Mid 281 False Spring
"Mormont!" Great Jon Umber shouted as I pulled my horse into the Northman quarter of the fairground.
Despite the city of colorful and impressive tents set up around the large tourney ground, the ever looming Harrenhal was never out of sight to any who simply tilt their heads up. We set up a city of tents around a ruined castle the size of a city. Winterfell had a fantasy scale to it, being a third larger than the largest castle on Earth and vertical without comparison. Harrenhal sprawls over three times the land of Winterfell, and its walls seem more akin to sheer mountain cliffs. The gatehouse is as large as Winterfell's great keep, and the five towers are stone skyscrapers.
The ruined castle proves that the people of Westeros aren't just built different, they build different. Mankind would have a hard time building something like this with modern equipment. Harren Hoare got the job done with iron age tools, an army of worked to death slaves - ahem, thralls - and the colossal force of his ego.
I greatly admired the man.
"My friend." Jon declared as he clapped me on the shoulder and looked around at the people I brought with me, "Hehe, there's so many First Men here the Andals must think we've come down to take back our lands."
"I came here to beat their warriors, take their gold, and lay with their women." I nodded to the big man, one of the few taller than me in this world.
"That's it, Mormont! Hahahaha!" Great Jon howled and slapped me on the back, "The Andals better lock up their wives and daughters, cause the real men are about."
"You poor man of limited vision." I frowned at what can likely be misconstrued as my best friend in this life, "You forgot their mothers and sisters."
Jon frowned in return and a serious look took hold of his face, "Now wait right there, Mormont." he growled, "I can't let you do something like that."
I furled my brow in confusion at his statement and he continued, "If we lay with the mothers and sisters too, then when we leave the whole lot of the southern women won't be able to stand the limp cocked fumblings of these Andal men, and we can't inflict that pent up lot on the poor sheep. Not in good conscience."
The amount of raucous laughter that emerged after he finished speaking was enough to scare away the gathered grackles and pigeons.
"Lord Jorah!" Brandon Stark shouted as he emerged from the largest tent among the gathered Northmen, dyed a dreary gray as is the way of his house.
"Is that the sound of little Bran?" my cousin Dacey cooed, causing the excited young man to startle.
"Lady Dacey…" Brandon tried and failed to keep his countenance from falling at the sight of my cousin, who at twenty five could think circles around the nineteen year old.
Standing a few inches taller than the beast who bore her, Dacey epitomized the girl-boss feminist fantasy by being a woman capable of physically contending against men without the ogre-like features of Brienne of Tarth. She's about eighty percent as strong as a man of her build and makes up for the difference in dirty tactics and bad intentions almost as cruel as the razor sharp tongue behind her wide lips. Dacey captained one of my ships, and crossed paths with Brandon briefly during his stay with me. An encounter that haunts the poor lad to this day.
"Be gentle, woman." I commanded her, breaking the rule of never issuing an order that will not be carried out, "He still needs to look pretty for his Tully bride."
"Maybe I should take a ride to Riverrun." Dacey teased the heir of The North with a predator's grin, "Teach that bride of yours how to keep you in line."
"Break her of whatever nonsense her Septa has taught her." I told the woman who looked at me in surprise.
"Now hold on…"
Whatever arguments Brandon made were lost to me as I saw Lyanna Stark hauling a battered Crannogman into her family tent. Personally, I wanted to find the squires who beat Howland Reed's ass and put the boot to them, and their knights, but doing so could see me barred from competition and I never let brief bouts of satisfying violence get between me and profit. The prizes on offer here are the biggest ever, three times the size of those offered at the last tourney put on by Tywin Lannister.
It didn't take a genius to realize that the Whents couldn't even come close to affording this spectacle, but most lords of Westeros can't even read, so the subtle politics of the event have likely flown straight over the heads of most. As adorable of an idea as it is that a middling house from the Riverlands with the most expensive castle upkeep bill in the Seven Kingdoms could host such an extravaganza to celebrate the name day of their fifth child, the number of people who could afford the Tourney at Harrenhal is a short list with the Whents nowhere near it. They don't even have anything the Iron Bank would accept as collateral to loan out a third of the cost of this operation.
