Returning home and setting out on quests…
Bran
The world roared around him, as he soared over valleys and mountains, rushed through great gorges carved through the earth.
He stood in the rainbow light. The earth floated above him, islands in the sky, great hunks of rock, moss and trees, moving through the air on unseen currents, floating on nothing as rainbows shone high over everything. There was no earth, no sky; just layers upon layers of rock and stone, cloud and sky, forests and trees stacked up above and below him - in layers like an onion, as far above as he could see.
As for what lay beneath, there was nothing but darkness unending. Darkness below him… far below, a chasm so deep it was as if like it never ended. He saw giant white roots twisting and weaving from the depths of darkness to the highest iridescent heights, like the veins of the world, and streams and rivers gushing along those roots into the clouds.
Bran gaped upwards, watching the colors thread through the sky. In the distance he could see shadows like enormous beasts flying between the stars… monsters as large as mountains…
"…Bran… where… wake…" A voice hissed in the distance.
It felt like Bran was floating upwards, like there was nothing tying him to the earth anymore. I'm flying…
He heard wings around him. Shadows twisting into a bird flying beside him. The three-eyed crow was as large as a cloud for a moment before it changed, rustling into the shape of a small bird to fly by Bran's shoulder.
"Too high, Bran," the three-eyed crow said. "Fly too high and you will never touch the ground again."
He could only gasp as he saw the earth around him shift. He stared, watching figures shimmer around him, days and nights flashing by. He saw ten thousand monsters with rotting blood and stony skin, crumbling and weeping black, bowing to a lord in grey. He saw a creature with many arms emerging from a bloodstained sea, bringing a high star down to earth. He saw a man with a black crown dancing with a white queen in a court of silk. He saw huge figures like snakes, immense giants laying siege to a mountain of ice…
In the distance, he felt something shake his shoulder. It was like a tingle in the back of his mind. "…Wake… don't… Bran…"
"Head downwards, Bran," the crow pressed. "Find your anchor."
"Am I dreaming?"
"You are beyond the dreams, beyond the trees. Beyond the green."
Bran shifted. A tiny movement, and he saw the world blur around him. He saw a different time, one of thick forests and endless grassy plains. He saw small creatures almost like children, but with old eyes, clutching spears of black glass; they would constantly war against huge hairy giants wielding clubs, skittering everywhere around them as they hunted. How long ago was this, Bran wondered, his eyes flickering from one time and place to another. Are those the children of the forest? And are they the giants? They were fighting each other? Why?
Whatever this time was, it was a time when giants - giants - roamed all the land, from the farthest northern glaciers all the way down to the red sandy mountains. And other creatures besides populated the land, far more fantastical still. He saw unicorns and sea dragons, griffins and great eagles, snakes the size of villages, living in the deep places of fire and ice. He saw apes the size of houses, lions with wings, and whales the size of islands and…
It was, so, so beautiful.
Bran soared over the fractured world. Everything from blazing sands to scorching snows flickered beneath him. He could see rocky coasts and underwater cities. He saw scaly humanoid creatures with webbed feet and hands, giant fishbowl eyes, and large mouths filled with green, needle-like teeth; hunting the children of the forest by the coasts with coral blades and seaweed nets. He saw children kidnapped, dragged away to the deep or chained and bound as slaves by the fish-creatures.
Bran saw beasts that he couldn't even name; great-toothed lions as large as horses, flying lizards with mouths and tails dripping venom, immense serpent-like creatures with great fangs that skittered through jungles on dozens of tiny legs with. He saw great earthen monsters clambering out of gorges in the ground, and living trees with bristling branches and giant wooden maws.
Bran gasped. It was all too overwhelming. He fell downwards, dropping out of the air and into a different time - one that gave him a strange feeling.
He landed in a black grass, surrounded by stone monoliths in a black night. He didn't recognize this place. But something about it felt somehow… familiar. Something about the mountains in the distance, the shape of them. What was this place?
He saw men in motley robes and animal furs, great warriors and chieftains, and men with blindfolds painted with green eyes. A shout went out and the men all circled and assembled around a stone altar stained in blood. He saw the shapes of wolves and bears in the forest, standing side by side with the men. He saw giants moving huge stones like monoliths, covered with runes. All working together, digging a huge hole in the earth.
"Bran, we must leave," the three-eyed crow warned. Around him, the cloaked figures were chanting. Sacrifices. The bloody bones of a small humanoid figure lay draped over the altar that overlooked the vast pit, being dug out by thousands of shifting figures. He saw men in furs, captives that looked like they'd been taken from wars, thralls, and hundreds of giants - all working together, to dig a huge pit in the earth. "You've gone too deep into the green. This place is not safe."
"Where is this?" Bran gasped. "When is this?"
"It doesn't matter. You need to find your own time. I can only guide you so far."
Bran couldn't stop staring in quiet amazement. These were men unlike any he'd seen before, but somehow familiar. Rough men with bronze swords and leather shields. He glimpsed grey wolves in the forest, walking beside them like dogs. The cloaked figures were speaking a language he didn't understand. They shouted angrily, arguing with each other as they motioned to the altar.
One man in particular stood among them; a tall, thin man in finely cut furs like robes, with a long face, grey hair, and even greyer, piercing grey eyes. Eyes that were almost white. He looked tired, weary, with dark shadows of exhaustion under his eyes, like he walked with exhaustion writ into his very body. But he never stopped moving. Unlike the other men, he had no sword, but it somehow felt like he somehow didn't need one. Who was this?
The old man was in charge here, Bran somehow knew. He was ordering people, sending men to different places, making them do different things. He was overseeing the men as they were… burying something, at the deepest place of all. Something broken. Something powerful.
Bran looked beneath the earth, and saw a graveyard of bones, bones the size of houses. Corpses of men and giants and those small, humanoid figures; all had been gutted and buried, with weirwood seeds planted into their bellies, slowly quickening. At some point, the men swore an oath in a language so guttural, so alien Bran couldn't make sense of it. He caught only a single word; '…staharak.'
The First Men. "Stark?" Bran called.
The scene froze. All the cloaked men turned to stare at him. They... couldn't see him, not exactly. It was like they looked straight through him, rather than at him - but they did all turn. They heard me.
But this is just a vision, isn't it?How could they hear me? The crow flapped, clutching him with talons. Dragging him away, pulling him into a different time.
"Where… where am I?"
"Everywhere."
"How… ?" He gasped.
"You flew too high. Even birds must return to the earth," the crow cawed. "Your body is an anchor. You abandoned it, and lost sight of the ground."
Above him, the layers of earth churned. It was like the whole world was an onion; layers upon layers infinitely detailed and floating on top of each other, extending outwards.
"I knew a maester once that described time as a river, flowing endlessly forward," the crow said. "But in the green, time is more like the earth itself - layers of moments in time, endlessly stacked on top of each other. If time is the root and wheel of the world, then the wheel never stops spinning. The deeper you follow the roots, the deeper you see."
Bran gasped. "How far does it go?"
"Who knows? None have ever come back from reaching the bottom. You must find yourself again, Bran, lest you become one of the many lost for all time."
"You can be trapped in this place?"
"Where do you think the faces on the weirwoods come from?"
The thought made his heart pound. None of the faces on the heart tree had ever looked happy. It felt like he was falling. Tumbling through endless summers and winters, spinning around him like the world was dancing. "How do I get back?"
"Focus on the roots. Follow them. Let them lead you."
The weirwood's roots. Bran could see the roots threading through time. Return to my body. The Nightfort. To Meera and Jojen.
The world blurred. He saw a great black keep, shaded by a wall of ice. He didn't recognise it at first. This wall was roughly only a hundred foot tall. The fort had strong walls and towers, fresh and strong. Bran could see some of the towers still under construction, being defended and readied for war.
