for too long.  The tall broad-shouldered figure appeared, his walk a little
unsteady.
“Ser Jorah” said Barristan with a slight gesture of his head in the manner of a
greeting.
“Ser Barristan” answered Jorah.
“Take a seat. I hope your wounds are nothing to worry about.”
“Not really, just a few minor burns.And I will need new breeches, it seems.”
Jorah had ridden Rhaegal  with fervour, but after the battle was finished and
Rhaegal had let him dismount, adrenaline had worn off and Jorah had noticed the
pain he had ignored while burning the enemy. A mixture between saddle sores and
slight burns, he had something to remind him of his new role as a dragonrider.
The healers and the handmaids were probably laughing in some remote corner of
the pyramid. Ser Jorah tried to keep the embarrassment away from his mind; a
difficult task, considering that he could hear Tyrion’s voice booming in his
head. The dwarf would tease the big man with, ‘A new meaning to the expression
‘The butt of the Gods’ joke’ if he had been present as the healers applied the
medication.
“Well, Ser Jorah, while I am glad you are well, my current role forces me to be
very open about...some matters that linger between us. You will not help Her
Grace nor will Daario Naharis be of any help to her cause as well.”
“I admit I am not as fine a swordsman as you are, Ser Barristan, but I have
been fighting for Daenerys for years, and I survived my fair share of battles…”
“You have been marked for a slaver, an oathbreaker, a traitor among the
Westerosi! How could you not understand…”
Jorah reddened as his body tightened with rage.  He felt like was going to
explode as he shouted at the older man. “Seven hells, Ser Barristan! I sold two
poachers I found on MY lands because I hoped to keep both my wife AND my family
happy and all my debts paid. TWO poachers! One deal! I am not a slaver! I am
not a Lannister, who apparently can sell whomever wounds their pride, nor am I
a Wise Master, who based his wealth on slavery. It is so easy to speak when you
have nothing to love, nothing to fight for. Laws and traditions fixed your
duty; you only had to follow your path and very few questions to ask yourself.
I had to make my own choices, and I chose to fight for my loved ones. I lost, I
lost everything! I also became a slave myself. This is the only mark I am
bearing forever”, he said as  he pointed at his branded cheek.  “Unless, of
course, Daenerys doesn’t decide to remove my head. If it is the Queen’s will, I
will bow my head gladly and offer my neck to your sword.”
Ser Barristan was impressed by the calm and thehonesty with which Ser Jorah
said the last sentence, not to mention the joke he made at his own expense.
“I see. This means you will accept Queen Daenerys’s decision, if she comes
back, whatever her decision will be?”
“When she comes back.”
“When she comes back…and if she does not, will you accept my decision?”
“Aye, I will.”
“Why? Why should I believe you?  She said you had to leave Meereen and collect
your pardon in Westeros. Yet you are back here.”
Rage rose again in Jorah’s heart. This was not Barristan’s business. “Strange
words for a man who should be thankful for what I did in the battle.”
“Ser Jorah, if I remember correctly, at our last meeting, it was a similar
attitude that convinced Her Grace to exile you instead of forgiving you.”
Jorah had to admit that he often became terribly clumsy in his wording,
especially when passion or rage inflamed him. Of that, he was aware.
Unfortunately, he only became aware of this flaw afterhe had said something and
could not take it back.  He inhaled slowly and took this opportunity to make
things right between them.
 “Ser Barristan, I don’t expect any reward for doing what I decided to do when
I pledged myself to Daenerys, for simply doing my duty as a knight. I do
expect, however, that you recognize me as somebody who is on your side, no
matter what your opinion on my person is. You seem to consider me as an enemy.
My flaws are none of your concern; I will be glad to discuss them with my
queen, if she asks me about them, but not with you.”
Ser Barristan took a hard look at the man before him.  He could not deny Jorah
Mormont was being honest, and true to the oath he had once sworn to the Queen. 
He also reminded himself for the hundredth time, Ser Jorah was a Westerosi, a
knight and a dragonrider, and he needed such a man in his court. The way to
Westeros was still long, and there was enough time to sort things out.
“Very well, Ser Jorah. I shall readmit you conditionally at court, but it will
be the Queen’s decision if you remain or if you are going to be exiled again or
executed.  You will participate in meetings that I consider are suited to your
abilities and you can be trusted.  You will train your dragon and you will
assist in the training of new knights.  Otherwise, you will remain in your
chambers when you are not needed elsewhere.”
You have to serve her somehowthought Jorah, accepting Ser Barristan’s
conditions.
---
Tyrion Lannister would usually choose to mark the end of a battle and of a
terrible adventure by drinking and whoring, repeating the two things for as
long as it pleased him. This time, however, although he was free to choose,  he
decided to ensure that Penny was safe in her new quarters, then to pick up some
wine and finally to make his way to the chamber of the newest dragonrider.
There would be time for pleasure, he thought but first he had to secure that
nobody damaged the new opportunity for the biggest revenge the world had ever
seen, namely landing on Westeros with a Queen and a company of sellswords, not
to mention three dragons…two of which, it seemed, had a rider already. It was
only a matter of time until he found a third one.
Penny was indeed safe, or at least it seemed  so when he finally reached her
after the first cups of wine he decided to have before he came to her room. She
was worried, though, as usual. Tyrion did not appreciate her renewed anxiety,
but he tried to act like a decent human being. “We are in the Queen’s palace.
We struck a deal with Brown Ben: we are going to honour our contract our own
way, by staying here and having a chance at influencing deals in Meereen.
Thanks to Jorah, we also gained guards and honours. What is there to whine
about this time?” he asked her, anger surfacing under his cover of self-control
and rational arguing.
“We…what do we do in here? Back in a court…with all the conspiracies…in the
Second Sons, we could have stayed hidden, away from the front line; we could
have tried to keep trouble away, but here…they even slaughtered those
cupbearers…”
Tyrion knew he had to storm out of the room before he lost control, and so he
left in a hurry, slamming Penny’s door and calling for some more wine to be
brought to Ser Jorah’s room.
--
“Mormont!” said Tyrion with an authoritative tone while opening the door to the
knight’s chamber, entering the room and shutting the door immediately after a
nod to the Unsullied guards. 
The young Lannister barely had the time to notice that Mormont had jumped up
from his previous position with a dagger in his hand.
“Ser Bear, is this your usual way of welcoming people? I have misjudged you,
then. I thought meeting slavers with a blade in your hand was a sign of your
bravery.”
“Imp, I advise youto pay more attention to your ways than to mine, if you are
in the mood for judging. Barging into a room unannounced is not what I would
call a clever move, especially considering the circumstancesof our access to
the Queen’s pyramid,” and with this he lowered his dagger.  His face revealed
his irritation and his trembling hand suggested adrenaline was pumping fiercely
through his veins. 
Jorah was right, of course. Probably drinking before talking to the knight had
not been a good idea. Tyrion sat down beside the small table that adorned
Jorah’s room, looking at the very annoyed warrior with a mixture of amusement
and wariness.
“I don’t know if you want to keep your dagger ready or not…anyway, the door
will open again soon: I asked for some wine.” For some more wine, he corrected
himself in his thoughts. “We have many difficult matters to discuss, and I want
to begin with the most pressing one.”
“Is the wine really necessary?” asked Jorah, smelling the sweet-sour aroma
coming from Tyrion’s mouth.
“Are you afraid you cannot stomach it, Ser Bear?”
“I believe you have had enough wine before you arrived and I will have more
trouble soon if I let you get completely inebriated in my room. Not to mention
the trouble we are all going to have if you drain the Queen’s supply of wine
dry in just a few days.”
“You know, it is so funny that of all the men youshould lecture me about not
getting drunk. I don’t recall you being exactly a septon in that field, or
whatever it is you have instead of a septon in the North…”
“There is a great difference between using wine a few times in order to dull
pain, and continuing doing so while having, as you described it, a great
opportunity and an  important role to play’.”
To that, Tyrion had incredibly nothing to object. On the contrary, he was glad
to hear Jorah was particularly willing to play a role in… whatever was coming.
He settled for starting one of the most important conversations he had to hold
in the following days, all the while waiting for the wine.
Tyrion took a look at the battered knight. He had lost weight, and although
still muscular, broad-shouldered and definitely strong, he simply looked
different. The swelling in his face was completely gone now, but the demon mask
still remained. His eyes were no longer haunted but gleamed with the confidence
of a warrior since Jorah had come back to life thanks to the Second Sons.  But
now he noticed something he had not seen before, a deep sadness.   He thought
perhaps Jorah was wondering where the woman he loved had gone.  The lucky
bastard at least did not have to ask himself where whores go, but rather where
do queens go. Or dragons.
Lying in a room without battles or plans to put into actions let thoughts
linger in their wounded souls that should not have been lingering. He did not
want them to drown in sadness.
The knight impressed Tyrion, after all. Mormont never looked like somebody who
he had to kill in order to pursue his scheme of revenge. To be honest, he had
thought of getting rid of him at times, although not so drastically as having
someone kill him, but he convinced himself that Mormont’s personal situation
with the Queen would have taken care of itself. Seven hells, the “situation”
with the Queen was exactly why he had once thought how he wanted the man far
away from Daenerys’s court, in case they all survived the war. He did not trust
a man who had literally on three occasions thrown his life away for the women
he loved. He wanted war machines and cunning politicians at his side in order
to turn the Sacker of Astapor into the unstoppable weapon he would use for
storming King’s Landing and getting his revenge on Cersei, thus securing him
Casterly Rock.
Even though it had come to his attention that Jorah was a warrior, and a true
survivor, this had slowly changed his mind and he accepted the idea of finding
him a place in his glorious revenge plot. This dragon-riding stunt was a
complete game-changer, though.
Besides, he was finally starting to put pieces together: first, rumours of
Daenerys exiling faithful servants spreading through Essos – and rumours always
had some truth behind them. Secondly, he had conversations with several
commanders and advisors – including Jorah. All this made him speculate that
Mormont could have been a little more than a lovelorn knight following Florian
the Fool’s steps, more precisely a former advisor with his own value instead. 
There was only one way to find out. Investigating.
Tyrion had to take action, and since he was talking to the dragonrider, he
began summoning the line for his inquiry.  “Sometimes I suspect you cannot be
the idiot that was caught by his liege-lord selling to slavers in order to find
the money necessary to please a spoiled girl. You cannot be the hopeless fool
who tried to sell me to please Queen Daenerys. You make me wonder if you are,
instead, something more sophisticated you cover up with your reputation as
honourless exile, given your acquaintance with our common friend Varys. This is
one of those times. Suddenly you turn into Aegon the Conqueror? I think you had
better come clean. You know we are a good team, after all. And we are on the
same side, now more than ever.”
Jorah did not know what to think about his companion. Tyrion had proved an
ally, indeed, but he still knew that the Imp was only looking for a means to
his end: he had always been very honest about that. Jorah still preferred to
trust Tyrion only in part. Daenerys told him once she thought that he
distrusted everybody because he was jealous, but that was not true. He
distrusted everybody because in the North trust was something one had to earn.
He felt that Tyrion had deserved at least some of his trust so far, but he
could not ignore the fact that Tywin’s son could outsmart a former minor lord
like him quite quickly, and that was reason enough to remain cautious around
this man. 
“Would that I had something great to reveal to you, Lannister!”
“You know, you could begin by telling me what exactly happened, Mormont.”
“It is not like you do not know already. Rhaegal landed not far from where I 
stood.  He did not burn me and let me climb on him and ride him. When I
commanded him to burn our enemies’ ships and tents for his mother’s victory he
did just that.  Then he brought me back to you.” Not exactly an exhaustive
retelling of his accomplishment, but Jorah thought better to keep some details
to himself. Who knew where this conversation was leading?
“So, suddenly, a beast that was according to all reports out of control becomes
a war horse for a Northern knight with no Valyrian blood and even breathes fire
on his command? You are hiding something from me. You could reveal it. You know
that Rhaegal is now yours. That is quite an advantage you have on me – you
know, along with being the big and strong Northern brute you have always been.”
“I assure you, I was as surprised as you are. I only knew that the dragons have
known me since their birth.  I was, after all, the first man they saw when they
were born…”
“So, you are withdrawing some information from me. Tell me more about this
hatching. It is evident that you know more about this than every other man here
at court. And even more than Illyrio claims to know.”
Jorah felt a sudden pang in his chest. The dragons’ rebirth was, indeed, a
story he should have been telling the whole world, something very few had
witnessed, but there was so much pain in the complete history of the eggs’
hatching. There was also pain in remembering a time when he was Daenerys’s
advisor, first of her Queensguard, friend, and blood of her blood. The time
when she had not been scared off by his clumsy but passionate and yet
respectful proposal, when she did not feel threatened by him only because he
had once declared his love and his intentions.  It was a time when she did not
know that he had come into her service in the beginning in order to spy on her
and her brother in exchange for a pardon which enabled him to return to his
home a free man. 
The pain must have shown on his face because Tyrion continued with the usual
amount of more or less affectionate mocking - a mocking directed in fact not
only at Jorah  but also towards a part of the dwarf himself. 
“You should have learnt by now that people lose, suffer and die, unlike your
favourite fairy tales I imagine you still read when you are not killing, or
eating, or drinking. I want you to be very detailed about what happened, no
matter what these details do to your tender soul. I hope you realize that after
centuries we have two people riding a dragon again, you and Daenerys. And there
is a third person we might still find out about. Besides, it is not as if you
brought Rhaegal to his pit to sleep after the battle, so you still have some
things to learn. The same goes for Daenerys, as we do not know for sure what
she has done with Drogon, or if she has not come back because she does not want
to, or if the dragon does not want to return. And no one seems to know what to
do with Viserion.”
Jorah braced himself, drew a long breath and began his tale, hoping to be able
to come out of this difficult conversation alive.
“Daenerys was sold as a bride to Khal Drogo. A khal is the equivalent of a king
for the Dothraki. There are of course many differences, but these are not so
important now…anyway, the day of her wedding, she received the three petrified
dragon eggs from Illyrio as a present, along with other valuable items. You
know how rich and opulent a man he is… and his present seemed to stress the
fact that he could do almost everything. Even giving away such a treasure to a
poor frightened child, married off to a warlord who after the wedding would
resume plundering and ravaging far away from what we call civilization.
The eggs were incredibly beautiful to behold. Among all the gifts she received,
she grew particularly fond of …of the filly she rode, of the books…and of these
eggs…”
“The books?” interrupted Tyrion.
