PART IV: Checkmate

The Stone Drum

300 AC

The Stone Drum was unremarkably grim.

Though this was to be Jon's second visit to Dragonstone, today would be his first visit to the gothic keep of smooth volcanic stone that was the ancestral home of the Targaryen side of his family.

Rhaenys had once told him of the countless statues and wall carvings of various creatures of legend. The monsters that would terrify the daylights out of anyone were they to actually melt out of the stone and come to life. Most notably, along the three curtain walls of the great stone keep, the crenellations had the actual designs of the monsters. Manticores, minotaurs, basilisks, wyverns, cockatrices, hellhounds, and even demons to name a few. Why, as they passed by a crenellation that seemed to bear two different ape heads sprouting two sets of stone tentacles from its base, Jon had noticed Starag stop and glare angrily at it before moving on with the rest of the group.

Everyone had largely kept silent on the way up to the Great Hall within the Stone Drum. Though the tension could literally be cut with a knife, most notably between Starag and Jorah, the former of whom elected to not pay the latter a single glance.

Jon had more or less worked out the ulterior reason why Jorah Mormont of all people had been with his aunt. No doubt the older Mormont thought he could be pardoned if Daenerys had assumed the Iron Throne. That, and Jon knew the longing look of a man infatuated with a woman, especially one as beautiful as Daenerys.

It's clearly not mutual, Jon decided, from the almost indifferent but friendly glances and smiles that Daenerys gave to the old man. How unlucky for him. He's both in love and likely to be shipped off to the Wall by Starag.

After all, Daenerys had publicly surrendered to Jon. House Stark was the ultimate victor in this lewd and treacherous affair, and Jon would be damned if those responsible for everything that happened didn't get what they deserved.

For Aegon, if he didn't die of his injuries, would be the headsman's axe. Jon, while certain that he was not the son of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen, knew that Aegon had dragonblood in his veins, as per his ability to ride Rhaegal. As such, Jon would not swing the sword himself, as he'd be a kinslayer, no matter how distant the relation might actually be.

The others, however, were not free from such a punishment.

Connington would either die by Jon's hand or be sent to the Wall. The same would go for the Red Priests. He'd send their slave army back to Essos (Daenerys had the Fiery Hand guarded on their ships with their weapons taken away). Varys himself would also be executed or given the choice to join the Nights' Watch, though Jon doubted the Spider would take the latter option.

That, however, was all for later. Today, he would be collecting his enemies and taking them back to King's Landing where they would each await their trials.

Yet… what would happen after that? Who would take up the throne? Who would lead the Seven Kingdoms? Certainly neither Myrcella nor Tommen. From what Starag had told him about his adventure to the Vale, it was likely that Robert Arryn would start another bloody war regarding the heritage of Cersei Lannister's children.

Tywin Lannister? While he was certainly a good administrator, Jon doubted anyone would trust the Old Lion. Not when both his granddaughter and grandson were not even of Baratheon descent. That little secret wouldn't ever go to sleep.

Robert Arryn? Not a chance. Jon certainly held a strong disliking for the Warden of the East after Starag's account of how he'd been held in the Vale against his will. And of what the lordling had said to Jon's uncle. It was even likely that the Vale lordling would attempt to seize power in the capital by claiming his father was once Hand of the King. No, Jon would not allow it.

There were no other Baratheons of legitimate blood left to take up the throne, nor Storm's End. Robert had been assassinated, Renly had been at the heart of the explosion in Baelor's Sept, and Stannis and his daughter were burned at the stake by the Red Priests and Aegon. Jon supposed there was Robert's bastard son Edric Storm, yet he doubted that the lords of Westeros would accept him. No, Edric Storm may in the end be made Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, but without a doubt, he'd not be chosen as King of All Westeros.

A Great Council would be assembled-Jon would need to call for one, and there, and only there, would the ultimate outcome of this whole shitshow be decided.

Why not you? That lone, ambitious voice had called out to him. The one that demanded he reconsider his options and take responsibility himself. It'll be a lot of work, certainly, but you've handled far worse. What a challenge it would be, to rule the Seven Kingdoms! To make everything right! And was this not the opportunity that Arthur and your Father had died for? That countless tens of thousands had died for?

Soon after that voice had kicked in, his mind began to fill with doubts. What about the Targaryen name? Not a soul outside the Crownlands would ever trust the House of the Dragon, not even if Jon had publicly denounced Aegon's actions as that of a Blackfyre Pretender.

The stain of the explosion of Baelor's Sept would forever haunt the Targaryens of future generations-if his aunt had any children, that was. Starag and Rhaenys wouldn't particularly be any worse off-if anything knowing that the Targaryens were a permanent vassal in the North would actually improve their reputation somewhat. The wildcard dragon being brought under the banner of the stern and cold direwolf. In a sense, they would be redeeming themselves for all that they've put Westeros through.

This event would follow his aunt like a plague, though. Just exactly how the Sack of King's Landing would forever follow Tywin Lannister's wake. They'd always say that she had a hand in the explosion and subsequent invasion. She only surrendered because she was simply a woman. Women knew nothing of war-never mind about her three fully grown dragons.