The Nightfort, he thought, stunned. How long ago must this be? The Wall looked weirdly small - not as mountainous as it was in his time - and the castle was fresh and well-manned. He saw thousands of black cloaked men marching through stone courtyards. Legions of sworn brothers.
The scene blurred, like watching through a dream. He saw a tall man clad in black, staggering through the forest, clutching an icy, ethereal blue sword that shimmered like an edge of blue moonlight, sharper than any glass. The man met a strange woman in a forest, a woman with blue eyes and white hair, and terrible powers, and they met in battle - but at the last moment, the man hesitated as his eyes met those of the white woman quivering beneath him.
The woman had skin and hair as white as snow, eyes like blue stars in the bloody dusk, frozen in inhuman perfection. She looked inhuman… eerie… beautiful. The man stood, his sword reared back as if he were about to strike her down - but he paused, hesitating.
A storm raged around the scene. Even though the battle was over, the vision twisted around them - Bran had a sensation that many, many others had viewed this exact scene, so many eyes peering from out of time that it looked like an entirely different kind of battle. Bran looked past it all, and focused on the living man, trying to judge his expression as he stared at the inhumanly beautiful woman beneath him. The warrior looked young and strong, weary and bold, but he wasn't scared… more entranced.
A man without fear, Bran thought. "…The Night's King."
"Yes," the three-eyed crow said. "What you see, it is a significant moment in time. An inflection point. A beginning, and an ending." A long, rasping sigh echoed through the green. "During the Cold Spring after the Long Night, many of the Others lingered in our lands. Perhaps the Long Night had ended, but some of the Others disagreed with the rest of their kind, and were not as willing as the rest to return to their home - it took decades to push the remnants back. The first generations of the Night's Watch were the ones that led the drive to push them north, at least on this continent."
This continent? Bran looked in quiet shock. He felt himself raise upwards, to stare down at the world from a wider perspective.
The land was broken, as if giants had fought across the world. War had ravaged everything, destroyed near every city, and left the people to suffering and starving. The white walkers had been defeated, but they hadn't fallen easily. They had turned the great beasts of the land against men and giants and children and all others, in a long, bitter, vicious war fought under a black sky. For so long the Others had reigned as overlords and walking terrors, but even as the winter faded and they were forced back to the farthest north, they had stained the waning snows with blood.
Bran saw the Night's King again. He was a young Lord Commander now; very young - but a proven soldier who had been elected to finally win the war. He was a warrior, and was meant to bring war upon the enemy. Instead, the Night's King tried to make peace with the white walkers, by marrying the cold as a symbol of truce.
"Yet he didn't," the crow said sadly, as the scene shifted. "Whatever intentions he had as a king, the man under the crown failed."
They went deeper, and then, Bran saw the Nightfort at its most terrible prime. Frosted in sheets of time, a fortress radiating the cold like it was its own glacier, with heads on spikes around the walls by the tens of thousands, with legions from beyond the Wall marching through the open gate. Living men and the dead stood side by side on the Nightfort's battlements.
Under their self-anointed king, the Night's Watch scoured beyond the Wall, dragging wildlings into the cells beneath the Nightfort. Men, giants, even children - they were all captured to be jailed under the castle. Thousands and thousands placed in manacles; even as he watched, the Night's King terrorized the north.
"Why? Why imprison so many?"
"It was his last resort; to become the monster his enemies believed him to be, for one final chance to succeed in his dreams. Still, he failed."
Bran didn't understand. "But why did his men follow him?"
"He promised them victory, and peace. His queen promised them all immortality. Such promises have a powerful pull on men."
"Did she make them immortal?"
"In a sense."
He saw legions of dead soldiers flowing out of the gate. Rotting bodies walking, men with dead expressions, even slave soldiers wearing chains.
Bran saw the Night's King speak with a wildling king under the shadow of a dark, moonless night, and give him… something. A great white horn, longer than a man. Then came the siege of the Nightfort, the final battle against the Night's King after a long and grueling war. Two armies from both sides, north and south. The King of Winter joined forces with the King-Beyond-the-Wall against the Night's Fort. Brandon the Breaker and Joramun, fighting from opposite sides of the Wall.
The Nightfort burned. Flying casks of flaming oil launched over the walls into the castle, lighting it up like a funeral pyre to backdrop of chaos. The sky thundered, and the Wall trembled.
And Bran saw a man in black armor, with a crowned helm, standing at the battlements atop the burning castle, as his pale queen melted away in his arms.
The scenes blurred by so quickly he could barely even make sense of them.
"…What happened to him?" Bran asked breathlessly. He hadn't seen how it ended.
"The Night's King died. He burned as the tower fell."
It felt like the crow was trying to drag him away, but he squirmed and resisted. Bran wanted to see more, and the scene shifted at his resistance, gave him one final peek.
He glimpsed pale, tiny fingers clutching at a cradle in a dark room.
"There was a child?!"
"Enough." Bran jerked, as the three-eyed crow dragged him away. Bran saw the world dissolve into shadows. "We cannot linger here, Bran."
Bran fell. He tumbled downwards, dissipating through the earth.
Images flashed. He saw a hooded man surrounding by lurching, rotten bodies staggering over grassy knolls. He saw a man with bright golden hair, laughing raucously as he was thrown into a dark prison cell. He saw a man with a bright smile wearing a wreath of roses, mixing petals and fruits into a violet potion before dripping it onto a sleeping maiden's lips. He saw a broad-shouldered figure, clad in direwolf furs, blowing a long ornate bone horn over a desolate icescape and feeling the sky crack…
It was so much he could barely even process it all. Bran felt his head spin.
"… Bran… Bran…" a voice whispered. "…Wake…"
He saw a blood-soaked baby crying in a bed of winter roses. A dark-haired weeping woman begging from a high window for them to stop, screaming and weeping as men in white cloaks charged at the base of the tower. He saw a hunched white-haired figure in black armor, swinging a dark sword against a wave of blackness. Bran felt himself shiver, as a wave of cold dropped downwards from the sky, so cold he could barely breathe, like it sucked all the warmth from the world…
"Focus," the crow pressed. "Focus on who you are, pull yourself back. Your family, your home…"
My family. Home.
Winterfell.
The world hazed. He was staring downwards, at clouds of smoke and mist rising upwards. The castle burned in great gusts of flame, while snow and wind howled around him. Bran heard sounds of fighting, a battle, while the air boomed like strikes of thunder one after another…
"Bran…" a voice whispered. "…Bran, don't go…"
Meera.
He felt his body lurch, reaching out towards the sound.
It was all feeling. The feeling of Meera's voice, the rain dripping onto him. Summer's fur. Summer's howl. Bran gripped onto the feeling of the direwolf and dragged himself through the earth…
…
He gasped as the air hit him. He felt blood and rain dripping down his forehead. He throbbing pain in his skull. Suddenly he was back in the Nightfort, in the soaking rain and blood.
All around him, the night steamed and hissed, the flames scorching through the wet wood of the library. Bran only briefly saw a man in front of him lurching bloodily to the floor, gripping his skull. Bran recognized the dark-haired, black-bearded wildling dropping downwards limply - with blood pouring down his cheeks. He's bleeding, Bran thought in shock. He's bleeding from the eyes.
And then everything went black.
He heard the sound of pained moaning. Bran woke up feeling groggy, sore and weak. It took him a while to find himself.
The morning was bitter and grey, the weak sun stinging his eyes. His whole body felt numb, yet at the same time just so alive. It was like he could feel everything from the birds in the sky, to the whisper of the trees.
The events of last night came rushing back to him, so intense he could barely process them.
