Jorah
The room was small, smaller than the ones he had been given before in the High Tower when he was still married to Lynesse, but it was a welcome change to the dark and dank dungeons of the Hightower. The talks he had heard lately of Oldtown made the pit of his stomach weak, and his heart pang. They provided him with hot food and fresh clothes and even wine at times, something that he had never gotten in the dungeons. Yet all he tasted was sourness in his mouth, for fear of uncertainty.
Jorah had still been held in his cell when Oldtown had fought the battle against princess Daenerys and her dragon. He wasn't told of the battle while it was raged. He might have very well slept all the way through it. The oily black stone that made up the High Tower's basement and dungeons did very well at keeping the light and sound and even the air away.
There was neither night nor day down there. Jorah marked time by the comings and goings of the guard who brought the meals for him to eat. Here he had sunlight and fresh breath of air, food and wine to eat and servants to bring them instead of guards. "Is the battle over for good?" Jorah asked him once, as he paced around his room. "Do you have any news of the war?"
The servants never answered him. On that they could as staunch a people as the guards who had held him in the cells. "Could you tell me of the battle? Tell me that."
He had heard a few mentions of it from the guards once when they thought that he was asleep and whispered to themselves. Jorah had put his ear to the wood and listened intently grasping onto the words as much as the wooden door allowed. It wasn't much, but he heard something of fire and blood and magic. And from his window he could see smokes raising up as pale tendrils into the sky. If there was fire and blood then Daenerys must have won... Or did she? These were Hightower men in the castle and he was still a captive in all but name. That thought didn't get his hopes up.
"Is Lord Leyton here?" Jorah asked. "I wish to speak with him. Jorah would have rather stayed back in the cruel comforts of his cell. He did not know why he was taken out of the dungeons? That made him restless. After the things he had witnessed in the port of Oldtown, Jorah did not know what Lord Leyton was able to do. He might hang me for bearing the banner of the Targaryens. Or he might clap me in chains instead and ship me off to the Wall. It was either of those for he had no other reason of keeping him alive if the battle was done for. Jorah did not know which he dreaded the most. The noose or the thought of looking at his father's face again?
The servants went about his work and left the room. Sleep had never come easily to Jorah Mormont, not in a long time. In Oldtown it seldom came at all, having been looked at waves a hundred feet high and coming so close to death. At least he did not dream. He had dreamed enough for one small life. He had dreamed of love, justice, friendship, glory. As well dream of Daenerys Targaryen. It was all beyond his reach, Jorah knew now.
I should have killed myself in the sea, he thought. A little more of dishonor on his name wouldn't hurt him very much. A little more dishonor on his hands, what would it matter? He could not say why he had stayed alive while hundreds died. He had hoped to wipe that off. To win a victory worthy of the princess' love, but he had failed at that as well.
He tried so hard to sleep that night, hoping to get rid of his nightmares. There might yet come a day when he would be righting all the wrongs he had done. But no matter how hard he tried sleep would not come with the roiling thunder and wheezing winds outside. A storm, he realised then. It was rare to witness storms in summer at the sunset sea. Yet there it was keeping him up at the night.
The next morning Ser Edmund Beesbury came to escort him to Lord Leyton in his solar at the top of his High Tower. Even he never had anything to say to him during the long ascent upwards. Only when they emerged at the top floor did he say that Lord Leyton was waiting for him inside the room and opened the door. By then Jorah had been flushed and out of breath. His time in the dungeons had greatly reduced his strength. Once he had been able to make the descent in a much better way than he had now, where he had stopped Ser Edmund several times to rest.
That was the longest journey he had ever taken in a very long time. The climb itself lasted more than half an hour. His legs began to cramp, and soon hurt so badly by the time he was at his destination. I have sat idle for too long, Jorah thought.
Lord Leyton's solar dominated the entire upper floor of the High Tower. Light came in through the glass stained windows, and cool air from the sea as well. Jorah stepped into the room and the door closed behind him. Lord Leyton sat the table in front of the widows with a scroll and an open book in his hand. The Mad Maid was with him.
"Why am I here?" Jorah asked standing in front of his good father.
Lord Leyton looked up from the books and scrolls in front of him. "I mean to let you go just like I had said."
Jorah was confused. He had hoped that the man would send him to his death or worse. But instead he was letting him go. "What of the war? Has it come to an end?" Did anything happen to the Princess? He kept that question to himself.
Lord Leyton looked at him nonchalantly. "That's no concern of yours," he said firmly. "I am letting you go not to fight in it again."
Jorah remembered the warning Lord Leyton had given him in the dungeons the day they had brought the envoy of King Rhaegar to share the cell with him. He wondered what happened to the man, if he was alive or not. He had no hopes of letting go of the fight, not until he knows what happened to his Princess and if she was alive. She might need his help now more than ever and Jorah was not about to leave her now.
He didn't not talk about his intentions to Leyton Hightower though. It would not do any good to tell him that he meant to take up the sword against his grandson again. Lord Hightower would never let him walk away from here if he knew of that. Princess Daenerys needed him. And he had to get out from here first. Instead he just said, "Aye, my Lord, as you wish."
