JORAH
He could glimpse just over the hill they were climbing the flapping banners of House Frey.
Finally, Ser Jorah Mormont thought. A warm hearth and sweet wine. But only for a night. That's all Father will allow. As always.
He glanced at the Old Bear, as he heard the men-at-arms call him in their cups, standing tall in the saddle, chin held high, more-white-than-brown beard bouncing with the momentum. They had stayed and cleaned up the remaining loyalist men in the riverlands as the new Lord Stark had commanded him; now the two-hundred-and-fifty strong host was marching to King's Landing, down the kingsroad, to swear loyalty to a man that they had sworn to kill a year ago.
Jorah sighed at the irony of it all as they approached the Crossing.
The Twins, the ancient seat of House Frey, were said to have been founded six-hundred years ago. The stone looked ancient enough; it looked as old and crumbled as at least a thousand. Two identical castles stood on either side of the Green Fork, both as foreboding as the family that controlled them. Jorah could see the large, arching stone bridge connecting both of the castles. A small tower in the exact center of the crossing stood vigilant, looking insignificant to the two castles on either side of it.
It took the Freys three generations to build this? He had heard somewhere that the Crossing had started from two keeps made of timber, and Jorah could see that the three generations of Freys did not make a great amount of progress, in his eyes.
Jorah smirked. "I see the Freys went through the seven hells and back to make this monstrosity," he remarked sarcastically.
The Old Bear gave his son a sharp look, Jorah looking off in the distance, pretending not to notice. "The Freys are a proud and established house, Jorah. The Crossing is more fortified than it looks."
"Aye, as was Harrenhal, but look at it now, Father. A mere shadow of its former greatness, a relic of history. And the Twins could be one as well, if they refuse our passing."
Jeor's eyes flared with anger. "And who's going to take one of the most defensible positions in the Seven Kingdoms with two-hundred men? You?" He chuckled. "Don't be so pig-headed, my son. I raised you better than that. That 'monstrosity' is our only way of getting across the Green Fork to the Kingsroad, and you will not ruin that with some petty insults to the Freys, especially in their or my presence. Is that understood, Jorah?"
Jorah sighed, nodding.
As they reached the base of the hill, the trail down to the first moat into the Twins was open and fast. The drawbridge was already lowered. The moats were more impressively deep than Jorah would have thought; they looked petty from a distance, but up close, he would never have even thought there was a bottom if he did not know better. The portcullis on the other side of the wooden drawbridge, the entrance to the barbican on the same side, was not yet open.
Walder Frey seems so confident in his defenses he might as well just invite the enemy in for a feast to feed them before they take the castle.
Jorah could spot archers watching them from the high curtain walls above them. He, and probably every other knight in the realm as well, hated archers; cowardly, they sit behind walls and ranks of men as their braver comrades below or in front of them are cut down by the enemy. This may be Jorah's first war, but he knew the basics of what archers' tasks in battle were.
The portcullis opened for three knights with the twin towers of House Frey embroidered on their coats, accompanied by ten men-at-arms, with the same device on theirs, five on either side of the three mounted Frey knights.
The one in the front of all of them resembled an exact representation of a weasel; his grey eyes brought that out even more. The man was either in his forties or his fifties; it made little difference to Jorah. His chin was raised proudly and pompously when he yelled out "Who approaches our honorable hold?"
The Old Bear rode forward. "I and the men under me, my lord. I have the honor to be Jeor Mormont, Lord of Bear Island and bannerman of Lord Eddard Stark. We seek to cross the Fork, Lord Frey, and a warm hearth and meal, if you would be so kind."
The knight on the left, wrapped in a thick grey wool cloak from top to bottom, shifted in his seat. This one was fat, Jorah could see, even under all those wrappings. His small eyes were well visible past his hood. "We have a tower and some bread, Lord Mormont. Times are hard, you understand, what with the war and all. Haven't gotten any passers-by come to cross in quite some time."
Jorah could stay quiet no longer. "Aye, the war you were late to, Frey."
"Silence," Jeor snapped at him. He turned back to the Freys, all smiles. "We will take anything we can get, Lord Frey. Just let us cross and we will be no trouble."
The fat one stirred once more. "Lord Walder, my grandfather, would not take such a comment from one so lowly as that one" he pointed at Jorah "without retaliation."