Bran sputtered and wheezed, feeling his hands shake.
Jojen was suddenly leaning over him, placing a damp cloth to his forehead. "Bran," the crannogman whispered. "Easy, just relax."
Instinctively, Bran tried to move. He couldn't feel his legs. I was walking last night, he thought suddenly. I was standing. I possessed that wildling's body, even just for a moment.
The memory hit him. It had been over so fast. Bran had jumped into the man's body, and then the wildling had screamed and dropped to the floor, eyes exploding and blood pouring in rivers down his cheeks. I killed him. I forced my way into his skin and I killed him.
Bran had possessed him, and it caused the man's mind to explode, and sent Bran flailing wildly into… that place. Beyond the green, the three-eyed crow had called it.
To be back in his own broken skin after something like that, something so vast, so amazing… Bran's hands couldn't stop trembling. He hated it. Being back in his own broken body.
Jojen looked at him with concern. "Where did you go, Bran?"
"I don't know…" So many visions flashed before his eyes. There was a hint of knowing in Jojen's gaze. "…That… have you felt that too? The green?"
Jojen shook his head. "I've only ever dreamt the greendreams. You've walked them. The waking dreamer is mightier by far than the sleeper who dreams."
Across the stable, Hodor was moaning weakly as Meera tried to patch up his wounded leg. They all looked worn, injured and tired. Bran could feel Summer too - the direwolf was in the kitchens, feasting ravenously on the corpses that littered the corridors. Thirteen corpses of wildlings that had tried to cross the Wall.
I killed them, Bran thought with shock. The visions of last night flashed bloodily in front of his mind. I killed them with Hodor, or with Summer, or with the ravens.
And the last one… He would never forget the last dark-haired wildling. The way the man's mind popped as I crushed him.
Thirteen strong raiders, and they'd never stood a chance.
Bran's vision blurred and blackened. He was still trembling and gasping weakly even as he blacked out.
As he slept, he looked down upon the lands, flying through the ice and trees through the eyes of a dozen ravens.
…
He awoke with someone tugging urgently on his collar. Bran's lurched awake, to watch Meera grunt with difficulty as she tried to lever his limp body onto a saddle. Her face was bruised and sore.
"We've got to go!" Meera shouted through clenched teeth as they tried to stumble down and out of the courtyard. Hodor could barely walk, let alone carry Bran. "The rangers must have seen the fire last night. We've got to go now!"
They shambled out of the Nightfort, taking refuge in the pine forests outside the keep. They were too weak to go very far. Bran glimpsed torches on the Wall, heading down to the ice steps towards the keep. Through Summer's skin, he smelled men approaching. None of Bran's party were in any state to move quickly - they could only hope to hide in the treeline and pray that the rangers didn't search very hard for them.
"If we run now we're not going be able to cross the Wall," Meera warned, grunting as she tried to drag Bran out over the rough cold grass. His body felt like a useless sack of potatoes.
Jojen just shook his head. "We're not going to be able to cross the Wall anyway."
They set up camp in the forest that night. No campfire, in case anyone was searching for them. Bran noticed how Meera was trembling too. Meera's broken nose left her eyes bloodshot and her face bruised. The painful image of her beaten and stripped flashed before his eyes. They all huddled together against the cold, quiet and strained.
That was the first fight I've ever been in, Bran thought to himself. The vision replayed in his mind. The terror, the awfulness. I once dreamed about being a knight on a battlefield. Nothing could have ever prepared him for just… the pure gore, the screaming and chaos.
The night was tensely quiet. No one slept. "…What did you see, Bran?" Jojen asked quietly after a long silence, resting his head on his hands. "I saw you; you were out of your body. What did you see?"
Meera looked at him. Bran hesitated for a long time. So many visions, where could he even begin. Half of them hardly even made sense. "…I saw the past. It was like I was there, watching everything…" he said. The thought alone caused him to gulp. He hesitated, remembering one sight that struck out to him. "…And… I think saw the future too."
"What did you see?"
"I saw Winterfell." The image of his home covered in smoke and mist. "I saw Winterfell being destroyed. I think we've got to go back."
Meera shook her head. "We can't; it's too dangerous, they'll be hunting us."
"We have to," Bran insisted. That scene, why was it so hard to focus on it?
"What about the three-eyed crow?"
"I don't think I need him… I…" His hands were still trembling. "…I need to think."
Nobody pushed him. Hodor started crying when his stitches split, and Meera moved over to try and help the stable boy and reapply rags for bandages.
The night was quiet. A fat half-moon hung above in the frosted sky.
I killed men last night, Bran thought for the hundredth time. I did it, I killed them. Is this how it's supposed to feel?
I am ten years old, yet I overpowered them. He couldn't even twitch his legs. His body was useless, but he had been so strong last night. I killed them…
Slowly, Jojen shuffled over towards him. The crannogman kept his voice low. "Bran," he said in a low voice. "How are you? What are you thinking about?"
"Last night." He had been thinking about it constantly on repeat. The way the wildling had choked under Hodor's hands, or torn under Summer's claws, or burst under Bran's presence. How are you supposed to feel after killing thirteen people? "…those wildlings…"
"We survived. That's what important."
He pictured the pile of thirteen corpses. Thirteen dead bodies. "…Meera killed one," his voice quavered. "She's so good with her spear. But she could only kill one of them," Bran said after a long pause. "Hodor's big and strong, but he could only kill two. It was me - I killed them. I killed them in Hodor's skin, or in Summer's, or in the ravens, but I killed them."
Jojen never replied. His green eyes stared through him.
"…Old Nan always used to tell me stories about… about the Warg King. Or the Horned Lord. Them that could use sorcery and skinchanging." Bran remembered those stories well. The Warg King was an ancient skinchanger who had ruled Sea Dragon's Point, allied with the children of the forest, who fought against the ancient Kings of Winter. The Horned Lord had been an ancient King-Beyond-the-Wall thousands of years ago, who supposedly used magic to pass the Wall. Bran had seen figures of legend themselves in his vision, legends in the flesh. Magic and monsters, they were real. "…And I just realized… I'm like them. I'm a skinchanger too, I'm as powerful as they were."
Bran turned to face the crannogman. "If I had only known about that six months ago…" He shook his head. "I never needed to flee Winterfell. When Theon Greyjoy invaded, I could have chased him out… I never needed to hide when they… they burned down my home…"
I'm a wolf. A winged wolf. I had been chained, helpless. So helpless and weak when they chased after me…
"I should never have left Winterfell." He thought back to a frozen wasteland, and the builder clutching a giant horn.
His throat jammed. The tears stung his eyes, but Bran refused to cry. Crying was for little boys. He couldn't cry.
"You're a Stark, Bran," Jojen said in his soft voice. "You did everything you could do."
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. "And now I can do more." He shook his head. "I'm done running, Jojen. I don't to run, to hide to be… trapped anymore. I want to… I want to do something, I want to…" His eyes twitched. "… I killed those men. That was me. That was me fighting back."
The crannogman's voice flickered. "What do you want to do?"
"I need to go home," Bran admitted. "I need to see my family again."
Jojen stared at him for a long time, piercing green eyes looking straight through him. Bran never met his gaze. He can tell I'm holding something back, Bran thought to himself. "Bran…" Jojen said in a slow voice. "What aren't you telling me?"
He hesitated for a long time. It was hard to even find the words. How do you vocalize something as intense and as vivid as a dream? It was more like feelings than images. "…I saw something…" he said, struggling quietly to remember it. "In my vision. I didn't understood it, and I still don't, but… I think I saw Winterfell when it was being made. I think I saw the Bran the Builder."