“Histories and songs from the Seven Kingdoms,” answered Jorah, betraying
emotion that Tyrion could neither reliably interpret nor relate to.
“Daenerys was little more than a scared child then, and her first days in the
khalasar were difficult for her. I remember seeing pain and fear constantly on
her face. I felt so sorry for her, and I offered her my companionship, which
she somehow accepted and appreciated. Being her…friend, I became aware that
Daenerys was drawn to the eggs. Yes, they were beautiful and precious, but she
seemed to see something else in them. They captivated her. One day, her brother
even planned to steal her eggs. You know, to finally buy himself an army and
ships and go to Westeros…”
Tyrion rose an eyebrow and interrupted him. “I guess that did not end well.”
“No, it didn’t. I stopped him.”
“Oh. Is that why the only Targaryen we have is Daenerys? And maybe Aegon, but
that's a more difficult task, knowing if he truly is Rhaegar's son, I
mean...well, is it all your fault then – or merit?"
“No. I would say he did it all by himself, but since you’ve asked for explicit
details, it was Daenerys’s husband who did it. Viserys threatened her and their
baby, and he got crowned by Drogo, with molten gold from his medallion belt.”
“The Mad King would have been proud of his good-son.”
“It wasn’t a beautiful sight to behold, so I hope you will understand if I
don’t join you in mirth.”
Tyrion simply nodded. He had received a few accounts about the way Aerys had
murdered Brandon and Rickard Stark, and he wasn’t sure about what bothered him
more: whether the gruesome image they evoked in his head, or the hateful
feeling that rose in him at the memory of the one man who had told him all the
details.
“I seem to recall you saying something of the sort. Now I understand.”
“Anyway…when Khal Drogo died …”
“Mormont, it seems like you are skipping a few chapters. Embarrassed of your
performance as the Spider’s puppet?”
These words hurt Jorah deeply, and his feelings clearly showed on his face.
Tyrion decided to let it go, at least for now.
“He got wounded during an attack to a Lhazarene village, you see. Daenerys was
worried because he seemed to neglect the wound, and she asked a sort of
priestess, or sorceress, her khalasar had taken prisoner to help. He
disregarded her instructions, though, and the wound festered. Daenerys resorted
to asking the sorceress to do some magic, blood magic. The Dothraki outright
hate magic, and I wasn’t fond of this option either. But she let her do it
anyway.”
Tyrion listened in silence. He liked dragons, and the magic that was related to
them. Blood magic was a different thing entirely.
Jorah continued. “The sorceress slaughtered Drogo’s horse for her magic with
Daenerys’  consent, and therefore all the khalasar, already shattered by
Drogo’s slowly decaying health, turned against her. One of her husband’s
bloodriders wanted to kill both her and the sorceress, but I stopped him. I was
lucky I was wearing my armour, or I would not be here,”   As Jorah completed
his sentence, the pain in his ear and in his hip seemed to come alive again.
Probably all the memories and my emotions getting the best of me,he thought…
…but then he touched the scars on his body and grimaced in pain.  His vision
blurred, and he heard a voice from afar: “Iron Lord…Silver Lady…the grave casts
long shadows…” Jorah, feeling the pain in his body and in his soul, fell to his
knees in front of a very worried Tyrion.  Clutching the scar on his hip and his
half-missing ear, he let out a scream of pain.
Jorah could not see Tyrion, instead, he saw the shadows dancing in the tent
again. “I did it to save her, to serve her!” he screamed, answering the voice
chastising the Iron Lord and the Silver Ladyfor entering that tent and ignoring
the consequences.
“What? What did you do?” somehow Tyrion’s voice reached Jorah.
The knight tried to ignore everything he was seeing, feeling, and hearing from
afar.  He  fought to get back to their conversation, gritting his teeth from
the pain and the effort: “I…I was wounded, but I killed the bloodrider.
Daenerys, unfortunately, went into labour while I was fighting…or immediately
after I killed my opponent, I am not…I am not sure.” Jorah regained his vision,
but the pain still lingered. He stood and very slowly sat again. “I picked her
up. I had to save her. I was frightened she would die there in front of me
giving birth to her son. The birthing women already had run away, so the only
woman who would help her was the sorceress.” Jorah’s voice broke. “She was…in
Drogo’s tent, doing some…ritual, I know. There were shadows dancing with her,
and terrible screams…but I had to try to save Daenerys and her child.” And with
that he covered his face with both hands, sobbing desperately, allowing the
tears to flow, which had been threatening to erupt inside him for years.  Years
of pent up emotion, years of trying to do everything he could for the people he
loved, and years of failing miserably at it. These failures culminated with him
bringing Daenerys to a sorceress who probably killed her child in some dark
ritual.
Tyrion was mesmerized by Jorah’s tale.  He had to know the end of the story. 
“What happened then?”
“I brought her into that tent. The sorceress…later told me those…those were
shadows of the grave, whatever that meant.” Reliving the pain and hearing those
words again had not made Jorah the wiser about that dark warning. “The
child…the child never lived,” a sob caught in his throat.  “He was…like a
corpse full of worms, and not a child’s corpse. He…apparently had wings, scales
and a tail like those of…dragons, dragons indeed.”
Tyrion’s eyes widened again, his amazement at all these shocking revelations
surpassed  any feeling of sympathy for the knight’s pain.  His curiosity grew
and he yearned to know even more in spite of the dreadful things he was
hearing. 
“Was it this witch then? Did she make the eggs hatch?”
“No. She had…done something to Drogo instead. He wasn’t dying anymore, but he
wasn’t living either. He was just…there, breathing, but not reacting to
anything. Daenerys…soon became angry that she had sacrificed her son in
exchange for a mockery of life for her husband. She decided then to put an end
to Drogo’s misery herself, and then to avenge him.”
Even more intriguing, thought Tyrion, thanking all the time spent on books of
every sort.
“We built a pyre for Drogo and his horse, with all of his treasures to
accompany him. I was… frightened. it was difficult to read Daenerys’s mind, and
I was afraid she was planning on killing herself out of pain for a lost love.
But she denied she had any intention of ending her life. By then, I swore for
the first time my sword and my heart to her as a Queen. She asked oaths from
all of her khas, to make them her bloodriders by giving them the weapons she
received as a ceremonial bride gift, but they refused. You see, a Dothraki is
not used to a khaleesi instead of a khal, and simply do not accept female
lordship. She then asked for my oath, in addition to my previous spontaneous
vows, and offered me a  sword of Valyrian steel in the future instead of the
Dothraki bride gifts. I vowed to serve her, obey her, die for her if need be,
as every knight would. But the ceremony was the same as she held for her
bloodriders… so in a way I am her Queensguard – she named me ‘First of her
Queensguard’ – and her bloodrider as well.
When everything was ready for the pyre, she put her dragon eggs on the pyre as
well. I told her not to do that, to reason with her that the eggs were precious
objects and could be sold for enough money that she would never have to worry
again about her living…but she would not listen.  She then made me bind the
sorceress to the pyre, once again not heeding my counsel against such a
decision.”
“You are a brave man, trying to talk a Targaryen out of burning people,” said
Tyrion with a grin.
Reeling from the emotional and physical pain Jorah did not appreciate Tyrion’s
attempt at humor, and a glare was his answer.
“Nevertheless, not only did Daenerys burn the maegi, the sorceress, on the pyre
along with the eggs, Drogo’s body and his treasure, but she stepped into the
fire herself. I must have cursed every single god known by name that night. No
matter how hard I cursed or angryily I screamed her name…” Jorah paused,
lifting his finger in a warning gesture.            “I forbid you to make any
joke of my screaming her name!” He then began to divulge the rest of the
story.  “I had resigned to crying on her ashes the following day, and as soon
as the fire died out and I was able to get nearer to the rests, I went to see
for myself. I wanted to…I wanted to have closure, no matter how much it would
hurt: at least I would not have to torment myself with questions and doubts for
years to come. I wanted to weep over whatever I would find of her.  I would
shed every single tear I had within me, and then leave it all in the past. But
it was then I found her…” Jorah stopped, his eyes looking in awe at something
that was not in the room in Meereen.
“This is the one detail you cannot leave out, Jorah.”
“She was alive…naked, covered in ashes, without hair…but alive…and not just
her: she had the cream-and-gold dragon sucking at her left breast, the green-
and-bronze at the right, the black-and-scarlet draped across her shoulders. The
latter was the first who noticed me, and looked up at me. I fell to my knees,
as did all of the Dothraki who remained.  We truly became her khalasar at that
moment.  Then, the dragons sang, the clumsy sound of baby dragons trying to
make the world aware that they are alive.”
Tyrion was truly amazed.  Lost in thought he swirled his wine for a moment
before drinking the strong vintage. 
Jorah Mormont had been the first person to witness the reappearance of dragons.
He had been the first to swear his sword to the Mother of Dragons. The matter
with his heart might have been even worse than he thought, for what he could
gather from the tale and from Jorah’s reaction.
Daenerys and Jorah had indeed gone through some absurd ritual. In the past,
Tyrion Lannister would have laughed at such tales, but the dragons were proof
enough that magic existed, and therefore he had to believe something
extraordinary had happened, first in that Dothraki tent, then on that pyre.
The big challenge for him was trying to learn more about that ritual while
cutting himself a role in Daenerys’s court, a former Ghiscari court taken over
by a young queen of Westerosi origin with Dothraki, former slaves and
sellswords as an army.
Would that strange red priest – Moqorro, or what was his name – be of any use?
Or was he Victarion’s puppet? Would he find sorcerers? Libraries? Would he
drown in political intrigue?
He still had a few questions to ask Jorah.
“Have you ever touched the eggs, or done something with them?”
“No.”
“And…what about the battle? How did you come to the idea of…riding Rhaegal?”
Should he tell him?
“To be honest, it was not exactly an idea. I…I simply felt I could ride him. I
felt I had to ride him.”
“You…felt it? It has been accepted by most historians that not only the
Targaryens or pure Valyrian bloodlines could produce dragonriders, but still it
was implied there was much more than…instinct behind their riding skills!”
“You know much about dragon riding?”
“Yes, Mormont, I would say I know much, much more than you. I suppose…the whole
tale you just told me suggests you developed a deep connection to the dragons
and to Daenerys. You were also exposed to some obscure magic, although for now
I only have your tale, and other testimonies could differ and make for a
different interpretation of what happened. I would love to talk to the Queen
soon. But…well, that could be accomplished as soon as I make you a saddle and
as soon as we have improved your dragon riding skills…”
“You want to do…what?”
“Do not argue with me, Jorah Mormont. You will do as I say. I am the mind, and
you are the sword and the muscle. If you think about it, this is the only way
we have out of all the difficulties we had. Be fair and admit it.”
“I used to be one of Daenerys’s advisors as well, not just her sword.”
“I am not saying I don’t want you to advise her. I am just saying you…you
sometimes need more broad-vision strategic thinking. This is one of those
cases. You were already dreaming of flying to Daenerys in the very next few
days, just like that, as soon as you felt better, weren’t you?”
“I had come to the conclusion that we first had to secure Daenerys’s position
here.”
“But you hadn’t thought about dragon riding, saddles…is it true you got your
ass burned, by the way?”
Oh, splendid. “Yes. Exchanged a few words with some handmaiden, have you?” he
admitted while clenching his jaw.
“As you see, you only have to gain from listening to me. Besides, my dear
knight, you must be curious about the roots of your dragon riding. I must be
honest, I thought you had at least muttered some…words to him. Since it looks
like we are in a sort of a fairy tale, well…some words of enchantment.”
“Well, I did tell him we had to fight for Daenerys. I wanted us to serve her
and fight for her…with him.”
“So you did say something! Although I expected something more…mysterious. Like
Valyrian steel. But you renewed your…devotion to his mother, so to speak.”
“Yes, that is probably how I would describe my words.”
“You were also…the first man to see the dragons, and the first man they saw,
and the first to bow to them and their mother, is this correct? Is it truly
like you told me?”
“Aye. There is no way I would forget that moment, not a single detail of what
transpired.”
Refraining from the irresistible need to mock him about the reason he would
never forget, namely Daenerys’s nakedness, he continued his analysis. “I
suppose this is enough to suggest you somehow bonded with them, and your
renewed devotion made the rest. Nevertheless, there must be more. Something
that…witch did, for example.”
“You are right.”
Tyrion thought, and drank, and thought, and drank. Red wine.
Red like blood
Fire and blood. The Targaryen motto.
Fire…and blood.
Blood magic. His more practical and almost light discussion with the knight
about saddles had distracted him from his focus and from much, much more.
“You said… the witch did some blood magic? Are you sure that is what she said
she would do?”
“Aye. As sure as I am of my own name. That is another thing I will never
forget.”
Blood magic, Jorah said. He also said something else…not just said, actually,
but…he had fallen from his chair, seemingly in a painful trance.
“You also said something about fighting in armour and being wounded. And
something…eerie must have happened to you. You were not there with me for a
while when telling me that.”
“I fought one of Drogo’s bloodrider, I told you. He wanted to kill the
sorceress and Daenerys. The Dothraki hate magic. But please…don’t…make me
retell it…” and Jorah felt something again. The pain, the voice. He visibly
contracted again.
“Jorah…stay with me! What happened to you then? And why did you fall from your
chair before? Do not surrender to anything. I am here with you. I am here to
understand and learn.”
Jorah tried to focus on the fight with the bloodrider alone but it  was
difficult, considering that the maegi had already begun her ritual by then.
Besides, the pain and the echo had returned.  “I…he was very quick…he…he cut
half my ear off…and then he caught a hole in my mail, and sliced through my
hip.” The voice from afar spoke once again saying the Iron Lord shed
blood. This time the pain from the scar tissue kept him focused and able to
recount to Tyrion the events of that day.   “The bloodrider’s arakh cut into my
hip bone and it became wedged giving me the opportunity to kill him with a
single stroke.
Fire and blood, thought Tyrion again. Whose blood, though? So much blood in
this tale. It is no easy task to understand it.
Jorah breathed deeply and was able to stop the voice in his head and dull the
pain. As soon as his head cleared again he continued. “You know, as stupid as
it might sound, dragons are animals.”
“It does not sound stupid. It is a stupid thing to say. Of course they are
animals.”
“No, you don’t understand. In the North there are tales about wargs, people
able to control animals by possessing them. Many of us discard those tales
as…well, old wives’ tales, but who knows…I was a sceptic myself, before that
pyre. Now, I would believe them. You probably are not very familiar with the
concept of warging, as it is something usually connected to our roots in the
First Men culture and society, but maybe these powers truly exist in humankind
and the Valyrians discovered them as well.”