And if Jon revealed himself as a Targaryen as well, that would only open up a whole other discussion. Even if they did make him King in that event, in a few years the cycle would only start anew. Some civil war or the other would break out. Progress would be left behind in the wake of blood and steel and Dragonfire.

There's so much to clean up… These Kingdoms need someone different, someone new. But what?

He'd brought himself back to the present then. They came upon the 'dragon's maw' that was the front entrance to the Great Hall. The large red doors flew open as several Unsullied soldiers made way for Daenerys and her procession. Once they'd gone past the doors and stepped inside, that was when Jon's aunt had let go of all pretensions.

Once the doors had closed shut behind them, Jon forced himself to hold steady as his aunt's much smaller body launched forward and nearly tackled him in a bear hug with her arms wrapped around his chest.

"I'm so glad you're safe!" She practically cried. "I was so worried after our last meeting, I-" She stopped herself as she separated from him. "Were you injured in the battle? I can summon Maester Cressen! He's good at-"

Jon placed his hands on his aunt's shoulders. She stopped speaking immediately. He smiled at her childish fussing over his health. "Aunt, I'm perfectly fine, really. In fact," He looked briefly at Starag. "If it wasn't for Starag, I would've been incinerated by Aegon and Rhaegal. He saved my life."

Daenerys seemed torn between her anger at Starag for having 'shot down' Rhaegal over her relief for Jon's safety and wellbeing. Ultimately, however, she decided on the latter, though she still seemed to ignore Starag, acting as if he wasn't there. "Well, never mind that, then. I'm sure you've come to pick up the prisoners. I've put them in the dungeons. Aegon is in the Lord's Chambers, though Maester Cressen said he's done all he could to keep him alive."

"It's probably best that he stays there," Jon said. "Can you send someone to oversee him? I'm sure he's well aware that I'm here now. Don't want him going anywhere in case he somehow finds the strength to move. Much less finding Rhaegal."

She nodded her head and turned to the Unsullied who stood just a few feet to her right. "Send a few guards to Aegon's chambers. He's not to leave." The stolid man nodded in kind, and stepped away from the group, marching down toward the eastern hall.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to speak with the prisoners?" Daenerys asked.

"Yes," Jon said. "Someone will need to hear them out before their trials."

It didn't take long for them to find the sharp turnpike and circular stairway, followed by several smooth stone passages, that led straight to dungeons. Jon found that the deeper they went, the warmer it seemed to get. As if the walls themselves were radiating heat.

No doubt the Dragonmont, he thought to himself. The very same volcano this place had been built on.

Daenerys had taken the lead, though Starag had taken along a torch since he'd been the largest of their group. The path and their surroundings had been illuminated thanks to him.

The long rows of cells were nothing particularly special to look at. Though there seemed to be plenty of Unsullied stationed along each of the corridors. Most of the cells towards the end had been empty, though the ones by the front of each line were full. There was a significant number of Red Priests gathered in the dungeons. Along with other Targaryen sympathizers, some of whom even Jon recognized.

Lord Monford Velaryon had been placed in a cell all on his own. His once handsome features had become somewhat disheveled-looking, as his normally clean-shaven face now sported an ugly stubble and his long hair had adopted plenty of split ends. His sea-green doublet was now stained with black and brown splotches, as per his time spent in the dungeons so far. He'd not seemed to have taken well to it.

The Lord of Driftmark only sneered as he laid eyes upon Daenerys, and only spat when he finally looked at Jon. Yet no words came from his thin mouth.

"Lord Velaryon was the first to meet with Aegon," Daenerys said as she looked at Jon. "He did nothing to stop Aegon from burning Lord Stannis and his daughter, and counseled that he should attack King's Landing swiftly both by land and by sea."

At Daenerys' words, Velaryon's eyes only burned. Jon remembered the man from a much simpler time. He'd been at the tourney in King's Landing all those years ago, and during the feast in the Queen's Ballroom, he'd been one of the stiffer noblemen who'd more or less given his uncle the cold shoulder. He'd only paid Jon a small, insignificant glance. A look that more or less told Jon he was worth less than the dirt underneath the man's boot.

It was a small, unimportant vendetta that Jon had finally recalled all these years ago. But one that was no less sweet. The Lord of Driftmark clearly held northerners in no high regard.

"Who might've thought that the sister of Rhaegar Targaryen would spread her legs for a northern dog." The older man spat at Jon's feet and glared openly at him. "Were you so green that you hid behind your walls? That you did not wish to face my king on the open field?"

Jon's return was quickly served. "Your king was not on the field. And I offered him a fair chance to end this affair the old way. He was too much of a coward to take it." Jon decided to cut the man off before he launched into another tirade. "You can spare your reasoning for the trial that awaits you in King's Landing."

He motioned for his aunt to continue. She did just that. Even as they walked by the jailed Lord of Driftmark, who hurled curses and threats at them as they walked away.