Jojen blinked. He looked like he was about to say something, but he didn't. "…And I've been obsessing over it in my head and…" Bran stammered. "And it's a like a feeling. We were in the crypts, remember? I know what Winterfell feels like, and it felt like… so much of Winterfell is underground. I don't think even my father knew how far down the crypts go. The reason Bran the Builder built the castle there…"
He was rambling. His breaths were still sharp and jagged. It sounded crazy even as he said it, but he couldn't shaking the sense of foreboding and warning that vision gave him. Winterfell was built on top of hot springs, Bran recalled, they used it to pump warm water through the castle.
But his vision. The hot springs weren't always there.
The first Starks. Standing in a field of bones, interring something where it might be safe for all time.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.
His hands clenched slowly. "I think there's something buried beneath Winterfell," Bran said finally. It was the only thing that made his visions make sense. "I think he left something buried there."
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Jojen never replied. He retired early for the night to dream.
The whole camp was barely a clearing in the forest. They had lost their supplies and half their equipment when they were chased out of the Nightfort. They were hungry, injured and weak. Bran could see the wariness and concern when he looked into Meera's eyes. She didn't think they would last long like this. She was probably right.
At one point, near dawn, Meera and Jojen left to one side and argued about where they should go next, keeping out of earshot from Bran. Neither of them knew what to do. Bran eavesdropped through a bird on the trees.
It was pale and early morning. In the first morning rays, he felt the forest twitch. Summer heard a party of men walking through the forest. Bran could have warned Jojen and Meera, they could have tried to run, but he didn't. Instead, he stayed still, staring at the trees as he heard a party of thirty armed men crunch through the snow.
I'm done running, he thought as he steeled himself. I'm done hiding.
He remembered that feeling of cold and endless winter descending over the world. There was no time for hiding. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.
Bran expected to see rangers in black cloaks coming out of the forest. Instead, he saw gruff men in plate mail with spears. There was shouting and bellowing as the strangers intruded into their camp. Summer snarled and snapped, Meera clutched her spear, but Bran just watched in a sort of frozen calm. Many of the men had brown giants stitched onto their surcoats, he noticed.
The shouting and screaming lasted a while, as the men dragged Meera's spear away and forced Summer backwards. Apparently the men had been hunting wildlings that had slipped over the Wall. Considering all the dirt and grime over them, Bran wasn't surprised that his party could be mistaken for wildlings. A man bellowed at Bran to stand up and come with them, to which Bran could only reply that he couldn't stand. That caused some of the men to stir.
Shortly afterwards, he was dragged before the old warrior leading the expedition - a stiff and gaunt man in boiled leather and chainmail, with flinty eyes, a long white beard and a face as hard as winter frost.
It took a while for Bran to recognize the man. Hother Umber. Castellan of Last Hearth. The Whoresbane.
The Bear Knight
"Take me," Dany purred, slipping towards him under the silken sheets. Her kiss was soft, teasing, mischievous, biting gently at his lower lip. "I command you to fuck me, ser."
"Yes, your grace," Jorah whispered huskily. His body convulsed as her slender, nubile legs wrapped around his waist.
"Take me, ser," his queen whispered in his ear. "Love me, protect me. I need you so, so much…"
"Yes, your grace," he gasped, feeling her delicate fingers move downwards, her fingertips tracing through thick chest hair and towards his—
"Land ahoy, you cunts! Get a move on already!"
…
Jorah shot upwards. The dream vanished in an instant. Instead of silk sheets and playful caresses, he was suddenly lying on bed-ridden, sea worn, cotton, staring at dirty, almost rotten, floorboards. He had his knife in his hand instinctively. He very nearly fell out of the hammock.
He cursed as he thrashed. The stiffness between his legs made movement unbearable. The wooden supports creaked and groaned as he struggled to pull himself upwards. The sailor's bunkbeds were not made for a man of his size.
The floor was rocking. He could hear waves and gulls. Jorah cursed, dragging his stiff and cramped body upwards. He had slept in his armor for fear of someone stealing it, but it left his back and shoulders aching. He grabbed his longsword, fastened his belt and staggered upwards.
"You were moaning in your sleep, Westerosi," a rotten-toothed man with a wicked grin said. "Pleasant dreams?"
"Aye," Jorah grunted. "My wife."
"Well, you are home now," the sailor said. "I'm sure she is waiting for you, yes?"
She is. But she's waiting for me half a world away. For now, I will wait for her.
He staggered out onto the deck. The cold, salty wind hit him, along with the shouts of men and movement. The galley creaked in the waves as it sailed through the Bite. He could see the misty outline of the Three Sisters to their starboard, the beacons absent in the pale light, and the grey, cluttered cliffs and rocks of the coast as they headed down into the White Knife. The river was drab and meager compared to the Rhoyne of Volantis, grey and cold compared to the Skahazadhan of Meereen, but the entrance to the bay still had a certain misty, ancient splendor that no other could match.
Jorah could see the whitewashed stone of White Harbor coming into view, a drab sight under grey clouds. Steepily pitched roofs of dark grey hung to the coast, speckled with towers and the frames of ships. It was more than just a harbour city, it felt like the north. It had been so long Jorah half-forgotten what it looked like. Seeing it again, though, it felt like he had never left.
Years ago, he had ran to White Harbour to escape Lord Stark's justice. His last sight of the town had been crammed into a cargo hold of a stinking cog heading to Lys, trying to reassure his frantic wife.
There was a certain, bitter irony in how things changed.
"We will be docking in a few hours," the man said, shambling over creaky stairs. The men were rushing to the oars, bringing the sails in. "You'll help unload, hmm?"
Jorah nodded, absentminded. "I'll help with your cargo."
"Good worker," he said approvingly, in broken Common. "Big, strong. You want work on ships, see the captain now. We always need strong swords in these waters."
He considered it. It might be good pay. Working as hired goon, a sword, on some rotten ship was stable work if nothing else.
Jorah shook his head. "I can't. I have business in White Harbor."
"Yes, your wife." He nodded before shambling off. "Still, offer is there. I find that woman are poor at waiting. If she is not waiting for you, then we'll be in port for three days."
Jorah's eyes were focused on White Harbor. For so long, Jorah had been the Spider's creature. He followed orders; he went where Lord Varys instructed him, he watched, he wrote reports back to the King's Landing - all in the hope of someday securing a pardon and being able to go back home. Now, he was coming back himself to do the exact thing, but this time to send reports to Meereen, and to his queen.
Queen Daenerys Targaryen shall have no more devoted subject, Jorah promised himself. I wronged her, but I will prove myself. I shall do whatever it takes to earn my place at her side. Someday, however long it may take, we will be together; her on the Iron Throne and I by her side.
Perhaps it was impossible. Many would say it was. Jorah had no delusions; he was an aging, exiled knight from a minor house in the far north, and she was a stunningly beautiful young woman, the heir of the Targaryen legacy and destined for greatness. Still, many would have said it was impossible for him to win the tourney at Lannisport, to win Lynesse Hightower's hand in marriage. Jorah had defied the odds then, and he was prepared to do it again.
He lingered outside for as long as possible, before redrawing to his bunk. He kept a quill and sheets of goatskin parchment hidden, wrapped in his spare blanket. After a long moment, Jorah frowned and wrote in large, awkward letters:
'Nineteen war galleys in the inner harbor of White Harbor. Outer harbor is crowded. Fresh construction. City preparing for war?'
An hour later, he saw the looming stone of Seal Rock over the approach to the outer harbor. The ancient, weathered ringfort stood fifty feet over the waters, grey-green in color. Last time he passed, the ruins had been abandoned, but now he saw ships docked around the rocks, and man working and fortifying the ruins. He glimpsed scorpions and spitfires being hammered into position, and new defensive towers on the harbor that looked recent.
