Upon the battlefield, it was not uncommon to smell the rancid odor of burning flesh. Oft times there lacked the time to bury the hundreds of dead that clogged the fields and road. Such bodies were then piled and stacked and burnt to ash and bone. The wind had always seemed to favor Jorah and blow the other way, so his stomach was spared from roiling at the stench.
No breeze could alleviate this reek. The city of King's Landing was burning. It was not the fire of the Targaryens either. Flags sewn with golden lions flew up and down the clogged streets. Houses were burning everywhere as the Lannisters sacked the city. What remained of the City Guard and last vestiges of the royal army were being slaughtered in the streets. The Northern host stood aghast at the gates. Jorah was among them. He'd seen his share of battle, but this was an entirely different animal.
Innocent people ran for the gates, trying to get past the Northern army and out of the city to some dream of safety. Jorah's horse stirred uncomfortably as a woman whose head had clearly been bashed in during the chaos stumbled by, wailing and not realizing that she was minutes from death. He felt a cold sweat trickle down his skin under his armor. This wasn't right. War was not supposed to be like this. They fought in the fields far from places like this, so this exact butchery could be avoided.
"Mind your horses," Lord Stark said at the front of the host. "Help the people if you can. We do not yet know the intentions of these Lannisters. House Mormont, Cassel, and Karstark remain in the City. Bring peace to it." Eddard led the bulk of the force forward, heading for the Red Keep. Jorah motioned his bannerman to him. They'd take the eastern portion of the city. The fires burned heavily there. Perhaps they could keep it from spreading to the marketplace. Leading his battalion forward, Jorah silently observed the chaos.
Each scream and injustice made his jaw tighten harder and harder. Once they reached a wide enough area, he turned his horse and faced his weary men. "Restore order," he commanded them. "Remember your honor. This war is finished. Ensure your blood is not shed in folly." His grim men marched forward, pulling Lannister soldiers away from the looting and throwing water onto the scorched buildings. Jorah rode further down the Eastern road, his horse jumping over a few fallen beams of burnt wood now and then. People were running all about, every single one panicked. A frantic screaming caught his attention, and he searched the crowd for the source.
It was not difficult to find it. Brazenly, in the middle of the street, a Lannister soldier was raping a woman against a crumbling building. She fought at him, scratching and kicking, but the soldier held her fast. The scene bothered him so much, that Jorah dismounted and pushed his way through the crowd to the woman. "Get off of her!" he growled, grabbing the soldier and hauling him off of the sobbing woman. "Lord Stark has taken command of this City," he informed the soldier. "Find your hole elsewhere."
The soldier gave a drunken laugh. It seemed they had raided the alehouses and taverns as well. More to be cleaned up. Lovely. "You cunt," the soldier slurred. "Who do you-hic-think I serve? Not sssome mangy dog. The mad dog. The Mountain. He owns thissss city-hic-now!" he laughed.
Jorah frowned. The Mountain. He was unfamiliar with the name. "That name means nothing to me," he informed the soldier. "Go back to your bunk before you piss yourself."
"Soddin' cunt!" the soldier spat, seeming to remember that he had a sword at his side and was foolishly drunk enough to think he was an expert swordsmen. "Gregor Clegane! Soon to be Ser, if I hear-hic-the truth of it. He just ended the Targaryen line. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys? Nothin' but a ssssmear on the wall now. And that whore Princess Elia?" The soldier laughed wickedly and nodded to the crying woman. "She should be so lucky. My touch is a lot gentler than the Mountain's. Rumor is he split her in two with his cock alone." The soldier laughed hard at that before being struck in the back of the head. The man fell in front of Jorah, knocked out.
"Couldn't stand hearing anymore of that filth," Rodrik Cassel grunted, standing before Jorah. "How are your men?"
"Tired," Jorah replied, giving the older man a bemused look. "Ready to go home." The soldier's words lingered in his mind, and he gave Rodrik a troubled look. "Do you think there's truth in what he said? That the Prince and Princesses are dead?"