Placed in the cell next to Velaryon was Lord Adrian Celtigar. He seemed to have fared much better in a cell than his fellow Crownlands lordling. Though his clothes had been dirtied and stained, the old man seemed entirely unreactive to his current surroundings.

Celtigar said nothing as Jon and Daenerys passed by. "Lord Celtigar was fearful that you'd send ships to Claw Isle, and he thought it best to remain here with us. He also did nothing to prevent Lord Stannis and his family from being burned alive."

A part of Jon could not blame anyone for not having tried. Aegon would've been an insurmountably imposing figure with a dragon on his side, much less three. Jon figured that it had only been Varys, Connington, and Daenerys who had been vehemently against the burning of Stannis as well as his wife and daughter.

Still, Jon said nothing to old Adrian Celtigar. Neither had the old man said anything back to either of them. He simply continued staring at the wall in front of him, hoping they would go away and leave him to his demons.

Onwards came the Red Priests. Most of them must've been less notable priests, far less confident in their faith, as they were now rocking back and forth either huddled in the corners of their cells or attempting to pray into the warm wall of smooth stone. Jon realized the irony-that they could only pray to their god by an open fire.

Strangely enough, most of the Red Priests that they did pass by, did not look in fear at Jon or Daenerys. Instead, they seemed most particularly afraid of Starag.

Many of the younger priests saw the mountainous Northman and fell back in terror against the wall, their comic attempts to get away from him were in vain. Regardless of the fact that Starag paid each of them very little attention.

In particular, one of the cells they did stop by was the one belonging to the Red Woman who had been riding with Aegon on the very first day of the siege. She was resting on her knees, mumbling silent words. Her red gown was spotless as if it had been cleaned earlier that day. As opposed to the glare of blind faith, now, there seemed only to be… doubt.

How odd, Jon thought. This was the very same woman who called him a heathen barely more than a week ago. Now, it seemed she was going through some crisis of faith. Wondering whether or not she made the wrong call, as Aegon had lost.

"Her name is Melisandre," Daenerys explained. "She was with Lord Stannis when we arrived, but she quickly turned when she heard of Aegon's heritage, and when she saw my dragons."

The Red Woman did not say anything in kind, though it seemed she flinched almost imperceptibly after hearing Daenerys' recount.

"Brave words," Starag muttered with a disappointed shake of his head. Jon remembered that Starag had also been there to hear the woman's claims.

The next cell over, however, contained yet another Red Priest. Yet this one was no simple holy man, but the High Priest of R'hllor in both Westeros and Essos.

Benerro was a tall and thin-looking man. Though not as tall as Starag. His skin was as pale as fresh, cool milk, and across covering his shaven head, cheeks, and chin, was a sort of tattooed mask depicting bright red flames. A slave tattoo, Jon noted. Many of the slaves in Volantis had them, even some among Euron Greyjoy's old crew before he and Starag had dumped them off in Volantis port.

And it was this man in particular who stood tall, proud, and unshakable. He'd apparently been waiting for their group to materialize and had smiled at Daenerys in welcome, as well as Jon and the others. The only one he notedly grimaced at, was Starag.

"My lady, Daenerys." Benerro bowed to her. Then he looked at Jon. "Lord Stark. You have come to take me away to King's Landing." The man's voice was a bit higher-pitched than Jon expected, though that was probably a good thing in his case. No doubt the High Priest's voice would've carried well when he preached to the masses.

"I have," Jon said. "You'll be given a trial, and executed for openly aiding a man who declared war against Westeros and her people. Or you'll be sent off to the Wall if you so choose."

Yet, Benerro strangely enough, did not seem at all scared. In fact, he only smiled, as if he'd already known what Jon was going to say, but simply wanted to hear it for himself. "This I understand." He said ominously. "Now that you are before me, I see that my purpose was to be a lesson to others far more enlightened than I. And I will accept my punishment."

Jon could only frown at what the High Priest had meant by that, yet before he could even question Benerro, the Red Priest then looked to Starag, now with a distasteful look in his glowing yellow eyes. "It is unfortunate that you bring a servant of the Great Other with you. Perhaps the Lord of Light will dispatch him from you before the Long Night is to come."

Starag simply grinned cruelly. "Somehow, I imagined you would be a poor loser." He stepped closer to the bars of the cell, only a few feet away from Benerro. It was then that his smile completely died away.

"You call me a servant of the Great Other, yet you yourself served a man who burned hundreds of innocents alive. And now you're here." Starag had said coldly. "If you actually did your god proud, you wouldn't be stuck inside this cell waiting for your own execution, would you?"

"You-" Benerro had started again, this time his calm veneer had cracked into simmering anger.

"I wouldn't speak a word if I were you." Starag cut him off harshly. "You'd only make your situation worse." He stepped away and looked at Jon. "Let's leave this poor sod to his delusions of grandeur."

Jon decided to agree. Benerro was practically fuming, probably not used to someone having willfully ignored him. As Jon led the group away, the High Priest of R'hllor had pressed himself against the bars, in some spiteful attempt to get the last word.

