The Walls
By Melanie Dawson
He stepped hard, sinking his feet in the thick frozen snow. His breath came out steaming the icy air as he moved slowly under the weight of his wet cloak. He stumbled and the bag on his shoulder turned around, sending the string holding it together deep in his flesh and he resisted the pain with a growl. One more step and his weak knees gave in; the overloaded body of Sir Jorah Mormont collapsed abruptly with a blunt sound at the foot of the old trees in the Mongorian forests. Shades of death lingered in these places and Jorah felt they were coming for him. He had set on this journey to save life, yet he might lose his before long. The sounds of these wretched lands poisoned his tired senses, filled his chest with fears of a near end and he struggled to get up. But his heart did not have the strength to bear such weight on those poor legs anymore. He had walked for too long, too far – and to what avail? His thoughts crumbled slowly swiped by the wind; frosted leaves flew down in circles, covering his cheek as he stood there, motionless, his chest naked, melting the snow underneath. He was slowly growing cold, his brain forgetful of the danger. The shades of death were approaching. A gust of wind and wet flakes of fresh snow landed gently on his wounded shoulder. They mingled with the blood and stained the purity of Mother Nature as it covered the earth around his body. Twigs breaking as if stepped on, quick and hard; branches swishing when thrown aside to make way. He forced his head around but his eyes couldn't penetrate in the distance anymore. Shadows in grey coming closer. He tried to close his eyes and not look upon his approaching death but the eye balls had frozen into a glacial look and the eyelids couldn't drop. He starred blankly with tears rolling down his temple, freezing in his silvery hair. Steps so close, ever so close and then the dark. A patch of white again and then the dark. He commanded his eyes shut and with an immense stinging pain they did.
"There are many the places where I'd follow you my friend, but the realm of shades is not one of them. Not yet anyway. That day will come for both of us and we can walk it together." Magister Illyrio sat down calmly, in his old man fashion, waiting for Jorah to make sense of his situation. His eyes rolled slowly around the room, frowning as he went over the rich decorations, past the open window and as his sight got lost in the bright sunlight, he sank deeper in the sheets, savoring this illusion of life.
"My dear Magister…" his voice sparkled with humor and for a moment a short smile sprinkled some life on that pale dead face of his. "… had I not known any better, I think you would've let the Shades take me where I belong." Illyrio remained untouched by his words but reached with his staff and poked his friend on the leg.
"Are you ready to die Jorah, you coward? Dying is easy; you've tried that so many times!" The Magister stood up, limping his way around the bed to look outside the window. "You deserve your death old man, but I would battle any Shade that dares take you no nonw, for this is not the time to go. Much is needed of you Sir Mormont."
Jorah struggled to move up on the pillows and his shoulder responded with a deaf pain down his arm and he dropped back on his back before hurting more.
"How can I do anything anymore, with what I've become?" Jorah looked at the ceiling exasperated with his condition.
"Has the son of Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night Watch succumbed to old age and ruin? I think not. The writings on the walls of destiny pulsate with life and this is no luck that you stand before me still drawing breath. Or have you forgotten what dangers linger in the heart of the Mongorian woods? None of my men could've saved you or their pitiful selves if it hadn't been for a higher power at work."
"It was the shortest way here…" Illiryo appreciated the regret in Jorah's voice and his spirit calmed. "What would you have me do?"
"There is a gathering tonight. We must decide in whose hands to place the kingdom of Aerys now that his son has failed him." The Magister sat down, drawing invisible markings on the floor. The staff screeched stumbling in the irregularities of the stone and his eyes fixed the metal edge, polished by too much use.
"He deserved his fate; he's been looking for revenge for too long, rash and impulsive. Nothing like his father! The throne of the Westeros will not be conquered so easily… he should've known that before drawing the wrath of the tribes upon him."
"Yes, but now he lies dead in the dirt and talking about him does not benefit us."
"What of his sister, Daenerys? Is it true what they say about her, that she has lost her mind to the shadows?"
Jorah made an effort to look at Illyrio still inspecting silently the staff he held so strongly in his hand.
"She is not well. The death of Viserys, the gossip and the war have torn her; have torn her to deep to mend I fear. She is a lonely woman with no interest in life or her kin."
"But has her kin taken interest in her?" Illyrio forced his weight up, taking one careful step after another as he made his way to the door.
"Daenerys is no longer our concern. She is useless to herself… and to us." Jorah skipped forward in a desperate but short lived attempt to defend the once lovely child he'd witnessed grow into a beautiful maiden years before. But the Magister's look took that chance away from him, leaving him defenseless against the decision of many.
"Someone down the road will show us the same mercy we're showing this poor girl and we're not going to like it." Illyrio stopped before stepping outside. He rested heavily against the door frame, listening to his own breathing, knowing that day would soon come when his lack of care would make him fall. He felt the choking in his chest, the lungs collapsing under the pressure of the air, his weak heart fighting to keep pumping life through his veins. Soon…
"Obey by my words Jorah and leave the girl out of this matter. She is not your mission. There is another that you will have to quest for soon enough and she is the one that must be persuaded to take back the throne of Westeros. Or it will be the end of us."
By the time the door closed behind the old noble, Jorah's thoughts burdened by memories brought his sweaty temples down on the rough sheets. The drums in his ears couldn't throttle the echo of that one name in his head. His eyes died out in a fixed regard, but behind it the white of his eyes dried with the burning pace of his thundering heart. He did not think he'd live up to the day when a new chapter in the History of the Seven Kingdoms would be written. And experience had taught him the battle for power required many players, yet it delivered few weary winners. The Game of Thrones was about to begin.