Tyrion recalled yet another memory: that of a young boy on his way to the Wall,
with a direwolf always at his side…and of an argument about, well, the validity
of some beliefs in the North.
“Mormont, you amaze me. Now that I think of it… Ned Stark’s bastard, that Jon
Snow…and the Stark children…they had direwolves following them like shadows. I
thought they must have trained them well, but…no, there is more to it.
Jorah…have you ever warged…a bear?”
“What are you talking about? What are you suggesting? Direwolves south of the
Wall?”
“Yes, I am sure of it. One of Ned Stark’s sons even told me how they found the
pups in the woods, their mother dead. Direwolves, not wolves.”
“Well, after all…if we have dragons, the Starks canhave direwolves. But…have
you seen then warging them? I don’t believe it.”
“No, I don’t think they warged their direwolves yet, but I think there was a
bond between the children and their animals that went far beyond that of a
human and its trusted animal. And you are ignoring one question I asked you.”

“I never warged anything. I assure you I rode Rhaegal and did not warg him. I
would not have ridden him, and I would not recall all the things we
accomplished during the battle.”
“So, what should warging look like, since you Northerners seem like experts?”
“It is like possessing the animal, entering it, enslaving its mind and
controlling its body, all the while knowing you are not the animal and you have
your own body to come back to. And it is not an easy task.  It cannot be
accomplished by just anyone or on their first attempt.”
“What do your tales say about this power?”
“That it can be dangerous, on many levels. That it is very rare, and comes from
the First Men bonding with the Children of the Forest. The Wildlings would have
more things to tell you. We questioned many of their raiders we caught back on
Bear Island. They know about many things…and now I regret not believing in what
they told us.” A flash…a memory of a dream he had while in his cage as a slave
suddenly emerged. Tyrion was not the only one reminiscing things.
“Are the Wildlings descendants of the First Men too?”
“Aye, they are. Some of them even still speak the Old Tongue fluently. We on
Bear Island still have some grasp of it…but some of them really only
communicate in that language.”
The North, Jon Snow, bears and Mormont.
Another memory suddenly came to Tyrion’s mind:  “Your father! Your father
talked about…seeing things in his dreams and hearing weird reports from beyond
the Wall! And I did not believe him!”
“You…met my father? When? Where?”
Tyrion drew his eyebrows together and tried to estimate when it had been.  He
said, “You know…it must have been almost exactly two years ago, if memory does
not fail me. It was at Castle Black, of course.  He was speaking of dark things
moving in the woods beyond the realms, of dark dreams, and of sightings of,
well, White Walkers.  He begged me to tell the king to send more men to the
Wall, and later we received other requests for more help and support. I am
sorry my last words to your father before leaving were not exactly, well,
supportive, nor were my actions when I returned to King’s Landing.”
Neither the dwarf nor the knight comprehended the irony of Tyrion’s last
statement and his foreshadowing choice of words.   Two different details in the
tale caught Jorah’s attention. “Dreams? And White Walkers? Did he really speak
about those things?”
Could his father have had the same dreams he had while in his cage as a slave?
What was happening? Dreams, the Others, blood magic, and dragon magic.
Tyrion scrutinized  Jorah’s face, sensing there was something more, as if all
these layers of the bizarre and magic were not enough already. “Yes, and he
seemed quite convinced of what he was saying. What, you think your father was
going mad?”
“If you had asked me two years ago, I would have definitely said yes, he is
going insane.  A few months ago, I would have had my doubts. Now, I am ready to
believe all of his words.”
Ah-ha. Jorah has let something slip.“Which means you have been hiding something
from me, although I asked you to tell me everything, and I even explained to
you why I must know everything.”
“I have seen things, felt things, and dreamt things as well. Do you think Iam
going mad? The same thing should go for you: strange things have been
happening, some of them even under your own eyes. You should believe more than
you have in the past.”
“What have you seen, and how, Jorah Mormont?”
I do not have to share all the details of my dreams with him.  Some of the
elements in my dreams are private and will remain so. “A few times I dreamt of
dark things and of the Others as well. I thought I was just hallucinating after
I was so badly beaten in the cage. Now I see things differently. And so do you,
after all.”
Tyrion did not sense Jorah’s wariness. “This is huge, Jorah. You will tell me
every single dream you have from now on. Every piece of information could be
the one we need.”
“We could try to contact my father and ask him to tell us more about his
dreams. I know he might not exactly be happy to hear from me, considering the…
circumstances in which I left Bear Island, but if the Others are marching on
the realm again, as we both saw in our dreams, fighting them back will be the
only thing that matters. I confide in your superior rhetoric skills, Tyrion.
Something is happening. We’d better learn what.”
Suddenly, Tyrion felt immensely grateful for Jorah, and felt incredibly lucky
to have met him, which was probably one of the most ironic things in the world,
considering how their acquaintance had come about and what they experienced
together.
“You know, Jorah…I have read so many books, but I feel like I learned so much
today. The trouble is, we need even more books, and more knowledge, as you
admit yourself. And we also need more sorcerers, or witches, or whatever we can
find here in Essos. We need to work on three fronts: one is your dragon riding
skills, two is understanding dragons in general and the powers of people like
you, Daenerys, maybe the Starks and your father, all these wargs and Valyrian
descendants. The third is some solid political leverage in the Queen’s court
and her army. You and I will manage it. Trust me.”
“I do not grant my trust easily. But I have no other choice than to trust you
in this.”
“The same goes with me, my dear Jorah. But I promise none of us will regret
working together on these tasks. Now, while my brilliant mind will try to find
out where exactly your powers come from and how we could enhance them, we will
have to sort out how many ‘Harpies’ we really have in Meereen, and open Ser
Barristan’s eyes on the situation.”
“Done.”
“Done.”
--
Serving is a hard calling, and everybody in the Great Pyramid of Meereen that
night went to bed very aware of that.
Chapter End Notes
     One again many thanks to my proofreader favor757!
     We tried to explain many things also to non-readers, therefore a few
     parts might sound unnecessary to readers. I hope that did not bother
     you!
***** ...but rises again, harder and stronger *****
Chapter Summary
     After the raven Stannis and Alysane received (see chap. 3), let us
     move to the Wall. A few important matters pop up…like resurrection,
     friendship, revenge, some heirloom issues, magic and politics in
     Westeros. Still a very political chapter, though.
     This chapter parallels thematically chap. 4 somehow, although they
     are set on different continents.
Chapter Notes
     I had no external proofreader or beta-reader for this one, because I
     have been postponing this chapter for too long. If there is anything
     to correct/improve, feel free to use the comment section!
     Remember: book-verse + show!Hardhome AU! In short: after Val comes
     back with Tormund & Co., Jon organises the expedition to Hardhome,
     then comes back and Jon 69 in ADWD happens, more or less, with all
     due adaptions to this particular storyline. I liked “Hardhome” in the
     show, and I think we need to focus on the War for the Dawn more;
     therefore, I chose to go this way with my fiction.
“Lord Commander…”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Lord Snow…”An annoyed stare was the unspoken answer to this one.
“Jon.” This time Edd had found the right way to address him, so he continued.
“There is the delegation from Stannis here at the gates. They are flying King
Stannis’s banners as well as the Stark and the Mormont ones.”
Mormonts, thought Jon. He had no idea who of the family had come, and likewise
he had no idea if that specific meeting would be something to dread or
something to rejoice for. It made sense for one of the Mormont women to escort
Arya. He was to discover who, exactly, had survived the war so far, and how did
little Lyanna end up on the island alone acting as a regent. “How many people?”
“Just six.”
“Well, all the better, I suppose. My new room is not exactly ideal for
entertaining a great number of envoys.”
“You could always use your old room. I mean, I wouldn’t mind. Exchanging rooms,
of course. I don’t mean to stay in there: although one of the ladies seems like
a very interesting companion, somehow I fear it is not going to be a
particularly merry conversation…”
“NO. I should not even start to explain all the reasons why it would be wrong.
The Night’s Watch has suffered enough.”
The Night’s Watch, to be honest, was a walking corpse, at least if compared to
what it used to be. But one might say that he himself, Jon Snow, was a walking
corpse, if seen from a certain perspective.
He had been brought back. Could he bring back the Night’s Watch? Does that what
comes back stay the same as it was?
Jon stopped his thoughts: it was no use to drown in them again. He prepared to
receive his guests instead. He put some more wood into the fire, as he was
often doing during those days. He also thought of Arya…it was difficult to pull
out memories at first, but after a while, and after Melisandre had reminded him
to “stay away from the cold, and seek the warmth”, his beloved little sister
and her sword had come to his mind.
Edd watched Jon losing himself in his thoughts for a while. He waited a few
instants, swallowing down an impressive number of remarks he felt he should not
have said aloud, mostly concerning Jon’s comeback from the dead that, in Lord
Commander Tollett’s opinion, had not worked completely, judging by his mood.
When he was sure Jon would not react anymore or add anything, and as soon as he
was sure he would not be able to stay silent anymore, he moved and commented:
“I’ll go get’em. But I’ll make my duty as a Lord Commander of this place to
inform them of the dangers of this meeting. Even the Lord Commander of the
Others would make a better company…more cheerful for sure…”
--
A knock on the door signalled it was time to see his little sister and one of
the Mormonts again.
Ser Justin and Tycho Nestoris lead the small group. Since news of what had
happened had reached Stannis’s camp before they left, their whole behaviour
showed a certain reverence, maybe even a little dread, and surely some wide-
eyed curiosity.
“Lord Snow”
 “Lord Tycho, Ser Justin. A pleasure to meet you again. I apologise for
the…precarious and inadequate…situation in which I am receiving you. Things
have been…well, evolving, and are still evolving. I hope you will understand.”
It was no simple task to tell them what had happened. It was no simple thing
for them to hear about it too, so both parts decided to postpone any discussion
of Jon’s return to an indefinite future.
After them, two very different shapes appeared. One was of a hooded lady, with
half her nose off and big brown eyes full of fear. Brown eyes. Brown. Not grey.
The other one was a tall blue-eyed lady enveloped in furs and carrying, as far
as one could see, a sword. The latter looked at him and examined him intently
while removing her fur, her broadened eyes showing the warrior woman was as
surprised by him as the others. A surcoat of green wool appeared, the black
bear of House Mormont on it, a bastard sword and a dagger hanging from her
sides. When the fur was finally on her arm, the Mormont lady broke the silence:
“Jon! It has been a long time!”
“Jorelle” and for the first time in days he smiled, although it was more like a
shadow of a smile.
Lady Maege’s fourth daughter stepped forward and asked while looking at him
with suspicion “Is it really you, then? In there? No strange demon? An Other
who possessed you?”
Everybody would have expected Jon to run towards whom everybody believed was
his sister. Instead, he moved towards Jorelle Mormont, and the two of them
exchanged a warm, tight hug. The two young warriors, former playmates, felt an
incredible warmth while in their embrace that had nothing to do with their
bodies’ warmth. It was the feeling of enjoyment for a moment of peace and
friendship after years of war, hardships, and losses.
Even Ghost got on its paws and went towards the ladies, sniffing them but
keeping a very amiable attitude.
“It is good to see somebody from my old life” and Jon himself did not know if
he meant before joining the Night’s Watch or before dying and being brought
back. “You can scratch him behind his ears, if you want. He feels you are
friends of mine, it seems,” he said talking about his direwolf, who was
nuzzling at Jon’s hands.
Jorelle let Ghost sniff and lick her hand. Then she cautiously scratched him
behind his big ears. “A direwolf for you as well, like for Robb, I see.”
“Yes, we found them all together. Their mother had died, and there was a pup
for each one of the Stark siblings…and even one for the bastard one.”
“It sounds like you have many a tale to tell. It must have been…three or four
years we haven’t seen each other.” Jorelle continued her cautious scratching,
and Ghost showed its appreciation by leaning into her hand and even into her
legs with its big body. Jon felt reassured now that his direwolf showed trust
and friendliness towards the young lady, and in the presence of strangers. His
trust towards humans had decreased a lot, for obviousreasons.
The brown-eyed girl remained wary of the animal and kept her distance. He knew
then he had to talk with the ladies alone, and soon. Brown eyes. Even Jorelle
should know it.But there must have been something important going on, or
Jorelle would not have agreed to escorting somebody usurping Arya’s name and
position.
He excused himself and, after a few formalities and showing his concern for the
men’s appropriate accommodation, asked to be left alone with Jorelle and
“Arya”, a request that the men understood completely and honoured without any
sign of being offended or of suspicion.
As soon as the door was closed again and the footsteps sounded far enough, Jon
mustered his courage to start questioning the ladies. He did not have the time
to form a sound though, because the brown-eyed lady was first: “Jon, I am so
sorry I had to use her name. But…he…I…I had to flee that place, and then I had
to stay safe. You will forgive me, will you?”
“Who are you?”
“It’s me, Jeyne. Jeyne Poole. Sansa’s friend. Don’t you remember me?”
Jorelle jumped in - metaphorically and physically, putting herself in front of
Jeyne - before he could react, and laid out her hands in an apologetic gesture:
“Please, Jon, don’t get mad at her. You have no idea what she had to endure.
She told me. Everything. It was very hard to listen. All because she was
daughter to a Starks’ man”.
Jon could read the fear on Jeyne’s face. He could also see the lacking nose.
“Frostbite?”
Jeyne nodded. He hated himself for not being able to say or do anything
meaningful. He probably should have said or done something, but it was all so
difficult for him since he was brought back. “Seek the warmth,” Lady
Melisandre’s words resounded in his head. If she were Arya instead of Jeyne, he
would not need to seek the warmth. It had not been difficult with Jory, after
all.
“What will we do, Jon? I suppose the truth will have to come out someday. I
guess the Northerners suspect, at least those who remember little Arya.”
“Yes, one day. Right now, I deem it better to continue the masquerade. You know
what kind of folk is manning Castle Black, aside from the Queen’s men. As for
the Wildlings, they respect me, they fear me, maybe they even worship me, but
they seldom kneel to somebody, and I sent their king to rescue exactly her. The
Queen…she is another difficult matter, but she must know soon, and so must
Stannis. Let us keep the lie going on for a little while among the others,
until we figure out what to do.”
“Jon, there is another matter, which tells me you will have to figure out
things very soon. Well, to be honest, a few things have already been figured
out for you. And if I understand correctly, your…your…situationhas simplified
this specific…matter further.”