"You carry great evil with you! The Lord of Light is the only one who can save your lands from eternal darkness!" Benerro pleaded, his tone turning from angry to desperate. "The Great Other and his servants will ride from the North! You cannot stop them without us!"

Starag said nothing-and Jon decided to do the same. The High Priest of R'hllor continued to ramble and scream until they were well out of sight.

Jon did not bother to ask his uncle what the Red Priest was preaching about. He already knew about the Others-they were old news by this point. That was why they went to Valyria in the first place, so they could find dragons to fight back against the Others. And if they could defeat Aegon with a scraped-together army, then Jon reasoned that they'd do far better against the Others without the Red Priests. Besides, word had gotten out about the involvement of the Red Priests in Aegon's invasion of Westeros-anyone of them besides Thoros of Myr would be hard-pressed to find sympathy or service within Westeros' borders.

They continued walking down the long corridor of black volcanic rock, the walls seeming to blend into some sort of dark mercurial color as they marched over to the next prisoner awaiting them.

It was Varys the Spider. He was sitting politely on the lone wooden bench within his cell as if he'd stopped by for a cup of afternoon tea. He was staring at the wall opposite of him and looked squarely at Jon as he stopped in front of the eunuch's cell.

"Lord Stark," Varys stood to attention and bowed deeply. "I must sincerely apologize," His voice held a faint trace of sorrow. "The death of your Lord Father was most unpleasant-he was one of the best men I've had the delight of meeting. It was a shame his loyalties lay with a drunk brute of a king."

Jon forced the ice into his veins. "At least you haven't forgotten your manners, Spider." He said coldly.

It was unsurprising to Jon that Varys wouldn't plead for his life. He'd been caught red-handed, and any good spy in the Spider's position would be professional enough to know that the game was up. Either they'd break and run, or, if they were well and truly caught with no hope of escape, they'd hunker down and divulge as few details as possible.

The Spider had simply put on a brave, unemotional face as he watched the collective in front of him. He merely looked at Daenerys then and gave her a thin smile.

"I must also give applause to you, Lady Daenerys. Your coup was most inspiring. I wonder…" He trailed off with a slight ironic curl in his lips, "If you are also planning to do the very same thing to Lord Stark once we're all buried in the ground. Just so you might have the throne to yourself."

"I'm only doing what is right, Lord Varys." Jon's aunt had retorted, shutting down Varys' attempt at sowing distrust. "You saw Aegon burning those people alive but you only made your objections to him in private." She folded her arms and turned her nose up at the Spider. "I should think you've had your day."

It was then that Starag stepped forward-only to add insult to injury, of course. "Yes indeed, my lady." He said. "You've made me rather curious, Spider. In which corner of Essos did you dig up that pretender, hmmm? He's not the son of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen, that much is clear."

The Spider only looked at Starag with something akin to a snarl. "Aegon is no pretender. He is a pure-blooded Targaryen. Just as the Conqueror before him. He is the same blood as Jaehaerys I, and his daughter Saera."

Saera Targaryen? Jon flooded through his knowledge of the Targaryen dynasty, his biological father's side of the family. There were so many Targaryen kings since the reign of Jaehaerys I, but none of them had a queen named Saera.

Wait, no… Saera was not a queen, but a princess. She was one of old king Jaehaerys' daughters, one who dishonored the family with her promiscuous acts, such as sleeping with three knights within her circle of friends, and went on to tell her royal father that 'all three had believed they were her first' She even claimed that she was the next Maegor the Cruel, or even the next Conqueror. All because she'd had multiple lovers just like them.

Naturally, King Jaehaerys had been ashamed of his ninthborn child. He had her confined to a tower, and when one of her lovers requested a trial by combat, King Jaehaerys accepted the challenge and even fought against her daughter's lover himself, slaying him. Eventually, she'd been shipped to Oldtown for a year to pray with the Silent Sisters, but even that fate she escaped. Next, Saera had been sighted in Lys, where she took up residence in a pleasure house. She became a common whore, and ultimately, forgotten.

And now, all these years later, the apparent heir of Saera Targaryen had attempted to invade Westeros with cunning, trickery, and brute force only to fail to a ragtag army. Jon could only think that the ultimate irony of it all was that his actual name given to him by Lyanna Stark, was Jaehaerys.

It was the cold hand of fate that had delivered Aegon to Jon, and it was that same hand that seemingly allowed him to avenge the vendetta between father and daughter which was started over two hundred years ago. An answer to the unforgivable betrayal that Saera did unto her own sire. The ultimate punishment. To lose and to be forgotten for all of time.

But even if this seemingly confirmed that Aegon was a Targaryen, it only meant that he was of the same blood as Jon. They might as well have been cousins countless times removed by this point.

Jon, however, was not so empathetic. Aegon needed to die. He was a madman and an irredeemable one at that. He'd already slaughtered hundreds, perhaps even thousands. Though Jon would not swing the sword as he'd be a kinslayer in the eyes of his gods, someone else would do it. Probably Starag in the unlikely scenario that Aegon survived after today.

