Jorah
The cell was warmer than any cell had the right to be. It was dark, yes. Flickering orange light fell through the ancient iron bars from the torch in the sconce on the wall outside, but the back half of the cell remained drenched in gloom. It was dank as well, as might be expected on the Hightower, where the sea was never far. And there were rats, as many as any dungeon could expect to have and a few more besides.
But Jorah could not complain of chill. The smooth stony passages beneath the great mass of Hightower were always warm, and Jorah had often heard it said how the Hightower was built by magic and the fortress was made with the help of the mazemakers or by the Deep Ones. He was well below the castle, he judged, and the wall of his cell often felt warm to his touch when he pressed a palm against it. Perhaps the old tales were true, and the Hightower was built with true magic.
He was sick when they first brought him here. The cough that had plagued him since the battle grew worse, and a fever took hold of him as well. His lips broke with blood blisters, and the warmth of the cell did not stop his shivering. I will not linger long, he remembered thinking. I will die soon, here in the dark and my dishonour and shame with me.
Jorah soon found that he was wrong about that, as about so much else. Dimly he remembered gentle hands and a firm voice, and young Maester Torbett looking down on him. He was given hot garlic broth to drink, and milk of the poppy to take away his aches and shivers. The poppy made him sleep and while he slept they leeched him to drain off the bad blood. Or so he surmised, by the leech marks on his arms when he woke. Before very long the coughing stopped, the blisters vanished, and his broth had chunks of whitefish in it, and carrots and onions as well. And one day he realized that he felt stronger than he had since Balerion shattered beneath him and flung him in the river.
He had two gaolers to tend him. One was broad and squat, with thick shoulders and huge strong hands. He wore a leather brigantine dotted with iron studs, and once a day brought Jorah a bowl of oaten porridge. Sometimes he sweetened it with honey or poured in a bit of milk. The other gaoler was older, lean and tall, with greasy unwashed hair and rough skin. He wore a doublet of blue velvet with six yellow flowers worked upon the breast in bright yellow thread. He would bring Jorah plates of meat and mash, or fish stew, and once even half a lamprey pie. The lamprey was so rich he could not keep it down, but even so, it was a rare treat for a prisoner in a dungeon. But he was no normal prisoner, he knew. He was the goodson of Lord Leyton Hightower and hence the family to the Hightowers.
Neither sun nor moon shone in the dungeons; no windows pierced the thick stone walls. The only way to tell day from night was by his gaolers. Neither man would speak to him, though he knew they were no mutes; sometimes he heard them exchange a few brusque words as the watch was changing. They would not even tell him their names, so he gave them names of his own. The short one in the brigantine he called Porridge, the tall, lean one in the colors of House Cuy, he called as Lamprey, for the pie. He marked the passage of days by the meals they brought, and by the changing of the torches in the sconce outside his cell.
A man grows lonely in the dark, and hungers for the sound of a human voice. Jorah would talk to the gaolers whenever they came to his cell, whether to bring him food or change his slops pail. He knew they would be deaf to pleas for freedom or mercy; instead he asked them questions, hoping perhaps one day one might answer. "What news of the war?" he asked, and "Has there been any battle?" He asked after the Princess Daenerys, and what was the news from King's Landing. "What is the weather like?" he asked, and "Have the autumn storms begun yet? Do ships still sail the Sunset sea?" Were there anyone coming her to rescue them?
It made no matter what he asked; they never answered, though sometimes Porridge gave him a look, and for half a heartbeat Jorah would think that he was about to speak. With Lamprey there was not even that much. I am not a man to him, he thought, only a stone that eats and shits and speaks. He decided after a while that he liked Porridge much the better. Porridge at least seemed to know he was alive, and there was a queer sort of kindness to the man. Once he had heard the man talking to the rats as if they were children. Perhaps he is as lonely as me as well.
They do not mean to let me die, he realized. If they had, he would have met the headsman's axe or a noose by now. They are keeping me alive, for some purpose of their own. Perhaps they are keeping me alive because I'm Lord Leyton's goodson. But then again I had lost that privilege as well the moment I lost his daughter. He wondered how long will Lord Leyton keep him alive. With every passing day the day of his death might actually be arriving. I should have given myself to the sea, Jorah thought as he sat staring at the torch beyond the bars. I could not even get the honour of being a loyal and brave man. I was so afraid of death and losing Daenerys that I choose to live as a traitor and treason rather than fighting for the king who protected me and who raised me above my station. Jorah couldn't help but feel ashamed at it.