Lord Leyton lowered his eyes back to the book he was reading. "There's a passage arranged for you in a ship leaving Oldtown by the evening," he said. "My men will see you aboard it. Where you go from there is on your head. If I were you I will not return back to Bear Island and neither to King's Landing for you will lose your head no matter which way you take."
That was true, he knew. He could not hope Ned Stark's son to be more forgiving of him than his father had been. And Rhaegar... The King would not have forgotten his defeat at Oldtown, rendering him of his entire fleet. He would no doubt take him for a traitor and turncloak. Even if he doesn't execute him surely someone from King's Landing will do the deed. If only they were here that day... The waves and the sea and the explosions. It still made him shiver to think of that day.
"I will then go and get ready for the journey, my lord," Jorah said. "If you will excuse me."
Lord Leyton nodded. His daughter looked at him intently with her hard piercing gaze that felt as if she was gazing into his very soul. Jorah wondered if she could see his intentions that he had kept to himself. It gave him pause. She was not called the Mad Maid for no reason. His words caught at his throat and a sudden dread filled his mind.
Finally after a few moments that lasted so damn long Lord Leyton beckoned to his daughter and made the maid turn away from him. "You may leave," he told Jorah. He turned away from them as quick as he could and walked about to the door. Just as he was about to reach it, Leyton Hightower called for him again. "And Jorah, remember what I said about taking arms up against my family again."
Jorah stopped and turned around to face him. "I remember," he said. "I swear, I will never."
He left the room before he could give himself away. Outside he took in a long greedy breath of air. Ser Edmund looked at him strangely. He did not accompany him back to his chambers so Jorah made the long climb downstairs on his own, sitting down half a dozen times to rest and catch his breath before making it to his chambers.
Only when he was back at the familiarity of his chamber did Jorah allow himself to ease the thumping of his heart. He had to leave this place as soon as possible. He could not help but feel the Mad Maid's gaze looking at him from everywhere. And if she ever found out what he had been thinking then he was good as done.
He spent the day pacing around the room, getting ready for the journey. By afternoon two guards came searching for him, both wearing the silver ringmail of the city watch. Jorah was half relieved when he saw that. If Lord Leyton wanted him dead, he wouldn't be sending the city watch to do the deed.
He left the Hightower with nothing but his clothes and a faded cloak of brown roughspun with a cowl that shadowed his familiar beard and head. They had not given him any sword. His own sword was lost in the sea during the destruction of his fleet. He knew that they would not hand him one even if he asked for it. It's better if he didn't.
They made their way down from the Hightower along the maze of twisting alleys and cross streets all neatly cobbled with black and grey stones. Jorah scrambled through the crowds, flanked by the guards. He kept through the center of the street so he could get a good look at the city and he hear as much from the passerbys. Here so close to the Hightower the effects of the battle were barely felt. Most of the buildings were spared from the cruel touch of the battle.
A whooping gang of small children went running past, chasing a rolling hoop. A gull wheeled overhead as she made her way down the city toward the port. That was his way out. He was not so eager to go to the harbor again, but that might be where he could get to hear what he wanted to know though.
The wharfs were oddly quiet when Jorah got there. He spied another pair of the city watch, walking side by side through the docks, but they never so much as looked at him. He could see some of the remnants of the battles here. Half the stalls were empty, and it seemed to him that there were fewer ships at dock than he remembered. Out on the Whispering Sound, three of the Lord Hightower's war galleys moved in formation, gold-painted hulls splitting the water as their oars rose and fell.
When he saw the guardsmen on the third pier, in white cloaks trimmed with orange satin, the colors of House Hightower he knew that they had reached their destination. Behind them, a sleek three-banked trading galley rocked at her moorings. Jorah read the name painted on the hull; the words were Myrish, but he knew to read it having spent some time in Myr after Ned Stark had chased him off the North for the sake of some prisoners. The Sweet Maiden the words said.
And it was there the guards left him. Jorah climbed onto the decks in front of them and stayed there at the prow so they could see. The guards stood there and watched until the Sweet Maiden made it's way out of the port. Jorah stayed in their sight so they would see him leave the city. Only when the ship slowly made its way past the customs did they finally leave. And that's when Jorah took his leave off the ship as well.
He jumped into the sea and swam all the way back to the harbor. Instead of making it to the docks he swam all the way across and came up at the Sailor's Sept. Jorah clambered on and shook the water off his cloak.
I need to know the truth of these rumours. He had to go back into the harbour and learn what he could. Jorah pulled on hood to hide his face off. He opted to try out the Quill and the Tankard and Thieves Market and the other places where he was like to hear anything about the battle or Daenerys Targaryen.
