JORAH

He did not take pride in many things; pride was a luxury no longer afforded to him and he had never been a proud man to begin with, but he did revel in his position in training the greenest of green boys for battle. Even the youngest of them were toughened lads and Northerners all and so Jorah would have expected nothing less of them. The youngest was no older than ten-and-three but he came from Bear Island and seemed especially intent on impressing Jorah.

Jorah, Brienne of Tarth, Beric Dondarrion, and—to Jorah's immense displeasure—Ser Bronn of the Blackwater were chosen to be drilling instructors: to revisit the basics and teach the advanced.

What Jorah voiced aloud to no one else was the thought that most if not all of these boys would die on impact with another blade. Facing a living enemy that could be wounded was one thing, but their enemy would come at them with the speed and strength of a thousand men and unless their first swing or stab was true, they were highly unlikely to be alive to deliver a second. They consisted of the last defense, the band of lesser-able elder men and boys who would help guard those who could not fight. These were the ones who would be humanity's last hope if the dead broke through the thousands of men and women out on the battlefield.

Assisting him and his comrades in training were a few individuals on the younger side of life themselves: Lady Arya Stark, Podrick Payne, and Jorah's own young cousin, Lady Lyanna Mormont. It had been a curt and brief meeting with his aunt's daughter and words and sentiments were not wasted on either of them. Jorah had never met her for she had been born long after he went into exile but she was a fierce little thing like her mother had been and she had perfected the Mormont glower—though at too young of an age. She had greeted him, told him she would see him again at the war council, and left just as quickly as she had come.

Now, she was instructing boys twice her age in proper form and sparring with the youngest only because none of the older boys seemed willing enough to strike a blow on a lady. That same notion did not go for Arya Stark who bested every boy and a few men as well who came at her, refusing to back down and driving them all to fight back as hard as they could.

Beric Dondarrion was most encouraging with his pupils and Brienne of Tarth was strict but fair. Jorah believed himself to be compassionate but stoic in that he did not give false praise but pushed the lads to give their all.

Bronn of the Blackwater had a more unique approach. Dry cursing, belittling, and angering his students, he showed no mercy and it took some encouraging on Jorah's part to get any lads to practice with the knight since they were the ones who could take the beating. Though Jorah still did not approve of Bronn calling them "pieces of filth that just slithered from their mother's twat", he had to admit that as unconventional as Ser Bronn's methods were, they were effective in how the boys were the fiercest coming out of their turn to battle.

Midday saw the participants taper off to make water, vomit, or take a small meal before the next series of bouts and after a quick round of the castle to inspect the trench digging which was being overseen by Grey Worm, Jorah made his way inside to the busy courtyard where armor was being prepared, horses properly shoed, bundles of arrows feathered. At the far side by the entrance to the godswood Lady Stark and Lord Baelish were in practice of their own but Lady Stark appeared to be having an argument of sorts with her advisor.

Jorah lingered one second too long, for Lady Stark caught sight of him and called to him undoubtedly to settle the argument and which Jorah wanted no part of. All the same, he went to her with a bow of his head and curiosity on his mind for he had not spoken to her at all despite being a guest of Winterfell for well over a week and a half now. If she knew him and knew enough about him to seek him out, he wondered what use she could have for his services.

"Ser Jorah, you have been assigned the task of instructing the youngest of our soldiers, have you not?" she asked in that toneless manner only a Stark could get away with.

"That I have, my lady."

"And would you consider yourself to be more than adequate with the blade?"

"I am not one to say, my lady, though by standing here after going beyond the Wall, I believe my actions speak for me."

"Then I request that you give a private lesson to Lord Baelish here and by private I mean that he shall be your only pupil for the remainder of the afternoon. He is a fair archer but all able-bodied men need to know how to hold their own in close combat because eventually the arrows will run out."

Lord Baelish attempted to protest in the form of a hushed conversation with Lady Stark but she spoke over him.

"I expect that Lord Baelish will need some proper brushing up on his technique but he trained with my Uncle Edmure as a young man and the Tully master-at-arms would have seen to it that he did not slack off in his performance. Still, a refresher course is in order and I wish for him to learn from the best."

"You honor me, my lady, but—"

"If you are fearful that you might harm him, I would alleviate your fears by pointing out that nothing you can do to him would be half as bad as what a wight can do to him. Pain is to be expected."

Jorah was not certain what sort of counterargument he could present but was spared the discomfort of finding an excuse by the arrival of Ser Bronn.

"If m'lady approves, I'd like t'lend me hand in givin' Lord Baelish a few lessons," said Bronn, looking far too eager to do intentional harm and not be reprimanded for it.