Now that he was satisfied with the insignificant answer, Jon stepped in. "It doesn't matter anymore." He faced down the cold gaze of the Spider. "What I want to know is who funded his army of sellswords. Tell me, Spider. Who gave Aegon the gold to purchase damn near every sellsword company in Essos?"

However, the Spider seemed to lean backward at his question. Jon knew immediately that he'd be uncooperative in this respect. He was protecting someone.

"I know." His blessed aunt had raised her voice. Jon glanced over at her and smiled. "There is a wealthy man in Pentos by the name of Illyrio Mopatis. He funded Aegon's army. Raised enough gold to hire every mercenary skilled enough with a blade."

"Thank you, Lady Daenerys," said Jon. His aunt had already proven her allegiance ten times over, and he was immensely grateful to her.

It was then that Jon gave the Spider a hard look. The eunuch's defiant expression had quickly turned to that of embittered resignation.

"I'll be seeing you in King's Landing, Spider," said Jon with a wolfish smile. "I hope you'll give us a good show."

After visiting the prisoners, they'd all broken for luncheon.

Lady Daenerys had wished to speak with Jon privately-essentially banishing Starag from her presence along with everyone else, even if she'd looked directly at him when she made her request of Jon.

Mormont was apprehensive about leaving his surrogate nephew with the dragon lady, but he trusted Jon to take care of himself. Jon was a man, no longer the starry-eyed eleven-year-old boy who'd once been in his care so many years ago.

So, Starag instead decided to roam the Stone Drum under the watchful gaze of the Unsullied, who were guarding each corridor and corner in pairs of two. Their hard black eyes never seemed to leave the mountainously tall man with an overly large axe strapped to his back. As he made his way up the tall flights of stairs to the very top floor of the Stone Drum, he never once escaped their omniscient gaze.

He remembered the last time he'd been in these halls of smoothened black volcanic rock. A warm smile unconsciously came to him. He'd been with Rhaenys last time.

A part of him wanted to go see her now. To jump back on his ship, grab the nearest horse, and ride right to Bear Keep so he could see both her and their children. He missed them all terribly.

Of course, he wouldn't leave Jon now. Not when there were so many loose ends to tie up. No, he'd help Jon clean everything up, and his reward would be seeing his family once again.

Mormont had ascended the final stair, and spied his eye on a lone tall and narrow door made purely of blackened steel at the far end of the hall before him. It was far different from the others, which had been made of driftwood and iron. This one clearly stood out from the rest, and for a fairly good reason, he surmised.

Instinctively curious, Mormont walked towards it, pushing the door open, and stepped into the wide circular chamber of bare black bricks of smooth rock. On the other side of the room, there were four tall windows just as narrow as the entryway. Each of them looked out across the Narrow Sea or Blackwater Bay, giving Mormont a good view of crashing waves of black-blue saltwater, and the foamy spray of the sea that rippled towards Dragonstone.

It would've been a marvelous, even peaceful sight on any other day. Yet another prized piece of Westerosi history lay in front of him; Aegon's Painted Table.

As Mormont approached the fifty-foot-long piece of wood, he came to halt just behind the raised throne which had been sitting a few feet away from Dragonstone's place on the great map. Old candles which had long since burnt out next to the holdfasts of each of the Lord's Paramount had only left dried clumps of hardened melted wax spilling all over their respective kingdoms. Rhaenys had once mentioned to him that she'd run laps around this table whenever she was playing tag with her father.

At another time, this table was used primarily for the purposes of planning a conquest. The Conqueror had likely paced this chamber a thousand times over in deep reflection of how precisely he'd make this continent his own.

Mormont, however, was thoroughly unimpressed with the vision before him and only wished to see the crackling fireplace within the Lord's Chambers of Bear Keep. With his wife sitting in his lap only in her thin satin nightshift, her perky breasts coiled in the palm of his left hand, and a good cup of Braavosi Firebrand in the other.

What would he do to her when he next saw her in private? He'd certainly give her a rough time of things. He'd tear off her dress and spank her silly until she begged for him to stop. Then, he'd grab her hair, bend her over, and have his way with her until they were both spent and she with his next child. Or perhaps he'd tease her mercilessly until she got fed up with him. A bite on the neck here, careless grazing of her breasts there. Perhaps even a squeeze on her rump. Sure enough, she'd demand that they'd find someplace private to 'straighten things out'

"Never thought I'd see you so soon."

Mormont was immediately displeased. Though he was set in his plan of stunting his wife's ability to walk properly, he'd still preferred to think of the lovely image of Rhaenys limping out of bed rather than look at the man standing in the door behind him. Nevertheless, Mormont forced the ice into his veins and turned around.

Jorah was standing there alone, with some sort of faraway glassy look in his chocolate brown eyes-the exact same as their mother's.

"And I never thought I'd see you ever again." Starag retorted.

His older brother had smiled grimly and stepped forward, inviting himself in, though Starag didn't bother stopping him. He supposed now was the best time to hear Jorah's justification. It was inevitable.