“What do you mean?”
“How much do you know about…everything that happened at war?”
“I remember…I remember enough to know that this must be dire news you are
bringing me.”
“Not really…quite the contrary, to be honest, at least if we can forget for a
moment the reason why there is news for you in the first place. Well…I will cut
to the core of the matter. Robb knew we were at war…and what it means…I don’t
know if he suspected, though…and he proved to be longsighted in this anyway.
He…” - and Jorelle inspired and expired deeply – “…he legitimized you and made
you his heir, in case he died without siring one on his wife. And he did not
sire one.”
That was definitely another meaning of a new life. Jon’s neck snapped for the
surprise.
“Robb’s heir…”
“Heir to the King in the North. Jon Stark, I kneel to you” and with that
Jorelle kneeled for real. Then looked up at him and said, “I might even ask to
follow onto my sister’s steps and be in your Kingsguard”, finally standing
again after finishing her sentence.
“Which sister? And…what happened to her?”
“Dacey. She was with Robb till the end” and the sudden sadness that passed on
her previously merry face said all Jon needed to know, in case he had not
caught the meaning of her words.
Jon remembered his courtesies: “Please, ladies, sit down. I only have this
small table, but there are enough chairs for everybody. There is also some
mulled wine. Very hot, be careful.” He suddenly remembered pouring wine for
Jorelle’s uncle, in a room that was no more, in his previous life: a mental
image that surfaced for a few instants, just to disappear again, but the memory
of the gesture itself lingered in his mind. “You Mormonts have already had many
casualties, almost as the Starks. How…how did this…Robb’s will…”
Jorelle knew she had to help him. He was probably drowning in a stormy sea of
emotions: the legitimisation, which made him finally a Stark and even a Lord,
was also a reminder of grief. This had come to happen because Robb was dead.
They would never play all together with wooden swords, or with stolen swords
and maces anymore, at harvest fairs, or in Winterfell - she, Lyra, Jon and
Robb, almost all of an age. “Before his uncle Edmure married the Frey girl,
Robb gathered my mom, Galbart Glover, Jason Mallister, Edmure Tully himself and
Lady Catelyn, and made them witness his choice of successor. Then he sent my
mom and Galbart to Lord Howland Reed for another mission. We met mom there a
while after, as soon as we were able to wipe the Ironborn away from Deepwood
Motte – we left behind Lyanna as regent on the Island - . Alysane went with
Stannis, and she is still leading the Northerners at his side. Mom and I
reached her recently, and brought the message to Alysane and Stannis, and the
other Northmen.”
“But…if someone thinks we have Arya…one might say she is the heir. She is
trueborn; she would not need to be legitimised.”
“She was married to the bastard of Bolton, no one would let her inherit
Winterfell, believe me. The North remembers. In addition, as I said, many
suspect already. I guess nobody spoke the truth because all felt pity for the
poor thing.”
“So…there is no way to pull back or ignore this, I suppose”
“I don’t think so. No, definitely not, Jon” and he could not understand if
Jorelle, with that hint of a smile she let appear on her lips, was mocking him,
rejoicing for him or trying to hide the regret she empathically felt for the
harsh way she had introduced the matterand for the demanding and binding
message she had brought. The fire from the fireplace reflected in Jorelle’s
eyes, the blue eyes that ran in the Mormonts blood and blessed some of them,
and lighted her brownish hair, which now shone like red.
Another picture surfaced in Jon’s mind, although just for a few seconds. It was
enough to make him smile, and feel more aware of himself, and almost in touch
with his old self, finally, after days of unease and emptiness.
“This means I finally have somewhere to go. And I can finally join Stannis, as
a Stark, and help claim back Winterfell. But…what about the ‘King’ bit?”
“Well, according to our young Lyanna, you should probably either send Stannis
fuck himself, or do him in, the first occasion you find!” japed Jorelle. Jon
smiled back. Lyanna’s bold letter to Stannis had caused some major
embarrassment, but the girl’s young age made it possible to downplay it as
something like a joke, although Stannis was, in fact, not the man for jokes…
“However, well, Alysane helped keep the tension under control, and decided to
interpret Robb’s will as your legitimization primarily, and the ‘King in the
North’ as a way of saying ‘Warden of the North’. I never knew my sister to be
so capable a diplomat and a politician. Dacey was in part like that: quite
gifted with words and diplomacy, and Jorah was the best one at it, but
Aly…something must have happened to her! Oh, concerning Jorah…we had news that
apparently King Robert pardoned him before dying. Someone - we don’t know who
it was, really - has sent the pardon to Stannis, who cannot refuse to accept
it, considering he sees himself as Robert’s true heir. According to the same
mysterious source, it seems like my cousin was still alive somewhere in Essos
until recently. At least, a year ago he was.”
Jon was overwhelmed by all this information: “Remind me to give you a seat in
some council, not just in my retinue. I am already confused!”
Jorah’s name reminded Jon of something important. He stood up and took
Longclaw.
“Jory, since you mentioned Jorah, there is something you must know. Your
nuncle…well, one day he was attacked by wights, corpses we brought from beyond
the Wall and reanimated here at Castle Black…”
Jorelle’s eyes widened, but then preferred to lighten up the conversation once
again: “Apparently it seems to be a worrying trend here. I mean, corpses coming
back to life.”
“Well, it was not exactly like me. These were…animated wights, their hands
black…I cannot say ‘decomposed’, because actually that is the one thing they
were not. Also, they had unearthly blue eyes…”
“Something against blue eyes, Snow?” and Jorelle stuck her tongue out at her
former playmate.
“You…you know, I think I should introduce you formally to Edd! You would get
along well, although probably I could not stand to be in your joint presence
anymore. Anyway…well, the wights were bent on killing us all, especially the
Lord Commander. Your nuncle, I mean. I was his steward at the time. Well, I
saved him. I threw an oil lamp at a wight and it seems like it is the thing to
do, setting them on fire. Something I learnt later at Hardhome…anyway, keeping
this tale to your uncle’s part, well…he was so grateful for my intervention,
and he held me in great esteem…well, he…he decided to give me Jorah’s sword,
Longclaw.”
Jorelle furrowed her brow, and her eyebrows almost knitted together. “I am
afraid I am not following you. What sword?”
“Your ancestral sword, a Valyrian steel blade. Jorah left it behind before
fleeing Bear Island after his…shame.”
It was time for Jorelle to widen her eyes once again. “Are you sure you
understood what my nuncle told you? It might be that Jorah left something
behind - I mean something else than an empty coffer and a difficult situation
with Lord Eddard - but you can be sure no Mormont ever had a Valyrian steel
sword!”
Jon lifted the sword he was holding: “Well, this is Valyrian steel. Have a look
at it, and then I will tell you what else it is.”
Jorelle drew the sword from its scabbard. There was no denying it was Valyrian
steel. “Aye, it is Valyrian steel. As I said, we never possessed such a
valuable sword. If we had…well, either Jorah would have sold thatinstead of two
poachers, or you could be sure one of us would still hold it. Some days, in the
beginning, I swear Mom…after they fled…oh, she would have wanted to find Jorah
and Lynesse and beat them with the hilt of a sword like this, if not with her
mace. Or maybe she would have even wanted to behead them both themselves, and
be done with it. So… you can be sure we would not have gotten rid of it! This
one would have been a very good one to punish them! ” and with that Jorelle
took the sword in her hand, looked at it, swung it twice, and gave it back to
Jon. Then she continued: “Honestly, I think she did not know if she wanted to
be sad for losing Jorah, ashamed for what he brought upon our House, angry at
the couple, or all those things together.” Jorelle concluded thus her long and
partially rumbling explanation.
Poor girls. They all loved their cousin so much. I was fond of the man myself.
He never cared for my name. He was kind and warm to me and Robb in the same
way. And yet he did what he did… Jon could understand Jorelle’s feelings – and
Lady Maege’s as well. Not to mention the fact that he remembered all too well
Lord Eddard’s“feelings” toward the case. However, these were troubles from an
era that was over, and he had more pressing things to discuss now. “So, this
sword…what is it?”
“I would say… something in ancestral possession of the Lord Commander of the
Night’s Watch, maybe? Sometimes the simplest explanation really is the best
one.”
Jon and Jorelle exchanged a few questioning looks. For Jorelle, the simplest
explanation was always the best. For Jon, though, it was different: “Why would
the Old Bear make up such a complicated story about a sword? Couldn’t he just
have said ‘It is a great sword, you saved my life, take it?’ Why mention Jorah,
your mother sending the sword back to him…”
“Well, let me think about it.” After a few instants. Jorelle came up with a
response:  “I think it was an affectionate gesture. You know how we Mormonts
never cared for your… let’s call it ‘wrong name’…at least neither did it matter
to us sisters, nor to Mom and Jorah anyway. I mean, he probably just wanted to
make you feel…loved? Don’t look at me like that, Jon. We Mormonts might be a
little rude for your taste, but we do know how to love. He knew how hard it was
for you, being Ned Stark’s son in blood but being outcast because you were born
on the wrong side of the blanket. Of course, Nuncle Jeor might have had his own
reasons for making up this story too: he missed his son, a son he would never
see again, and found a substitute in you, so maybe all this complicated story
it was for his sake as well. He wanted you two to share a strong mutual
connection. Such a story would move anybody, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean by ‘at least not us’?”
“Nuncle Jeor was, indeed, the more…traditionalist one: he did not care much for
bastards, but he called them ‘bastards’ anyway. Jorah…aye, he might have looked
a traditionalist from the outside, I suppose, because everybody knows he was
first married out young by Nuncle and then fell in love with that tart and
married her as well, but he was more like us than like his father in his views
on…several things. He never once called you ‘bastard’. To him, you and Robb
were the sweet, handsome and fine elder sons of Lord Eddard. But…maybe we can
talk later?” and with this, she hinted at Jeyne, leaning on the table.
The poor girl was trying not to fall asleep, and had her elbows on the table,
her face on her hands. Jon could also imagine they were very hungry, as was he
and probably were all the other guests arrived with the ladies. He was glad for
the interruption provided by Jorelle.
“I suppose finding you suitable chambers and seeing that supper is ready soon
are more important than the Old Bear’s stories, indeed.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Freed of his vows, Jon hat thought long about all the possible choices he was
finally free to pursue in his life. Winterfell was one of his main concerns, as
it was briefly before he was stabbed. And he knew now he had many people who
would back him in his choice. He would be a liar if he denied he considered
taking Ser Patrek’s place: he could have first stolen Val, as the Wildlings
usually do, and then married her in Westerosi custom, although the young woman
seemed less enticing to him after their exchange of opinions about Shireen. But
she was beautiful, and fierce, and Stannis had offered her to him when he first
tried to win him over by making him the Lord of Winterfell…
Now he was the Lord of Winterfell, but he had been made so by Robb and by their
fellow Northerners. He was going to kneel to Stannis anyway: they had to fight
the enemy coming from the north…resuming Stannis’ own plans, now that there was
no oath to break anymore, would reassure the king of Jon’s allegiance. And, as
Stannis had said, marrying a Wildling might make the alliance for the Dawn even
stronger.
However, Val had repeatedly spoken against kneeling. Obeying to orders in the
War for the Dawn was enough to ask to the rest of the Free Folk, and they had
already agreed to do that, but for the lady wife of a Lord, kneeling was
necessary.
For now, he had to tread everything carefully, or he would lose all the ties
and bonds he had struggled so much to gain. Winter was coming, for real, and he
needed the Wildlings and the Night’s Watch ready for fighting whatever may come
from beyond the Wall. Winterfell had been stolen by the treacherous Boltons,
and he needed Stannis’s forces, as these were the only available for an attack
to the stronghold. And after Winterfell, there was the Dreadfort still: the
Boltons were not to be trusted anymore. Even if he, the new Warden of the
North, decided to show some mercy (and he was not exactly willing to show mercy
on the account), he was sure Stannis was not going to be merciful.
The Queen’s men proved essential in providing a safer environment for Jeyne:
there was usually no need to worry for a Mormont woman’ safety, but the other
girl was a different kind of person, and, besides, was visibly broken by
whatever she had endured in the hands of the Boltons. Sparing her any other
traumatic experience was essential.
The room he found for Jeyne and Jorelle was thus among the Queen’s men quarter,
as was his room after all. He wanted to be sure that no one got strange ideas.
The more hindrances someone looking for a plaything found, the better. After
being stabbed by his own men, trust was something he simply could not feel
anymore.
His plan, though, lost in part his effectiveness when he heard a knock on the
door and found Jorelle in her green woollen dress, but still with her sword and
dagger hanging on her hips of course, smiling at him.
“You might want to remember that we have a discussion to continue…and, also,
that you have something to explain to me.” Said mischievously Jorelle. Ghost,
who had been dozing by the fire, stood on his paws and went towards her,
sniffed her, and then got back to sleep after the young woman had scratched
behind its ears as she had done before.
“Youmight want to remember that I made you share the room with Jeyne for her
safety, and that…I am now your liege-lord. So, you might want to remember your
duties, and also your manners: you don’t order your lord around. Not even me.”
His tone was not stern: on the contrary, he made it clear he intended to
continue his friendly attitude, but he made sure the young lady understood he
was, indeed, worried for Jeyne, and not going to step back on his previous
decision on the matter.
“Oh, Jon!Don’t be ridiculous! Even Nuncle Jeor was happy to chat with family
members coming to visit the Wall…don’t tell me you are not looking forward to
talking to me!”
“Are you family?” asked Jon, amused.
Never, never challenge a Mormont sister, Jon learnt when she answered: “Well, I
might become family. It is really up to you, Your Grace!” and blinked.
“Stannis is still alive, I haven’t been crowned or even taken my place as Lord
of Winterfell yet, and already the Houses are scheming around me!” Jon tried to
match Jory’s playfulness, but limited his facial expression to one of his shy
smiles. He decided some chatting would do, especially considering the
complicated situation they all were in and the proximity of the ladies’ room to
his. Therefore, he let Jorelle inside, put some more logs in the fire, and
prepared to serve some mulled wine.
“So, I think the first thing we should discuss is how…what…well, how you were
killed and how you came back. Gods, I cannot even say it without trembling!”
“It was the Red Woman, the red priestess you saw at supper among the Queen’s
retinue.”
“So…these red priests and priestesses…do they have real power? Stannis was,
according to Aly, very sceptical in the beginning. Then…we received a raven
from this woman, about your, well, resurrection…and, well, many people are
starting to acknowledge this Melisandre has powers. No idea if it is this Red
God, Rollor, or Rahloo… whatever, they talk about or if they are the Old Gods
acting through them, as Aly suspects…”
“R’hllor, the Lord of Light.” corrected Jon.