Lady Stark gave a nod of approval and stepped aside for Lord Baelish to approach his imminent doom. She might as well have just given him his death sentence for how quickly he paled as he stepped before Jorah and Bronn. This lord knew nothing of Jorah and did not know what sort of treatment to expect from him but he knew the type of man Bronn was and knowing exactly what was coming from the knight did not appear to comfort him in the least.

Lord Baelish glanced at the wooden blades in Bronn's hands but Bronn gave a tsk, tsk sound and tossed them away. "No sparring swords for you, m'lord. There's not enough hours left in our lives t'practice with anything but a real sword." He handed one of his two swords to Lord Baelish whose grip slackened as he took the weight of it. "Heavy, innett? Not like the dainty quills and bags of coin you're used to."

Astonished at how little Bronn respected a lord, Jorah had to consider that perhaps bad blood existed between the two of them and now that they served separate queens, Bronn felt comfortable chastising the man who no longer had any power over him. It did not, however, surprise Jorah that Lord Baelish had unresolved conflict between more than one person in Westeros. His reputation preceded him.

"Hardly my first time holding a sword," said Lord Baelish in response to Bronn's slight, hefting his weapon into ready stance. It was a small saving grace that at least the man would not make a complete fool of himself in knowing the basics.

Jorah stepped out with a thrust and with his lithe frame, Lord Baelish was able to side-step his attack and come in for an overhead attack of his own which Jorah easily blocked. Lord Baelish had put his full weight into his attack and stepped in too close with no plan as to what to do next. If Jorah had been a cruel man, he might have elbowed the lord in the nose or kneed him in the groin and if Jorah had been a sadistic man he might have shamed Lord Baelish by slapping him like a green boy to reprimand him for his lack of technique. These things Jorah was not and he simply grabbed the lord by the front of his tunic to wordlessly tell him that he had just killed himself, had this been a real battle.

"And the lord is dead," said Bronn. "My turn, Mormont."

Bronn went about instructing Lord Baelish exactly how Jorah had tried not to. With a misstep, Bronn whacked the lord across the back of the legs. An unguarded torso meant an elbow in the stomach and an exposed face resulted in an open-handed slap.

After the third or fourth open demonstration of brutality, Lord Baelish threatened to have Bronn beaten for such treatment but Bronn made a bold confession that he had trained Ser Jaime Lannister in his current one-handed state and even taken the knight's golden hand and hit its owner with it during their training sessions.

Jorah took over to spare Lord Baelish more disgrace at Bronn's hands, watching Lady Stark for reaction but she sported a stone-faced expression that she had inherited from her father. He had seen that look before on his queen's face and it meant that not enough blood had been spilt. Lord Baelish would have to suffer before Lady Stark would be satisfied and the sooner they met that goal, the sooner this farce could be done with.

It did not help Jorah's resolve to pass on as little damage to Lord Baelish as possible in having a small crowd gather around them. Some Northerners, some commonfolk, a handful of Dothraki, mostly Lannister soldiers, and a face or two Jorah recognized. Besides the Dothraki, all of these people would know Lord Baelish, know what he was capable of, and either hate him or be cautious of him for it. They all wanted to see this man in the mud where he belonged.

Humiliation was not a game Jorah liked to play, nor one he approved of, but he had been given an order by the Lady of Winterfell, second only to Queen Daenerys herself and equal to Jon Snow who had relinquished his title of King in the North. He dared not refuse on account of this man he knew only through word of mouth.

Deciding that he would be quick in defeating his opponent to break up the demonstration, Jorah moved much quicker this time, ducking under Lord Baelish's wild swing and upsetting the other man's balance by entangling one of his legs. Lord Baelish fell on his side to a handful of snickers from the spectators.

As the lord wiped mud from his mouth with the back of his hand, Jorah came to the conclusion that this was not a proud man, either. He did not come to his feet with anger and determination to do better. He simply stood back up and waited for Jorah to come at him again. Here was a man used to being written off as a bad joke and all too used to it to care, but Jorah had the distinct feeling that Lady Stark's order for Jorah to train the man was not to poke fun at him or put him on display for the courtyard to jeer at. She was testing him and if Jorah did not know any better, he would go so far as to say that she was punishing him.

The receiving end of a Stark's wrath was not often one that ended well for the opposing side. If Lady Stark wished ill upon Lord Baelish, fate would have it no other way. Unfortunately for Lord Baelish, what proficiency he had was far outmatched by Jorah and Bronn and the more he fought back, the harder he worked to showcase his skill, the better he became, the more Lady Stark would push for him to be defeated and the harder she would demand for him to fall. His best weapon now was to stay in the filth where he landed and yield but he had just enough pride to not do so.

