Episode 9: Spoils of War Part 2

*Jorah*

Jorah stood on a balcony, looking at the waterfalls that fell around Bear Island. The thundering of the water was like the roar of dragons. A smile touched his face as he leaned forward, resting his full weight on the handrail. A stiff chill breeze blew from the east, from the Bay of Ice but he found it invigorating.

The morning light streamed through the trees and hit the water, causing rainbows to explode through the dense spray of the falls.

"You are up early," a voice called from behind him and he felt arms wrap around his waist from behind him. Reaching down, he grabbed her arms and gently rubbed them.

"So are you," he replied.

The woman nuzzled close to him from the back and he could feel her head resting between his shoulder blades. He moved himself so he could wrap his own arms around her and held her close, breathing in the scent of straw that came from the mattress of their shared bed. Unlike so many other nobles, he preferred to sleep next to his wife. Share the same bed. He could never understand why people would marry just to sleep apart.

"So what are you doing up, Jorah?" The woman asked.

"I had a dream about before we were together," he said, stroking her long hair in his hands. "I had contracted greyscale and had become lost south of the White Knife River."

"It was a dark time, my love," the woman agreed. "But that is past. We have two beautiful children and we shall love full lives."

The words filled Jorah with a great joy and happiness. He could have held his dear loving wife in his arms forever, letting the chilled air redden their skin as the sun rose. However, slowly the duties of the day called them both and she pulled back from him.

"I must see to the children," she said and walked away towards the inner chamber. She stopped and turned to him, Daenerys asked, "Are you coming?"

He looked on her silver hair, petite frame and strong bearing and all he wanted to do was say yes. Despite that though, he now realized he was dreaming. Daenerys Targaryen would not have married him. There was no chance that she ever had shared those affection for him. As much as he'd like to say, 'Yes' what point would there be to saying it to his dream?

"I can't," he shook his head. "With all my heart I wish I could. But this is a dream."

"Is it wrong if the dream is a good one?" The dream Daenerys asked.

"One day," he said firmly. "But not today. I still need to make the world better for you."

The phantom version of the woman he loved looked at him. A knowing look was in her eyes. A small smile spread across her lips. Two young faces of a strapping lad and a gorgeous lass. It tore at him so to not embrace them.

"We'll be waiting for you," she said and bidding him farewell, she turned and entered the house.

And with a sigh, Jorah awoke.


What he awoke to….at first it was hard to make out. His eyelids were heavy and seemed to rebel at the thought of opening. He opened them just long enough to see a fire crackling not far from his face, and felt the warmth of it. A voice spoke to him in calm, even tones. Despite the fact he could not make it out, he had no desire to do anything else then sleep. His eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep.

His eyes opened later, and Jorah heard the pitter-patter of rain falling on the roof above him. For some reason, he couldn't put his finger on why that seemed odd. He turned his face to look at the roof, and he was greeted by the sight of rough-hewn beams holding up an equally roof hewn boards. He could see something between the boards that locked them together, yet he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was. The voice again spoke to him, and this time he could discerne the voice belonged to a man. Yet, he did not have the energy to wake fully up and he slipped back into another deep, dreamless slumber.

Then, he awoke. This time, his eyes felt no weariness, but he blinked at the harsh light that came through a window behind him, the light falling on his face. Weakly, he raised his hand to cover his eyes and with the other, slowly pushed himself into a better position. Relief spread through him once he was out of the light and in a shaded portion of the bed.

Where am I?

Jorah's eyes scanned the room he was in. He was in a cottage, rough-hewn boarded walls holding up an equally rough-hewn ceiling. His mind clicked into place a memory of seeing them for a few moments and now upon a closer inspection, he could see that the stuff between the boards was a type of mortar. How it had managed to not all slip out of the ceiling boards was beyond him. He had never been an artisan or woodworker.

No, he had been a damned noble. Not damned as in proud, but damned as in he had brought shame to the Mormont name.

There was a firepit in the middle of the cottage, with a thick and high circle of rocks that helped shape the flames and contain it. It wasn't burning at the moment, but the burned remnants of a fire lay ashen in the firepit.

Next he saw a table of decent shape and build with four chairs surrounding it. Above the table was a set of hooks that hung from the ceiling, pots, pans, knives and ladles hanging from the hooks. Two doors to two rooms were on the other side of the room.

Yet it was a door next to the table that opened, and a hooded man entered, carrying an armful of logs. They weren't big, but by the way he was staggering forward, they must have been a burden almost too great. A long beard hung from the sun-bleached cloak and hood, which may have been a dark green many decades ago.