“Oh…so…you were there…you saw him?” asked Jorelle, hanging between perplexity
and terror.
“No, I didn’t. But it was the Lady Melisandre who brought me back. That much is
true.”
“So…Aly might be right? She seemed very…sure of what she said, somehow. Even
Stannis agrees it is more like Melisandre has powers than this Lord of Light
acting, and seems to trust Aly a lot. She is advising him. Incredible, if you
ask me. Still, she did not like the idea of sacrificing men to the flames. But
they had to try.”
“I thought Stannis simply agreed to execute condemned men on a pyre, not to
sacrificing. It should have been an agreement in order to please all those who
converted to the Lord of Light.”
“It is like that, but…however…he let Aly behead the Karstarks and, well, Theon.
Not an easy decision, in the light of new developments, but…no one could ever
forget what he did. After the raven we received, he let a few Karstark men
be…well, it is up to you to decide if they were executed for following their
treacherous lord’s command or sacrificed. Apparently, thanks to this sacrifice,
the storm calmed down, and we were able to leave for the Wall.”
Jorelle was incredibly shocked. He knew. Seeing men burn…was horrible. Not to
mention the feelings that the thought of Theon Greyjoy awakened in him.
Ignoring the latter topic, he showed empathy about the other issue: “I am sorry
you had to witness that, Jory.”
That earned Jon a smile. “Thank you, Jon. Now, what did youwitness?”
Jon poured two big cups of mulled wine for her and for him, and prepared
himself for the difficult tale he had to tell, that of the end of his previous
life and the beginning of another.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
A young Queen’s man-in-arms was running through the Queen’s quarters, alerting
all the men in the King’s towers not only with his words but also with the
noise of his lance hitting the ground. A few bumps and scratches on his plate,
a violet eye and some real terror flowing through his veins backed up his
words: “Your Grace! Your Grace! Lady Melisandre! Please, alert everybody and
find Lady Melisandre as well!”
“What happened to make you behave like that? Have you turned into a Wildling?”
said a knight, who had opened the door to see what the fuss was about.
“A mutiny! Lord Commander Snow has been stabbed! They killed him! We have to
intervene! We might be the next! They are all fighting each other!”
In a very short lapse of time, all the sworn swords and the men-at-arms were
alerted. And so was Queen Selyse, who was horrified by the news. “I am sure you
misunderstood. It must have been one of those savage people who acknowledge no
king.” In fact, the savage peoplehad paradoxically kept some sort of order
after the horrible attack to the Lord Commander, if one ignored the panic
reaction of Wun Wun that lead to Ser Patrek dying and some smaller incident
among those who were there.
Finally, Lady Melisandre appeared, seemingly from nothing. “Bring him to me,”
she simply said, calm as if nothing had happened. Her attitude was somehow
unsettling, in face of what was happening: a young lord commander stabbed to
death lying on the snow, a civil war in the Sworn brotherhood of the Night’s
Watch, some Wildlings fighting against the mutineers.
The Queen’s men appeared on the scene, with their swords drawn and their lances
on the ready. Their coming had soon turned into a proper fight what had been
mainly some brawls and skirmishes interjected by parleys so far. The side
trying to avenge Jon was victorious soon.
The mutineers admitted to the mutiny, and did not worry much about the
Baratheons’ men, counting on the Watch neutrality and therefore on the fact
that the Queen’s men would have considered that an internal question of
betrayal of vows, mission and discipline.
It was a bitter mistake.
Selyse and Melisandre were very clear in their opinions on the matter, although
for different reasons. The mutineers ended up in the ice cells, along with
several other men siding too openly with them and a few particularly
undisciplined Wildlings. These arrests were made on Queen’s orders, of course.
It was in part a very good choice that avoided further blood, considering the
Wildlings’ reaction to the deed. But above all it was something that marked the
definitive end of the neutrality of the Night’s Watch, more than all the
decisions Jon had taken before. Ironically, preserving the Night’s Watch
neutrality had been one of the reasons for the mutiny.
Irony, though, was not just on the mutineers’ side, but also on the Queen’s
side: sadly for her, the ratio ‘arrested Brothers of the Watch’ to ‘arrested
Wildlings’ was not in the proportions she would have wished.
Melisandre never showed worry nor other feelings. She emanated an eerie calm
that nobody could relate to the horrible incident, and was paradoxically
unsettling for everybody, except for Queen Selyse, who had faith in her as
usual. Her eyes were glowing, as her ruby was, a dangerous yet fascinating
glow. Her body seemed to emanate warmth like a fire. Her words were few, even
though anybody would have been grateful for some more explanation. She seemed
not to look at the men who brought her Jon – some brothers, some Queen’s men
and a few Wildlings lead by none other than Tormund Giantsbane.
She performed a long, complicated ritual, speaking in Valyrian, in front of men
full of disbelief. She passed a torch on Jon’s wounds; she burned some of his
hair and of his blood. She washed him, and then proceeded to dry him up. The
uneasiness of the people watching her then grew further when she started
straight up massaging him, while closing her eyes and continuing reciting
something in High Valyrian: the gestures seemed to hint at somebody warming a
body up; however, her touch was almost sensual, although the real reason for
her passion was her strong faith in her R’hllor.
At the end, she put her lips on his, as she would do if she were to breathe in
him.
And then Jon Snow, who had been a corpse for a few hours, breathed in again,
and arose.
Soon, all the men at Castle Black were kneeling before Jon Snow and Lady
Melisandre.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“What happened then?” asked Jorelle.
“I admit it was…scary, for all of us. It was a shock for me. I remembered being
stabbed. I saw my chest and throat with the signs of the attack when I rose
again. The men remembered picking me up unmistakably dead. Then Lady Melisandre
asked me…if I had seen him, the Lord of Light, if he had sent me back with a
message. But the truth is…there is nothing beyond life. I saw nothing.
Melisandre did not know what to think of it. She knows she has powers…but this
revelation left her…confused, baffled. The same goes for Queen Selyse and for
all the followers of the Lord of Light.”
“Well, I mean…who wouldn’t be baffled?”
“The Wildlings and the Brothers who were at Hardhome fighting see it
differently. They were surprised, of course, but some of them felt relieved,
and, well…I came back from the dead. Before that, I had killed a Walker…”
“I am sorry…what?”
“Shortly before my…death, I lead an expedition of a few Brothers and Wildlings
to the village of Hardhome. The village lies on the eastern coast, and was
where many Wildlings were retreating in order to flee from the Others…”
“Are you trying to tell me the Others, the White Walkers, exist exactly the way
they were described in our fireplace tales? And that you saw them?”
“Aye, Jory, they do, and I wish they were old wives’ tales. They have been
hunting down the folks beyond the Wall for a while, with the help of those
wights I mentioned, the wights that attacked the Lord Commander…I mean, your
nuncle. I thought you knew how he died, by the way!”
“Was he killed by one of them? We only heard rumours, words of a mutiny. Which
seems to be another worrying trend here, if I must be honest…” Jorelle’s
sarcasm could not hide her deep worries about the developing scenario Jon was
depicting.
“Yes, it was a mutiny, but it occurred after a great ranging the Lord Commander
led turned into a battle with the wights and a few Others. A slaughter, it was.
Your nuncle was killed when the survivors stopped by…a place we used as a base
and a mutiny occurred. But…I thought you knew.” Jon tried to simplify and
summarize the long story to Jorelle, leaving out a few details about him and
about Jeor Mormont that would have been not just very long, but also very
difficult to explain.
Not even one of the tough Mormonts could continue ignoring the fact: “This is a
nightmare, Jon!”
“It is. It is what we saw there, at Hardhome. The Others attacked the village
while we were evacuating it. A thousand wights attacked first, and then they
came, the Walkers. We knew from the previous battle that dragonglass kills
them, but we lost the dragonglass we had, and the only thing we could do was
trying to help flee as many people as we could, because all killed people
become a new soldier for the Walkers’ army. I got into a duel with an Other,
and...where normal weapons fail and shatter, my Valyrian steel sword resisted,
and was even able to…kill one of them. Unfortunately, all the dead we left
behind were raised as wights as soon as we had sailed away from the village.”
“Jon! You must inform the realm!”
“Your nuncle had tried to alert the realm, I tried to. Nobody listened. But now
the Brothers, the Wildlings, and the Queen’s men know. Melisandre knows, and so
does Stannis. You know. Soon all the Northerners will know for sure. They
should already know something, to be honest.”
“True. But you were saying…some see you differently. How does all this you told
me relate to the way people see you? I suspect something…”
“Yes. I killed a Walker. I came back from the dead. Many people now look at me
as…the saviour. Think that all the Free Folk you see here have come to flee
from the Others, and think that many brothers were in the battle with your
nuncle or with me at Hardhome. Melisandre, who always spoke of Stannis as a
saviour, probably thinks the same too. Queen Selyse…well, she is torn between
her role as a Queen and the fact that her faith seems to…consider me as someone
more important than her lord and king.”
“I…I understand. Jon, if we hadn’t talked like good old times before speaking
of such things, I would see you differently as well. I mean, Stannis and Aly
seemed to take the message seriously, but…first I wanted to see you, and then…I
admit I tried to rationalize and think you might just have been gravely
wounded, and might have passed out, and Melisandre could have some great
healing skills.”
“There is no doubt. I was not breathing. I was left on the snowy ground as
Brothers fought each other over what happened, and as Wildlings joined the
fight, followed by the Baratheons’ men-at-arms.”
“It is perfectly understandable that men who saw you first kill one of those
beings, then come back from the dead, see you as something else. I would be in
awe and a little terrified too, if it were not for the fact that…well, you sure
have grown up, as I did, but you are still the Jon I remembered, after all.”
“But you understand now how things are going and where? The mutineers…they were
my last act as a Lord Commander. I called back a few trusted and valuable men
from Eastwatch and Long Barrow in order to ensure some sort of order in what
was going to follow. I had the mutineers executed. I decided not to trust
anyone, so I executed all those who balked at my orders, and Cregan Karstark as
well. Many people will say I showed no mercy, and acted like a butcher…but, as
you said, the Night’s Watch has seen two commanders killed by a mutiny in a
short lapse of time. It cannot happen anymore. Besides, the numbers of the
Watch have been decreasing, not to mention the honour of the men coming to the
Wall. I…I had to save the institution somehow, but…all that happened, and the
Baratheons’ interventions… well, there is no other way to tell it….I named Edd,
Edd Tollett - you met him - the new Commander. He does not seem to remember he
has the command, though. It might be it is my fault…considering I am still
here. My watch has ended, so I am free. But the Night’s Watch as we knew it has
ended too. You see, the men stabbed me because I…wanted to march south to
Winterfell, and because my attitude towards the Baratheons and the Wildlings
had not been accepted by all men. They identified me as a major threat to the
Watch’s existence, ironically, and for that they plotted against me and killed
me. But the truth is, Jory, that there is no future for the Watch without the
Wildlings and the Baratheons. There is no future for it if they don’t continue
what I started: manning as many castles as possible, integrating the Free Folk
into the Kingdom, preparing for the war for the dawn. The queen’s men
intervention marked the end of the Watch’s neutrality, there is no denying it.
I formally resigned because I wanted to live as a Stark again, not so much
because I wanted to preserve the Watch: if I only cared for the institution, I
would have never have appointed a successor. As things stand right now, I could
have resumed my watch and continued my cooperation with the Wildlings and the
Baratheons, or I could have let the brothers elect another Commander…but I
realised trying to claim my place as the last living son of Eddard Stark was
the only chance I have to be able to do something for Winterfell, and for the
people I sent there to save the girl I believed was Arya as well, provided at
least Mance is still alive.”
“I agree with you, Jon, as much as it is hard for Northerners to avail some
sort of…dishonour towards the Night’s Watch. And let us not mention how hard it
is for me, Lady Jorelle Mormont…But it seems things have changed, too much for
us to continue the way we used to deal with them before…”
“Winter is coming. Now I see what it means. It is not just about the harvest.”
“And with it the Others and their army of the dead, it seems. We cannot ignore
the non-political part, Jon…oh, I am so glad we stayed with Lord Howland for a
while!”
“Lord Howland?”
“My mom, Lyra and I stayed with Lord Howland Reed for a while. Lyra is still
there. It seems like Lord Howland knows far more about these things. It is not
just the fact the crannogmen master a wide range of ways of using plants,
herbs, and even animals to heal, to do things, to kill. It seems like his…faith
in the Old Gods is true, and different, and his approach to our tales is
different, too. He made a point of teaching us things. I thought it was just to
survive the winter and to have more resources for fighting our way to
Winterfell, but all these things you say make me think there could be more.
He…reminds me of this Lady Melisandre, to be honest. I think we should talk
with them both, Jon.”
“We?” Jon managed to smile to her, touched by her straightforwardness and by
her loyalty.
“We had the luck to be friends. I bet Lyra will feel the same way as soon as we
can hear from her. Besides, it seems like you truly need a friend and an ally
who is not a former sworn brother, or a Wildling. Things are changing, but not
so fast that we can ignore all the boundaries our society used to have. But I
understand if you prefer asking my sister Lyanna to advise you. Stannis will
love it!”
“Friends and allies, then?”
“I don’t know if this is how it usually happened before, but I am glad to have
my first advisor already.”
 “So, we already have something to begin with: we know we need dragonglass,
Valyrian steel…what else?”
“Fire kills the wights. Not the Walkers, though. For them we need dragonglass
and Valyrian steel, as you said.”
“It is something to begin with, Jon. And we have the one man who came back from
death on our side. It must mean something. You can be as pessimistic as you
want, but it has to mean something.”
“Melisandre says so as well, but there is still much we have to understand. She
had foreseen some things, some others she had misinterpreted. She has powers.
But where do they come from? She believes in her Lord of Light…yet I haven’t
seen this God.”
“But we have her, and we have Lord Howland. And it seems like Aly knows
something as well.”
“You mentioned that before. What do you mean exactly by that?”
“Well, her…faith in the Old Gods seems to have grown a lot. I told you, she
believes these powers actually come from the Old Gods. She has never been
particularly pious, so there must have been something that made her change her
views. Unfortunately, I had no time to investigate further. She seemed to have
things to tell us, indeed, and I think she will tell them as soon as we meet
her. But between her new role as an advisor to Stannis and as the new guide for
the Northerners, and considering also the fact that Stannis wanted to send
Jeyne and Tycho away as soon as it was possible, well, it is not like we really
had the chance to talk about other things than my and mom’s time with Lord
Howland, and Robb’s will.”