With a pause, he returned to his parchment and crossed out the question mark on the previous line. He added: 'Seal Rock fortified. Planning to defend harbor.'
He was here as a spy. Parchment was expensive and his penmanship was poor, but Jorah had resolved to record absolutely everything he saw that could be of use to Daenerys.
Jorah had abandoned his mail and surcoat - it was far too obvious. Likewise, he had sold his plate armor for worn boiled leather; worn, molded and dressed in oil to retain flexibility around joints. He had even shaved his beard. His story was that of a sellsword returning home after fighting for mercenaries companies. A knight drew attention, but a common sellsword less so.
The trip from Meereen had been as fast as possible. The Shavepate gave him a pouchful of gold, some brief instructions to report back in vague terms, and a horse. First, Jorah had rode to Volantis, and then booked a ship back to Westeros. Volantis had been difficult - the whole city had been heaving between the Triarch elections, the Yunkai recruiting for war on Meereen and Astapor, and the Golden Company camped outside of the city.
Jorah had lingered long enough to learn as much as possible, and that was the very first report he went sent back to Meereen. Everyone had been talking about how Tyrion Lannister, the queen's deformed younger brother, had apparently hired the Golden Company in Volantis to sail back to Westeros to claim Casterly Rock for himself.
Jorah gathered as much information as he could gather and wrote three letters about the Golden Company and the mercenary companies the Yunkai hired. He didn't know how useful they'd be to Daenerys, but he wasn't about to skimp on his task.
All three of the letters ended up with the widow of the waterfront in western Volantis, who promised to see them to Meereen, and Jorah had little choice but to trust her. Jorah might have been tempted to wait and try to sail back to Westeros along with Golden Company, but instead the widow of the waterfront recommended him passage on the smuggler ship the Adventure - coursed towards White Harbor and then Braavos to sell Volantis silks, lace and spices. As old and foul as the Adventure was, it was a lean and fast ship and they made good time.
Jorah had debated the wisdom of heading towards King's Landing instead. King's Landing would be the center of activity; if he wanted to learn about the movements of the Usurper's ilk then the capital was the place to be. Still, King's Landing was also treacherous, unfamiliar territory for him. There would be spies everywhere, the risks were so much greater.
Instead, Jorah knew White Harbor. He knew the north. His status as the (former) Lord of Bear Island had more weight here. It had been a long decision, but the north was where he wanted to be.
He forced himself to stay calm, but he was trembling anxiously. He lingered to help the captain unload boxes down onto the pier as the portmaster approached, mostly so he could scout discreetly about the rumors in the city among the dockworkers.
Then, he was walking through the narrow cobbled streets of White Harbor, feeling his heart pound. The whole city stunk of fish.
He remembered Dany's words. He had been practicality reciting them. I declare your exile over, his queen had proclaimed. You must be my scout, my spy - my envoy even. Whatever it takes.
Not for the first time, the enormity of that task dawned on him. Dany was possibly years away from invading Westeros. She would wait until her dragons were fully grown and under control and she had a stable backing in Meereen. Jorah's service now could be the difference between success and failure when she finally did come west.
Scouting and letters are only half my duty, he thought. I must rally the kingdom to their rightful queen. I must pave her way. I must convince the Seven Kingdoms of Daenerys' worth, and prove my own.
His hands clenched into fists. What I wouldn't give to even be twenty years younger again? I feel like an old man.
His heart pounded. My father. My father probably still lives, as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He knew it would be folly to go see Jeor Mormont again, but still…
Jorah's settled in early and hired a room, in a stinking winesink called the Lazy Eel. The whole city was overrun with refugees, and more coming every day. He retreated sullenly, to think and to plan. He tried to stay inconspicuous, but the innkeeper still called him "m'lord" when he rented a whole room for himself.
So much to do… Even trying to imagine his task made him quiver. He waved the serving girl away so he could think. I need to gather information. I need rumors and witnesses. They said that Eddard Stark is dead, and his sons murdered, but how much of that is true I can't say.
I need to find some ships heading to Volantis. Set up some sort of organization that could get my reports safely back to Meereen. That alone was a daunting task - how to send messages half a world away in secret?
And I will have to approach familiar noble lords, carefully. Lords that might raise the Targaryen banner. The mere thought twisted his thoughts in dark directions. Try to convince them that the Starks were dead and the Lannisters were mad, unworthy of rule. It would take tact, and negotiation that Jorah had little experience with. He needed to move a kingdom with nothing more than words and promises of a distant queen. How much are the words of an exiled knight worth? Where can I even start?
…Who rules Bear Island now? He wondered. My aunt, Maege? My cousins?
…It's been so long and I am finally home…
Before long, it was nightfall and he still hadn't decided on the best course of action. He felt like a bear that had been tasked with learning to dance. He sat hunched over the writing desk, staring at the parchment and all his crude notes.
Then, the sound of heavy footsteps up the wooden stairs caused him to jump. The clang of heavy plate boots. His hand went instinctively to his longsword.
Bang, bang, bang.
Thrice, a heavy fist collided against the door. Jorah jumped. "Who is it?" He demanded, tensing.
"Open the door and lower the steel, otherwise we'll bring the door down and take you," the voice on the other side said grimly. "You can either walk out of here with us, or we can drag you out. I'm not too bothered which, to be honest."
Jorah growled. He fastened on his belt, his dagger, his longsword firmly in his hands. His fingers were frantic as he fastened the clasps on his armor. How could they know? Why are they here for me, I never drew any attention…
Still, there was little choice but to unlatch the bolt and open the door. If they wanted a fight, he would give them one. I clearly make a poor spy, but I'm a better fighter, I promise you.
Jorah pushed the door open and stood back. Five burly guardsmen in half-helm and iron tridents painted silver were standing in the corridor. They wore woolen blue-green dyed cloaks - the uniform of the guards of House Manderly. Big men, armored, but in the narrow corridor Jorah would have an advantage.
The man at the front wasn't a guardsman, though; he was a tall, aging man with a deep-lined face and long brown grey hair. He wore a red surcoat, his hands on the sword on his belt. His expression was tense, dark and glowering.
Jorah stared, not lowering his sword. The last time he saw that face it had been at his wedding. It took him a while to recognize the man with a decade's worth of aging, stress and wrinkles.
"Robett?" Jorah muttered. "Robett Glover?"
"Ser Jorah." Robett Glover nodded. "So it's true. I barely believed it myself. The previous offer still stands; come with us now or we'll drag you out."
Jorah shook his head, stepping backwards. "I do not want any trouble."
"Then lower your sword."
It had been so long since Jorah had last seen the man. The younger brother of the Lord of Deepwater Motte. They had even been friendly, once upon a time, but the relationship soured after the death of Jorah's first wife. Jorah had heard some whispers that Robett Glover came to White Harbor recently; he had been captured and then exchanged after Robb Stark's failed conquest. The men on the docks said that Manderly had refused to rally for him, and turned Robett away. What is he doing with the city guards?
The man's face was hard as stone. "We were family, once," Jorah growled. "You would really march me to the hangman's noose like this?"
"Aye, we were family," Robett said darkly. "You married my niece. And then you spat on her memory when her body was barely cold."
He flustered. "I would never… Sigfryd was a lovely girl, I cared deeply for her…"
Sigfryd Glover. My first wife. The longest wife too; Jorah had been only seventeen when they married. Seventeen years old. As my father instructed me to, I married her. Sigfryd had been a plain, maybe homely girl, but polite and sweet. Their marriage had been very… respectful. Dutiful. Jorah had been fond of her.
Not for the first time, he wondered how different his life might have been if Sigfryd had given him a child instead of dying in her third miscarriage.
