BRONN
No one was more surprised than Bronn when he was approached by Littlefinger not even two hours after Clegane had attempted to strangle him. Bronn had watched the maester set Littlefinger's nose, examine his throat, and conclude that there would be no lasting damage which didn't help the man feel any better about nearly having his throat caved in. Then, Littlefinger had gone to speak with Lady Sansa and when he found Bronn after, the look on his face was oddly contrasting to the man Bronn had seen leave the maester's quarters.
This man looked capable of murder which was a far cry from his normally impassive face. Maybe it was the bruising around his eyes or the sneer that was longing to burst forth from his thin lips, but when Bronn had turned to see the man standing there, his first instinct had been to go for his dirk. As he looked closer, he realized that Littlefinger looked like a fresh corpse and Bronn had been around plenty of those to make an accurate comparison.
Thoroughly prepared for the lord to lunge at him, Bronn was instead met with the asking of a favor.
"I would like you to spar with me," said Littlefinger.
"You what, now?"
Littlefinger patted his dragonglass sword suggestively. "I have been given orders to fight and since I hold no great faith in the security of the castle walls to keep the dead out for long, I will more than likely have to resort to hand-to-hand combat when the arrows inevitably run out."
"You're a bit late to the tourney to be askin' me this now," said Bronn with an emphasis on the lateness of the request. "How much d'you expect that I can teach you in a week an' that's if I had a mind t'teach you?"
"As much as I can."
His honesty was to be commended, but Bronn hadn't forgotten the arrow that Littlefinger had stuck in his face as a result of their last training session and he was not keen to forgive or forget, which he pointed out. "If I go anywhere near you with a sword, you'll take whatever instruction I give you an' not draw an arrow on me afterwards whether or not I give you a bruise or a broken bone."
"Agreed," said Littlefinger shortly.
Bronn had had a rough time of it getting all these untested boys to accept that they would have to pick up a sword and Littlefinger was his first pupil who knew he was rubbish but wanted to cram in as much sword knowledge as he could between now and the day of reckoning.
Bronn led Littlefinger to an open space between the armory and the guards hall and promptly set about to beating the hells out of his opponent. Littlefinger took every hit with grace, never striking out in anger or complaining about the brutal treatment. Like the last time, he kept coming back, kept standing up.
He had gotten better, somehow, since the last time they sparred in that he wasn't a completely useless sack of cowshite. At least he didn't drop his sword, but since he was a man of small stature, he was holding back instead of putting weight into his attack whenever he could manage to go on the offense. Not like all those green lads that gave a telltale shout as they lunged, stumbling too far forward with the weight of their weapons and exposing their backs. They were too confident whereas Littlefinger lacked almost any confidence at all.
After three minutes of circling the man, inviting attack, and receiving nothing but some cautious back steps, Bronn rested his sword upon his shoulder. "Oh, for fuck's sake, will you do something? You want to practice? You've gotta move at some point."
Littlefinger rushed him but Bronn was too experienced to be taken by surprise and blocked two blows before he smacked the flat of his sword against Littlefinger's stomach.
"You're still a shit fighter and not the best archer, either," he remarked as Littlefinger knelt in the mud and snow with one hand rubbing his bruised midsection while the other leaned on his shield for support.
"The front of my skull feels like someone took an axe to it so you'll forgive me if I'm having trouble concentrating at the moment."
"It'll feel a lot worse if y'don't keep that shield up next time I swing at you. Stop your complainin' because like as not, you'll 'ave t'fight with that splittin' headache of yours."
"And make myself even more of a liability while I"m at it–"
"Oi, you deserved that," Bronn snapped, dragging Littlefinger to his feet and cuffing him upside the head. "What the big man did t'your face, you deserved that. S'not my place to ask exactly how things happened, but you only could've done one thing t'make the Hound angry enough t'try an' kill you, so I already know Lady Sansa's involved. An' if you intentionally hurt that girl, tell me now so I can finish the job."
"It wasn't…it wasn't intentional."
"Horseshite."
"I regret it. I had hoped for things to happen one way but they didn't. I knew there was a risk but I put my faith in the wrong people and Lady Sansa was the unfortunate victim. If I could take it back, I would. If I could have switched places with her, I would, but I am paying the price for the fact that I can do neither."
