Chapter 8

“You, man, what brings a knight like you into a tavern like this?” Ser Jorah heard behind him as he drank some ale, missing the wines of Essos.

“Well, now, that’s the question, isn’t it? What gave me away as a knight?” Mormont asked the fellow approaching now, a rather young and clean-shaven septon from the looks of him.

“As a septon, I’ve witnessed many a knight take his vows. Despite your Northern accent, you’re definitely consecrated as a knight in the light of the Seven. There’s a certain pride of bearing that comes with knighthood, ser. Mind you, we septons have to be a bit more careful these days. You know why, don’t you? Not that I miss the Sparrows. Why should I? Even clergy like a good ale or wine now and then,” the septon continued making idle chatter for now.

“Careful, man. Even the walls have ears, as they say. So do little birds. I hear that the Hand has been very busy in that manner of late. More so even than the Spider,” Ser Jorah casually noted.

“Aye, I’d say so. The Master of Whispers was many things, even ruthless, but he doesn’t hold a candle to the likes of Qyburn. So, yes, caution’s the word of the day, I’d wager. Here, let’s get us another ale, shall we, maybe some meat or at least a bowl of brown and some bread?” the septon kept up his gossip.

“Don’t ask my name, either. It’s enough that I’m a knight. I was pardoned by King Robert, but I don’t trust anyone since to fully honor said pardon. Don’t worry, I shan’t ask your name, either,” Jorah warned the septon.

“Oh, but I give that freely. Nothing to fear on that account. I’m one of the smallfolk, a humble septon, hardly worth troubling or punishing at all. Rendal’s the name. Originally from Flea Bottom, of all places, but the Faith has let do me that well, at least, for myself. There was an opening for advancement for me not long ago, even if the cause of said elevation was rather gruesome,” the man gave Ser Jorah his name at last as he paid for more food and drink.

“You mean the destruction of the Sept of Baelor and the deaths of so many Sparrows, among others, including the High Sparrow himself, from wildfire? Anyway, you are doing rather handsomely indeed if you can afford to buy a knight meat and drink,” Jorah observed, also noticing that there was something ... different about this particular septon, not least of which was his relative youth and beauty for a cleric.

“I can spare a coin or two, as I’ve said. Courtesy of recent advancement. There’s no High Septon, no Most Devout, but there are still septs, still septons and septas, still Silent Sisters and orders like that. That’s better than what would have happened if Stannis had taken this city. We’d have all been put to the sword, or even worse, possibly the torch if the Red Woman had her way. That man was bent on converting us all at the point of a sword,” Rendal said, moving his dainty hand over Jorah’s in a curious gesture.

Jorah naturally flinched, not being comfortable with the kind of touch that Rendal offered him coming from another man. It was apparent what the deal with Rendal was now. The septon was a bugger. It was the very sin for which Ser Loras Tyrell had been arrested and tried once, even briefly forced into the Faith Militant just minutes before he was destroyed with his family and all others in the destruction of the Great Sept on Cersei’s’ orders. Jorah had no interest in boys, let alone men, but he didn’t wish to be rude, either. This was a very tricky moment for him and he knew it. How did he act in a case where he could possibly use the septon, but had no taste for what he offered him?

“You’re a bugger,” Jorah said in a gruff whisper while drinking more ale and cutting into the meat pie.

“It’s a sin, but it’s my sin and I own it honestly enough. Since the Sparrows died, no one cares anymore. Whatever her faults, and certainly blowing up the Sept of Baelor was a grave offense, our Queen did us that favor at least. Don’t even pretend that you doubt her hand in this, both literally and in the form of the Hand himself, Qyburn. I don’t choose how the game is played. I’m only a pawn. I just move where I’m allowed to go on the board. Typically, that’s forward, not backward,” Rendal confessed to his vice, or rather what the Faith called one.

“No one’s denying that or disputing it, though again, I’d watch your tongue a bit. I don’t wish to end up dangling from a noose or having my head mounted on a spike. I doubt that you would want that, either. Nothing against you, friend, but what makes you think that I’m ... open to the company of other men?” Jorah inquired, making the septon laugh a bit.