"Yes, I remember how much you cared for her," Robett said, his eyes still tense. "You waited a month after the funeral before going off and marrying that bitch with a pretty face."
I was twenty-seven. The first woman I ever fell in love with. "Lynesse." Jorah's voice was a growl.
Robett nodded. "That was her. The Hightower girl. The bitch with a pretty face. How well did that marriage work out for you?"
Jorah never replied.
At twenty-seven years old, Jorah had been a fierce fighter, a warrior proven, the Lord of Bear Island, and already widowed. Renowned as one of the best fighters in the north. Respected. He had been a man grown, but it had only just felt like he was starting to really live his life. My father even took the black so that I could become lord. How did things go from there to here?
"You know, if my son ever becomes entranced by a comely lass, I'll tell him about you as a warning."
"Don't," Jorah warned, raising his sword slightly.
"You sold slaves, Jorah." Robett glowered. "Any goodwill the north had for you evaporated with that crime. When you tried to fill your purse with blood money. But you could have stood with honor. Could have stood trial. You could have pleaded, taken the black. Instead you ran like a craven."
"I will not stand here to be insulted," Jorah said. "Either move aside or I'll show you how much of a craven I am."
"I told you, you will be coming with us."
"You expect me to walk willingly to my own execution?"
"Perhaps you should be executed. Perhaps you deserve it." Robett nodded, folding his arms. "But it won't be tonight. I come on behalf of Lord Manderly of White Harbor. He wishes to talk."
Jorah's eyes narrowed. "Talk?"
"Lord Wyman Manderly will offer you guest right, if you accept it. If not, you'll be coming anyways. I have no interest in an execution, but don't push me."
Jorah glanced at the guardsmen standing in the corridor. All of them were armed and armored. He paused for a long time, before lowering his sword. Robett just nodded, and motioning for him to follow. The soldiers flanked him from either side, clearing the path out of the Lazy Eel. Jorah glimpsed patrons part quietly as they marched him out. Nobody said a word.
They walked quickly, almost frogmarched him out into the street and into Fishfoot Yard. It was midnight, the city felt suppressed and cloudy. Robett never looked back at him. The proud and pale silhouette of New Castle hovered over the city. Without a word, the guards were heading to the Castle Stair. Marble mermaids shimmered in the street. They're taking me to the keep.
"How did you find me?" Jorah asked. "How did you know I was here?"
"You were less inconspicuous than you might think," Robett replied. "White Harbor has been expecting spies for a long time. We've been well-prepared for the Iron Throne sending their catspaws."
"I am no catspaw." Jorah glared at him defiantly. "And I don't work for the Iron Throne."
"And yet we had men on the docks looking for any new arrivals lingering around. The guardsmen keep in touch with the innkeepers, particularly the darker hovels. We look specifically for any trying to hide. When you arrived - a mystery stranger renting a room with no meals, paying well and spotted writing messages at their desk all night - it raised flags in a city that is on high alert."
Jorah, carefully, gave no reaction. High alert indeed, to react so quickly.
They headed through the plaza, up the Castle Stair towards the New Castle. He expected them to go for the main entrance to the hall, but instead Robett took them around the back, to a servant's entrance on the far side of the keep. They were waved through by the guards without a word.
"Few people know that you came to White Harbor," Robett said. "It is better if we keep that number to as few as possible."
Better for who? Jorah wondered. His body was tensed as Robett led them into a poorly lit servant's quarters. They walked into a servant's dining hall; filled with long, cramped wooden tables and stools, with cheap candles flickering in the corner of the room. Two of the guards waited outside. Another went to guard the door.
He saw two figures waiting for him. One of them was a hulking man squatting on a stool, biting into a thick fisherman's pie in a ceramic bowl. Lord Wyman Manderly had already been a fat man the last time Jorah had seen him, some fifteen years ago, but now he looked even more bloated and obese. Dark, gaunt circles hung under Wyman's red eyes. Lord Manderly was over sixty years old now - but he seemed older - clad in sweaty wool and velvet, with a massive belly hanging out from an embroidered green overcoat.
"Ser Jorah," Lord Manderly greeted loudly, chunks of pastry clung to his greying whiskers. "Forgive me if I don't stand."
"Lord Manderly," Jorah said cautiously, before asking, "How did you know I was in the city?"
"You underestimate your fame. When you chose exile all those years ago, you caused quite a stir. The north remembers, ser," the lord said, scoffing down a great gulp of pie. "My cousin, Ser Marlon Manderly—" The tall man in silver-gilt armour by Lord Manderly's side. "—commander of the city's garrison. You were identified as a likely spy entering the city, we watched, and then Marlon here recognized you from the search eight years ago. If you really were Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, then I wanted to speak to hear and now, quietly, rather than throwing you in a cell."
"And what do you want?"
Lord Manderly paused. "That, ser, is a loaded question," the lord said. "Please - sit, eat. I have pie and wine." He motioned to Ser Marlon. "Although, first let the commander here relieve you of your sword and dagger, ser. Allow a fat old man his reassurances."
Jorah hesitated, but he didn't resist as Ser Marlon and the two guards took his longsword and belt away from him. He sat down woodenly opposite Lord Manderly. The guards, and Robett, all had hands near their swords.
"Robett here advised me to drive you out of my city," Lord Manderly explained. "He said that you are dishonorable, and not to be trusted. Is he correct?"
Jorah never said a word.
"… Well…" Lord Manderly continued. "… My opinion is that I have far too many enemies to be able to afford to turn away potential allies. Care for some pie, Ser Jorah?"
He paused. The room was quiet as he dragged back the oak chair and sat down. Lord Manderly cut him a large slice of pie. Ser Jorah wasn't hungry, but he ate it gingerly in any case. Eel pie; it was dry and stale but thick and meaty. Guest right required him to accept the host's food.
"Did you know that a month ago I swore myself off food?" Lord Manderly said, crunching into another slice. "I swore to starve myself until I had vengeance for my son. My poor Wendel. I wailed and I cried in grief, refused all visitors, refused to come to dinner… Two days later, and I realized that my vow was… made in haste."
No one said a word. The silence in the long hall felt as cold as ice. "Have you ever felt hatred, Ser Jorah?" He asked, almost curiously. "Have you ever felt raw, pure hatred?"
When I saw my love with another man. "…Aye."
"Not like mine," Lord Manderly promised. "You've never felt hate like mine."
The lord paused to stare down at the pie. Almost absentmindedly, Lord Manderly wiped the gravy off his whiskers. "They murdered my son, ser," he growled. "And, aye, I am fat. I am fat, and perhaps I am craven too. And because I am fat, I will eat and I will feast, and I will fill my great, fat mouth." Sausage fingers clenched into fists. Lord Manderly's eyes seemed to blaze in the gloom. "… And then, eventually, I will gorge myself on their hearts until I choke."
He took another bite of the pastry. "So… to answer your question… that is what I want," Lord Manderly explained, keeping his voice level. "Perhaps Robett Glover is right and you are not to be trusted. However, no matter what ill-will or misgivings I may bear towards you - that animosity pales in comparison to the hatred I bear towards the men who murdered my family. My kin. My liege. That is why I am hoping that we may dine together and find common ground, Ser Jorah." Blue eyes stared at him. "So, I think, a more valid question is… what do you want, ser?"
Jorah took a deep breath. He hesitated, pausing for a few seconds before answering. "I want to return home."
"You have been in exile for most of a decade," Robett spoke up, glaring at him. "Why return now?"
"Because I've missed my home for years, and because I want to see my family again," Jorah replied. "Because I heard that Eddard Stark is dead."
"You think that because our liege was murdered that his judgement no longer applies?" Robett said sharply. "You were sentenced to death for your crimes of slavery, ser."
