Author's Note:

So I've almost finalized the rest of the POVs for this fic. Still about 1/3 to go I think…just based on the number of chapters left. Hopefully you guys are still enjoying it! :)

Like I said last time, updates will still be slower than normal until at least the beginning of August, but then hoping to get back to the once a week schedule. Fingers crossed that real life cooperates.

To all my readers, thank you for all your faves/comments! You guys are the absolute best. Xo

Jorah

A snow storm moved in from the frozen waters in the night, howling at the castle walls, reminding them all that winter was not nearly done with them. The beeswax candles flickered and the fires threatened to go out with every gale force blown down their chimneys. The noise was thunderous.

But no one in the Mormont Keep was sleeping that night anyway.

Theon Greyjoy was dying. Maester Morlan and Daenerys stayed with him, the maester tending the blackened flesh of frostbite on the young man's body, Daenerys giving him comfort as he faded in and out of consciousness.

Lyanna, Seffius Claver and Jorah stood just outside the sickroom. They lingered in the hall, speaking in hushed tones.

Lyanna stood nearest the doorway, staring into the sickroom, watching the maester lift Theon up from the soft pillows and drip milk of the poppy down his throat with a soaked cloth. A scowl remained fixed on Maester Morlan's face, as the milk did little more than ease Theon's pain. As the hours slipped by, the young man's condition continued to deteriorate.

Just behind Lyanna, Jorah and Seffius discussed his injuries and speculated on how long he'd been walking in the swirling snow and shifting ice.

They hadn't been able to get an answer out of Theon. When Jorah and Daenerys brought the Greyjoy boy back from the sea cave, he'd been speaking near nonsense. When he recognized Daenerys, he became frantic and agitated as he attempted to give her warnings—about what was unclear and too soon, he fell back into a slump, the weary walk over unknown miles of sea ice catching up with him.

"But how did he get here?" Lyanna wondered aloud, quietly, turning back to both Seffius and Jorah for explanation. The men were shaking their heads.

"A ship?" Seffius guessed, looking at Jorah, who nodded. "It's the only explanation. Perhaps they were on open water and became trapped in the ice?"

"Why would they sail northern waters in winter?" Lyanna asked, unconvinced. She added gruffly, "They know the dangers of being entrapped by ice."

"The Greyjoys aren't known for staying on their islands, even in the best of times," Jorah mentioned, from old experience. How much of his youth was spent skirmishing with the Ironborn? "They feed themselves by raiding our shores and the shores of the mainland. Maybe their supplies ran scarce and they've been forced back into it."

"Euron Greyjoy is arrogant enough to take on winter seas," Seffius agreed, having tussled with the pirate lord on open water more than once. Euron's arrogance rivaled that of the damned Drowned God.

"But Theon wouldn't join with his uncle in a raid," Lyanna replied, frowning, still unsure how this broken man had ended up on her shores. Lyanna didn't like uncertainties. Jorah's father had been the same. She continued, "He broke with his uncle and swore oaths to Daenerys before she travelled across the Narrow Sea."

At her name, Daenerys looked over from Theon's deathbed. She held the broken man's hand in her own, hoping the fiery warmth in her fingers might flood his veins and work its magic. But it was a desperate hope for a desperate man…and she was failing. She met Jorah's gaze beyond the doorway and her expression was grim.

Seffius was speaking again, "Last we heard—he'd left Dragonstone with some of the Ironborn to confront his uncle."

Jorah scratched at his jawline, nodding and confirming, "He wasn't with us at Winterfell."

"Perhaps he was victorious," Seffius shrugged.

"There's no victory in this," Lyanna answered, exhaling with a defeated breath and casting another glance towards the man dying in her halls. Her tone was clear. She was tired of death. Theon's sudden appearance, this doomed attempt to save his life—it was another sobering reminder that this winter would try to kill them all before it was done. Beginning with Theon Greyjoy…

"Your Grace!" Theon sputtered out of his unconscious stupor, spilling some of the maester's draught with the sudden burst of strength in his arms and legs. His eyes were wild and frantic—until he saw Daenerys nearby. He swallowed sharply, repeating in a hoarse voice, "Your Grace…my uncle! And the…I tried to kill him but—and Robb, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry…"

"Shhh," Daenerys coaxed him back with Maester Morlan's assistance. Theon's cries softened as the milk of the poppy took effect, easing him back to oblivion.

Maester Morlan had done what he could. Theon rested quietly, though his breath was too shallow and his pallor had gone from a frosted white to a sickly grey. Neither color suited him. The shadow world beckoned him near and it was only a matter of time before he fell into it.