He donned his hooded cloak. Dusk was giving way to darkness as they made their way along the riverfront. Some of the ships he passed appeared deserted, their gangplanks drawn up. Others crawled with armed men. Jorah stayed well away from the keeping to the smaller alleys where you couldn't help but brush against the walls; the buildings leaned in so close they almost met. Under the town walls, glass lanterns had been lit above the stalls, throwing pools of colored light upon the cobbled path. Under the cacophony of different tongues, he heard queer music playing somewhere from the wharves where the temples of the foreigners stood.
A squad of Hightower spearmen stood guard at the river gate. Torch-light gleamed off the steel helms they wore.
He went through the gate by the far end using the cover of darkness. A great square of the thieves market opened up before him. At this hour, it was crowded and noisy and ablaze with light. Lanterns swung from iron chains above the doors of inns and pleasure houses, but within the gates, they were made of colored glass, not parchment. To his back a nightfire burned outside a temple of red stone. A priest in scarlet robes stood on the temple balcony, haranguing the small crowd that had gathered around the flames. Elsewhere, travelers sat rolling dices in front of an inn, drunken soldiers wandered in and out of a brothel.
Across the square they joined the growing throng in front of an inn named the Painted Lady. Jorah stopped amidst the crowd to see if he could hear something worth. He could hear most every word the priest was saying, but it was hard to hear all of it.
They talked of the war and Jorah stayed to hear more. They talked of soldiers from the east of slavers and slaves alike, a fight against darkness. There was a talk of dragons as well, but he couldn't hear that in all the clamour.
Jorah thought to use that to his advantage. He knew where he might find some answers. He walked past the market and followed the river where the old plank bridge connected the street with a tall timbered inn on an island in the Honeywine. Inside a hundred dim red candles burned like distant stars and terrace was open and lighted up with several torches. The air was fragrant with the smell of roasted meat and cider.
Jorah paused in the doorway and looked inside. In the alcove two men sat over a table with tankards of cider in hand. Both wore the silvered mail of the City Watch. Apart from them no other guard could be seen there. Jorah entered the inn and moved over to sit in the chair behind them. He knew that they might be too far drunk to notice him even if they knew who he was.
Across the table, the man behind him was complaining to his companion about something in hushed tones. Jorah leaned back on his seat trying to hear what they were talking about.
The thin man turned obligingly and called for the serving girl to fetch him food and drink. His companion took a gulp of his drink. "Have you heard the news from up river? Will it be war again?"
His companion shrugged. "The Essosi would have it so. They style themselves the Wise Masters and grand masters and their like. Of their wisdom I cannot speak, but they do not lack for cunning. Word from the east is that they are crossing the narrow sea with slaves and sellswords and unsullied in support of the King."
"Which King?"
"It could only be Rhaegar." The thin man replied. "They crossed the sea to make it to King's Landing, not North to Winterfell."
"Why?" wondered his companion. "We are long leagues across the sea from Essos and slavers bay. Why would they even come to fight in a war here?"
"I don't know, man," the thin one replied. "Do you think everything happens around here with my approval. Some say Rhaegar promised them gold and silver and castles of their picking. Others have other sinister stories that the Essosi fear the retribution of the dragons should they prevail this war."
"I am tired of this war," said his companion. "I have seen enough of it in the last one at Oldtown."
"Trust me that's one of the easy ones," the thin man said. "Lord Leyton made it easy. If it wasn't for him it would have turned really ugly especially with that dragon flying about. The arrogant princess had it coming for her when she thought that she could take down Oldtown from the air."
Jorah took a deep breath. There was no doubt that they were talking about Daenerys and her dragon. If what they said were true... could it really be that she had fallen? No, Jorah thought. It couldn't be. "Do you know what happened to the dragon?"
"I don't know," said his companion. "I heard that it fell down in the sea and drowned."
"No, no," another man said. "The dragon flew away leaving it's rider back."
"What do you know about it?" another drunken sailor said. "A dragon never leaves it's rider behind."
"How do you know that?" the another man answered again. "Have you even seen a dragon before? I was there at the battle and I know what I saw. They fell at the storm Lord Leyton threw at them. Both dragon and it's rider. I tell you no one could have survived that fall."
"Daenerys Targaryen survived it," the thin man answered. "Even now she is held in the dungeons of the Hightower. If she could survive from a fall I believe her dragon definitely could as well."
That was the best thing he had heard on this entire entire day. Princess Daenerys was alive and in the dungeons of the Hightower. He had to save her no matter what.
"And he did good on the slavers," the guardsman allowed. "We are talking about tens of thousands of enemies here. The slavers were not the only ones to come from the East. Most of the Free Cities are moving against out Stark King as well, the legions of New Ghis will fight beside them. Volanteens. Tyroshi. Even the Pentoshi."
"They still have Prince Aegon and his dragon," the thin guard's companion said. "He is still in the Trident so close to Riverrun and King Andrew."
The thin guard waved a pale hand in dismissal. "The Dragonslayer dealt with his brother easily enough. He wouldn't have any trouble doing it again."
It didn't bother Jorah though. He has heard what he came for. His princess lives, that's all that mattered. Now all he have to do is to find a way to save her. But first he would need a sword for that though.