“Because I have a friend, a septa, who wishes to sin a little in her life before she dies, in case this war turns even nastier than it already is. Life is so uncertain and dangerous these days, after all. Hear me out. You, me, and my lover. I swear that I won’t try to bugger you. You get her first. When you’re done with her, I get a turn. Then you bugger me when you’ve recovered a bit. That’s all that I ask of you. I just want to be able to brag that I’ve lain with a knight and she’s wanted to bed one, too. Relax, I’m fond of women, too. Not just men. It’s simply that with men, I prefer to be the woman, and with women, I prefer to be the man,” Rendal clarified the situation a bit further.

“And why should I agree to this, aside from you offering me some septa to share our bed, to say nothing of the meat and ale?” Jorah raised his eyebrows at a septon so brazenly propositioning him for such debauchery.

“Name your price, and I’ll get it for you, good ser knight, I swear by the old gods and the new, since you’re clearly from the North despite your knightly vows. What do you want that would be worth a little sin between us?” Rendal insisted, much to Jorah’s annoyance.

Even so, it was clear to Ser Jorah that his new friend could be very useful indeed, as could his friend, this septa of his. It might be a sin in the eyes of the Seven, but Jorah chiefly preferred the old gods at heart, knight though he was. He was a Mormont, after all, of Bear Island. Sharing a tryst with two clergy of the Faith of the Seven was hardly a weight on his conscience, especially as the Seven had failed to protect their own loyal worshipers not long ago. He was also disgraced, anyway, even if pardoned. Many Westerosi still despised him for selling poachers into slavery, and if not for that, for openly serving Daenerys Targaryen.

Most of all, what mattered right then to Ser Jorah Mormont was avenging his own sister, Maege, who had perished at the hands of Houses Frey and Lannister. He presumed that that she died at the Red Wedding, but even if she survived that, it caused her death in some way, he was sure of that much. She would have been fighting impossible odds after that massacre and death, along with defeat, would have been imminent. The Frey men were dead and gone, and Ser Jorah had no beef with the women, all of them under Lord Walder’s thumb until his recent death.

Ser Jaime Lannister was another matter entirely. If there was one man that Jorah could make pay for what happened to his family, it would be the Kingslayer, he was confident of that much. Perhaps he would kill the man, perhaps simply maim him, but he would wreak savage vengeance on the man, whether directly or through some other means. If his time serving Daenerys had taught him anything, it was that sometimes ruthless retribution made others respect and fear one, though she was known to take it too far at times.

What Rendal offered him was privacy, a place away from listening ears and prying eyes, where he could better envision and prepare his revenge against Queen Cersei, Ser Jaime, and House Lannister itself. Fucking this bugger would give Jorah the alibi and reason to be inside said room, and presumed as such, while he laid out and executed his plans for the Lannisters. He might even be able to entice Rendal or his septa friend to join his Khaleesi’s camp. At the very least, though, not having others privy to his counsel was absolutely useful to the cause.

“Where’s your room, yours and the septa’s? We can talk shop and my terms after the act itself. The sooner that it’s done, the better for all of us. You’ll see what I mean soon enough,” Jorah paid what was left of the cost of the meat and ale as he offered his arm to the septon.

“Ah, you do play the part of the lover better than most knights who I know,” Rendal assured him, even as he guided the way to the room above the tavern.

The room was plain enough, as was the septa herself, but she didn’t waste time disrobing in front of Ser Jorah, which he very much appreciated. Once let down, her hair at least was nice and the freckles on her face were matched by others elsewhere on her body. That was when something really didn’t click right in Ser Jorah’s mind, and he turned around just in time to see the knife wielded by Rendal. The septon slashed at him and Mormont physically threw him against the now closed door.

Rendal fell down to the floor, as Jorah turned around and pointed his sword at the woman, telling her, “if you don’t want what’s coming to him, tie him up.”

Jorah gathered the knife as well, not a dagger but more of a scullion’s blade, befitting some kitchen knave instead of even a septon. As the girl bound her companion, he grinned and put his own weapon right against the man’s throat, making him piss himself in fear. Rendal knew that he was in mortal danger, after all, and he had just made an enemy of a knight of the realm. He glared at his one-time partner, but she stared him down shamelessly, so he turned his face back to Jorah in an attempt to bluff his way out of such peril.

“Let me guess, neither of you are clergy. You’re not really a septon and she’s not really a septa. There were many things which never made sense, until I saw that you had freckles all over your skin. Sandy hair is one thing, but freckles on your tits are a bit much to believe on a septa. You need sun for freckles, and we all know that septas don’t bare their bodies that much. Especially not chaste, virginal ones.