Jorah lunged and once again Lord Baelish stepped nimbly out of the way, lifting his blade parallel to his body to block the next blow he knew was coming. Overhead, underhand, side to side Jorah came at him, giving him room to fake a fall without actually being the cause of it, but Lord Baelish would not take the coward's way out. Jorah drew blood when he punched out with one arm to use his greaves to block a downward strike and accidentally cut Lord Baelish across the chin with his armor.

Taking advantage of Lord Baelish's shock at seeing his own blood, Jorah hacked sideways but was not prepared for what came next. Lord Baelish ducked, came around behind Jorah, and at the last second, turned his blade to strike Jorah alongside the back with the flat of it. Resigned that he would now have to be absolutely ruthless to make the lord pay for scoring a blow, Jorah prepared to feint and lunge when Bronn joined the attack, pushing Lord Baelish backward. Jorah joined in until they had their opponent positively lost and bewildered as to which direction he should swing his sword. Bronn went for a jab to Lord Baelish's stomach and the latter sucked in as much of it as he could but Jorah took his distraction to his advantage and finished him with a kick to his knee, sending him sliding on his back into the muck at Lady Stark's feet.

The lady paid no heed to her advisor, instead turning her attention to Jorah and Bronn who respectfully sheathed their swords in observance of the battle's end. "Your verdict?" she asked them.

Jorah looked down on the heaving, gasping, bruised, and battered man before him. A negative verdict would bring displeasure down on him, but perhaps he deserved it. Jorah had heard nothing but praise of Lady Stark despite the many hardships she had endured and if a kind-hearted individual such as herself wanted this man to suffer, perhaps he should. But as Jorah saw the swelling on Lord Baelish's cheekbone magnify from one of Bronn's more powerful slaps, he knew that he and his fellow knight had done more than their share of punishing the lord for today.

"He is no great warrior, my lady, but he fought much better than I would have expected. A man of his build and upbringing, I would have put him flat on his back, yielding and refusing to pick up the sword again within the first minute but he held his own. Someone taught him long ago how to handle a sword and as out-of-practice as he is, I have to say that he did well."

Looking not at all pleased with this information, however true and honest it was, Lady Stark appealed to Ser Bronn for his input.

"I've seen shit fighters, I've killed shit fighters, and I've killed excellent fighters. He's somewhere in between. Wouldn't choose 'im first, second, or third t'stand beside me in a fight, but I'd take 'im over all those boys I sparred with today and a good quarter of the Lannister men I came with. He's not terrible, m'lady. Not great, either."

Finally, Lady Stark turned to Sandor Clegane who had been observing and not participating, as per usual, though Jorah did not hold that against him. The man had little reason to want to mingle with anyone. The way Clegane was watching Lady Stark, however, suggested that he had known his opinion would be asked long before she actually asked for it.

"D'you want me to tell you honestly or d'you want me to tell you what you want to hear?"

The lady's scowl was his answer.

"Were you hoping he'd fall on his face in the mud and shit and fail?"

"Hardly. I was merely putting his boasting to the test. He has told me quite often and loudly how he was talented enough to enter the tourney that nearly cost him his life. I knew that my Uncle Brandon unseated him easily and assumed it was due to his lack of skills but it would appear that my uncle was simply a master swordsman while Lord Baelish was merely adequate. The experience he has comes from his time being fostered in Riverrun with my mother's family. What he knows, he owes to the Tullys. And when he faces mankind's greatest enemy, at least now he stands a slightly lesser chance of dying. I thank you for your contribution to this demonstration, sers. It does my heart some good to know we at least have capable warriors such as yourselves defending us."

Jorah and Bronn bowed as they found themselves dismissed but did not return to the outer bailey or find refuge inside as the crowd dispersed. Lord Baelish waited until the majority of them had begun to move away before he stood up and shared a look with Lady Stark that Jorah could not interpret. For a few tense moments the two regarded one another and then Lord Baelish conceded, trudging through the slush to return Bronn's sword to him.

Bronn took back his weapon without comment and Lord Baelish moved off to have a change of clothes and tend to his wounds.

"Fiery little minx, she is," commented Bronn as Lady Stark finally left the courtyard. "Littlefinger must have done her a great wrong an' I'm only glad I'm not on the receiving end've that wrath."

"If he wronged her gravely enough and he is still alive, he is serving his punishment," said Jorah wisely.

"He keeps comin' back for more, though. He wants more'n just her forgiveness, if y'catch on. An' I can't blame 'im; she was always a pretty thing but she's grown into a full beauty. He'd be mad t'not want her. Half the men in the castle want her." The sellsword stared pointedly at Jorah.