"I…" his brother began slowly but soon ran out of words to say. Jorah seemed to shrink somewhat underneath the iron gaze of his younger brother. A number of thoughts seemed to run through Jorah's mind until he finally settled on a decision.

Jorah nodded to the gleaming white bear's head pommel clipped to Starag's belt. "It suits you." He paused. "Longclaw."

Starag recognized the apprehensive look that his brother had given him. It was the same one he'd sport whenever he wanted to give an apology-likely an unconscious habit of his, as Starag was left with Jorah's hand-me-down toys when they were children. And when Starag found a new and inspired use for them, Jorah decided to take them back rather forcefully. Of course, Starag was neither as tall nor as strong as his older brother then. Now, he could probably pick up Jorah and throw him across the room.

At those times, Starag would've pouted and lashed out angrily at his big brother. Their mother would have to step in and settle the dispute, often threatening to bring the matter to their father, which would always convince Jorah to reluctantly hand back the toy to his younger brother and apologize with shame and sincerity.

Their childish arguments were finally put to rest when their father did actually step in and forcefully sit them both down at the dinner table for three whole hours with no food, no toys, and no Dacey to keep them company. Three hours of sheer boredom and silence until both Starag and Jorah had finally learned their lesson the hard way and never again argued over toys or anything else for that matter, in front of their father.

Of course, this situation was entirely alien to their childhood antics. Jorah had married the wrong woman, put the family in debt, and dishonored them all by selling poachers as slaves to pay off those same debts. To top it all off, he avoided punishment when Eddard Stark came to Bear Island to collect. Jorah fled to Essos, and House Mormont-Jorah's own family and people were left to suffer for his mistakes.

Still, Starag managed to feel a small pang of affection for his brother when he sported that apprehensive and sincere look of his. Starag just as quickly snuffed it out after remembering what his brother had done.

"Father seemed to think so," Starag replied. He decided to pop the question again. "What are you doing here, Jorah?"

"Why do you think?" There was desperation in his brother's voice. "I want to come home."

Starag only laughed. "You honestly expect to be pardoned?" He asked. "I don't know what Daenerys has promised you and I don't care. There are only two choices ahead of you now and neither of them consists of you coming back home. I won't allow it, and neither will Robb Stark for that matter."

Jorah looked grim. "You'd let him kill me?"

Mormont gazed coolly at the other man. "What did you expect, Jorah? That we'd lay out the fucking primroses for you? That you could come back home and everything would be fine?" He thrust a finger out towards his brother. "I've spent the last seven years dealing with the fallout of your colossal fuck-up. I don't care what they say about me, but I do care about how it's affected Maege and her daughters, about how it will affect my wife and children. About how it affected our father, and how it'll ripple on into the future generations of our family. They call us slavers, Jorah. And no matter how much gold I put into our family's pocket, no matter how many lengths I go to ensure the safety of my people, they'll still be calling us that for decades to come."

Jorah could only look down at the floor in response. When he did not return Starag's gaze, the younger Mormont had shaken his head and turned back to the fifty-foot-long wooden map before him.

Their last 'serious conversation' had not been too dissimilar from this one. Except it was Jorah who had been the cold aggressor, while Starag had been pegged unceremoniously as the guilty party.

At the time, Jorah had still been married to his first wife, a homely woman from House Glover named Irwena. She'd been rather pleasant-and one of the only Glovers who Mormont actually liked-and she was always capable of bringing a smile to his brother's lips. Jorah was a man who took everything seriously, which often stung his prospects with women. But with his first lady wife, he was able to cut loose.

Unfortunately, she'd died shortly after their third miscarriage. The gods had not seen fit to bless House Mormont with a male heir. Starag remembered the night after her burial. He and Jorah had broken out casks of hot wine from the kitchens, and each recounted odd memories from their childhood. It was a warm memory that Starag sometimes found himself recalling.

Still, Jorah had no sons or daughters. And so, eyes had looked to Starag to marry as well for the security of the family. Even though he was only second born.

As his older brother also looked for a new wife, he'd brought up multiple prospects to Starag's attention. Some Karstark girl or some ugly spearhead of a Flint had been forced upon him. There weren't many other prospects, as House Mormont had still been poor as dirt back then. And so Starag made his decision to marry neither of them.

Jorah had been furious, ordering him to appear in the Lord's Office. Starag still remembered that day in particular. Jorah claimed that he was ungrateful and too concerned with fame and fortune rather than their family. However, Mormont took all of his demands and threats in stride and simply walked away. Taking his horse with him, he crossed the Bay of Ice the same day and hit the nearest path to the Kingsroad.

Oh, he'd been at the famous tourney of Lannisport (and he'd even won gold betting on his brother rather than Jaime Lannister in the final tilt). And though Lynesse Hightower had been a very pretty girl, Mormont had immediately identified her as the girl who got whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it. Moreover, she would never be satisfied and did not have the backbone to live a harsh life of brutally cold weather inside a dull gray stone keep.