Then one night as he was finishing his supper, Jorah felt a strange silence in the cell around him. He waited to see what might be happening. Moments later the rattle of the cell door opening was heard. Jorah glanced up thinking that Porridge had come again to take the plates back but he met with Lord Leyton Hightower himself, dressed in his slashed velvet doublet and the Mad Maid beside her, dressed in dark black robes with a bright, burning torch in her hand. "My lord," he said, suddenly surprised at his visit, wondering what was the reason for it.
"Ser Jorah" Malora Hightower replied, calmly as if the two of them had met on a stair or in the yard, and were exchanging polite greetings. "Are you well?"
"Better than I was."
"Do you lack for anything?"
"I am well content, my lady." He pushed the bowl aside and stood. "Have you come to kill me?"
Her strange mismatched eyes studied him from head to heel. "This is a bad place, is it not? A dark place, and foul. The good sun does not shine here, nor the bright moon." She lifted a hand toward the torch in the wall sconce. "This is all that stands between you and the darkness, Ser. This little fire, this little light. Shall I put it out?"
"No." He stood up and moved toward them. "Please." He did not think he could bear that, to be left alone in utter blackness with no one but the rats for company.
The Mad Maid's lips curved upward in a smile. "So you have come to love the fire, it would seem."
"I need the torch." His hands opened and closed. I will not beg her. I will not.
"We are all like this torch, Ser Jorah. All of us have a purpose in life. But like this flame our life is uncertain as well. A drop of water, a gust of evening wind, anything could put it out." She said holding the torch up between them. "But add a drop of oil, it burns with more power. But adding oil or water to it is entirely our choice."
"Yeah," Jorah told her. "And I have made my choice. I have added my flames to that of the dragon's." Perhaps he should have lied, and told her what she wanted to hear. But he had been too tired of the cell and the dark that he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
Malora Hightower simply laughed at him. "Did you think that would help you in any way? It's only very little time before the dragon's flames overwhelm yours and turns against you and burns you to crisp."
"And you?" Jorah turned his eyes from her to her father, the Lord Leyton. "You called us to your home in the cover of friends and turned against us, your own family."
Lord Leyton sighed. "I did not do anything your King had never done it himself. Did you feel the same way after what he did at Starfall?"
"It was not the same," Jorah said. "Ned Stark was a traitor and a rebel."
"Is that why you had to kill him like a craven." Lord Leyton said, angrily. "Breaking all the oaths you swore and going against the laws and gods."
"Why are you here?" Jorah asked, shaking his head. "I believe it's not to discuss treason and betrayal."
Before Lord Leyton could talk however, the cell door opened and Ser Baelor Hightower entered his cell covered in his silver plate armour. Only his helmet was not in place, showing off his handsome face. The light of his sister's torch shone off his polished armour like a mirror. The burning High Tower was inlaid into the breastplate in pearl and topaz. "We are ready father," Baelor Brightsmile told his father, not even sparing a look at Jorah.
"Ahhhh, it's time." Leyton Hightower walked to his son and placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "Have you made all the preparations?"
Ser Baelor nodded once. "Our fleet is ready under the command of Gunthor," he said. "He has the command of our fleet and the harbor at Oldtown and its defenses. Uncle Morgan is leaving with an entourage to the King in the North and Garth and I are leading the armies."
"Good, very good." Leyton Hightower patted his son's armoured shoulder. "May the gods be with you. Victory will be yours."
Baelor Brightsmile showed that handsome smile of his and left the prison cell.
"You're calling your banners to fight your own king?" Jorah asked him. "Is that what you call honour?"
"When treating with liars, even an honest man must lie. I did not dare rise against King's Landing so long as dragons circled the skies and I did not have someone to fight for. Rhaegar thought my silence for Starfall was due to fear. If I had gotten my grandson ten years back, he would have seen how scared of him I was back then. How had I missed him all these years, I never knew. Because of that, I kept my mouth closed, kept my hands tied, declared my loyalty to king on the Iron Throne. I made peace with the king who killed my granddaughter and her family. But I had never forgotten it. Not Starfall, not my family and not the betrayal Rhaegar served my granddaughter.