"He'll die tonight, won't he?" Daenerys asked Jorah. She hadn't moved from Theon's bedside, now perched on the edge of the mattress, her feet dangling just above the cold, stone floor. Theon's hand was still in hers. His grip, at first desperately grasping at hers like a lifeline, was fading away with the rest of him. If she let go, his hand would tumble weakly to the furs they'd covered him in.

With little more they could do, the others had all gone. Daenerys remained, unwilling to let Theon breathe his last in a room all alone. Jorah remained as well, standing near Daenerys, as always.

He was reminded of another deathbed vigil they'd shared years ago, in a hot, dusty, Dothraki tent far across the sea.

Her misery had been terrible that time, having lost her child, her husband and her future in only a few hours' time. His heart always tore in two on the memory of her tear-stained face, damp eyes pleading with his—asking him for hope, where there was none to give.

The years that had passed from that moment to this had given her enough experience with death that she knew the answer to her own question. No tears this time, only quiet resignation.

But still, she asked.

"Yes, he will," Jorah answered her honestly, without pleasure. She wasn't close to the boy, he knew that. Her alliance had been with Theon's sister, Yara, salt-tested and sea-born, with all of Old Balon's iron running through her veins. Theon was just the weak-willed fool that Yara propped up and hoped to make whole again.

Yet, Daenerys seemed drawn to him. Jorah wasn't surprised. How often had he seen her gentle heart reach out to those most broken and in need of salvation?

He counted himself among them.

"He has regrets that plague his mind," Daenerys mused, as she reached up and gently smoothed a lock of Theon's hair back, as a mother might caress a sleeping child. Jorah's gaze shifted from Theon back to Daenerys. He recognized the troubled note in her voice—she wasn't just talking about Theon Greyjoy.

"We all have regrets," Jorah replied softly, knowing his own well. He lived with them daily, giving them audience to slander him and shame him until the end of his days, letting him know at every moment that he wasn't worthy of the second chances he'd been given.

He'd grown used to them and it was nothing he didn't deserve.

But it was her regrets that she hinted at and that Theon's reappearance had awakened in her head. And those regrets he wouldn't allow. Her choices had never been easy. Her life had never been her own, not from the moment she was whisked away and hidden across the sea—a pawn for her vicious brother, a prize for his highest bidder.

She made the best of what she'd been given. And what she'd been given for so long was fire and blood, whether she wanted it or not.

Her regrets could go hang themselves.

Jorah cautioned gently, "You can't take on his burdens as well, Daenerys."

"He swore his oaths to me and look where he's ended up," she replied in a quiet voice, melancholy coloring her tone. "Look where they all ended up. Lady Olenna, Yara, Missandei, Grey Worm, Irri, Jon—"

She swallowed, unable to finish the list.

"You aren't responsible for their deaths," Jorah told her firmly. "They followed you out of love and a belief in something beyond themselves. Even if they had seen their futures written out in the night sky, they would've followed you just the same."

"You don't know that," she shook her head stubbornly, eyes locked on Theon's broken body, seeing her arrogance and blindness reflected back in the flickering life of a dying man.

Jorah took a step closer. Reaching down, he tipped her chin up so she was forced to look at him.

Again, he was reminded of the night Khal Drogo died. But this time, the horrors she felt weren't written on her face. Instead, they were screamed across his heart.

He'd always been sensitive to those feelings that she kept hidden away and the way she retreated inside her head to face the darkness by herself. How many times had he turned to her and saw her swallow back the grief that any other woman would have been allowed? That she should be allowed.

But now, he could feel her pain in a way that he hadn't been able to before, with all its swirling darkness and unknown depths. And he would be damned if he let her face it alone.

"What we've done, we cannot change," he stated simply. "But we move forward, as we must. Until we can no longer, counting ourselves blessed if someone is there at the end to hold our hand until we reach our final peace."

With his thumb, Jorah wiped away the single tear that was falling from her violet eyes. She closed her eyes briefly, swallowing back any further tears and nodding her acquiescence to his unasked plea—don't dwell in your darker thoughts, my princess…for my sake if not for your own.

Jorah touched his thumb and forefinger to her chin once more, in affection, before pulling his fingers back. He remained close, within reach. But her hands were occupied, both now holding tight to Theon's hand, imparting whatever comfort the dying man might find in her simple touch.

You are not alone, Theon.

They said no more, listening to Theon Greyjoy's final, peaceful breaths in solemn silence.