Southern girls were often like that. They liked the vibrant colors, the art, the music, the fancy literature, and tales of swooning maidens and romantic knights in shining armor. Practicality had no true meaning to them-and it was outlawed for the crime of being boring. Just as knights and lords forgot that the true killing weapon on the battlefield was actually the spear and not the sword, so too had southern women such as Lynesse Hightower, forgotten the simpler comforts of the world. And instead had given way to luxury.

If Bear Keep exploded into ruins, Starag had known that Lynesse would decidedly not sleep out in the snow with Jorah while it was being repaired. She would ship herself off to Oldtown as soon as possible, and likely never return to the North ever again.

And Jorah, in his infinite wisdom, had not seen it. Or perhaps, Starag had realized his brother had not wanted to see it. More likely, Jorah overly appreciated the girl's body, which in itself was a fantastically dangerous mistake. Starag immediately attempted to save his brother from his fate, but Jorah angrily rebuked him, not wanting to hear his advice.

Then on, Starag had only visited Bear Island a few times, and with each visit, his expectations had immediately given way to reality. Each time he came back to see his family, some new frivolous addition had been made; a fine ship made of white oak sat in the harbor; a gourmet cook from Oldtown suddenly appeared; a harper from Lannisport became a permanent addition to the cast; and Jorah began spending House Mormont's meager savings left and right on various voyages and journeys across the Narrow Sea. When the money ran out, he somehow, still found more from the moneylenders all too eager to accept the financially naive Westerosi lordling under their benevolent wings.

Yet, little Lynesse never seemed to be satisfied with these. In her misery, she only demanded more. She was rude to the kitchen staff and servants (a great sin on its own), and always gave Jorah the cold shoulder. She often ignored Starag whenever he came to visit and share stories of his adventures in the South with his cousins. Starag had never spoken a word to her in kind. Her treatment of the staff simply disgusted him.

Then, suddenly, Jorah and his new wife were on the run from Eddard Stark himself. Taking his new ship across the Narrow Sea, he disappeared completely.

It was then at some high-class inn in Lannisport, after having brutally beaten a Braavosi lordling who attempted to cheat him at cards, with some Lyseni wench bouncing on his lap and a mug of ale in his hand and dried blood on his knuckles, that Mormont had received that crisp white letter telling him everything.

We have no gold left. We have nothing. Jorah is gone. You are his only heir. Can you please come home?

And so Starag had.

Yet his brother never learned his lesson. Jorah's worshiping looks towards Daenerys Targaryen had not escaped Starag in the least. The same boyish infatuation, the wonder, the sheer excitement, of a fool holding a woman in higher regard than himself. He was hoping that this girl might be the one who makes everything right.

The Wall will melt before that happens, Mormont noted. Daenerys did not return his brother's affections and was merely friendly towards him.

He heard his brother step closer. "I'm sorry." He said sincerely. "And I know there's nothing I can do to make it better… and if Robb Stark demands it, I will accept my punishment." He then made a fist. "I just… want to see them again. All of them."

Mormont glanced over his shoulder at his brother, and upon seeing the resolute glean in Jorah's eyes, turned to face him. Jorah never was a liar. He was telling the truth.

"That can be arranged," Starag said.

Another pause. The tension seemed to deflate quite a bit. The elephant in the room had been set aside. And now, it gave way to a strange sense of… levity.

Jorah's hard mouth cracked into the smallest of smiles as he looked at the lone lightning-blue eye staring at him. "You had two eyes when I last saw you."

Mormont had snorted. He decided to accept the gambit, if only for the small part of him that desired to speak plainly with his older brother, the inner child who had long since been subservient to the man that he was. "Shadowcat got me in Dorne. About seven years back now."

"What did Maege say when she saw it?"

"She was about ready to go back to Dorne and cave its head in."

Jorah gave a small chuckle. "That sounds like her…" He twisted his face then. "Why did you go there? Weren't you Lord then?"

"Just finished up the tourney in Highgarden. And Ned wanted a package delivered to Prince Doran."

"Tourneys? But-"

Starag cut him off. "How do you think I paid off your debts? Selling trout?" He didn't feel any sympathy for the brief flash of hurt in Jorah's eyes. "There were three tourneys happening in the South consecutively. I saw an opportunity and took it. Won all three of them. Increased our holdings, and made some sound investments. House Mormont is now one of the richest families in the North."

His brother was astounded. "Varys told me much of the same, but I couldn't believe any of it." Jorah smiled warmly at him. "You've grown up, little brother."

"Not so little from where I'm standing," Starag smirked. "You should see my son. Mark my words, he'll be taller than me once he's grown into a man." He said proudly.

It was then, with no personal barriers remaining between the two brothers, that Mormont decided to tell Jorah everything about what had changed on Bear Island.

They paced the Painted Table as Starag recollected how he cut a deal with Eddard Stark in exchange for Sea Dragon Point and Stony Shore, and his retellings of each southern tourney he took part in. Jorah was simply baffled when he heard of Jaime Lannister's defeat by the sword, as well as the unhorsing of Barristan Selmy while Starag had a lame arm.