The figure dropped the logs in a haphazard pile next to the firepit and grunted, pulling himself as upright as he could. However, it wasn't too far, and he remained hunched a little near the shoulders that caused his head to droop. Brushing off wood and snow off his cloak and breeches, the man turned and walked with a pronounced limp towards the door and closed it.

"Good….." the man said, his voice old and tired. Reaching up, he grabbed his hood and pulled it back. Long grey hair fell in thin strands from his head, and in many places Jorah could see the skin of his head. "Now….is the man awake?"

He turned and Jorah saw the man looking at him. He was…..what was the best word to describe him? If he had been a piece of fruit, he would have been tossed into a rubbish bin and tossed out in short order with the rest of the refuse. Skin hung loosely from the man's jowls, his ears were shriveled and the hair on the front of his head was gone, revealing only a sun-spotted skull. His eyelids were shrunken in the sockets, making his eyes bulge out of his face.

Those eyes though. They were keen, with a wit that had not yet gone.

"At last you have joined the living," the man said, clapping his hands together, although they must have hurt doing so. The hand were shriveled to being no more than bones being held together by the skin. "How feel you?"

Jorah shrugged. "A little weak," he admitted, "And confused. Where am I?"

The man nodded as he hobbled up and put a hand on Jorah's forehead. "Well, your fever has gone down," the man said, his breath smelling like greasy bacon. "I wasn't sure you were going to awake, to be honest. I found you face-down in the snow about a league from my home. The Winter Fever was taking you, as my old Da called it. Luckily for you, I have experience treating this before. My lads and wife all came down with the Winter Fever at least once a piece."

Jorah had seen many people have the Winter Fever. They began to grow sleepy, and then they would fall asleep in the deep snow. Only they would never wake up. Not unless extreme measures were taken. Usually by kicking and hitting them hard enough that blood would start flowing again.

"I thank you," Jorah said to which the old man tutted. He stepped over to the table, grabbed a bowl that was on there and grabbed a spoon, hobbled back. The spoon and bowl trembled slightly in his hands as he stepped forward, and Jorah saw as the man stepped up to him there was a broth that looked rather cold and greasy, vibrating with the trembling of the man's hands. "Where am I?"

"You are about a day's ride for the King's Road, two hours ride to the White Knife western tributary from there, and perhaps another day's ride to Cerwyn," the old man said, spooning the broth and holding it to Jorah's lips. "It's cold, but the broth is still good, nonetheless. Winter may make a bitch of things, but my Ma's broth, that can't be spoiled. Hehehe."

A little bit of the broth sloshed over the edge of the spoon and landed on Jorah's exposed arm. Wiping off the broth, he reached up and grabbed the old man's hand, helping to steady his hand as he spoon fed Jorah.

To be frankly honest, Jorah had never tasted a shittier bowl of broth his entire life. Yet, despite the fact his nostrils rebelled and he nearly gagged, as he gulped down the broth, his belly rumbled loudly, hunger flooding him.

When the old man pulled back his hand, Jorah had to drop his hand as raise the other. It hadn't gone farther than his face when Jorah started. His whole hand was covered in the hard patches of greyscale. He looked down his arm, and there was no part of his arm that was free of it. He looked at the other arm, and found that much of his upper arm, starting for the shoulder was also covered, stopping a little short of the elbow. With his non-infected hand, Jorah reached up and felt his throat. The scales continued up his throat, clear up to his chin.

"No!" he objected as the old man put another spoonful to him. "I'm unclean!"

The old man gave a sad smile. "I know," he nodded his head. "I have tended you for two weeks now."

"But why?" Jorah asked, "How could you help me when you knew I was sick?"

The old man did not answer immediately, but shoved the spoon into Jorah's mouth. Jorah sipped the liquid meal and he pulled it back out. The old man continued spooning it in and out, each in with broth, each out empty.

"I am an old man," he said at long last. "I was there for the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion and fought at the Battle of Wendwater Bridge. I also fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I had a wife with a blessed massive bosom that my mouth couldn't fit around they were that large, and two strapping lads that thought I walked on water. They are both dead now, killed in the War of the Five Kings, and my wife was taken by the Pox. I have lived a full-life, and I know this is my last winter."

Jorah shook his head. "But why help a stranger like me?" he asked, looking at the face he now viewed with new respect and bewilderment. "You could continue living for much longer."

"I could," he agreed, "But I want to see my wife and children again. If helping you is the price needed, then I can see Miranda, Jak and Todde and know that I did a good thing before my death. Is that not the best way for us to live out our last days in life?"

Jorah thought about it. He was also a dying man. He would not live to see past winter. Yet he would die knowing that Daenerys Targaryen would have the world she deserved. With that thought in mind, he allowed himself to keep being fed.