"I am old, and many think that makes me weak and foolish. Mayhaps Rhaegar Targaryen was one such. I kept my word to him and stayed loyal to him because there was no one left to fight for. There the matter stood until the good gods sent back my grandson to me."
"You took a great risk, my lord," Jorah said. "If the boy you think to be your grandson is only an imposter you'll find that your words are for none."
"I took no risk at all. If some imposter hate Rhaegar and the Targaryens so much that they had taken it upon themselves to climb over a great castle like Winterfell and fight and kill a dragon and send the dragon prince off to the Wall, then I'll happily help him do it."
Jorah felt a shiver up his spine. He never knew the man could hold that much hatred. He must have really loved his granddaughter and her family like he say. "I see."
"You don't have any children, Ser and you would never know how it feels to see your children, your children's children and their children all die before your time is up. I've had enough of that and I'm not ready to loose any of my family hereafter."
"That includes the daughter I'd given you as your wife," Lord Leyton continued. Jorah's eyes snapped back to his goodfather's as he heard his say about his wife.
"Lynesse?" he asked, shocked. "She is a lost cause. She would sell you off to the Targaryens if Rhaegar promises her a high seat, couple of fine silks and ermine and a handful of jewelry." He snapped at Hightower, the betrayal of his wife still fresh in his heart.
"Lost cause but still mine," Leyton Hightower said calmly. "Unlike you, I don't give up on my family. By now Rhaegar would be watching every move of me, ser. He has his red priest to do that for him. Day and night I could feel eyes on me, nose sniffing for some whiff of treachery. I could feel glass candles burning everywhere in my city, at the Citadel, in my tower even in the inns at the lower part of Oldtown. No wonder he must have known of my intentions and the truth that has happened to his fleet by now. No doubt Rhaegar would call it as dishonourable and high treason and the roaches all around him would pick up his call as well. Treason they call it, I call it justice." Lord Leyton fingers coiled into a fist, and the flames of the torch his daughter held burned brightly.
"My granddaughter and her husband came to my daughter's home as guests and allies as well. While Eddard hung his sword upon the wall to feast and make peace, Rhaegar unsheathed his sword and started war. I have played my mummer's farce for so long that every time I close my eyes I could see Alysanne glaring at me with accusations. . . Its time that I show my daughter that I have not forgotten her."
Something about the way Lord Hightower said that chilled Jorah to the bone. "Why are you telling this to me?" he asked, confused.
"This is not to say that I'm right or to give you my reasons for doing what I did," Lord Leyton Hightower said, stiffly. "This is the last warning I'm going to give you. If I ever see you taking your sword against my grandson anywhere, you're not going to get allowance I'd shown you in the harbour."
With that, the Lord of Oldtown left the cell with his daughter following him close behind like a dark shadow.
The torch they had left in the room was the only lingering remainder of the Hightowers' presence. Jorah lowered himself to the floor of the cell and sat quietly thinking about the words of Lord Leyton. The shifting torchlight washed over him. Once their footsteps faded away, the only sound was the scrabbling of rats. His words troubled him beyond any reason. He thought of Lord Leyton's warning. Just thinking about it made him shiver. He wondered if Ser Loras had received the same warning as well or if it was just for the dishonoured good son. It was disquieting to think about how bad things had turned around. He had not even hoped that something like this might happen, but the gods like to play games with the minds of the people. He wondered if they might set him free from the cell, else what is the reason for the warning.
He lifted his eyes to stare up at the torch. He looked for a long time, never blinking, watching the flames shift and shimmer. He tried to see beyond them, to peer through the fiery curtain and glimpse whatever lived back there . . . but there was nothing, only fire, and after a time his eyes began to water.
God-blind and tired, Jorah curled up on the straw and gave himself to sleep.
Three days later-well, at least he thought that it was three -Jorah heard voices outside his cell. He sat up at once, his back to the stone wall, listening to the sounds of struggle. This was new, a change in his unchanging world. The noise was coming from the left, where the steps led up to daylight. He could hear a man's voice, pleading and shouting.