"If you are waiting for an admittance from me, you will be standing here until you die, ser. While I do believe that she is a great beauty, I feel nothing for her in that regard."

"That's for the best, anyway. The tall fucker over there's more likely to win her over than you."

Bronn nodded to Clegane who watched Lady Stark go and then followed thirty steps behind. Out of her sight while she was still within his.

"If it comes down to the Hound or Littlefinger, it's no contest; he's always had a soft spot for her. Pity, really."

"Leave him be. His wants are his own and no concern of yours."

"Aye, but I'm a nosy fucker and I like t'know everyone's business. An' it seems t'me that Littlefinger's gonna die tryin' t'get back in Lady Stark's good books, just a matter of whether the Hound or the dead get to 'im first."

"If Lady Stark wanted him dead, I am sure he would be, but she seems to be only making him atone for whatever crime he committed in a manner that she deems just. I admire her mercy, as it is very much like the Queen's."

"Cersei doesn't know the meanin' of the word," scoffed Bronn.

"You know to whom I was referring. And she is the only queen I acknowledge. She has learned from her mistakes and acknowledges that she cannot please everyone, but she weighs her options and listens to both parties to avoid conflict and only then does she act with violence if she must. She shows no fear to what might be if she were to fail."

"Aye, and I'm sure you could go on for some time about how she's pretty an' fearless, but won't point out that she's also young an' naïve. She might've been born here, but she wasn't raised here, wasn't raised t'know that her father was a tyrant who also believed that it was his divine right t'rule. She can't come here, offer all her armies, an' expect loyalty. Loyalty is earned, not bought. She gave us three dragons and an army, but no one will see her as more than another queen tryin' to buy her way to the throne unless her gifts help win this battle. An' as much as you love 'er, as much as you think she's the queen we all deserve, you can't be blind t'her faults. We all have 'em an' she's far from perfect, just like the rest've us."

He was right, of course, though Jorah had no intention of admitting it. Jorah had told Daenerys as much when she voiced her doubts to him about how the Northerners did not accept her with open arms as she had hoped—expected—they would. At the time, Jorah had only reassured her that they would see her as their true queen, but he did not see her coming as the omen that his brethren did. He was of the North, but had forfeited his lands and held no more claim to it and so he could not speak for his people. Surprisingly, the voice of the people came from this man before him who seemed to care so little for the monarchy either way.

And what's more, Bronn seemed to know that his words had resonated with Jorah by the smug look he now sported as he continued. "A world away she only had to deal with cutthroats, slavers, an' slaves. Over here, there are people who are set in their ways who won't budge just because she has dragons. If she survives this war, she'll find that out. You Northerners are a stubborn bunch, aren't you? D'you see the likes of Lady Stark lettin' a queen from across the sea tell her what's best for her? If she an' your queen are allies an' she hasn't yet bent the knee to a woman with dragons, d'you think Cersei will bend any easier?"

No, Jorah did not believe she would, but he also didn't think any of this mattered if the war was lost and with how every ally seemed to have some ulterior motive, the chances of them winning this war were not looking promising.

/ /

He took his supper with his queen that evening after having wiped the sweat of the day from his body, not that she would have cared. Both of them sweat enough for ten people during their days in Essos and were used to far worse stenches than that. While he was quite famished, however, he noted that Daenerys picked moodily at her food and sensed a reprimand of sorts coming. When he placed his knife back down on the table, his suspicions proved correct.

"I hear Lady Stark had you perform a demonstration with her advisor in the courtyard this afternoon," she said in a tone that suggested she disapproved of something.

"That is one word to describe what transpired," said Jorah evasively. "Though Lord Baelish might have called it public humiliation. I obliged Lady Stark as quickly and humanely as possible on behalf of Lord Baelish, knowing that you would not approve."

"To the contrary, I support her reasoning," said Daenerys to Jorah's surprise. "I do not support you taking part in it, but I believe she was well justified in her orders. Lord Baelish betrayed her and she has every right to exact vengeance on him. He should be grateful that he's still breathing. Had he been my advisor, he would never have lived to make a fool of himself with a sword."

"You showed mercy to the advisor who betrayed you," said Jorah delicately. He harbored no pity for Lord Baelish, but he did understand the man's position, having been in it before with a far more dangerous woman than Lady Stark.