"Oh, aye, you're payin' the price by bein' alive when y'should be dead in the ground," scoffed Bronn. If Littlefinger thought paying his due for what he had done was to be shunned and still breathing, he hadn't suffered one bit. "Y'ought t'have a few more broken bones as a start if y'want anyone t'think you're payin' the price."
"Would it make you feel better to break something else, then?" asked Littlefinger sardonically.
"It'd make me feel good, aye, but not better about all this. I won't kill you because it's not my say whether you live or die. It's not me you wronged, but if Lady Sansa gives me the order t'kill you, I'll be glad t'do it, hear me?"
Littlefinger lowered his sword, watching something above Bronn and Bronn glanced back over his shoulder to see Lady Sansa standing at the hoarding with lockjaw as she regarded Littlefinger. Bronn waited for the reprimand to come, for her to tell him off for misusing his time when he might have benefited more from helping to train anyone else–but it didn't come. She lingered a moment longer and then moved on.
Littlefinger sheathed his sword with a bit more force than was necessary. "I think we're done here for today."
"That'd be best, for certain. You're right and proper fumin' now an' that's when you're more liable t'make a mistake fightin' me. It'd just prove how ill-fitted for battle you are."
"Probably."
"Haven't you any fight in you at all, Baelish? Or are you only good for dyin'?"
Littlefinger gave an impartial shrug. The man simply did not rise to bait the way other men did and that was likely due to a lack of temper. Bronn had managed to make him angry once but he doubted that trick would work again. Littlefinger did not strike Bronn as a man prone to violent outbursts and though that would normally be something to commend, it made it difficult to motivate him to try harder. Bronn had to wonder if he even cared to motivate the man. Why was he wasting so much time on a man he didn't like?
Bronn cut around the retreating lord and blocked him from leaving. Littlefinger tried to side-step him but Bronn moved right along with him to bar his path again. When Littlefinger attempted to make a quick dodge to the left and feint right, Bronn struck out with his hand and shoved him hard in the chest so that he had to take an ungainly step back.
"C'mon, then," Bronn invited.
"Stand aside and let me pass, ser."
Bronn spat at the ground between them. "No, I don't think I will."
A slight, almost indistinguishable flare of pink tinged Littlefinger's cheeks between the bruising and Bronn knew he had him. If he couldn't inspire the man to continue fighting due to provoking him, he could certainly force him by becoming a nuisance.
Jabbing lightly enough to not puncture but strong enough to uncomfortably poke at Littlefinger's ribs with the point of his sword, Bronn could see the latter's patience waning. Just when he was certain that the lord was about to break, Littlefinger threw down his sword and held out a hand that said quite clearly that he would not fight.
"Enough. That is enough. Leave me be."
Staking his sword point-down in the mud and placing his hands on his hips, Bronn shook his head in disgust. "Y'asked me t'train you an' y'give up after one dirty look from the lady you fancy? The hells sort've man are you? If you just made me waste an hour've my time on you–"
Littlefinger swung with his shield and blindsided Bronn who stumbled sideways with his ear ringing. He ran his fingers over a thin cut the shield had opened just above his ear and his fingertips came away bloody.
What a little shit.
Bronn could appreciate Littlefinger's tactics but they would ultimately be useless against an enemy that he couldn't talk to or distract. The dead wouldn't let their guard down just because Littlefinger seemed unwilling to fight. But nevertheless, against Bronn, the ruse had been effective.
Now with his sword back in hand and looking entirely too pleased with himself, Littlefinger sank back into a defensive stance.
Advancing on him, Bronn gripped his own sword tightly in both hands. "I hope y'know that now I've got no choice but t'kill you."
The confidence in gaining a blow against Bronn did wonders for Littlefinger's technique and he took to the sparring with newfound vigor. Bronn shouted out advice to him and he followed through with surprising accuracy though he was still a long way off from being anywhere close to a decent fighter. He wasn't shit, at least, and that was some improvement from the last time as well. After three hours of intense training, Bronn was willing to place a wager that Littlefinger would last at least two minutes when and if he was forced to fight in close quarters.