“What do you think about Stannis?”
“You know, one might say many things about him…but he really cares for
Westeros. He came to help you on the Wall. He then came to help us in the
North, gave us back Deepwood Motte and is fighting to free Winterfell. He even
came to accept the most unlikely advisor in political and military matters he
could have imagined to have on his side, I mean my sister. And his heir is that
sweet yet unfortunate girl, Shireen. We might do much worse.”
Jon felt reassured by the discovery that one of his friends and bannermen – or
was it ‘bannerpeople’ now? – was so clear-minded and sure. Friendships combined
to political alliances were nothing new: his father had even started a
successful rebellion out of friendship with Robert, and he had considered even
Lord Howland and Lord Jorah as friends, at least for a while.
Although, Jon came to think, for all the things his new advisor shared with the
former Lord of Bear Island, Jorelle was not the gruff bear of a man her cousin
used to be. Quite on the contrary, she displayed quick wits, a lot of humour,
very outgoing manners, and  - Jon had to admit – pleasant looks. Not the
breath-taking, seemingly royal beauty of a woman like Val, sure, but her tall
figure, the strength, the long, dark brownish hair and the blue eyes she shared
with her cousin and namesake combined in an uncommon form of wild beauty. After
all, Dacey, her oldest sister, was one of the beauties of the North.
But while Jon was lost in his thoughts, Jorelle was still there, watching him
intently. She wanted to appreciate again how much the former sullen boy of
Winterfell had grown, and she took in his long face, his mid-long dark curls,
and his dark eyes, darker than Lord Eddard’s had been, and actually far more
expressive. Only a shadow of his boyhood was still there, and probably even
that shadow would go away if he were to grow a beard as his father had done. A
beard that, actually, would become him, she honestly thought without any shame:
a Mormont would never shy away from honest appreciation of a fellow human,
after all. Nevertheless, that was not what Jorelle wanted to discuss now. “You
aredeep in thoughts!  If you keep doing that, everybody will think that it is
Lord Eddard who has come back from the dead!”
Yet another quip from Jorelle. “Well, I think many would interpret you remark
as a compliment, my lady.”
“I told you before: there is no need to over-complicate things. It was neither
a compliment, nor an offence, just a statement. You look very much like Lord
Eddard if you brood like that. I remember him clearly doing that. One could
also say you remind me of Jorah, another champion in brooding, but your face is
really the one thing you inherited from Lord Eddard. My mom and all the older
lords unanimously remarked behind your back that you were born with a Stark
face, and that it was ironic, considering they all denied you your family name.
But now you finally have it!” and Jorelle reached out for his arm, clasping it
slightly above his wrist in a friendly and warm gesture.
Jon decided to get back at Jorelle for all her quips and a good part of her
sarcasm and excessive openness, and let his arm slide in her clasp enough to
get hold of her hand, lift it and plant a courteous kiss on her back. “I thank
you, my lady, for your courteous words. I will forever keep them in my heart,
and they will keep me warm during the winter, alive during the many trials I
have to face…”
“Oh, Jon! You are not believable! Besides, you make it sound like we were not
capable of kindness too, and you know we are!” and while saying these words,
Jorelle squeezed Jon’s hand a little. Jon thus reciprocated the squeeze,
although he felt ironically defeated in his intention of mocking his friend
back.
Jorelle took another good look at Jon in order to try to read his thoughts. She
was very curious to get to know her former playmate again, so to speak: between
the last time they had sparred at Winterfell and made fun of the adults, and
the present day he had been a proud owner of a direwolf, a Brother of the
night’s Watch, a Commander of said Watch. And now he was her new liege-lord,
and she was to be one of his – hopefully most trusted – advisors. Would that
work out well?
Jon persisted in his shy smile, and then seemed to slide back to brooding. He
lowered his hand slowly, but kept his stare on Jorelle, although he looked like
his head was somewhere else.
Jorelle could not have it, and felt compelled to speak out her mind completely.
“You know…if you grew a beard, like your father, you would not only look like
him: a beard would become you very well!” Jon was startled by Jorelle’s sudden
open statement, and she smiled with a grin of satisfaction.
Jon unconsciously brought his hand to his jaw, and passed his fingers on jaw
and cheek. “Is this…part of your wisdom as an advisor?”
“Why, it might be, Lord Stark!”
From Jorelle’s point of view, there was nothing wrong in saying the truth. A
pleasant-to-look-at Lord was surely better than a plain one. From Jon’s point
of view, it was…very strange to hear such words from a woman of the Kingdoms…
“For all your enmity with the Wildlings, you Mormonts – or is it you Bear
Islanders? – are very much like them. The last time a woman dared speak like
that to me, it was a… spearwife of the Free Folk.”
“You know, I do believe we are not that much different, we Bear Islanders and
the Wildlings. That is probably why we have fought each other so much. Although
we prefer axes, maces and swords to spears. But we are the only folks where
women fight too.”
“Would you say you Bear Islanders are Wildlings who kneeled? By the way, they
like axes too.”
“Lord Stark…japing? Again? Twice in a single conversation?”
“I am merely listening to my advisor, Lady Jorelle, and learning.”
 “You haven’t told me yet if the spearwife asked you to grow a beard, or if she
liked you the way you are” said Jorelle, who had not missed the softened tone
with which he had spoken of Wildling women and the emotion in his eyes.
Jon reddened.
“Oh, Jon, please! There is nothing wrong with experiencing things all humans
experience, don’t you think?”
“It might be. But it is more difficult than that.”
“I already told you twice you sometimes make things difficult when they are
not. I suspect this might be the third one…but maybe it is not the time for
another tale. As pleasant as it was talking to you, I must admit I am looking
forward to sleeping in a bed again, next to a fire. And we still have to define
what we will do next. We will have to prepare for our journey back to Stannis’s
camp, or to Winterfell.”
“Which means we will have to talk to Queen Selyse, and to Melisandre, who is,
after all, the real queen. I think you might have noticed at dinner, but a
warning is always fair.”
“Yes, of course, and to Edd and…who is the Wildling leader? They must have
someone.”
“It is not exactly like that, but there are a few people who are more relevant
than others, and who will be glad to talk to us, which is not bad at all. There
is also someone you might remember. Alys Karstark. She has played no role in
her uncle’s betrayal: on the contrary, she was a victim, and she was the one
who alerted me to the plot. She fled her cousin and asked for my protection.
Thus, she is now married to a sort of a Lord of the Wildlings, Sigorn, the
Magnar of Thenn.”
“It sounds like you had already started acting as Lord Stark, Jon.” Jorelle was
surprised. “I must say, it is no wonder you had to face a mutiny, after all. If
all other choices could have been easy to explain…combining a wedding for a
bannerman’s daughter, Jon?”
“I couldn’t let her be forcibly married to her uncle.”
“I am not saying you did something awful, or at least I hope Alys is not too
unhappy with yet another arranged marriage. I am only saying…this is what lords
do. Which is not a bad thing at all, if we look at it from where we are staying
now, on the verge of raising a new army and leading it first to reconquer
Winterfell, then against what is coming at us from beyond the Wall.”
“We have to leave a part of this army here with the Watch. We do not know what
is going to happen here at the Wall.”
“Of course. But we are talking of the ‘new’ Watch, which we agreed is not
completely neutral anymore. You will still have to leave orders, be it to Edd,
be it to all the brothers. I would talk to all of them. First, we report
everything to Queen Selyse, you kneel to her husband as Lord Stark of
Winterfell, and strengthen that bond. Then we set matters clear with the
Wildlings and the Watch. Melisandre is an entirely different matter: the most
important thing is that we have enough time to talk to her.”
“It seems like we are of a mind, me and you, my lady!”
“Which only means we are free to rest, my lord!”
Both Jon and Jorelle smiled.
“Good night, Jorelle. It was a joy on all counts to see you” and he bowed
slightly.
“Good night, Jon. I feel the same” and she curtseyed, parting from him with one
last mocking.
Just before Jon could close his door again, a black shadow flew inside his room
and spoke the words Corn, Stark, King.
 
***** Hands on Meereen *****
Chapter Summary
     Jorah and Tyrion adapt to Meereen in order to pursue their jointly
     agreed political and scientific/esoteric agenda. DarkTyrion is
     lurking in the shadow, but we get to see something. Jorah gets back
     in touch with a part of himself that had been sleeping for a while.
Still tired from his past battles, but feeling safer than during his previous
nights in the pyramid, Jorah treated himself to a night of deep sleep. For the
following days, sleep became a friend he was happy to meet at the end of a
relatively peaceful day. The boy-crow did not visit him in his dreams, a thing
which was partially disappointing, considering that he was on a quest with
Tyrion to find out what was happening in the world, and that a possible
presence from the realm of magic would have been welcome to the current
situation. But…well, one cannot have it all, and surely, of all men on earth,
Jorah Mormont could not have it all, he thought, however not as an expression
of self-pity, but as a sarcastic remark about his adventures. His everyday life
was overall quite pleasant, and he felt full of mild hopes for the future:
anyone who escaped from a slave in a cage to a conditionally reinstated advisor
and dragonrider would feel the
During the day, he was usually allowed to take a stroll, to feed Rhaegal, to
read (a task that he and Tyrion had acknowledged to be the most important of
all), to support Ser Barristan in training a few young squires (all the time
admiring the Bold’s fabled swordsmanship), to spar with some Unsullied or
Dothraki (or both). They were still at war, and training was essential for him
- his time as a slave had eaten some of his muscles away - and for all the new
recruits even more.
Besides, he had long talks with Tyrion about politics and dragons. Tyrion
remembered from Volantis how knowledgeable Jorah was, something he had
underestimated due to the grim mood the knight had been most of the time and to
the peculiar relationship they had in the beginning. Still, Tyrion was pissed:
a Ghiscari city was not exactly the right place to research about dragonlore.
Sources simply were not enough. In addition, Jorah’s recent lack of new magic
experiences was frustrating him even more.
The most important thing, however, strategically speaking, was keeping Jorah
safe from attacks, like those of the Sons of the Harpy…and from Victarion
Greyjoy, who could not be trusted - all agreed on this. Victarion was a
demanding but necessary ally, but unfortunately never cared to hide his
discontent for his not-so-high state at Daenerys’ court, especially as compared
to that of the “beggar dragonrider from Bear Island”, as he often referred to
Jorah.
If only Jorah and Tyrion had known that Victarion Greyjoy’s contempt and
resentment had much more to do with a certain, mysterious dragon horn in his
possession than with Jorah being a Bear Islander…
…but if they had known, it would have meant that the duo’s voyage towards
dragon mastery would be almost at an end. This was clearly not the case.
Victarion still had not abandoned the idea of ordering three oarsmen to blow
the horn once each, thus trying to control at least one dragon, if not all of
them. The recent developments, nevertheless, had forced him to be more
cautious. If Jorah Mormont could control a dragon without a horn, or without
any of the rituals men like Aeron or Moqorro would go through, it meant that
the horn in itself was no guarantee of success. And Victarion Greyjoy wanted
success, very much. He could not blow his chances by blowing the horn – pun
intended – if he was not sure he would at least command the remaining dragon
and be equal with his rival. He was partially glad he had resorted to fight
without letting his thralls blow the Valyrian relic beforehand. His previous
plan had seemed the greatest thing he had ever thought before. But then, a dark
feeling had taken possession of him: a sudden feeling of dread, followed by a
very dark and confusing dream, of dark flames eating him as if they were a dark
beast-like shape. Something inside him had told him that it was not good.
Euron’s gifts were poisoned, he already knew. Moqorro’s warning that the horn
must be claimed with blood, resounding in his head, sounded like an invitation
to turn Daenerys’ army against his brother.
The red priest received a very different treatment. The difference was due to
the minister’s sincere faith in his god of light, fire and warmth and in the
resulting respect he showed towards Jorah. Moqorro came to visit the knight
twice. He came, as he himself explained, to ‘behold the new servant of the
flames’ and to give some blessings. Apart from a few insights on Jorah’s
current good relationship with his dragon, Tyrion had prohibited Jorah from
revealing anything from their previous discussion. On the other hand, Tyrion
hoped that a red priest could unknowingly reveal something about his favourite
creatures of fire, or simply have some knowledge he might want to share with
Jorah, the vice-messianic figure in charge.
Upon seeing Moqorro for the first time in Meereen, Jorah could not refrain from
asking the same question that Tyrion was dying to ask: “How did you survive the
storm?” The priest answered: “I might ask the same of you. The Lord of Light
has shown us darkness, and let us be enclosed by the storm, yet has protected
us from  being swallowed. Only those who have seen darkness know how reassuring
the light is, and will always look for it.” Jorah gave up very soon trying to
follow the priest’s reasoning: never a friend of riddles and prophecies, not to
mention quite nervous for all he had been through, from Mirri Maz Duur to the
boy-crow, he simply let Moqorro be a sort of confidant and caretaker, without
bothering too much to analyse his words. The man might have powers, as Daenerys
had, after all, but splitting things in darkness/bad and light/good was far
from convincing for him. Even Bear Island’s children tales had more layers than
that!Jorah thought.
Rhaegal seemed to sense when Jorah was outside looking for him, and the man was
also very keen on trying to see the beast and call it…the dragon usually came,
although not the same way a trained dog usually runs to his master, of course. 
Rhaegal, his green scales seemingly growing more lucent every day, was glad to
be fed by the big knight, even if it showed his sort of affection in its own
distinguished and majestic way. Jorah, therefore, one day even dared caressing
the dragon’s snout, on Tyrion’s suggestion (“He is an animal! You would cuddle
and scratch your dog, wouldn’t you?”). To be completely honest, Jorah had
feared for an instant Tyrion was trying to kill him upon finding out in some
book he could take over as a dragonrider if, Gods and demons alike forbid,
Jorah was killed. Little did Jorah know that he was not hitting so far from the
mark: Tyrion was very open to the possibility of Rhaegal killing Jorah. The
little Lannister convinced himself that knowledge had its price, and there was
no other way to learn how to communicate with the beasts so far than by doing.
Therefore, someone had to try and begin some sort of communication…Tyrion’s
subconscious suggested another explanation, but his rational mind dismissed the
thought of a childish reaction of envy towards the dragonrider. Lucky for
Jorah, Rhaegal appreciated the display of affection, and – although it made it
clear that it was not an animal made for cuddling – he started showing Jorah
when and how he could scratch it.
