Chapter 130: Khal Drogo's Banquet (3)
After watching Viserys storm away, Ian turned and found himself looking at Jorah Mormont, who was standing near Daeron.
The man was older than Ian had expected, perhaps forty, with weathered skin and a scalp that was half-bald—balder, even, than Ian had been in his previous life. Unlike the richly dressed merchants and magisters around him, Jorah wore no silks, nor did he possess a powerful physique that might have suited such finery. He was dressed in a simple tunic of dark green wool, embroidered with the black bear of his house. It looked utterly out of place amidst the opulence of the feast.
Seeing Ser Jorah in the flesh, Ian finally understood why the man's path of unrequited adoration was destined to be so fraught with failure.
Ian couldn't guess what the knight had looked like in his youth, but his current appearance was, to put it mildly, difficult to praise.
If Jorah had resembled the actor from the show, perhaps Daenerys might have found herself falling for him during that long, helpless journey after Khal Drogo's death.
But alas, he was just a balding, sad-eyed old man.
"Hello, loyal minister," Jorah said, his tone jesting. He must have noticed Ian's stare. Without waiting for a reply, he gave a slight nod and walked past.
*And hello to you, you great fawning hound,* Ian retorted in his mind.
Of course, he would never say such a thing aloud. Firstly, he had no idea how to accurately translate the sentiment into the Common Tongue. Secondly, Jorah Mormont hadn't actually started his fawning just yet.
*No, wait… he's already fawned over one,* Ian realized, and the sudden urge to laugh was almost overwhelming.
That had been Jorah's one true moment of glory.
In the year 289 AC, King Robert had held a grand tourney at Lannisport to celebrate his victory in crushing Balon Greyjoy's rebellion. There, Jorah met the first goddess of his career in devotion: Lynesse Hightower, daughter of the Lord of Oldtown.
He'd asked for her favor to wear in the lists, and then, as if blessed, he swept through the competition. He defeated even Jaime Lannister in the final tilt to be crowned champion, whereupon he named Lynesse his queen of love and beauty. He proposed to her father, Lord Leyton Hightower, and to the surprise of many, the lord agreed.
A poor lordling from the rugged North had plucked the most beautiful flower from the fertile banks of the Honeywine. The impoverished Lord of Bear Island had married the princess of Oldtown. It should have been an inspirational tale of love conquering all.
Unfortunately, it seemed that single tourney had exhausted every last drop of Jorah's good fortune. His life afterward was a cascade of calamities.
Lynesse, accustomed to the splendors of Oldtown—the wealthiest city in Westeros—proved incapable of frugality on the desolate shores of Bear Island. She burned through Jorah's meager wealth with astonishing speed, leaving him buried in debt.
Desperate to pay his creditors, Jorah resorted to selling a few poachers he'd caught on his lands to a Tyroshi slaver.
But his luck held true to form. The slaver he dealt with was an unscrupulous man who, after a dispute over payment, reported the illegal transaction to Jorah's liege lord, Eddard Stark. Selling men into slavery was a crime punishable by death.
Before Ned Stark could arrive on Bear Island to carry out the sentence, Jorah took Lynesse and fled in the dead of night. They made their way to the Free City of Lys, but their money soon ran out. Jorah was forced to work as a common sellsword to support them.
Soon, an even greater misfortune befell him: his wife, the woman for whom he had sacrificed everything, left him for a wealthy merchant prince of Lys.
In the years that followed, Jorah drifted between the Free Cities, a man without a home. He even journeyed as far east as Vaes Dothrak, the city of the horselords, but his fortunes never improved. Not until, that is, a certain Spider spun a new thread for him.
And that led to the familiar story, where Jorah found a new goddess and rekindled the fawning soul within him.
Ian shook his head, suppressing a wry smile.
He was just about to step forward and speak with the exiled knight when he noticed a trio of high-status individuals making their way toward his position. He paused, deciding to wait.
"Master Yada Moore, I did not expect to find you in Pentos," one of the men said, addressing the water dancer beside Ian directly. He completely ignored Ian, his tone deferential, betraying that he was here to ask a favor.
"I'm sorry," Yada Moore replied, feigning ignorance. "Have we met?"
"My apologies. I am Olanto Ranstan, ambassador from Braavos to the city of Pentos," the man said with a practiced smile. "You may not know me, but I have had the honor of seeing you fight in the Sealord's Palace. Your water dance is truly exquisite."
"Oh," Yada said with a casual nod, unimpressed.
Olanto took the cold reception in stride, not a hint of embarrassment on his face. He gestured enthusiastically to his companions. "Master Yada is a legend among the water dancers of Braavos. After he left the Sealord's service, I have only seen the First Sword defeated once."
He then turned to the two people behind him, presenting them to Yada. "Allow me to introduce Prince Hazan Mohalis and his fiancée, the Lady Delif Hauket."
Olanto leaned in and whispered into Yada's ear, "Prince Hazan is the son of the Keyholder, Marian Frega."
Ian's eyes shifted to the pair. The man called Prince Hazan wore a robe of fine satin, cinched at the waist with a belt of gorgeous gemstones from which hung an ivory-handled scimitar. His eyes were sharp, predatory, like those of an eagle or a serpent. He radiated an intense aura of command.
Hazan's presence was different from Illyrio's. The Magister's power was heavy but restrained, wrapped in a gentle tone that disarmed you. Hazan's was purely fierce. Just standing before him, one could feel an invisible pressure.
Beside him, Delif Hauket was a vision in a purple, off-the-shoulder evening gown. The garment's close-fitting tailoring perfectly accentuated her slender, elegant figure. As they drew nearer, Ian caught the faint, pleasant scent of natural spices drifting from her skin.
*What a handsome couple,* Ian thought with a touch of admiration. In terms of sheer looks, they were a match for Viserys and Daenerys. In fact, since Daenerys was not yet fully grown, the mature beauty of the woman before him was far more captivating.
No wonder Suda Tetrus had been so enraged when his fiancée was stolen from him.
"Marian Frega," Yada mused, his interest finally piqued. "The wealthiest Keyholder of the Iron Bank? I have heard the name… Prince Hazan, is it?" He offered a slow, deliberate bow. "So, for what great matter do you seek me out?"
"Master Yada," Prince Hazan said, stepping forward to speak for himself. To Ian's surprise, his voice was not the domineering tone he expected; it was smooth, almost gentle. "Welcome to Pentos. I was wondering if I might have the honor of inviting you to a dinner at my manse tomorrow evening, that I might extend to you the proper hospitality of a host."
Hazan had not been so crass as to immediately offer Yada a contract. He was playing the long game, attempting to build a friendship first.
This was not good for Ian's plan. What he needed was a swift agreement, struck here and now, before Illyrio had a chance to intervene.
If they waited until tomorrow, the Magister would have more than enough time to speak with Yada and explain the true stakes of the situation.
Unless Ian was willing to openly defy Illyrio, he would lose this perfect opportunity to eliminate the player, Ander Poole.
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