"You are my friend," said Daenerys with warmth returning to her face as she extended her hand across the table to grasp his. "You have been my friend since I was a child, served me longer than anyone, and were willing to die to demonstrate your loyalty to me even after I exiled you. You showed true repentance and proved your devotion. You were nearly killed in more than one way for me and have proven several times over that you are a different man than you were when Robert Baratheon swindled you into serving him. Lady Stark has no such connection or devotion from Lord Baelish. He was always a stranger to her, never a true friend who assisted her when she needed him, and he led her to hardships she should never have had to endure. You are nothing like him."

"I am different from him, true enough, khaleesi, but he and I had very different upbringings and so we were shaped by circumstance. Perhaps frontal bravery is not what his family is known for. He's a clever man where I am not. I am committed where he is not. But both of us have chosen to serve someone we believe in, as have countless others."

"Lord Baelish does not believe in Sansa Stark. He lusts after her, and little else. And she is not the one her people elected as their leader, nor the one they believe in. The North put their faith in Jon Snow and he believes in me as the Tyrells did, as Ellaria Sand did, and as Yara Greyjoy does."

Such confidence Jorah saw in her, such a strong will, such faith that all of the peoples of Westeros would choose her as their monarch. Oh, his beloved queen, a child still in so many ways though he had seen her grow into this courageous, headstrong woman. She did not realize that she was being used as a pawn once again. She truly believed that those who flocked to her did so because they believed in her and the future she would bring. Now was not the time to tell her, but Jorah had failed her before in keeping the truth from her and even if it hurt her now, it must be said.

"Your Grace, while there are exceptions to every fact, I fear that those who came to stand beside you when you set sail for Westeros did so to fit their own agenda. The first enemy of the people was Cersei Lannister and who stands to gain from her defeat? She murdered nearly the entire Tyrell family and Olenna Tyrell sought vengeance against her. The Tyrell army had never been one to fear in skill, only number, and so Olenna Tyrell pledged her house to you in the hope that you would overthrow the Lannisters and she could have her peace of mind, even if she could not prolong her house. Ellaria Sand's lover, Prince Oberyn, was killed fighting against a Lannister champion and she sought vengeance for the man she loved, so when Lord Varys offered her a chance at that, she grasped at it with no hesitation. Neither of these women supported you because of your claim to the throne or what you stand for. They only wanted to see Cersei Lannister fall and believed you to be young and malleable enough to see their side and grant them what they desired once Cersei was overthrown."

"Yara Greyjoy had only broken remnants of a fleet but she came here to serve me all the same," Daenerys pointed out.

"Forgive me, khaleesi, but I don't believe Yara Greyjoy came this far north to serve you. She became your ally when you promised to exclude the Iron Islands from your reach and when she lost nearly her entire fleet, she came to the only person who she knew would keep their word to help her. She said she would fight for you, that you would join forces, and then she lost most of her people because of that deal she struck. She suffered much and gained nothing from you for her loyalty. Yes, she came to fight, but not for you. I believe she came to confront her uncle, share the field with him and kill him in the midst of it. And I think even that took some convincing on her part. I'm sure she would have been happy to retake the Iron Islands for her own if not for her brother."

"Are you saying that Theon Greyjoy is more loyal to me than she is? The armada was not his, the plan to ally themselves with me was not his," said Daenerys doubtfully.

"Theon Greyjoy is loyal to the Starks. He came to fight for the Starks. He despises his uncle as well, but that is not what drives him. That poor boy is devoted to the house that raised him but more specifically, Lady Stark. I do not know to what extent his betrayal goes, but I do know that he and Lady Stark shared an experience that redeemed him and for that, he is loyal to her. And that is why the Greyjoys are here; not for you, but for revenge and for Lady Stark. Because loyalty, true, unwavering loyalty cannot be bought or promised. It must be earned."

"And you believe I haven't earned that?" Her lavender eyes were alight with the fire of her house and her name. "After I sacrificed a dragon and my birthright to defend these people, you don't believe that I have earned their loyalty?"

"Not yet," said Jorah patiently. "You sacrificed a dragon to bring a message to Cersei Lannister and secure her contribution. But the battle has not yet been fought, the outcome not yet decided. Those who fight for you—the Unsullied and Dothraki—have seen what you have done for others and have seen you take cities for your own. You are the queen they chose because they saw your greatness. The people of Westeros have seen you arrive with dragons and demand that they bend the knee. They have seen none of that greatness. But if this battle is ours, if victory is ours, then they will know it was only won thanks to you and then they will see why we chose you as our queen."

It was a painful thing to see how his words wounded her so, but retaking an entire continent simply because her father had reigned first would not be as easy as she believed it to be. As Bronn had said, Essos was filled with the desperate and lost, those who had fewer rights than commonfolk. They had chosen Daenerys as their queen because anything would be better than the lives they lived but in Westeros, the people knew exactly what they wanted and were not keen to give it up to a new player in the game.

