"Freeriders are sellswords, nothing more," Jorah explained, his voice a low rumble. "Men with a horse and some skill with a blade. Knights are another matter entirely." He seemed to settle into the role of teacher, the pain of his own memories momentarily forgotten.
"A boy who wishes to be a knight is sent to serve as a page around the age of seven. He learns his courtesies, and a sword master teaches him his foundations. At twelve or thirteen, he becomes a squire. He learns the use of all weapons from the knight himself, is taught the meaning of chivalry, and has the right and duty to ride into battle at his master's side. Many remain squires their entire lives, if they cannot afford the horse and armor of their own."
"Cannot his own knight gift them to him?" Dany asked, her brow furrowed.
A dark, self-deprecating look crossed Jorah's face. "Some can. I could not. After losing my own armor and horse in the tourneys, time and again, I had nothing left to give. I spent my last coin and fell into massive debt just to maintain my own appearance."
"I heard the Lannisters loaned the crown millions of gold dragons," Dany mused.
"The west is a land of mountains," Jorah said with a sigh, "and beneath those mountains are inexhaustible mines of gold and silver. They say Lord Tywin Lannister shits gold. We are not all so fortunate." He picked up the thread of his story. "When a squire comes of age and is deemed worthy, any knight can make him a knight. A sword is laid upon his shoulder, and his name and House are announced for all to hear. For most, there is a vigil in a sept and an anointing with holy oils. It is a sacrament of the Faith of the Seven, which is why we Northmen, who keep the Old Gods, are rarely formal knights."
"So you are a false knight?" she teased gently.
A faint blush rose on the knight's cheeks. "Not false, Your Grace. Our status is recognized. But there is a faster way. A king can grant a knighthood for valor in battle. That is how I earned mine."
"For fighting against my family in the Usurper's war?" she asked, an eyebrow raised.
"No," he denied quickly. "It was for my service in the war to put down King Balon's rebellion." He saw the look on her face and quickly changed the subject. "Besides freeriders, there are hedge knights, and sworn swords. A sworn sword is a knight who pledges his life and loyalty to a lord. Most are landless knights from minor houses. I… I was your brother's sworn sword, for a time. And then… then I became yours. Until you granted me the higher honor of the Queensguard."
Dany thought of how desperately he had sought out Viserys, and then her. She said nothing.
Jorah did not seem to notice, his mind lost in the past. "Great lords often hire freeriders to patrol their lands. They are cheaper and more flexible than a sworn sword. Bear Island… it is a large land. I could not afford to keep sworn swords, but I had a few freeriders in my service."
He sighed again, a sound heavy with a lifetime of regret. "I was bankrupt," he said, his voice dropping to a low, shameful whisper. "I could not even pay the cook, or the harpist Lynesse had demanded. And when she heard I was considering selling her jewels… for money, to keep her happy… I…" He trailed off, the words catching in his throat.
"My riders caught several poachers on my lands. By tradition, they had a choice: lose a hand, or take the black and join the Night's Watch. But I was desperate. For money… I gave up my honor. I sold them to a Tyroshi slaver. It is a crime forbidden by the laws of all Seven Kingdoms."
"And for that, you were exiled? It seems a harsh punishment."
"It was more honorable than exile," he said, his voice barely audible. "And far crueler. The crime I committed… the punishment is death."
Dany stared at him, stunned.
"By the traditions of the First Men, Lord Eddard Stark himself would have had to make the journey to Bear Island, to hear my final confession… and to take my head with his own sword, Ice."
"But Winterfell is a thousand kilometers from your home. You escaped."
"Lord Stark would take three days to arrive," he confirmed. "Three days was enough time for me to flee with Lynesse and her jewels."
"You are the only son of your house," she said, the words a statement, not a question.
"Yes. My father has only me. And my aunt's five children are all daughters."
"And you had served Lord Stark your whole life. You fought beside him at the Trident, you helped him put down a rebellion. And for a few poachers, he would have ended your entire line?" The injustice of it, the sheer, rigid coldness, was shocking to her.
A flicker of the old resentment burned in Jorah's eyes. "Stark is such a man. He is what he is." After a moment, he sighed, the anger fading. "But that is also one of his… charms. He is just, and fair. Strict with himself, and with all others."
Strict to a fault, Dany thought. To the point of cruelty. It was a world away from the Dothraki's simple, brutal logic.
"You continue," she prompted gently.
"I told myself," he said, his voice thick with the memory of his own self-deception, "that all that mattered was that Lynesse and I loved each other. Honor, home, family… none of it was important. I took her and we fled to Lys. We sold my ship, and for half a year, we lived a life of splendor."
The moment he said the word "love," Dany knew the story was about to turn.
His fierce, bear-like eyes reddened, and his bearded face seemed to twist, a mask of pure, undiluted misery.
"But the gold ran out. I had to become a sellsword. There is no other trade for a man like me. I took a contract to fight on the Rhoyne, against the Braavosi. It was far away, but the pay was good." He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "I gave her the advance payment… all of it. The day after I left, she took the gold, and all her jewels… and she moved into the manse of a trade prince of Lys, and became his concubine."
He fell silent. The story was over. He had lost everything—his home, his honor, his family, and finally, the love for which he had sacrificed it all. He sat there on top of the tower, a great, broken man, staring out at the wasteland with empty eyes. Looking at him then, Dany thought that the word 'miserable' was not nearly strong enough.
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