Rodrik worried at his whiskers. "I know the name Clegane. They serve Tywin Lannister. If they are true . . . we know who gave the order." He grunted then and shrugged. "But then again, perhaps not. I've heard tale of Gregor before this war. He was a mad dog before he started sitting at Twyin's feet." Rodrik sniffed and looked up at the night sky. Normally, the sky would be glittering down upon them, but the smoke choked the entire horizon black. "This was a nasty war," he said finally. "My men have cleaned up the Western side of the City. Karstarks have taken the middle. Sweep through and meet us at the Keep. If these rumors are true, I don't think our Lord will want to sleep in this place."
The older man left then, and Jorah looked down at the woman who was still sniffling and holding her slit dress to her body. His heart was touched at the sight. Removing his cloak, he knelt and wrapped it around her. "Find somewhere safe," he told her quietly. "The Western side of the City has been cleared of soldiers. You should be alright there." Pulling her carefully to her feet, he reached down for the soldier and grabbed his coin purse. "Here." He placed it in her hands. "It's the least of what he owes you."
The woman's eyes misted over anew, and she held his cloak tighter around her body. "Th-Thank-you, Ser."
Jorah's lips pulled into a small smile. "Just a son, my lady," he said graciously, warmed by the feeling of aiding one in need. She said a small blessing for him, then slipped into the bustling crowd, disappearing from view. Jorah turned his attention elsewhere in the street. His men pulled brawls apart, extinguished fires and managed to send the Lannister soldiers packing for the Keep. He saw relief and reverence in some of the innocent public's faces, and he understood that even in the chaos of war, there were moments of remarkable chivalry and unity.
With the buildings saved that could be saved, and the plundering put to a stop, Jorah ordered his men to form up and march for the Keep. Mounting his horse once more, the flags of House Mormont joined with those of Cassel and Karstark at the gatehouse. The portcullis was up, and men were walking to and fro the Keep. Jorah rode over to Rodrik, who was looking quite grim. "Any word?" he asked, sidling his horse up next to his.
Rodrik frowned heavily. "The King is dead. Lord Stark found Jaime Lannister standing over his body . . . his sword driven through his back."
Jorah understood the man's concern. It was a tense moment. The King was dead, and the throne was empty. Their King had yet not arrived, though Robert was on the way. If the Lannisters wished to claim the throne, they'd have another fight on their hands. "What of the Queen?" he asked.
"She's fled. Her and her son, Prince Viserys. Last sighting was at Dragonstone." Rodrik tugged at his whiskers once more, his horse giving an impatient snort. "She's with child, don't know if you knew. Makes three Targaryens still alive out there, at least."
"A mother and her children," Jorah agreed. Surely, they did not pose a threat . . . though he supposed a new King needed to assure himself that no one ever threatened his newly claimed throne. Especially when that threat came from a centuries-long dynasty. Jorah had always known life under the rule of a Targaryen. As had his father, and his father's father, and many of the fathers before him. This was new. They faced a realm run by a new man with a new name. Jorah realized then how odd it would be to live in a land no longer owned by the Three-Headed Dragon.
There were a few shouts of, "get out of the way! Make way for Lord Stark!" ahead, and he turned his attention to the gate. Eddard walked forward, looking pale and tired. Jorah wondered if he had hoped to find his sister here. Had she left with the Queen and Prince? Lady Lyanna was a strong woman. A warrior. She was more Mormont than Stark, he sometimes believed, glancing back at the women who made up his ranks beside his men. If she did not want to be held, she would have fought and escaped. A pregnant Queen could not hope to hold someone as wild as Lyanna.
"The Keep is ours," Eddard said once he reached the front of the host. "Rest. We wait for the King." They were given their sleeping arrangements, and Jorah saw that his men camped and were fed and watered. He left for his own tent once his duties were complete and wearily sat down on his cot. Lighting a candle, he pulled a piece of parchment towards him with a quill. Dipping it into ink, he smoothed the parchment over a book and began to write.
Father,
By the time this raven reaches you, the news will likely have spread. We have taken King's Landing. Robert Baratheon is our King in all but name now. The sacking of the city was barbaric. I thought men in the field were beasts, but true savagery reared its ugly head to me here. The innocent were preyed upon and butchered. We helped those we could. House Lannister has chosen to join with us, albeit at the last moment.
I await further orders from Lord Stark, and shall write to you once I have them.
