Jorah Mormont leant against the slimy stone wall of the cell and hung his head. The noise and smell of the dungeon had brought on nightmares of the belly of the slavers ship.
He never thought he would have been brought that low in his life. He'd been beaten, chained to an oar and flogged without mercy. Part of him wished the slavers had killed him when they took their ship. Not that they hadn't given it a good shot.
Jorah had killed at least three of the raiders before they overwhelmed him. Some of the crewmates of the dead men were tying a rope to the yard arm ready to hang him, when their captain put a stop to it. Slaves who could use a sword sold for more coin. The captain may have stopped his men hanging Jorah, but he turned a blind eye to the beating they gave him.
Wore still the memory of being branded was the most vivid. They had dragged him from his oar and up onto deck. Jorah was expecting another beating but they had pinned him to the deck, kneeling on this back. He had now idea what they were going to do, until the captain yanked his head around. It was then he saw the branding iron and started to fight the men holding him down. A fierce kick to the head, then white hot agony and the smell of burning skin and hair. Thankfully unconsciousness came soon after.
The next time he came to his face so swollen he could hardly open his eyes. He went to reach up to touch his battered face but a filthy hand reached out to stop him.
"Best not to touch it." An old man told him.
"Burns." Jorah rasped.
"Aye, it be the brand." The old man told him. "Unruly and dangerous slave are ye? Don't look it!" He laughed. "Don't pick it. It'll heal in time, either that or the rot will get you." He chuckled with a toothless smile.
Jorah laid back and closed his swollen eyelids. Every part of him ached or throbbed with its own rhythm. He welcomed the blackness when it finally came for him again.
When the had wind died off, Jorah was given over to the galley, where the slaves had to row, three men to an oar, for hours at a time. Failure to keep up earned each man on the oar, a lash from galley masters whip. It seemed to take weeks before the ship docked at Mereen. Slavers stayed at sea, pirating and pillaging until their holds were full, then they would return to land to sell their wares. Jorah didn't see Penny or Tyrion during that time. Dwarfs probably weren't much use at rowing and he assumed they were already dead.
When they landed Jorah and the other prisoners were stripped of their remaining clothes and shackled hand and foot. It was while he waited in the cells beneath the fighting pit that Jorah heard word that Danerys had married some Mereenese noble. She had even allowed the fighting pits to be re-opened.
Jorah couldn't understand it. How could a woman so against slavery allow men to be sold to the pits to fight to the death? His addled mind could not come up with an answer that satisfied him. He knew she would never love him as he wanted and her marriage hurt enough. But all he wanted was to serve her again, but any hopes he had of redemption died with the knowledge that he was destined for those same fighting pits.