"Jon Snow," began Daenerys in a desperate attempt to provide proof that someone in this world truly wanted her to sit the throne because of her goodness and her birthright.

"Jon Snow came to you for help against a different enemy. He came to you as King in the North, separated from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, unbothered by Cersei Lannister and her enemies. He asked for your help to fight a dead army, knowing he could not defeat it without you. He may see you as I do and know that you have a good heart, a fair mind, and justice on your side which qualifies you more for the throne than your name ever could, but he did not seek you out for any of those reasons. He needed what you could provide without second thought as to who you are."

Pushing her uneaten plate of food away from her, Daenerys sat back in her chair and hugged her arms to her chest. She had done this often as a young woman when feeling vulnerable but Jorah had not seen her do so in a terribly long time. Inwardly he was cursing himself for relaying the truth to her, but she had come this far being lied to by nearly everyone; she deserved the truth from the man who had much of the truth to make up to her.

Jorah came to kneel beside her, hoping that she would listen and not turn him away as she was prone to doing when conflicted. "My queen, I say these things to you because you deserve to hear them. The people of Westeros have never been satisfied with those who have ruled over them. They pray for a different king to sit the throne and then lament for their old king once a new king has finally come. The people of this world seek only their own fortunes and will use whoever they can to achieve their own ends. This journey to become the mother to all of Westeros was placed upon your shoulders at a young age and it is the only goal you have ever known: to come to your homeland and reclaim it and if that remains your goal after this war, I will stand beside you as I always have. But at this moment, right now in the face of death, your goal does not matter. Your house, your name, your birthright, does not matter. The hierarchy of Westeros means nothing if there are none left to squabble over who sits the throne and which house stakes claim to which lands. All that matters is your next breath and making sure you get to experience that next breath. When the dead stop rising, when the Long Night is over and the dawn comes, then we will look to the future."

"And what if there is no future?" she asked him, her eyes round and fearful as a child asking its parent what could keep out the night. Even now, after all these years, he remembered her words to him when she was at her most vulnerable with only a handful of Dothraki remaining to follow her through the wastelands to a future none of them were certain existed.

"You must be their strength," he had told her.

"As you are mine," she had returned.

Now offering out his hand to comfort her, to reassure her, he felt a barely distinguishable tremble in it.

"We can't worry about what happens outside of our lifetime, khaleesi. We can only hope to have an impact right here and now. The Long Night is coming and we have to be ready, which means putting aside everything to preserve the man or woman standing beside us. It is just us and no more help is coming. As we fight to live or die, it matters not what our name was, what our sigil bore, or what title we carried. It is us that matters, and that is all that can matter from now until the end: our end or the dead's."

He could see that the thought truly terrified her. Ever since coming into her inheritance of dragons, she had had an unfortunate mindset that she was untouchable, that her name and many titles and dragons protected her from harm. Her dragons had done a great deal in shielding her from foes, but it was them with a combination of loyal servants, experienced fighters, and luck that she had lived this long. Many times she could have been cut down if not for the skill of those around her but she came to rely on her dragons as the ultimate barrier between herself and mortality. And when the Night King had taken one of her children, she was faced with the crippling reality that neither she nor her dragons were invincible and she was just now coming to grips with the fact that the dead could and very well might kill her. The dead could do away with her armies, her dragons, her friends, and her and there was nothing she could do.

She squeezed his fingers hard, hard enough to bruise, but he let her for her own reassurance, to have comfort in the knowledge that he was there and would be for as long as he could, as long as he was allowed to be.

/ /

Jorah had been absent from the North for too long, for he never recalled being this cold south of the Wall before. Bear Island had more frigid temperatures than Winterfell as it sat on its perch at sea, surrounded by freezing waters, yet Jorah had to continuously rub feeling back into his nose as he surveyed the surrounding moor several hundred miles inland.

His supper with the queen left him in need of some head-clearing and so he had volunteered to take a four hour shift atop the walls, pacing his section of the ramparts and squinting into the darkness for a sign. It was well on into the last hours of the night and approaching midnight when he heard company approaching in the form of rather light and flighty footfalls.

Lord Baelish had changed out of his filthy archer's garb and was now sporting the fur-collared coat and black leather Jorah had seen him don most often. The muck and sweat from their earlier spout was gone and Jorah could have been fooled into believing the man had never partaken in a bladed battle before if not for the obvious swelling and bruising on his face, courtesy of Bronn. Rubbing his hands together, Lord Baelish came closer to the elevated fire pit between himself and Jorah. "I suppose you do get used to this weather after you've lived here for some time," he said conversationally.

