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Jorah Mormont is so drunk, he believes he may bloody well be seeing Aegon the Conqueror entering his tent (isn't the other option far better, though?).
He refuses to regret last night. He'd offered a broken man comfort. He'd acted as a loyal knight, a trusted confidante, a friend.
And yet here he stands. Or rather, sits. He's been drinking since the khal chose to make camp for the evening (are you sure it wasn't before then?), hoping it would numb any seeds of regret and ready him for another (sleepless?) night.
Damn Aegon the Conqueror. Damn him and his bloody lilac eyes.
"My, my. It seems that you're enjoying your cups of late, Ser Jorah." Viserys strides over to the man and proceeds to straddle him, rupturing his thoughts. "Do you want to play Usurper and Queen, is that it? Want me to moan like that Lannister slut while you take me from behind and pretend I'm Ned Stark?" Jorah whimpers (a bear whimpers?) as Viserys begins to rock against him.
"M-my king, I only want you. But you make it so-oh, Gods" he groans as Viserys rubs against a sensitive spot, "so hard."
Viserys smiles, a hard predatory smile, and tucks his head into Jorah's neck, his hair tickling the other man's ear. "It's you who make it hard, Jorah. You and no one else."
At that, Jorah Mormont, formerly Lord Mormont of Bear Island, a man who had been married to two beautiful women, spills in his breeches like a green boy.
Viserys has the tact to stay in his lap as he shudders and wraps his arms around the slim body and whispers the other man's name. After several quiet moments, he gets up and straightens himself, smirking.
"I'd have given you a proper fucking, my dear Ser, but no drunkard will go rewarded in my service. Sleep where you will tonight, but I will never look on you again should I find you in this state." With that, he sweeps out of the tent.
Jorah pours the remainder of his wine skin on the hard, cold ground.