"Keep–that–bloody-shield–up," huffed Bronn, catching Littlefinger's shield with his sword on every word.
"It's been getting progressively heavier over the past few hours," said Littlefinger in his first complaint of the day.
"Then drop it an' see how long y'last with just the sword."
Far from dropping his shield, however, Littlefinger found the strength to raise it higher, but as a shadow fell over Bronn, he realized Littlefinger was protecting himself from an opponent Bronn had not seen coming. He whirled around to see that he was standing in the shadow of the Mountain who had come to escort Cersei to wherever the hells she was going at this time in her quest to make life miserable for as many people as possible before she died.
He had not been so close to her since she tried to have him killed and now that the news surely would have reached her that he had sworn service to Lady Sansa, he was prepared for pleasantries to immediately turn sour. With only Littlefinger as an ally if it came to a fight with the Mountain right here in the northeastern bailey, Bronn didn't like his chances.
"It would seem you have done well for yourself in finding service to another queen, Ser Bronn," said Cersei.
"I don't serve any queen now," said Bronn even though he knew it was in his best interest to keep his mouth shut. It was a habit he had never formed.
"Does your little whore treat you well?"
"Is that what they're callin' women who've only been bedded by their husbands? It grows stale the more you use it." Coming to Lady Sansa's defense was natural but Bronn hated how often he had heard Cersei label her as a whore as if that was the greatest insult she could think of. Lady Sansa had never shared a bed with Tyrion and though her marriage to Ramsay Bolton could not have been legally binding if she was still technically wed to Tyrion, Bolton had been the only one to bed her. If women who had their maidenheads taken by their husbands were whores, Cersei was whatever could be called worse than that.
"Then allow me to amend my earlier question. How fares the cunt?"
"Alive," answered Bronn stoutly. "If you have somethin' constructive t'tell me, get on with it. Otherwise, I'm a bit preoccupied, as you can see."
"Yes, time well spent in showing a dead man how to fight. I'm certain Lord Baelish will do the title of warrior justice with all you have managed to teach him."
"He'll last longer on his own than you will if Ser Gregor here can't hold back an army."
"On that note, my army is now short one commander."
"That's mighty unfortunate, that is."
"I cannot spare anymore Queensguard, as not all of them are qualified to fill the ranks of battlefield commander, so though you may now serve the Starks, you will resume your command of the previously agreed upon portion of my army along with Lord Greyjoy and Sers Oakheart, Swann, and Blount."
Bronn nearly laughed but had never found anything less humorous. After having her best assassin humiliate her by renouncing his loyalty to her, why in seven hells would she still want him in command of any portion of her army?
"Who promised you what t'get you to agree to that?" he asked her.
Cersei chewed at her lip, saying nothing.
Ser Jaime. He would have made her see reason that either she needed Bronn to lead her army or sacrifice her own personal protection to fill the ranks and she would not put her own well-being on the line, even for the sake of her pride. Bronn didn't care to find out exactly what Ser Jaime had said to convince his sister that she was being more of a dumb bitch than usual but whatever it was, it had evidently done the trick for her to be telling him this now. He wasn't entirely sure where he would have gone during the battle, nor had he given it much thought, but now that he was still to be taking charge of a fifth of the Lannister troops while serving Cersei's greatest enemy, he could appreciate the irony.
"Alright, I can accept that you were persuaded to let me keep my command, but I don't believe you came out here just to tell me that when you could've sent that wrinkled twat t'do the job."
"Then consider yourself properly surprised that that is all I came to speak with you about." And just as suddenly as she had come, so she went with the Mountain creating a trench in the snow ahead of her.
"I still don't believe it," said Bronn aloud, though he spoke to no one in particular.
"Nor should you," said Littlefinger. "She'll have something else on her mind as she always does and since she's running short of time, any plans she conceives will be ill-thought out and hastily applied. I would be on your guard this evening, perhaps sleep somewhere different."
"World's gone t'shit an' those've us holed up in here with her have t'worry about what the cunt might do between now an' whatever happens next. She can't even let people go to their deaths in peace, can she? Has t'make the whole fuckin' castle as miserable as she is."
