The chain of command established, the castle of Myrosh buzzed with a newfound efficiency. Commander Vorian, with his silent, disciplined Valyrian Swordsmen, swiftly integrated into the castle guard, their precise drills and unwavering postures serving as an intimidating example to the local recruits. Ser Barristan and Ser Kaeto moved like shadows, overseeing the training, ensuring every man understood his place and his duty. Balerion soared high above, a constant, majestic symbol of power and vigilance.
It was a quiet afternoon, a few days after the formalization of ranks, when a report reached Maegor in his solar. Commander Vorian, ever direct, delivered it himself.
"My King," Vorian stated, his High Valyrian flawless. "A visitor at the main gate. A Westerosi. He demands audience with the lord of this castle."
Maegor's brow furrowed. "A Westerosi? Who is he?"
"He identifies himself as Jorah Mormont," Vorian replied, a flicker of something akin to curiosity in his otherwise impassive eyes. "An exile from the North. He is tall, strong build, bears the look of a seasoned warrior. He claims to have sailed from Volantis, seeking opportunity."
Maegor felt a jolt of recognition. Jorah Mormont. The son of Jeor Mormont, his father's old commander at the Wall. An exile. He remembered whispers from his limited time in Essos – a bear of a man, disgraced by slavery, who had sought refuge in the Free Cities. An unexpected twist, but one that resonated with his own sense of destiny.
"Let him in, Commander," Maegor commanded, a cold glint entering his purple eyes. "Bring him to the great hall. I will see him."
In the great hall, Maegor sat upon his improvised throne, fashioned from the sturdy wood of Myrosh and draped with crimson and black silks. Balerion, his size now truly formidable, was a silent, black presence, curled near the throne, his eyes half-closed, but ever-aware. Ser Barristan and Ser Kaeto stood at Maegor's right and left, with a contingent of Valyrian Swordsmen behind them.
The great doors opened, and Jorah Mormont entered. He was indeed a bear of a man, broad-shouldered, with a thick beard and dark, wary eyes that constantly swept his surroundings. He stopped short as he saw Balerion, a gasp catching in his throat. His gaze then snapped to Maegor, taking in the silver hair, the purple eyes, and the dragon perched nearby. His face, usually gruff, registered shock, then a slow, dawning comprehension.
"Jorah Mormont," Maegor began, his voice deep and authoritative, imbued with the full force of his Draconic Persuasion. "You are the son of Lord Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. You are an exile, disgraced for selling poachers into slavery." He let the accusations hang in the air, allowing Jorah to feel the weight of his past.
Jorah, though clearly intimidated by the sight of the dragon and the presence of a Targaryen, stood his ground. He dropped to one knee, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "My lord," he said, his voice rough. "That is my past. I seek to serve a true king, to redeem my name." His eyes went to Balerion, then back to Maegor. "You are… a Targaryen. A true dragon. I swore oaths once, to the crown."
"And those oaths were broken by a usurper," Maegor countered, his gaze piercing. "I am Maegor Targaryen. And I come to reclaim what is mine. I know your father, Jorah. He raised me at the Wall."
Jorah's head snapped up, his eyes widening further. "Lord Commander Jeor? He… he spoke of no son, no Targaryen…"
"My origins were a secret, protected by your father and mine," Maegor interrupted, cutting him off before he could delve too deeply into the past. "I am the secret he kept. And now, my existence is revealed to the world. And you, Jorah Mormont, are presented with a choice. Continue as a wandering exile, or serve the true king and regain your honor."
Maegor leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly, the power in it almost hypnotizing. "You are a warrior, Jorah. A strong leader. A man who knows the North, and Westeros. I require men of your caliber. Not just for their blades, but for their minds, their experience. I need men who understand command. I need Northern steel."
He paused, letting his words sink in, appealing to Jorah's lost pride and his longing for redemption. The memory of his father, Jeor, the hard, unyielding discipline of the Wall, resonated within Maegor. He understood the fighting spirit of the North, the raw, unadorned strength that defied conquest for so long. The ancient Maegor within him stirred, acknowledging a profound truth: the North had only been conquered by the first Aegon due to his dragons. Without them, it would have stood eternally defiant. He needed that strength, that resilience.
"Jorah Mormont," Maegor declared, his decision made. "I command you to raise a fighting force for me. A force of five hundred men, recruited from across Essos, from those seeking glory, coin, or redemption. You will train them in the Northern style of warfare. You will mold them into a disciplined, hardy fighting force, resilient and unyielding. They will be my spearhead, my flanking force. And you, Jorah Mormont, will command them."
Jorah's face transformed. The weariness, the exile's bitterness, seemed to melt away, replaced by a fierce, burning resolve. This was a chance at redemption, a purpose grander than he had ever dared to dream. And the offer came from a true Targaryen, with a living dragon, speaking of his own father.
He dropped to both knees, head bowed in absolute submission. "My King," Jorah rumbled, his voice thick with emotion. "I pledge my life, my sword, my honor. I will raise and train these men. For you. For the North. For the Dragon."
Maegor nodded, satisfied. He had just gained another formidable asset.
[ System Update: Subordinate Acquired! ]
[ Host has acquired new loyal subordinate: Jorah Mormont! ]
Reward Granted:
Special Unit Access: Northern Auxiliaries (Minor Unit - Requires Recruitment)Reputation Gain: +100 (The Rescuer of Exiles)