" . . . Madness!" the man was saying as he came into view, dragged along between two guardsmen with the fiery tower on the front of their doublet. The chief gaelor went before them, jangling a ring of keys, and Ser Gunthor Hightower walked behind. "My lord," the prisoner said desperately, "in the name of our good king you cannot do this to me, unhand me! You cannot do this, I'm no traitor." He was an older man, tall and slender, with sweat matted black hair, a pointed beard, and a long handsome face twisted in fear. "I'm King Rhaegar's envoy. The Others take you all! Release me!"
The guards paid no mind to his outcries. "Here?" The gaoler asked in front of the cell. Jorah got to his feet. For an instant he considered trying to rush them when the door was opened, but that was madness. There were too many, the guards wore swords, and gaoler was strong man, he had known.
Ser Gunthor gave the gaoler a curt nod. "Yeah, let's put him here."
"I am no traitor!" screeched the prisoner as the gaoler was unlocking the door. The way he was richly dressed, in slashed velvet doublet and black breeches and his speech marked him as highborn. His birth and words will not serve him here, thought Jorah.
The gaoler swung the bars wide, Ser Gunthor gave a nod, and the guards flung their charge in headlong. The man stumbled and might have fallen, but Jorah caught him. At once he wrenched away and staggered back toward the door, only to have it slammed in his pale, pampered face. "No," he shouted. "Nooooo. " All the strength suddenly left his legs, and he slid slowly to the floor, clutching at the iron bars. Ser Gunthor, the gaoler, and the guards had already turned to leave. "You cannot do this," the prisoner shouted at their retreating backs. "I am the king's envoy! You can't do this to me. You'll soon face the king's wrath"
He was not going to get anything out of shouting threats. "Save your breath," he told the man. "You are not going to get anything with your threats."
The man turned his head. "Who . . . ?"
"Ser Jorah Mormont."
The envoy blinked. "Ser Jorah Mormont. . . You are the captain of the royal fleet."
Jorah did not deny it. "And who might you be?" He reached down a hand to help the other man to his feet.
Rhaegar Targaryen's envoy brushed the filthy straw from his clothing. "I . . . I must apologize for my appearance, ser. The Hightowers betrayed me and stabbed me in the back, me the king's envoy. Can you believe that?"
He had rings on all his fingers, noted Jorah, so he must be someone of high rank.
"No doubt these men are dated for death and are cursed by the gods," the envoy went on, oblivious. "This is unspeakable. War has its horrors, as all men know. No doubt you suffered your own losses. But this is unspeakable."
"I lost my fleet," said Davos. "All my men. And the trust and honour the king placed upon my name."
"Seven have mercy," the other man said. "May the Father judge them justly, and the Mother grant then mercy and may they find peace."
"I was told to make terms with Lord Hightower and to meet you here," the lord went on, "but no one told me of your fate in Oldtown. Has the fleet been destroyed completely?"
"I saw most of the sank with all hands." He remembered his last sight of his fleet. "It was scattered by the wrath of the sea. Countless good men lost their lives that day."
"These traitors," the envoy said. "How could they even think of doing something like that?"
Jorah remembered Lord Leyton's talk of treason, honour and family. All mattered nothing when it comes to war. "Do you know anything of the war, my lord?"
"Folly, that's folly." The envoy sat on the floor again, as if the effort of standing for a moment had been too much for him. "The King had given me instructions to ask you to strike straight at Winterfell. The boy must be pulled back from the south, he said. Every feet of land he takes in his grace's kingdom is a victory to the Starks. He fears that as long as boy comes closer and closer to King's Landing, his own men would turn their cloak. And it could not have been so far from the truth. Hightower had shown his worth."
"Did you hear anything about Princess Daenerys on your way here?"
The envoy waved his hand feebly. "No, nothing," he told Jorah. "Nothing more than that Griffin's Roost has fallen and the Stormlords are with Lord Robert now. No doubt Hightower must have heard it as well. That's how he should have gotten the courage to betray the king. I told them they had no choice. That the king would soon hear about it and would never let them see the end of it. I told them that the king would not let treason go unpunished."
Jorah smiled sadly thinking what Lord Leyton might have thought of those words. The envoy must have known it by now as well, as he is in the dungeons of the High Tower.