"You can, but your resistance to it can falter if you have a prolonged absence, as I have. And this is only the beginning of winter. It could be years, if the world lasts that long. The way most men go on about it, the world has a few weeks left and then it will be the Long Night come again."

"Do you believe that to be our fate?"

"I wouldn't be here if I did."

"Then you must be a noble man, one of the few knights who upholds his vows and sticks to a moral code," Lord Baelish guessed. "Loyal, determined, and optimistic."

"I try to be, but we are human and we all have our faults."

"One of mine is that I did not come to express my gratitude to you earlier. I wanted to personally thank you for not completely burying me in the ground to showcase your skills as your companion attempted to do in the courtyard today. I know it would have been easy, but I appreciate you refraining and instead trying to finish the duel as painlessly as possible."

"What was Lady Stark punishing you for?" asked Jorah boldly.

"For the many sins I've committed against her family." When Jorah had nothing to add, Lord Baelish prompted, "Are you not even going to ask me what I did?"

"Not at all. A man's sins are his own business and we all have committed them. I betrayed my queen, she rightfully punished me, and I fought like seven hells to return to her service and after many grueling years, she has forgiven me."

"But did your actions ever result in her coming to harm?"

It was not an open admittance, but a very near thing. Lord Baelish had done something quite terrible to Lady Stark, perhaps even intentionally, which was something Jorah had never done. The only way in which his actions might have hurt his queen was if he had allowed the assassin posing as a vendor to offer Daenerys the poisoned wine and Jorah had seen to it that the wine never touched her lips. It was his one and only betrayal, and his greatest. So what in the world had Lord Baelish done?

"No, never," answered Jorah. "They very well could have, but I prevented it. And I am guessing that you were not so lucky."

"My actions deliberately placed Sansa Stark in harm's way and I knew they would do so but foolishly hoped her own luck would hold out. She has not yet taken me back, nor do I expect her to, though I try every day and I fear my days of trying are limited and that I will never earn her forgiveness before the end."

"Perhaps not, but if that is the case, the least you can do is die as a man fighting for her. To give your life for hers even though it might not matter, she might forgive you before your gods have you."

Lord Baelish scoffed. "I have no gods. They have never done anything for me, nor have I found visible and believable proof that they have ever done anything for anyone. They are entities of false hope for the hopeless."

"I don't have gods known to man but I do believe something or someone has led me this far when I have every reason to be dead already. Some divine intervention stronger than fate has brought me to this place to fight for mankind and so I believe that that same divine intervention brought you here, though I cannot say for what purpose."

"Apparently to sate Lady Stark's revenge and punish me for eternity."

"Do you think you've been punished enough?"

Jorah could not judge this man on that front if he did not know exactly what he had done to put himself in this situation, but if Lord Baelish could still muster that ill-begotten smirk, apparently he had not been punished enough.

Lord Baelish drew a pattern in the light layer of snow but didn't answer, which was all the answer Jorah needed. Finally, when he had nothing left to occupy his hands, Lord Baelish squashed his design and admitted, "I would like nothing more than to believe I have served my sentence but I know in my heart that my suffering will only be complete when Lady Stark believes it to be and she is difficult to please. And I fear you are right in that I will be seeking her forgiveness until my dying day, however soon that may be."

"Then show her that you want her forgiveness not for yourself by defending her. When her life is more important than yours, when you would fall upon your own sword or the sword of others, when you would offer up your body to whatever pain might come your way to shield her, then she will know that you are truly sorry. And I believe she will forgive you then."

Commanding Jorah's full gaze, Lord Baelish spread his arms as if to put himself on display in open criticism. "Have a look at me, Ser Jorah, and tell me that you think this," he gestured with some revulsion at himself, "is the sort of man who would give up his life for another just to earn peace of mind."

In truth, he looked like the many cowards who had placed better men, women, and children in front of him to fall upon a sword in place of himself, but now did not seem to be the right time to tell Lord Baelish such a thing.

"From what little I know of you, you are a selfish man and always have been. An only child, aye? An only child of a lesser lord. Overlooked, bypassed, and ignored, and so you have never had any reason to care for anyone else. You have had no family or friends to consider and so your actions have never hurt anyone you cared about, but your actions hurt her. You did what you did for your own reasons without regard as to how they might affect her, only how they might benefit you. If your goal is to make peace with her to ease your own mind instead of in an attempt to bring some peace to her, it isn't a sincere apology. Only when everything you do is for her will your torment end."

"It would seem that dying for her is the only salvation I have."

"You are already obsessed with redeeming yourself in her eyes. If this is the way, you should be at peace with that. If you love her, dying for her should be effortless."