"She's not the only one making people miserable at this hour," said a solemn voice on Bronn's left and he saw Mormont standing there with his arms folded looking as stern a Northerner as he ever was. It had been several decades since Bronn had last found himself being glared at like he had been caught in a wrongdoing and was about to have a switch taken to his arse. Sure enough, Mormont was here to reprimand him as he asked, "What do you think you're doing?"
As clueless as ever when it came to trying to figure out why simply existing seemed to annoy the knight, Bronn gave a very innocent shrug. "Waitin' t'die, same as you. Am I s'posed t'be doin' somethin' else?"
With an obvious flicker of his eyes toward Littlefinger, Mormont clarified, "You see no problem with this after the events of this morning?"
Catching on now, Littlefinger sheathed his sword, shouldered his shield, and closed the distance between himself and Mormont so that their conversation would not carry. "Why would the events of this morning suddenly make it a crime to spar with me? Have I done something to offend you since nearly being strangled by Sandor Clegane?"
Mormont's nostrils flared dangerously. Bronn had never seen him this angry and was quite glad not to be on the receiving end of his ire now. At most, he knew that he annoyed the knight but Littlefinger, it seemed, had done worse.
"The only reason I stopped him from doing whatever he wanted to do to you was for his sake, not for yours," said Mormont icily. "You would have been deserving of it if I had let him."
"Aye, I told 'im that," offered Bronn unhelpfully.
"I am deserving of what he did manage to do to me," admitted Littlefinger. "But if you believe that he would have been justified in killing me as he intended, then you should have let him."
"Revenge isn't his; it's hers. He would have done it for her, but only she can decide how to punish you and by her efforts to try and save you, she didn't want you killed in that moment."
"No, she waited until an hour later during which she sentenced me to death, essentially in a suicide mission," said Littlefinger sharply.
"Which would mean that she obviously still thinks that you were not punished for what you did to her."
"I asked you once if you wanted to know what I did and you claimed that you did not care but since you evidently do: I gave her to Ramsay Bolton. I knew what sort of monster he was and allowed him to wed her, rape her, torture her. And now she has commanded me to die, so I will die, and that will be my punishment so if you think turning a cold shoulder to me now is prolonging my punishment, it is the equivalent of throwing salt in an open wound."
Bronn was of the opinion that being sentenced to death was a fair price to pay for selling a woman to her rapist but that did not mean he condoned what Littlefinger had done. If anything, it made him want to pick up where Clegane had left off but Mormont had the right of it when he said that Lady Sansa was the only one who could pass sentence and revenge wasn't Bronn's to take.
"You still aren't grasping the concept of regret," said Mormont. "You admit what you did to be wrong but you don't seem to be aware of the gravity of it. You have no idea what your actions cost Lady Sansa, how she will always have those thoughts, those memories of her time as Bolton's wife. You cannot possibly comprehend it and you think that excuses you from claiming fault for it. And in that sense, you still haven't shown remorse. If she had to command you to fight and die, it still isn't your decision to do it for her, to gladly give your life for hers. I told you that you would have to surrender all of it, but you are still denying her your true repentance."
"As a man with my reputation, no one believes I am capable of repentance, but I am and that is just something you will have to take at my word. Or don't. But don't turn your back on me now that you have seen firsthand what I am. I thought you were a better man, given your own experience in betraying a woman under your protection."
"I knew exactly what you were when I met you. I had just held out hope that what you had done to Lady Sansa was somewhat forgivable."
"And you would claim that giving Robert Baratheon the means to locate and attempt to assassinate Daenerys Targaryen is less severe than say, handing her over to a man that wanted to torture and rape her?"
Bronn watched the two exchange accusations like two bodies of water colliding and couldn't help but feel somewhat lost that he was not as informed about the goings-on of the Dragon Queen and Lady Sansa as he would have liked.
"Yes, I would because my charge is still alive when my actions might have caused her death but yours was in danger of being raped and was raped and remains raped. My actions never brought harm to my charge but yours deliberately, knowingly brought harm to yours. And to achieve what end? What have you gained with Lady Sansa's suffering?"