Jorah chuckled. "And you would, obviously, as there you stand, taking my 'comment' with no retaliation. Speak with your sword and not your mouth, Frey." He fingered the hilt of his sword.
The leading knight shot a glance to the fat Frey and turned back to them, smiling. "Of course we shall let you cross, my lords Mormont. Chambers are open to you and your men in the Water Tower, as are our kitchens. Once you are clean and settled we will provide you with a well-made and hot meal in our hall." He grinned and signaled for the portcullis to re-open. "Welcome to the Twins."
Jorah's chamber in the Water Tower was much like his rooms on Bear Island; dark, dank, and wet. His bed, much the same as Bear Island as well; hard as a rock and slightly tilted.
The famous Frey hospitality is as expected.
When the servants came to run his warm bath he sent them away; he could fetch his own water. That and he did not trust any of these Freys, not at all.
He thanked the gods for the warm water and the cleanly feeling afterwards. He had not felt so clean in months. He walked over to the damaged looking glass to gaze at his reflection for a moment; he was young but he was still a Mormont, so his burly and hairy frame was no surprise once he reached the age of adulthood. He ran his hairy hand through his coarse, short-cropped hair, eventually getting to his first battle scar he gained at the Trident. Ser Jorah sighed; he still felt the sting on the back of his neck, and the blood of the man-at-arms who gave him the scar spurting all over, running red in the water beneath their feet.
I still remember his face… not even a lad of six-and-ten, recruited into a war he knew nothing about, probably. The battle had been short and indecisive after Robert Baratheon had died, but it still was Jorah's first time killing and fighting in a legitimate battle.
And he would never forget it.
A sharp rasp at the door came. "It's open," Jorah shouted, still staring at his half-naked body, rubbing his scar.
His father came in. He was wearing a brown woolen doublet and pants of the same material, brown leather gloves covering his large and burly hands. No sword swung at his side, which now seemed unusual, even though now there was no need of it. He eyed Jorah up and down. "Would you like to explain yourself?"
"You mean my being wet and half-naked?" He pointed to the tub. "You know what that is, don't you?"
"You know what I mean, Jorah. Enough of this stupidity, enough of the sarcastic attitude. Explain why you disobeyed me in front of our host."
Jorah snatched a white, loose woolen shirt and slipped it on, lacing it up to tighten it. "The Fat Frey first attempted to deny us entry, then threatened us, Father. What else was I supposed to do?"
"Let it go, fool, it was not a life or death situation," Anger was in the Old Bear's tone.
"No, it was not, just the honor of our house."
"The honor of our house?" He stomped angrily toward Jorah, now only a couple feet away from him. "Jorah, you are more pig-headed than I thought. You dishonor our house by being incited by small slights such as the one Ryman Frey delivered today."
Ryman, Ryman, remember that name…
After an hour of scolding, the Old Bear and he headed off to the Freys feasting hall.
Jorah was right about one thing; the Freys had much more than just bread for food. The first course was a thick stew of leeks and carrots and peas and all sorts of other greens. Then came a salad of green beans and carrots and lettuce, with a side of vinegar to pour over it. Four trenchers of dried beef came next, along with more trenchers of salted trout, which was slightly burnt. Wine and a thick and unsavory mead was served all throughout.
When they got to the main course, three giant turkeys stuffed with all sorts of vegetables and lathered with lemon juice, almost all the Freys were well and truly into their cups. They all were dancing and singing 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' nonstop as the northmen dug into the food and covered themselves with wine and beer.
Jorah did not take his eyes off of Ryman Frey the entire time, sitting one seat below his father Ser Stevron, who was the leading knight on the drawbridge, and even he sat one seat below the massive high seat made of black oak, which was vacant; Lord Walder had went to King's Landing to swear fealty to Rhaegar, leaving Ser Stevron in charge of the Crossing.
Ser Jorah rose when Ser Ryman did to take a piss, but Father pulled him back down, whispering "You will not do this."
Jorah's nostrils flared, but remained seated and silent.
He went back to the Water Tower drunk and stumbling. He puked violently into the Green Fork several times before he reached his chambers.
When he reached his bed, he sighed, chuckling. Seems meat, mead and bile are my only friends tonight, and my lover for eternity.
He did not sleep for hours, coughing up bile several more times into his chamber pot before falling into a deep sleep he never wanted to awake from.
He dreamed of dragons and bears, and blood and fire raining from the sky.
Dawn came to early.