Viserion appeared too along his brother, sometimes, but it remained distant. It
only accepted food: it was clearly used to Jorah, whom Tyrion had then renamed
“Father of Dragons”, but it took some time to the cream-white dragon to allow
Tyrion to come near itself. Needless to say, Tyrion was the happiest man on
earth the day Viserion let him come near and accepted some roasted goat from
him.
The only person Jorah did not see was Penny. Practical-minded as he had become
due to his numerous trials and disasters in life, he usually did not worry much
for the young woman, whom he never planned or wished to take along, after all.
On the other hand, he had become accustomed to her presence. He had no reason
to wish her unwell: he had even actively advised Tyrion about how to protect
her from trouble and maybe even harm on the Selaesori Qhoran.
Strange, he thought. Why isn’t she around anymore? Jorah hypothesized that
maybe she had resorted to staying in her room the same way he had once
suggested her to stay in her cabin. After a few days, the big knight concluded
that his hypothesis was reasonable enough, and tried to discard his pessimistic
thoughts about the matter.
--
One night, Jorah slept so deep and so long that he startled when he felt and
heard somebody shaking him. “Ser Jorah! Ser Jorah!” called a sweet voice. He
opened his eyes and found little Missandei waking him up, along with Irri and
Jhiqui attending to something (he wasn’t completely awake) in the same room.
Jorah was surprised to see the young handmaiden in his room. He had known Irri
and Jhiqui for long, but the little girl from Naath was a more recent
acquaintance and they never had many exchanges between her arrival into
Daenerys’s entourage and his exile. Still a little numb and dumb, he blinked a
few times. It was Missandei indeed. Well, it was time to get to know her
better, apparently. “Good morning, Missandei.”
“Good morning, Ser Jorah.”
The other two handmaidens joined the greetings: “Good morning, Jorah Andahli”
they said in Dothraki. At least they had no mocking grin on their face, as it
had been when he had to let his “wounds” tended…He finally noticed why they
were doing: they had brought a pile of fabric, probably clothes.
The light outside was very strong, and he suspected he might have slept longer
than he usually did. Missandei was looking at the big knight intently. Was she
wondering why an old man like him had slept like a baby?
“How are you, Ser Jorah?” she spoke.
“I am fine, thank you. And you?” Amazing conversation.
“This one is fine, thank you. Lord Tyrion sent me to you.”
“Lord Tyrion?” Lord of what? What had happened while he was sleeping? Had he
been sleeping for a night only, or did something extraordinary happen again?
Jorah hoped for a while to be still dreaming, maybe a vision induced by the
boy-crow. Although, if that was the case, Tyrion being a Lord continued
bothering him.
“He wanted to be sure you were rested, and he also asked me to bring those in
your chambers” and she pointed at a stack of old books, and then reprised her
intent observation of Jorah’s features.
She might be scared by the demon tattoo Jorah thought.
Missandei was, indeed, watching the demon face on his cheek, but it was not
because she was scared. “You did not submit.” She simply said.
Jorah understood. “No, I did not.”
“You are a man who likes to do things his own way.”
“Are there people who don’t want things their own way?” Jorah answered gruffly,
and honestly, as he was used to.
“There are people who learn to accept things, or who get accustomed to letting
things go, or simply do not resist much and give up fighting after a while.
This is one thing you share with the Queen, though: you are both strong-headed
to a fault.”
Jorah smiled.
“You gave her those books.” It was a statement, not a question. Jorah nodded.
“She took them out after she sent you away, and read them, you know?” Jorah
stared in surprise. “She missed you.”
Now the surprise was total. “She did?”
“I saw her with my eyes. Lord Tyrion says to keep them, maybe re-read them. He
also wants you to take a bath and then join him first in his room, and from
there you will go together to the pillared hall. You are to take part in the
first official ruling council since you won the battle. Irri and Jhiqui have
brought you new breeches, new shirts, and a new surcoat. Tyrion says he had it
made like the one you lost when enslaved: he remembered it quite good, and
there was also your coat of arms on one of the books. It is not wool though, he
warns you. It is no place to wear wool.”
“Tyrion must have forgotten that winter is coming.”
Jorah’s statement sounded very strange to the three handmaidens, who stared at
him like he were a madman. The knight decided to let it go.
Irri said: “Your bath is ready, Jorah Andahli. You go in Tyrion’s chamber.
After, you go with him to Ser Grandfather.”
“Who, I presume, is Ser Barristan.”
The girls giggled. “Daario names him so. All now name him so. Is funny. Is not
a khal, is a grandfather.”
Jorah was surprised to hear a Dothraki using the Westerosi concept of
grandfather. In a khalasar, either one was able to fight and earn honour – and
Ser Barristan was a fine swordsman and warrior, nicknamed the Bold not in vain
– or one was not, and therefore was either dead or one of those on the cart.
But probably the girls, after being exposed to Westerosi for so long, had
absorbed more and more of their culture. It had not been much different for
him.
And of course the Dothraki girls would find Daario Naharis so funny, with his
arakh, his lithe body, his flamboyant appearance.
--
Jorah hurried to Tyrion’s room. The young Lannister greeted him as if nothing
had happened at all –  Jorah suspected many, many things had happened, instead
– and as if just a few hours from their last long conversation about strategies
had passed.
“Tyrion, what is going on here? I cannot avoid but feeling a little left out.”
“My dear Jorah, I have prepared everything we need to push through in order to
strengthen our position at Daenerys’ court.”
“And, of course, you did not feel the need to keep me involved, or even
informed.”
Tyrion ignored Jorah’s remark completely. “We need strategic power to reach our
goals, politically and, well, you know what else. I only need you to share your
knowledge about the Greyjoys, and occasionally to remember the audience all you
have done for Daenerys. About the Greyjoys…what feelings does the name ‘Euron’
awaken in you?”
“Nothing good, but I suspect somehow you already discovered enough about him,
and by ‘enough’ I mean something you could not have learned at Casterly Rock,
or in King’s Landing.”
“I expect something more than ‘nothing good’, but…yes, I happen to know that
Victarion will try to present himself as the King or Lord of the Iron Islands,
or the prospective King or Lord, counting on our relative isolation from
Westeros…whereas in reality he has been sent by Euron. And many people among
the Ironborn fear this Euron more than anything, dragons included. So, what is
your contribution?”
“Victarion was the hand your kin saw attack your fleet during their rebellion,
but Euron was the mastermind behind it. Victarion might claim he never gave up
the Old Way, but Euron does not have to claim it. He is the Old Way made flesh,
and probably even more than that. The rumours you heard on Westeros, or even
here, don’t do him any justice, I believe. He loved raiding: many raiders we
caught openly named him as their inspiration; not Quellon, not Balon, but
Euron. From what we caught, the man has been meddling in things no one would
dare even approach, and before he fled he apparently gave some specific
instructions and a few hints to a few, ahem, supporters of him. If he, as I
seem to understand here, has come back from Essos after a trip to places
abandoned by most men, well…nothing good can come of that. There are dark
things in Essos, very dark things. It might be that whatever touched me and
Daenerys that day in the tent is only a tiny portion of the horrors hidden in
this part of the earth. But…what of Balon?”
“Oh, Balon died in mysterious circumstances, we were told in King’s Landing. Of
course, the Ironborn have no doubt that Balon was killed by Euron, who is now
the self-styled King.”
“The Others take all the Greyjoys! If that is true…”
“Aren’t we actively exploring dark things as well? What do you worry about,
dragonrider? You came out of a tent where a witch was meddling with spirits. It
did not improve your looks, but you came to control a dragon. Whatever Euron
did in Essos, we are not so far behind, or at least I have reason to believe
that you are not so far behind. However, today our focus is more political than
that. Victarion has been carefully omitting that he is here on behalf of his
brother. Which means…he does not like his brother, but he wants to use him. I
see an opening here for us.”
“I guess…I’ll just have to trust you. After all, I’ve seeing you plotting, and
you saved my life. And I’ve seen you playing cyvasse.”
--
If Ser Barristan had thought a council would bring some calm and order in
Meereen, he was very wrong.
Tyrion Lannister officially declaring his personal war on the remaining
Lannisters of Casterly Rock and thus explaining his decision of joining forces
with Queen Daenerys went smoothly: no one really cared for the morality of his
reasons, but wanted to test the strength thereof, and his degree of motivation.
Barristan only had to advise him to leave out the part about raping his sister
when reporting to the Queen. Ser Jorah luckily backed him on that point.
The tension around Ser Jorah was tangible. Daario Naharis was not a stupid man,
and he could not like the idea of having around a man so stupidly in love with
his lover; therefore, he was the first one to speak against the knight, whom he
described as a big, brutish man with a long history of despicable deeds. Of
course, Daario’s motivations had no chance to be considered impartial, since he
had boasted a lot of his special connection and services to the Queen, and
since the Queen’s satisfaction had often been loud enough to back his claim.
Not to mention that a sellsword criticising a knight for his conduct was a
clear case of crow calling the raven black. Many others who did not know Jorah
well enough openly did not trust him, first and foremost the sellswords
commanders, with the exception of Ben Plumm. Ben was strangely sneering, and
observing the turmoil calmly but intently. He only added that the man had
crossed back through Essos just to help defend his Queen’s city, was a big and
strong man with a rich battle experience, and was more worth having on one’s
own side than on the enemy’s side, or in the soil mucking it. The same degree
of distrust the sellswords commanders showed came from the other Meereenese
supporters of Daenerys as well – the four guardsmen of the late king, and
Skahaz. A strange silence came from Grey Worm and Marselen. The Dothraki, on
the contrary, remembered Jorah’s behaviour towards Daenerys from the beginning,
and said that deeds mattered more than anything. Victarion said that he had not
been present, and he couldn’t know enough to speak on the case, but that on the
Iron Island the man would have been killed immediately in some cruel manner for
treason, no discussion needed.
That had opened the gates to all seven hells at once.
Tyrion Lannister had asked to speak again. “Lord Victarion, what does on the
Iron Island count for treason? Hiding that it is your brother Euron, self-
styled King of the Isles and the North, who sent you there? Claiming his plot
and his power as yours? Oh, and you probably are sincere in your heart, because
you mean to turn your cloak on your brother…but still, you are as much of a
two-timing bastard as our Jorah was for a while, if not more. Only there is no
doubt where Jorah’s true loyalties lie now, and have been lying for a while.
You, Lord Victarion, are most likely only loyal to yourself instead. So you
should better be careful when you accuse others, for the same measure could be
applied to you. For this reason, I advise you to accept Jorah as one of the
many men who will fight for Daenerys, unless you don’t want to have your ships
confiscated. Because Jorah can easily do that, or have you forgotten who is the
dragonrider here? Instead, you will confess you are here to ally with Daenerys
in hope to gain personal glory and achieve personal goals, as almost all of us
are. You will be allowed to raid our enemies on the way to Westeros and in
Westeros, in a manner and amount that is to be discussed with the Queen
herself. We will find an agreement that benefits both Daenerys’ cause and your
one. But you will cooperate, and you will not complain. No, Ser Barristan did
not know any of this. But I thought wise of me to start putting my resources in
service of Queen Daenerys before being formally accepted as an ally. And I am
glad I did, for no one wants allies whose interest and motivation is unclear."
Victarion, although as red as a priest of the God of Light, knew when he was
cornered, and knew when it wasn’t the case to push it. It wasn’t bending the
knee: it was just adapting to the situation.
If anybody thought the worst part was over, this somebody was very wrong.
Tyrion had to establish his position at court, and what strategy to win people
over was better than displaying his skills while at the same time uncovering
someone’s faults?
Thus, Tyrion’s next victim was none other than the Hand of the Queen and acting
regent himself.
“So, Ser Barristan, let me see if I have understood correctly. Daenerys exiled
the man who formed her, the Westerosi who seems to know every fucking thing
about Essos, the man who advised her to buy Unsullied, elite soldiers who – if
not bought by her – would have been bought by someone else. This someone else
would not have freed them, presumably, but would have let them live out their
days of service in that misery that is enslavement. I know much about it. This
someone else also might have used the Unsullied against the Queen. The queen
exiled the man who always gave her practical-minded advice, like the one of
heading straight to Westeros instead of entangling in Ghiscari politics.
She exiled him because, you tell me, ‘He was arrogant’. I hear now he simply
stated that his deeds have always been for the queen’s cause, that he fought
for her and saved her life multiple times, and that he never once acted against
her. For these reasons, he thought a forgiveness would only be a formality. I
know this man: he is not one who speaks courtly and pleasantly, so I imagine he
must have been the usual rude and gruff bear, even when pleading his cause. I
met his father too: there is nothing that can be done to improve the Mormonts’
manners, I fear. However, what kind of advisor lets a queen exile a man out of
personal feelings?
My father usually punished my horrible nephew, the late King Joffrey, when he
threw a tantrum. You actively encouraged her to exile a man because…the idea of
being betrayed hurt her inside more than the betrayal itself actually hurt her
bodily, or concretely. Good advisors would have made her see that a ruler who
succumbs to emotions, or to childish visions and reactions, is no good ruler.
And in case you want to argue that Daenerys had to re-establish that she was
the queen and that Jorah should not have dared to tell the queen what to do… my
father also openly told my nephew that a king who has to say ‘I am the king’ is
no king. If she feels challenged by a sincere and devoted advisor contradicting
her, then she probably is no fit to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And neither are
you to advise her.
You, Ser Barristan, were happy to get rid of Ser Jorah: you had spoken against
the dishonour of buying slave soldiers, and in favour of…what kind of honour,
exactly? Your honourable plan was asking the man who - in league with her
deluded brother -   sold Daenerys’s maidenhead to a Dothraki khal for an army.
An army paid by whom? Paid by… him? I don’t know if it is worse seen from the
perspective of honour or from the perspective of strategy. Those who pay
minstrels and fools get to choose what songs and acts they play at the feast.
You would have had her owned by a cheesemonger. Again.
Oh, and having Quentyn Martell crisped by Rhaegal… oh, I am sure Doran will be
happy to have yet another family member killed in terrible circumstances. The
one family that would have backed a revenge on the Lannisters without any
thought…now alienated.
Seriously, Barristan, is there something that has not turned to shit since
Jorah was exiled? As soon as my dragon saddle is ready, Jorah is going to look
for her. What should we tell her?”
“I suppose you forgot to mention my actions against Hizdahr in your
recounting…”
“Oh, no, Ser Barristan, supporting a coup was your one fine moment as a
politician. But I fear you are probably regretting doing it, because it was
dishonourable.