-Jorah
Checking his message over, he blew on the ink to dry it, and then folded the parchment into a scroll. He sealed it with the sigil of House Mormont, and then carried it outside to the mobile rookery. Tying his message to a raven, he sent it off to his father, who was traveling with Robert's host. Returning to his tent, he laid back on his cot, mindful of his injuries. Jorah stared up at the canopy of his tent, listening to the bustle of the camp outside. It was louder than normal . . . cheerful. The end of the war was at hand. The men were beginning to realize they had survived and would be able to share these stories—no doubt exaggerated ones—to their children and wives. His thoughts turned to his own wife for the first time in a long time.
Elena. How was she fairing now? He had not written her in some time, and he felt a stirring of guilt over that. Though he wasn't sure if he felt guilty because he had not written, or because he had barely given her a thought during the campaign. Other men talked frequently about their longing to return to their wives. Though he knew he'd be happy to see her smile and warm eyes, he did not feel that passionate yearning to return to her arms. But, he knew his duty. He'd have to share her bed and get with her child once more. He needed an heir. A taste of this adventure had left him wanting more, and he could not readily do so without an heir to take his place should something happen.
Perhaps his surviving the war was a sign. He should try to love her. For her sake, if no one else's. With that thought in mind, he turned on his side and fell into sleep . . .
"THEY WERE HEIRS, NED. THREATS TO MY REIGN. IT HAD TO BE DONE," Robert Baratheon's voice rang out over the Keep.
Jorah stood with the other leaders of the North, grouped quietly together to await their Lord's orders . . . and by accident, witnessing one of the most heated verbal fights Jorah had ever seen. Reports of little bundles being displayed to their new King had abounded over the City during the night and morning. The remains of the Prince and Princess were cloaked within. Elia Martell had also been discovered, dead and raped. Jorah had not seen the bodies themselves, but it seemed that his Lord and the King had. Eddard Stark was standing stiffly just in front of them, facing Robert, who was standing just in front of the Iron Throne.
It looked like a beast of a chair. Thousands of swords melted together into a giant bulk that resembled a place where one was supposed to put one's arse. Though why a King should feel the need to sit upon a seat covered in phallic symbols, Jorah was uncertain. That drew a wry smile from his lips in spite of the situation. The Great Hall was impressive, however. The ceiling stretched high above with smooth columns. The Targaryen banners had been removed. As had the legendary dragon skulls that were said to have lined the Hall. Jorah regretted that he had not seen them, nor likely would be able to see them. He'd read about dragons in the books his mother had left him. They ran through the histories and songs of Westeros as commonly as blood.
"They were children, Robert," Eddard spoke, his voice quiet. "And they were murdered. Justice should be served."
"This is WAR," Robert thundered, his voice shaking the hall. He was still weak from his wounds, but his fury had him standing tall and imposing. "You know as well as I that so long as they lived, my claim to the throne would always be second-guessed. It had be done Ned, and you know it."
Eddard's hands closed into fists. "I can't support a man who dismisses the slaughter of babes. Enemy or friend." With that, he turned to his men. Jorah straightened. "We ride for Storm's End," he said, his voice tight and gloomy. His jaw was tight with rage, and it looked as though it was taking everything in him not to unleash on his King.
"Ned!" Robert shouted after them as they filed out of the Keep. "NED, GET BACK HERE. I COMMAND YOU TO RETURN AT ONCE! NED!"
The sound made Jorah's skin prickle, and he half-expected a spear to be thrown through his back. Yet, they were not attacked. The King and his portion of the army remained still as the Northmen rode away from the Keep and through the City. They joined up with their main force outside of the City and began their march for Storm's End. 'So,' Jorah thought to himself as he looked away at the Baratheon banner swinging at the top of the Red Keep, 'King Robert Baratheon the First begins his rule atop the murdered bodies of two infants and a discarded wife.' His stomach tightened with apprehension. It was thick in the air. His men understood the consequences of their Lord's actions. If Lord Stark and King Robert did not make amends, the relationship between North and South would be forever strained.
Naturally, Jorah believed Eddard had the right of it. At least in regards to one's honor. There were some things too bleak even for war. Perhaps that had been why Tywin Lannister had ordered it. The Lannister name was sullied instead of Baratheon. 'Clever way to ingratiate oneself to the new King that you only recently decided to support,' he mused. The ill feeling wormed at his stomach.
Had they traded one Mad King for a bloodthirsty one?