"The same thing you have gained in helping your queen to come here to the North at this exact moment in time," replied Littlefinger with that quick wit he was renowned for.
"I knew and chose to ignore the ultimate evils you committed when I met you, Lord Baelish, but seeing how they have affected an innocent woman and a man I have an enormous amount of respect for, I was too lenient and too forgiving."
"Then I am sorry that you were misled."
Feeling as if he were intruding on a private moment despite having Mormont invite himself into Bronn and Littlefinger's conversation, Bronn considered that now was a good time to take his leave. He excused himself wordlessly, slipped into the kitchens to grab a leg of mutton, and found a quiet corner to eat his supper out by the bell tower.
As a bystander to Mormont and Littlefinger's dispute, Bronn could see each side of their argument, though he could not relate to the feeling of betrayal that Mormont was obviously feeling. Mormont was too trusting and had given Littlefinger a chance the latter did not deserve but he hadn't exactly discouraged interaction with the lord either and to have just one man not scowl at the sight of him, Littlefinger would have leapt at the opportunity to befriend someone like Mormont. Inwardly, Bronn was a bit peeved that Mormont had tried to find the good in the likes of Littlefinger and yet had immediately taken a dislike to Bronn on principle.
Then, he remembered what he had told Tyrion years ago on the subject of popularity. "You waste your time tryin' to get people to love you, you'll end up the most popular dead man in town." He neither wanted nor needed Mormont or anyone else to like him but he supposed he had gotten to where he was now by having some people like him or at least tolerate him. He didn't need anyone to like him for the battle ahead; men who wasted time on the dilemma of fighting alongside someone they didn't like were the ones who fell to the blade first and since Bronn never cared one way or another if the man at his back was a friend or not, so long as he wasn't a coward, he had little to worry about.
That is, until he saw the crippled Stark boy watching him from the base of the bell tower.
Bronn held up one threatening finger as if to say, Stay the fuck out've my head, but the boy only beckoned him with an inconspicuous wave of his hand and against his better judgment, Bronn approached.
"I thought you might like to know that your futures have been altered," said the boy. "The end results are still very much the same, but the process of getting there has shifted, affecting the futures of many others in the process."
"That's comforting," said Bronn sardonically. "What'd I do that caused that?"
"It's not what you did; it's what Cersei did, putting you in charge of a battalion. You will now be in a different part of the field from where I had seen you before, which directly affects many others. But the outcome of the battle remains largely unchanged."
"Fuck sort've news is that? Tellin' me everything but the end has changed because Cersei decided for once in her life t'not be a cunt. Why would I wanna know that? How does that help anything?"
"When the time comes, you'll see," said the boy simply.
Bronn placed his hands on his knees and leaned over to look the boy in the face on eye level. "Lady Stark's brother or not, I don't like you one bit, boy."
"I don't need you to like me."
Damn him.
The little fucker had been inside his head without Bronn ever having been aware of it. Now even his own private thoughts were not sacred anymore and if that was the case, Bronn sent the boy a very strongly worded insult to send him on his way.
/ /
JORAH
Jorah and Clegane wended through the tents as they surveyed the trench. It was now six feet deep but the stakes rose an additional six feet above the ground, all of them sharpened and coated in dragonglass extract. Barrels full of oil sat every ten feet or so, ready to be thrown over the wood at a moment's notice. The collapsible bridge at the center of the trench was currently in its constructed form to allow passage back and forth. This was the one weak spot in their defense and would therefore need to be the most heavily guarded.
In all, there wasn't much to oversee but Jorah had had to find some way to get Clegane out of the castle to clear his mind. His approach did not seem to be working, however, because Clegane was digging the toe of his boot into the snow, oblivious to his purpose out here. Jorah knew he ought to tread carefully just now with how Clegane had been moments away from murdering a man not even ten minutes ago but he felt that it was imperative to address what had gone on with Baelish now while he had the two of them separated. They could not afford for Clegane to lose sight of survival in an attempt to settle a score.
"Clegane–"
"If you say one word, I'll impale you on one of these stakes," Clegane promised but Jorah was far too used to the man's empty threats now to take them seriously.