"Aye." His heart pounded. Jorah forced himself to meet their eyes. "But I have been exile for too long. Too much wandering. I wanted to see my family again, to hopefully…"
He let his voice trail off. It was mostly true, as well. He had been lost for a long, long time. Jorah just wasn't going to mention his loyalty to Queen Daenerys to them, not yet. That would only confuse matters.
"… I see," Lord Manderly mused. He and Robett shared a glance. "You have been away from Westeros for a some time. How much have you heard of the affairs in the north?"
"Bits and pieces. Rumors in Essos."
"Rumors. Words. Wind." Lord Manderly grunted. "Perhaps I should start by bringing you up to date." Beefy fingers groped under his cloak, picking out a bundle of faded yellow letters and putting them onto the table. "Words are wind, it is known," he mused. "Spoken words are fleeting and meaningless. But I've always been of the opinion that words written down become more substantial, yet no less meaningful. Some letters are nothing but ink. Words are wind, yet writing is water - does that sound right to you?"
Jorah stayed quiet. When in doubt, hold your tongue; his father had always told him. "…If so," Lord Manderly grumbled, "then the writing in these letters is surely nothing more than pisswater."
"What are they?" Jorah asked. Lord Manderly unwrapped the bundle and laid them out in front of him. Some of the letters were long and cursive, filled with titles and honorifics, while others were short and direct. Several of them were written on pink paper. The Bolton's signature.
"Letters from the Iron Throne. From King's Landing. From the Twins. From the Warden of the North, Roose Bolton," Robett said in a dark tone. "First they executed Eddard Stark on a forced confession. Then they colluded against and murdered his son, Robb Stark. Now they seek to defile the Stark's legacy - they send ravens demanding that White Harbor, and all other houses in the north, bend the knee. They even blame the Red Wedding on the the Starks, and expect us all to pretend or die."
"Yet it is pisswater that I have no choice but to drink," Lord Manderly growled, his expression darkening by the second. "They send a galley towards me even now. To bring back the bones of my son. Can you imagine it? The murderers returning his body to me? I will have no choice but to feast and dine with those vermin - they talk even about taking my beloved granddaughter - to marry her to Frey weasels! - they expect me to bend the knee to Roose Bolton! The men that murdered King Robb, who sacked Winterfell, who butchered my SON!"
His fist crashed into the wooden table. Iron cutlery rattled, and Lord Wyman's rage abated. He sat back in his chair, suddenly seeming tired. "…And I have no choice but to nod and go along with this pisswater - for they still hold my other son, Wylis, captive."
Jorah blinked. "I see."
"Do you care, ser?" Robett grunted. "Or are you laughing at the fate of Eddard Stark's sons on the inside? You hated Lord Stark for driving you out, I expect."
"Yes," Jorah agreed. "I despised Eddard Stark for sentencing me, almost as much I despised myself for committing the crime." He shook his head. "Yet Eddard Stark's children did me no wrong. I am sorry."
"Indeed," Lord Wyman muttered. He and Robett shared a long, considering glance. It felt like Ser Marlon was staring daggers into him.
Lord Manderly took a deep breath. "Excuse us, ser, allow us a moment to confer. Enjoy the pie."
It took Robett and Ser Marlon to heave Lord Manderly to his feet. The fat lord panted and wheezed as he left the room with Robett Glover. Ser Marlon stood guard over Jorah. He could hear the faint whispers as Robett and Lord Manderly whispered between themselves outside the room.
Minutes passed. Jorah caught only a single sentence among the hushed whispers, growled in anger. "…We don't have another option!"
The discussion ended quickly. Jorah's shoulders were stiff as Lord Manderly and Robett returned to the room. "We have a proposition for you, ser," Lord Manderly said eventually, wheezing. "A means to help each other."
Jorah never replied. He kept his body still. "You are seeking a way to redeem yourself to the north. To reclaim your lordship of House Mormont," Lord Manderly continued. "A pardon. I have a means in which you may do so."
"You want to return home," Robett said. "House Mormont have been House Stark's most steadfast supporters. Bear Island - your cousins - are the only noble house still openly flying the direwolf. Under the rule of Lord Bolton as Warden of North, the Mormonts of Bear Island will surely be destroyed."
They need me, Jorah realized. He didn't know what, but it was the only reason they were having this conversation. They're offering something, like a sale's pitch. He held his tongue, to force them to explain. He didn't dare speak.
"I suggest that we make common cause against the Boltons. Against the murderous usurpers. You may not like House Stark, but at least respect them," Lord Manderly continued. "Respect that they are the better option."
"… I am not Lord of Bear Island anymore, my lords," Jorah said carefully. "I have no men-at-arms to raise. If you are looking to form a rebellion, I have no men or coin to offer."
"It is not men or coin that we require," Lord Manderly replied. "We can rally those ourselves. Instead, I require you - you are a strong warrior with nothing to lose and everything to gain. I need a single man willing to face great odds and immense peril, to bring back something that might well win this war for us."
"What?"
"Who," Lord Manderly corrected. "Right now, Lord Bolton intends to marry his bastard to Arya Stark, the youngest daughter of Eddard Stark, to verify his claim to Winterfell. If we could provide another trueborn child - one with a better claim to Winterfell - then we could rally the north behind them."
"I heard that the Stark boys are all dead." Jorah frowned. "Are you saying that they still live?"
The lord paused. Jorah noted how he didn't answer the question. "I am speaking of Sansa Stark," Lord Manderly said. "The eldest daughter. I want you to rescue her for us, and bring her home."
Jorah blinked in surprise.
"Sansa Stark was married to Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, but rumors say the marriage was never consummated. Thus, it could be annulled," Lord Manderly explained. "Sansa vanished in King's Landing after the death of Joffrey. She was held responsible for his murder."
"And I heard that there has been no trace of her since." The rumors of the eldest Stark girl, who had apparently poisoned the king, had been going wild through the Lazy Eel. The girl was infamous across all of Westeros, it seemed.
"That is correct," Lord Manderly admitted. "Her location is a mystery. And yet recently I have come across a curious testimony that… suggests a possibility."
Robett unraveled an old, weathered map onto the table. A sailor's map of the Bite and the Fingers. "I have been reading many curious letters from King's Landing, with great detail. Some letters are more curious than others," Lord Manderly said softly. "…And recently a fisherman off the coast of the Pebble Isle… " He pointed on the map, tracing the route. "…he spotted a Braavosi trading galley with a crowned merman figurehead heading to a small keep on the Fingers - the seat of House Baelish in the Fingers, southwest of the Pabs. That galley is familiar enough in White Harbor to identify it as the Merling King - a ship hired from King's Landing by Petyr Baelish to return him to the Vale."
Jorah hesitated, not understanding. "Why is that significant?"
"Because it should have arrived weeks ago, ser." Lord Manderly explained. "The ravens were very clear: Petyr Baelish left for the Vale, to wed Lysa Arryn, before the wedding of King Joffrey. Why, then, did it take his ship so long to reach his family keep?"
"We checked as much as we could," Robett added. "The fisherman had no reason to lie about the date. It should have been smooth sailing."
"That is not much of a lead," Jorah said.
"It is not. Not much at all, really," Lord Manderly admitted. "But in desperate times, everyone becomes much more… attentive to minor details. I would like to present a theory, ser; that the Merling King was delayed because they lingered in King's Landing and must have only left after the Purple Wedding. Baelish - Littlefinger - lied about his location and departure to the crown to stay unbeknownst to all until roughly shortly after the wedding. The same wedding at which Sansa Stark was last sighted."
Jorah frowned, struggling to keep up. "…You think this… Littlefinger… smuggled Sansa Stark to safety?" He knew of the man Littlefinger only very broadly, by reputation. The Master of Coin, he recalled.