Doesn't matter to me where the coin comes from, only that I bring it home. To that end, I left the gathering and signed myself up for the melee, the archery contest, and the joust which would take the form of five champions accepting challenges from the host of knights during the multi day competition. The ultimate winner is decided by the five champions either agreeing on the Queen of Love and Beauty or fighting it out to crown whomever they each please. More complex than the single eliminator jousts I like best, but it doesn't matter to me as I'll just smash everybody. As such I signed on to challenge for a position in the five champions early, and as a reigning tourney champion I was given preference for my position in the listing, choosing to go first. I'd challenge Ser Oswald Whent and spend the next five days pounding out everyone with ambitions of taking my place, or stopping me from crowning my ten year old daughter, Aella.
The melee would be a Seven Kingdom's team deathmatch in the ancient style. Basically a war proxy brawl with no rules except don't kill a downed or surrendered opponent. I prefer a battle royal with less lethal tools permitted as the ancient style just reeks of barbarism. We can bring whatever melee weapons we like so long as it isn't valyrian steel or poisoned. Seems stupid, but if these people want to see me axe murder a bunch of southerners for coin, who can blame them?
I certainly don't.
I kept my nose clean until dinner time. The feasting hall of the great keep is called the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, but in reality is only a handful over thirty. Despite the failure to deliver as promised, the place could seat over a thousand guests easily. Due to our close connection with the Starks, my kids and I sat at their table near all the other big wigs. The black and blue Howland - whom Lyanna invited up - pointed out the young men who accosted him.
"I can get you a horse, and some armor?" Offered Benjen Stark to the diminutive Crannogman who simply thanked him, but didn't assent to the offer.
The man simply wasn't suited to pounding out knights with his lance, far more suited to poking them with a poisoned trident then backing off till they drop. No shame on the man's game, just not exactly competition legal.
While we made merry Brandon introduced me to the man, the myth, the legend, Prime Bobby B. Robert Baratheon was the Westerosi version of the ideal man, six and a half feet tall with arms thick around as a farmer's thighs and a liver and a chin made of sterner stuff than granite. The man kept his hands busy with hefty wine cups in each.
"Jorah Mormont." the man peeled his cup away from his lips long enough to greet me, "Seems everywhere I go people speak your name. Now that I see you, I thought you'd be taller."
Did I hate the man for his cliché, not at all. Bobby B pulled it off, despite being so lowly a phrase.
"Lay me on my back with a nice pair of tits on my face and I'm the tallest man in Westeros." I offered as response in my typical deadpan.
Robert's face twitched with his attempt to stifle his smile until he could hold no longer, then the man busted his gut with raucous laughter. It was infectious, and even if the people around us didn't find my words funny they too joined the man in his chortles.
"Heard you sired a hundred bastards on one trip to Dorne." Robert stated as a challenge.
"Bad information." I corrected him, "It was two hundred and thirty."
"Haha! Good man!" Robert shouted and raised his cup in salute to me, "Never let a good story get ruined by the truth."
Or be Jorah Mormont and let the truth be a good story.
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Thank God Meera tells Bran her father's PoV for the tourney. She provides me exactly the angle I need to see for my own narration.
On further review I don't think Jorah and Ashara is going to happen. It is fairly obvious that the girl stuck close to the people she trusted during the tourney as all the people she danced with before Ned were staunch Rheagar loyalists. The kind of guys her brother approves of, and I am pretty sure that she gave Ned the time of day so that their faction could gain an in with the STAB alliance. Had Rheagar not completely dropped the ball due to prophecy obsession, Ashara could have easily hooked Ned and moved the STAB alliance to support Rheagar, giving him all the support he would need for a Grand Council to oust his dad.
As such, I don't think Ashara is going to get hooked on a feeling for the Hungry Bear.
Let me know your thoughts on the matter.
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