Another thing, Ser Barristan: have you ever asked yourself who might this
elusive ‘Harpy’ be, or how many ‘Harpies’ there might truly be in this city’”
Tyrion asked.
Ser Barristan had no good answer to this question. Since he was not only a man
without a good answer, but also a man who did not like dishonour and lies, he
started thinking of an honest response. His reply, obviously, never came, or at
least not soon enough for Tyrion.
“Queen Daenerys and you have occupied a city, and have destroyed their social
and economic system. As terrible and unjust as it was, it was their way of
life. However, apart from destroying slavery, it seems like Daenerys had no
concrete idea about how to rebuild this city. It also seems to me that you, my
dear knight, never dared challenge her with this observation. Therefore, we are
here today to discuss about bands of locals trying to gain something from the
utter chaos you have brought to them. The most passionate supporters of freedom
against slavery have, of course, found their place in Daenerys’ court, or are
happy of this new world, starving and plagues aside…but the former slavers and
many other people without strong convictions are still looking for a new place
in the future. And some of them have been hired by the Yunkai’i. It is not just
slavers fighting you, Barristan. Many people suspect Daenerys will one day
leave Slaver’s Bay, and even if she does not, they know they all have to fight
for a position in the society that will rise from the ashes of what had been.
They are fighting for this: for a place in the future. And they are divided in
many different groups, all fighting each other, most of them fighting you as
well, some of them revelling in chaos. What do you say, my dear Shakaz? How do
you like the chaos you precipitated this city into?”
Shakaz went as red as Ser Barristan, a result that made Tyrion very proud.
“Oh, don’t be so modest. I admit the idea of planning a few violent actions
that could have been blamed on your enemies, just to reinforce a more violent
course against the Ghiscari nobility and against all enemies or moderates was a
good one. Pity I found out nonetheless. Well, there is no such thing as a
perfect plan. A plan that is uncovered as such ceases to be a good plan, and
thus cannot be a perfect plan by definition.”
“If a sharper course would have been chosen, we would probably be rid of the
true Harpies by now.”
“Right now, you only managed to get innocent hostages killed under your nose by
the same enemy you claim you want to get rid of. The funny thing is, your
actions made the Harpy’s actions possible, and vice versa. You were busy
killing Hizdahr and the Harpy’s men were busy killing the hostages. I will not
mention the fact that you know very well who the Harpy is, but prefer not to
tell, because fighting underground and grooming chaos and hatred is much better
in your opinion.”
Ser Barristan had to ask: “May we know who the Harpies are then, since it seems
that I am only a terrible man, and considering that I don’t know who they are?”
“Oh, my dear Barristan, I only said that everything turned to shit since you
gained more power in this court. I never made a judgement about your person,
whom I actually hold in great esteem, as long as you don’t try to be a
politician. Anyway, I guess you will be pleased to learn that the, let’s call
it ‘official’ Harpy is somebody you did not trust much. The local high
priestess, Galazza Galare.”
Jorah had developed a huge headache so far. He was not the only one, to be
honest, but he was the only one who dared interrupt by asking: “How did you
find out all these things?”
“Oh, my dear bear. I will say it when I am finished, and I am not finished. The
council has to know that some killings were actually backed by the Yunkai’i and
not by the, let us call them, realSons of the Harpy. And the most daring
attempted murder was actually backed by a Qartheen group of…wizards,
shadowbinders, whatever you want to call them.”
Qarth. “You mean the Warlocks of Qarth?” asked Jorah, all too familiar with the
group of dark magic meddlers and their pursuits.
“Oh, yes. They seem to hold a big grudge against Daenerys. I guess you might
know more about the reasons of said grudge. They do not love you either, or the
Dothraki, for all that matters. So you’d better watch out.”
“It is an honour when feelings are reciprocated.”
“Anyway, in case some here have not understood, the Qartheen tried to kill
Daenerys with the poisoned locusts. And the most interesting thing is…Shakaz
knew, but did not do anything to prevent such an attempt, because he was sure
Hizdahr or the Harpy or both would have been blamed for it. Which was something
that worked for his plan.”
Tyrion continued analysing Meereen’s political situation for a very long time,
convincing everybody that he was the only one with an understanding, a plan and
a vision for the city. Not that it wasn’t true, after all: he had a lot of
experience, and had wisely used Jorah, Ben Plumm, Missandei, and many other
people in order to learn quickly and proficiently about Essos and Meereen.
And even if he hadn’t convinced everybody with his recognition and his
proposals, the Second Sons and the Unsullied men watching over the council,
heavily armed, would have been ready to play their part, a part they had been
taught efficiently by Tyrion’s promises of gold from Casterly Rock, and of
another dimension of freedom.
The council ended with Tyrion hailed as the new regent, a prospective Hand of
the Queen – if Daenerys would agree, of course - , and – since he was a
considerate man – head of a Triumvirate with Barristan and Jorah, a trio meant
to offer combined and different expertise in political, social, economic and
military matters to the new, extended ruling council. Tyrion had to restrain
himself in order not to laugh at the idea of Jorah being an advisor in economic
affairs, and then again at the idea of him dealing with slavers. The
Triumvirate was also meant to honour the Targaryen’s three-headed dragon –
Daenerys would be the “rider” that would ride such a “beast” – Tyrions’s
fantasy and eloquence had no boundaries. Tyrion’s plan was to be discussed in
detail in the following weeks, but was summarily announced in his main points.
They included:
- launching a development plan for the Bay (new name urgently needed) and for
Meereen, based on a multi-cultural approach and on broadening their trade;
- launching some urgent public works in order to improve hygiene and stop the
spreading of diseases. Dragons would be used to burn corpses or infected
materials;
- implementing, under the ruling council’s control, an agreement on wages of
former slaves, meant to refund former slavers by means of reducing costs and
taxes, and to ensure former slaves that they would still have a roof over their
heads, something to eat, and something to wear, no matter what;
- quick and merciless handling of any threat to the Queen and to the Queen’s
council. Trial by combat was abolished (yet another hilarious point for
Tyrion);
- planning several “expeditions” in order to gather “wealth and rewards” for
all the Queen’s “new friends” (Ironborn, sellswords, Dothraki).
--
Jorah had to ask Tyrion afterwards: “How…did you discover all those details?”
“Oh, my dear Jorah, if I must be honest, I have to thank you for it.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You inspired me. Buying your pardon by spying on the Targaryens, working
for the Spider, buying another pardon by selling me to Daenerys…your ideas are
pretty good, deep down. You recognise opportunities. I think your fault lies
somewhere in the application. You are a practical-minded man, but also quick to
rage, and you have your own tender heart: you get attached to people, to
places; now that I know you better I would also dare say you’d probably get
bored by sticking to a plan relentlessly… it makes for a perfect dragonrider,
but pleaseleave the plotting to me.”
“You still haven’t told me how you did it.”
“My dear Ser Bear, I have used someone who also wanted to be used, and who
wanted to use me. I struck a good deal with someone who was too happy to be a
part of such a deal.”
A few instants of searching for an answer to the riddle, and then a bitter
“Penny. You used Penny. That’s why I never saw her recently.”
“Why the despising tone, my Bear? As I said, you inspired me. Spare me the
comments about you changing your allegiance to Daenerys, or about my less than
admirable reputation as a motivation to make a prisoner out of me. Learn how to
push your schemes through, instead. You will win back all the islands you want
to have.”
--
Another fitful sleep for Ser Jorah Mormont, after his – and Tyrion’s – very
successful first political council, was a well-deserved prize.
Every night, though, has to surrender before a sunrise. However, the reason
Jorah had awoken now was not the filtering light, or one of the handmaiden
coming in. Not even an Unsullied soldier barging in.
That morning the sun was not the only thing to rise…Another phenomenon had
occurred that was probably one of the concurring reasons for Jorah’s
spontaneous sleep interruption.
It had been so long since Jorah Mormont had awakened with a glorious state of
arousal, or had an erection in general: he esteemed it must have been probably
since he was exiled. The poor girl in Selhorys had tried to make him hard by
squirming on his lap, and he had honestly thought a girl with silver hair could
have succeeded, even though she was not the real thing but a poor young woman
forced to earn money for her master like that. Nevertheless, it had not worked.
He had been four times happy it had not worked.
The first, because Jorah Mormont had never, never once had to pay for sex in
his life. He had to say his thanks to Bear Island’s lifestyle, to his two
beloved wives, to a few tavern girls in Volantis, to the Dothraki lifestyle.
His interest and skills in lovemaking, not to mention to a good disposition
towards self-satisfaction, had helped too.
The second, because his love for Daenerys was nothing a quick fuck with an
illusion could compare with.
The third, because had he successfully reached an erection and disappeared with
the girl in Selhorys, he would have never seen Tyrion and kidnapped him.
The fourth, because - considering his usual luck - somehow someone somewhere
would have surely learnt he had paid a slave for something, and he would have
had yet another negative consequence to deal with.
His rock-hard morning wood was apparently back, though, and therefore,
probably, his capability of having an erection in general was officially back
too. He almost felt uneasy: it was like a new sensation, after so much time.
He often slept naked, like he had done that night, so he lifted the blanket and
the covers and looked at that once very familiar sight. His manhood, long,
broad enough for his length, smooth as velvet except for his hairy base, with
big pumping veins, was leaning against his stomach, whose muscles underneath
had become more evident thanks to his enslavement and his renewed warrior
lifestyle. Once the moment of awe for the return of a once normal reaction of
his body was past, his mind switched very quickly to different thoughts.
This time, not only his hand, but also his mind took care of his arousal. There
was only one woman in his heart, only one woman he had thought of during his
pleasure during the last two years, and that woman was now here with him in his
imagination. It was not his calloused, strong hand: instead, in his fantasy, it
was Daenerys’ hand that had taken his cock, squeezed it and started stroking it
slowly. A fantasy in which they shared a bed and their lives, and in which she
would be delighted to awaken beside him, having him hard, and to wake him up
like that.
It was a sweet pleasure, but after a few strokes, it was not enough.
In his fantasy, he would have told her, or she would have understood it.
He spat in his hand, then, and imagined that, after a few caresses to her
mound, her clit and her folds, and a languid kiss, Daenerys would straddle him
to rub herself on his cock, thus teasing them both.
It was not his saliva, but her incredibly warm, slick and arousing wetness on
his rod; her folds and her clit on his velvety skin. She would be incredibly
aroused as well, and she would enjoy having him in such a submissive yet
pleasurable role; she would make herself ready for him using him, yet giving
him some torture-like pleasure as well. And then, his silvery and fiery queen
would finally need him too much to continue that delicious foreplay, and would
take him in her hand to impale herself. Some more saliva and a tighter grip
followed this fictional moment playing in his mind. His strokes became more
accurate, and more vigorous, and he imagined Daenerys riding him, searching for
all the right angles to reach all the orgasms he could make her feel with his
very willing and experienced body. Her long silvery strands and her teats
bouncing, she would sometimes down at him, her eyes dimmed by pleasure, her
face and expressions deformed by it; her hands on his chest, then on his
shoulders, sometimes just lying there, sometimes rubbing and caressing; his
hands on her thighs, on her hips, with some detour on her sensitive nipples and
teats; his hips only just rocking a little. His cock would drown in her, his
body and mind would be monopolised by pleasant sensations, as would her mind
and her body. Her wet cunt would swallow the hard and scorching hot shaft,
rejoicing in every single stroke, loving every single inch of it, rubbing her
clit on his body when needed, to give her some quick orgasms that would leave
her wanting for more, discovering new nuances of pleasure. Only the sounds of
his cock hammering vigorously in Daenerys’ copious wetness, and their moans and
whispers of pleasure would be heard. The incredible beauty and bliss of a hard
cock sliding up and down a warm and sopping cunt between moans and screams of
pleasure would be the only things that would matter. After a while, she would
find the need for a deeper penetration, the kind where she only relied on his
cock to rub her favourite internal spot and bring her to the most totalizing
and shattering kind of orgasm. As soon as she would adjust her rhythm and
movement accordingly, he would then reciprocate her blows by pounding her in
return, gripping her hips tightly and rocking his own. She would bend over
quickly to savour his passionate and warm tongue, to taste his lips, and he
would give in gladly. He would also taste her neck, and lick and suck her
nipples, making her moan even louder than before. Then she would sit up
straight once again, to ensure his tip rubbed the exact spot she wanted to
stimulate…only a few hard, powerful strokes and she would come once again, in
the most beautiful way she could climax…
…and Jorah’s hand increased his speed accordingly…
…and then he pictured her, screaming for the incredible and deep pleasure,
flooding his throbbing cock and his balls even more, and clenching him, his
hardness making her waves of ecstasy even more powerful. With this image he
reached his climax as well, as he imagined he would do after seeing her come
like that, flooding her already drenched cunt with his cum, an incredible
explosion of blissful sensations taking possession of his whole body and mind.
His warm, creamy seed actually shot on his chest, smirching the hair between
his bulging pectoral muscles. He spilled a lot: after all, it had been a very
long time. Somehow, in the limbo of the immediate aftermath of his orgasm, he
even found this sensation erotic and pleasant.
But soon the blissful evasion from reality was over, and Jorah found himself
alone, naked, with his seed on his chest. The terrible sensation of being split
between the pleasure he had just felt and the fact that the only warmth he
would like to feel on his chest would be Daenerys’ head, looking for some rest
and tenderness after one of their lovemaking sessions.
He missed her, in every possible way. He missed his Queen as a knight and as a
politician; he missed the woman he had somehow befriended; he missed that what
he had never had but he still wanted and dreamed of.
He also felt confused. He had wanted to come back and serve her, maybe even die
in her service, acknowledging he might even die without ever seeing her again.
He wished she would at least know he had given himself to her completely as an
advisor and as a friend, long ago, when he had written Varys not to look for
him anymore. Yet his heart’s and his body’s wishes hinted at something more
than that.
It was a difficult situation…almost as difficult as the one of a big knight
standing in the middle of his room looking for some piece of fabric to wipe
himself clean, cursing. Fearing that someone come into his room and find him
like that, he quickly grabbed his old shirt and wiped the signs of his morning
ritual away, then refreshed himself and started dressing up, his heart still
torn between anger and sadness.
A few slow and deep breaths restored Jorah back to a more normal state. He
planned to go riding Rhaegal, and to fight a little in order to get rid of his
sadness…and in order to feel some hope again.
 
 
 
 
 
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