"And you speak from experience?" asked Lord Baelish skeptically.

"Aye. I contracted greyscale in my attempts to return to Queen Daenerys. The infection spread to my entire upper body in the most painfully drawn-out process you can imagine and which I will spare you the details of. I was moments away from ending my life when a brave young man put his own life at risk to cure me and when I was cured, I once again returned to my queen's service. I had nearly died and suffered greatly to earn her approval once again but I returned to her all the same."

"Greyscale?"

He was not the first to whom Jorah had regaled this story who had doubted its believability. Only when they saw the scars did they believe, for no one had ever survived such advanced stages of greyscale before. Jorah obliged him by rolling up his left sleeve to showcase the scars of being essentially flayed alive. The scars were a painful reminder, and a blessing.

Lord Baelish took but a quarter of a step back when he saw the angry white marks across Jorah's skin but still appeared intrigued. A bolder man would not have done what he was about to do, but this was a man of mystery and not entirely in a positive way. He removed one glove, extended his naked hand, and with his eyes, asked Jorah's permission. His uncalloused fingertips traced the lining of one scar in rather eerie fixation.

"A more dedicated man there never was," he complimented, though Jorah did not necessarily take it as such. It was stupidity that earned him greyscale and kindness that saved him from it. "All of this for someone you love…what a very fine thing that must be."

"I hope you can experience the feeling some day." Or at least, manage something close to it.

Lord Baelish offered out his hand and Jorah took it more to be polite to a man he certainly did not want as his enemy when he already had too many than to actually accept what the former was about to offer.

"You may call me Petyr, Ser Jorah. Not many people in my life have, only those who I had hoped would remain life-long friends. I would be honored if you would call me by my name."

"That is something I am unaccustomed to doing."

"Now is as good of a time as any to start, wouldn't you say?"

He gave no time for Jorah to respond, taking his leave with a wave of his cloak and a new spring in his step that did not sit well with Jorah who was seriously contemplating whether or not he had just unintentionally agreed to some dastardly deed. He was left a minute or two to consider running after Lord Baelish and rescinding his handshake when much heavier and sluggish footfalls behind him alerted him to the presence of someone far less amicable and someone he liked far more than the man who had just left.

"Made friends with Littlefinger, have you?" asked Sandor Clegane with a wrinkle to his nose that suggested he thought of Lord Baelish as highly as he thought of horse dung.

"I believe he thinks so," answered Jorah carefully.

"Do you think so?"

"I would hardly call one conversation with a man the cause to become bosom friends."

"There was an awful lot of personal information in that conversation. For one: greyscale."

"Did I not tell you about that?"

"Must've slipped your mind."

"Then I apologize, for I certainly would have told you, had it occurred to me to do so but I didn't know you while conversation was still something to be had beyond the Wall and once we were surrounded by the dead, the opportunity to bring it up never seemed to be right."

Clegane blanched, then gave a reluctant grin, and finally spat over the wall. "Never would've taken you for a joking man, Mormont."

"I'm not, really. Jesting is wasted on Northerners. Our humor comes in rarity, as do our friends, and so I can tell you with absolute certainty that I do not consider Petyr Baelish to be my friend. Although," and Jorah paused to regard Clegane, "I would consider you worthy of that title."

Taking a long pull on his wineskin, Clegane grimaced at the taste before answering, "And what the fuck d'you think qualifies you to be my friend? You don't fucking know me."

"No more than you know me, but that didn't stop you from risking your own safety to catch me as I fell from Drogon's back. You might have let me fall and no one would have blamed you if you had. I'm afraid surviving several nights on a frozen lake by huddling together for warmth instantly qualifies you as my friend. It's not the worst thing in the world to have one of those so near the end, is it?"

"Wouldn't know, never had one before."

"Would you consider having one now?"

"Don't see why I should, for all the good it'll do me."

"It may not do you any good, but it can't hurt you, either."

Jorah had him now. He had traversed the wilderness north of the Wall for many days in Clegane's company and though he had not had frequent or long conversations with the man, he knew his temperament, knew how he talked, and knew when he wanted to be left alone. Titles obviously meant nothing to him and so if Jorah considered himself to be Clegane's friend, the title of being so could do no damage. It was more the principle of the thing.

Clegane saw that he was cornered and scowled at Jorah but after Jorah gave him a rather obvious eyebrow prompting, the large man conceded.

"You're too quick for your own good, Mormont."

"If I were as quick as you, I wouldn't have fallen off the dragon."

His wit earned him another smile and an inwardly substantial if outwardly meager sense of accomplishment.