"I am not saying that your intentions were misplaced in what you did but the manner in which you chose to handle the situation could have had dire consequences. Taking matters into your own hands could have ended very badly and not just for you. Imagine what would have followed if Lady Sansa was forced to reap what you sowed if you managed to kill Lord Baelish."
Clegane shoved Jorah hard and he felt his backbone collide with one of the solid timbers of the trebuchets behind him. "Don't fucking look at me like that. Like you know something I don't know where she's concerned or that you know what's best for her or for me."
"I didn't say–"
"Aye, but you did. Your face," Clegane pointed a large, gnarled finger at Jorah in accusation. "That fucking look on your face that you get. I've known you long enough to know what it means."
"And I've known you long enough to cast judgment on certain things about you. I don't know Lady Sansa, but I know you, I know that you often plunge ahead without thinking, especially where she is concerned, and that is a habit that could cost you dearly."
"You didn't seem to mind when that habit was what saved you from falling off a dragon," Clegane retorted.
"That was different and you know it. That was instinctive but what you did in the courtyard was rash. If I hadn't been there, the Lords of the Vale would be building a gallows for you right now."
He had struck the truth of the matter, but that only seemed to make Clegane angrier as the larger man kicked fiercely into the snow. "That they would and it makes me angry because filthy shit stains like Littlefinger aren't made to atone for their crimes because he's got the title of 'lord' protecting 'im. She caught 'im in the act and he's still alive. Her brother caught 'im at it and he's still alive. I tried t'kill 'im and he's still alive. Why? Why does his kind get to get away with it? Why would they hang me after I killed 'im if he would've deserved it?"
"I can't answer that," said Jorah truthfully. He had been born with noble blood and never been treated as second class so he could not relate to Clegane's plight, but he could sympathize with it. "I don't approve of the way the world works, but I do what I can to try and promote equality. I stepped in because I knew what would happen to you if someone didn't stop you. I wasn't about to let you bloodlust your way to an early execution."
"You had no right. You're not responsible for what happens to me."
"Others are responsible for someone that they see unknowingly putting themselves in harm's way. You would have done the same, I know that much about you. You would intervene to prevent someone from doing something stupid but you condemn a man for preventing you from doing the same."
"I condemn you for not minding your own fucking business," snarled Clegane. "I've survived this long living my life the way I choose to live it and without some do-gooder knight telling me that I ought to be more careful."
"I tried living life your way as well and it earned me banishment and greyscale," said Jorah bluntly. "It nearly cost me my life to be so careless concerning the lives of others apart from myself and one other person. How has life served you existing that way? It's led you here, hasn't it? Your decisions have led you here, but I believe a higher power had a hand in bringing me to Winterfell at this point in time, as I believe it also brought you. We are here for a reason."
Clegane clapped his hands over his ears. "You're as bad as Beric and his bleeding Lord of Light. I had to put up with months of that shite and I'll not stand for one more minute of it, Mormont. Not from him, not from you."
"You don't believe that you are here because you are supposed to be?" Jorah questioned. "You never wondered why you survived everything that came your way to end up here with me, with Lady Sansa, with Beric and Petyr Baelish? Many of us are here thanks to you and that has to account for something."
It had to. Jorah refused to believe that he had endured everything he had, suffered through everything he had just to die at the border of a winter wasteland. There were many who had not even made it this far: Ser Barristan, Thoros, Ellaria Sand, and many, many others. Hundreds and thousands had died to put each and every soul currently alive within Winterfell at this exact point to face the dead. There had to be meaning to this alliance between parties that had been warring against one another for years. There had to be a greater purpose, had to be an after.
"I made the decision that I want to live. I want to live beyond this war, beyond the battles. I want to live to see my queen ascend the throne and to advise her but more than that, I want to live. I squandered my life away trying to please other people and now that my life is already half over if I am blessed enough to live to a ripe old age, I find my way to that life blocked by the dead. So if I plan to outlast them, to live just to spite them, I need you. I need you and I need Petyr Baelish and every single human who is here who can stand to fight. Every–single–one. It will take all the effort every one of us can give to beat the dead and for my sanity, I have to believe that we can win. But you understand that I need you. I want you to survive as well, but I can't make you and I can't control what you do before the time comes but I am doing my best to get you to that battle in one piece."