"I do." His arms folded. "Did you know that Petyr Baelish was a childhood friend of Sansa's mother, Catelyn Tully? Rumors say that they were very close."
Ok, Jorah admitted with a quiet nod. That's suspicious. He could see why Lord Manderly might be intrigued.
"Since leaving for the Eyrie, Littlefinger married Lysa Arryn, established himself as the Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale, and then his dear wife died mere weeks after their marriage," Lord Manderly continued. "Petyr Baelish has risen himself up to remarkable heights during this war."
He was feeling more and more lost. The bloody game of thrones, Jorah cursed. Too many players and too many pieces. "… But how does… if he does have Sansa Stark, then how is she involved?"
"I received a message from Yohn Royce, in Runestone. White Harbor deals greatly with the Vale, and Lord Royce wanted to confirm our support as he established his Lords Declarant. He also mentioned something curious. He noted briefly that Petyr Baelish brought with him his natural daughter to the Eyrie. A single passing line that I found very interesting indeed."
"So?"
"I spoke to every man in White Harbor that has ever docked at King's Landing, ser. None of them knew anything about Petyr Baelish ever having a natural daughter."
Jorah paused. "…You're suggesting… ?"
"Let us follow the conjecture through to its conclusion. I suspect that this natural daughter of Littlefinger may actually be Sansa Stark, sheltered at the Eyrie. If so, then Petyr Baelish took her after the murder of Joffrey, most presumably so that she could be used as some political piece to further his schemes. Whether or not she is his willing accomplice in this is unclear. The fact that he is keeping Sansa Stark, presumptive heir to Winterfell, in his pocket suggests that Baelish has intents in taking power in the north as well as the Vale, somehow."
"You've got absolute nothing to support that other than some suspicious timings and coincidences."
"I am aware."
"And what do you suggest to do about it?"
"We need Sansa Stark here - in the north - not as some piece in Littlefinger's games. If I am correct, then there's only one option available to us."
"…Which is?"
Lord Manderly looked at him in all seriousness. "I want you to kidnap Petyr Baelish's daughter."
He stared, looking for some hint that this was a joke. There was none. Jorah cursed in Bastard Valyrian. And then he swore again in Dothraki. Dothraki had some great swear words.
"If it was easy, we wouldn't need you," Robett said grimly.
"You expect me to assault the Eyrie singlehanded? You have an army of knights under you."
"An army is meaningless, ser. Littlefinger is no fool, and my knights will be outmatched by the knights of Vale. Any knight of House Manderly will not get near to Sansa Stark." Lord Manderly nodded. "…However, I suspect Littlefinger is trying to consolidate power in the north. If the exiled lord of House Mormont were to approach him, for example, why - I'd expect that Littlefinger is going to be all too eager to recruit such a man into his service. Petyr Baelish would see you as a useful man to keep beside him, another piece that he could exploit."
"You want me to get close enough to kidnap his daughter?" Jorah said in stunned disbelief. The candles flickered. They think that I have no loyalties, and therefore no reason for Baelish to distrust me.
"It is not kidnap if she's already been kidnapped," Robett noted, folding his arms. He's not happy with this plan either.
"Consider the benefits," Lord Manderly pressed. "Rescue Eddard Stark's daughter, and redeem yourself from Eddard Stark's punishment. Save the girl, bring her home, and the whole north will be cheering your name. You could be Lord of Bear Island again."
Jorah had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He could barely believe it. It was pure suicide. It was folly. And yet…
Robett and Lord Manderly shared a glance. Jorah's eyes narrowed. There's something else going on here…
"Why me?" He said finally. "You need the Stark girl. Why are you trusting me to bring her to you?"
"I told you, there's little choice."
"That's not what I asked." Why would they entrust a man who hates the father to save the daughter?
Lord Manderly paused, staring at him intently. "…I am choosing to trust you, ser, because I have no alternative in the matter." Robett nodded, and his face was just as stern. "I have no knights that stand a better chance of getting close to Petyr Baelish. You are my best option in this case, and so I am choosing to believe that your honor and desire to redeem yourself is earnest."
"And if I fail?"
"Then this conversation never happened. There will be nothing but the word of an exiled knight claiming I sent him after Petyr Baelish's daughter."
Ah. "Win and you gain everything; fail and you keep nothing," Robett said. "Those are the stakes. Those have always been the stakes."
"And I'm struggling to believe that you would bet everything on me," Jorah noted. "The Stark girl is important to you."
"She is," Lord Manderly nodded, his eyes narrowing. "But there are… options. Forgive me, ser, if I do not share my alternative plans with you. I will tell you everything that you need to know to rescue the Stark child and nothing more."
He has a backup plan? In case Jorah didn't succeed. In case he couldn't get the Stark girl for the north.. Hells, it was quite possible, perhaps even likely, that Manderly was wrong and Baelish didn't have Sansa Stark at all. No wonder he is committing so little.
Jorah took a deep breath. The Eyrie was the most secure castle in the realm. Even if I could be invited in, to try and escape out of the Vale with their ruler's daughter…
He looked between at Robett's and Wyman's guarded eyes, drifting over to Ser Marlon's quiet gaze. Can I trust them? Probably not, but they don't expect to trust me either.
And yet what choice do I have?
The image of his beautiful, gorgeous queen flashed before his eyes. If Daenerys had commanded this of him, then he wouldn't even hesitate. I am doing this for her.
Sansa Stark is the rightful Lady of Winterfell. If I rescue her in Queen Daenerys' name… it could be my best chance at rallying the north for Daenerys Targaryen.
Even the thought of his queen caused his pulse to steady. His eyes hardened in resolution. "I'll do it."
"Excellent," Lord Manderly said, though there was little joy in his voice. "Ser Marlon will put you on a fast galley heading to Gulltown. You'll have your own cabin. Littlefinger has strong ties to Gulltown, I suspect his presence there will notice you. If not, seek out Ser Osney Kettleback - he is Littlefinger's creature, he will be eager to take you to his lord."
"And remember," Robett said darkly, "should you fail—"
"None of this happened," Jorah agreed. Lord Manderly was risking absolutely nothing by sending him on the task.
"Time is short and morning comes. No others in this castle must know of this meeting. Do you have any other questions?"
"One," Jorah said. "Why are you doing this? Why go so far for the Stark girl?"
"Why?" Lord Wyman snorted. "Because House Stark shall never have a more loyal ally than I. Perhaps you don't believe me. I do not care. That is the truth. Bring back my liege lady, ser."
They nodded as he stood up. Jorah asked a few more questions about the journey and the travel, and received curt responses. Lord Manderly stayed sitting down. "Excuse me," the fat lord said, reaching out for the dish of eel pie. "I would like to finish this pie. A good pie should not go to waste."
Ser Marlon returned Jorah's weapons and belt, and led him out of the room. Leaving by a different exit, Jorah noted. The morning was coming, and doubtless nobody would be seen with him come dawn. He would likely leave very early. Another sea voyage ahead of him.
I've never been to the Vale before. I've never even seen the Eyrie. And yet, if all goes well, I'll have to flee, with a captive, through the Mountains of Moon and back to White Harbour, despite pursuers.
Dany, he thought. I am doing this for you. I will prove myself to you. I will prove myself to the realm.
As Jorah walked out down the corridor, he caught the mutter of a conversation behind him. "Are you sure about this?" Robett muttered to Lord Manderly. "…The girl…"
"Yes," the fat lord replied. Lord Manderly's voice was louder, a quiet boom that echoed softly through the hall. "We need the Starks. I do not believe that the time of the wolves is over, not yet. We must gather the pack."