Starag then told him about Rhaenys-though he kept out any mention of her being a Targaryen, and also omitted Bronzie-and how she'd happily agreed to come to Bear Island and be his Lady Wife, about how she'd run his household like a tight ship, and watched over the staff as if she were their mother. He spoke proudly of their four children; Duncan, Thalia, Jeor, and Arthur, and of the brimming port city of Westhelm just across the Bay of Ice run by Dacey.

Then there was the newfound peace with the Wildlings and Mormont's own journey to Valyria-of which he kept out many details-where he faced down Euron Greyjoy and from which he brought back generous amounts of Valyrian Steel to the North.

There was no hint of envy in Jorah's eyes, only pride for the little brother who he'd once scolded long ago. For the brotherhood they both still held, and for the fact that in the end, everyone who truly mattered to them; their family and their people, had gotten a happy ending.

The moment came to a brief sullied halt when Jorah turned to face him. "What about Father?"

Mormont felt the all-too-familiar spike of guilt pang his heart then. The death of Jeor Mormont was well-known above the Neck, with only a few wild rumors actually making their way down South.

The story was not exactly denounced, as it was regarding the death of a very well-respected man. Of how the Lord Commander had retired to his quarters, and how a dead body recovered from a ranging, had suddenly reanimated itself and made its way to the Lord Commander's Tower under the cover of night. It had been one of the black brothers in life, so those on watch disregarded him as a drunkard off-duty. The corpse infiltrated the Lord Commander's Tower and killed Jeor Mormont, though not without being lit on fire when the Lord Commander smashed its head in with a lantern while he was being stabbed to death.

To Southerners, it seemed preposterous. To most northerners, it seemed more like a private mutiny, though everyone had their doubts. But to those who actually knew what had happened, it was a stone-cold fact.

Mormont decided to give his brother the full truth. "About two years back, he asked me to assist a ranging for the Night's Watch. Personal favor. I had nothing better to do at the time aside from paperwork, so I got on my horse, took my men, and met up with Benjen Stark at the Wall. There was a problem going on at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. A party of wildlings came to find shelter, and when they were told to leave, they dropped every last weapon they had off the bridge. They begged to be let inside."

Jorah was rapt with attention. There was a grim look on his face. He simply nodded for Starag to continue.

"The Commander of Westwatch, a good man, allowed them shelter inside the cells. There, the wildlings told Benjen and I about their village and how it was attacked by an army of the dead… and… something else."

"Something else?" Jorah echoed ominously.

"An Other," Mormont said coldly. "Benjen and I went to investigate the village, but we were ambushed. We barely just had time to escape, and I had to confront the Other myself. You should've seen how fast it moved, Jorah…" He shook his head, hating the grudging respect he held for the creature. "It was… otherworldly… Their blades can shatter good castle-forged steel into shards of glass. I was lucky that I had Longclaw on me. I was able to block its blade before I severed its hand."

Jorah seemed to have aged ten years since Starag began his retelling. There was always something else to fight, and the worst possible enemy had come at the worst possible time in history for them all.

"We got out of there, but once we returned…" Starag continued, grounding his teeth in hatred for the damned ice demons. "These Others, they can reanimate the dead and command them to do anything. I think… no… I know they had Father killed. Possibly out of revenge for what I did. Either that or he was the original target in the first place."

"Why?" Jorah's voice was weak. Starag immediately recalled how close his brother and his father were in the past. "Why would they go after him?"

"Don't know," Starag said. "Killing him would've been a strategic act. They want the Night's Watch to fall apart, but to what end, I can't see."

Jorah, however, had fallen silent. He only looked out the narrow window in front of them, staring at the calm shuddering waves of the foaming black-blue sea.

The news was still fresh for Jorah, even if he'd been told a lame version of the story by Varys. Yet the Spider hadn't known everything, and hearing the full version from his own brother would certainly have put a heavy weight on Jorah's mind.

Starag recognized the coarse silence that hung between them. It was the same one that Jorah had had after the death of his first wife. Immediately, Starag knew it would be best to give him his space, so he could mourn for their father.

Mormont put a hand on his older brother's shoulder and squeezed. Saying nothing, he stepped away and began making his way out of the large circular room of black stone.

"Thank you, Starag." He heard his brother call out behind him. "Thank you,"

Mormont didn't say anything back. He didn't even stop to nod. He kept his pace and walked beyond the narrow door of black steel and out into the long corridor leading to the stairs. He wanted to be alone as well if only to silently grieve for his father, and perhaps take out his hatred for the Others on something in isolation.

Informing Jorah about their father's death only made him angry. And now he simply wanted to go somewhere else, away from this gothic keep of black stone and frozen monsters from the abyss.

In truth, Starag knew that if it had been the other way around, and that it was he who had died at Seafell and not his father, Jeor Mormont would've been unable to live with himself. The loss of not one, but two sons would've sealed his fate.

And as Starag made his way down each of the cold black steps, he realized that perhaps even if he was not as close with his father as Jorah was, in the end, Jeor had still given Starag the greatest gift of them all…

His father believed in him.