"So you need me to be arrow fodder?" asked Clegane without any real conviction.
"I need you to fight, that's all. I trust that you are able and I have seen you duel the dead twice now, so I have faith in your courage."
"Faith that I'll stand between the dead and your queen–"
"This has nothing to do with her. This is about you and me and the few other men I trust. This is about my trust that men will have my back, not the queen's. I trust you but I need reassurance that my trust is not misplaced. I need your head out here, prepared for battle, not inside thinking of how you might be able to kill Baelish. You have something to live for whether or not you want to admit it to yourself, so stay focused on surviving and don't worry about Petyr Baelish's judgment day."
Clegane looked like he was still prepared to fight Jorah on that claim but Jorah headed him off with the last ploy he had in his arsenal. "Revenge is not yours for the taking. Only she can lay claim to that. If you do what you do for her, let this go. She is the only one who has the right to say if Baelish deserves to die before the battle, and she didn't give that command. Even though you hurt for her, she must make this decision alone because there are some things…some things that you cannot help her with."
That had been a hard enough truth for him to face when Daenerys began to make drastic decisions as a queen would without taking his advice into account. There were some decisions he could not take part in and as much as it hurt him to do so, he accepted that. His love for her allowed him to accept that she would not always need him and if Clegane felt the same for Lady Sansa, he had to come to accept that truth just as Jorah had.
He and Clegane spent another hour out on the moor with no real purpose but Jorah could see his words had resonated with the bigger man or at least, given him pause to think about what Jorah had said. When Clegane dismissed himself, Jorah also headed back inside but not before encountering Bronn and Baelish where he had some stern words for the both of them. He could not afford to expend any more energy on Baelish than he already had, so he made his intentions and point of view known in a way that he hoped would have some sort of impact on the two-faced lord. After, he had time for a quick meal and then figured in perhaps an hour or two of isolation during which he would try to sleep before taking his position on one of the night patrols.
Stress, worry, and pure exhaustion sent him right off to sleep but once he entered the realm of dreams, he very much wished he had stayed awake.
Winterfell was in ruins. Fire and smoke billowed upward to create a black haze that blotted out the clouds above. Heavy ash rained down all around him as he stood in the main bailey, muffling any sound that might have been heard. The scorched earth around him ran thick with blood and he waded through the ankle-deep river of it to keep moving, to try and find higher ground.
He knew he was wounded but how he had come to sustain his injuries, he could not remember. He could not remember anything…
Searing blue flames shot down into the courtyard and Jorah threw himself flat as the dead dragon passed overhead in search of survivors. Then it occurred to him that he might be the only survivor…but he couldn't be. Someone still had to be alive. He could not be the last one.
A scream rent through the air, blood-curdling and agonizing. And what's more, he recognized it. Searching about wildly for its source, he saw a towering figure thrashing about as the blue flames consumed him. He saw Clegane burning, screaming so terribly as the fire ate him alive that Jorah could feel his eardrums bursting and bleeding. Clegane was only crisped flesh now, nothing could save him and it would be a mercy to kill him.
Not twenty yards from Clegane, Jorah saw Daenerys surrounded by the dead, all closing in on her, reaching rotted hands out to rip into her as she stood alone with only a dragonglass dagger in hand. She was dwarfed by the mass around her, as small and helpless as the day he had first laid eyes on her.
The decision should have been an easy one; it always had been. Every scenario, every choice, it always ended with him going to where Daenerys was. He would choose her every time, no matter the peril. So why couldn't he move? Why were his feet rooted into the ground as if he had stood sentry here for a lifetime?
He saw more faces he knew swimming into view, only they were already dead, victims of his indecision. He saw Lyanna trampled by an undead horse. He saw Tyrion thrown from the top of the walls. Samwell Tarly was skewered through the stomach by the lance from a white walker. Missandei went down under the foot of a corpse giant. Bloodstained and motionless, they were reminders of the cost of failure. Then, as one, they all stood up, blue eyes focused unblinkingly on him as they began to march behind him.
At the forefront was Bronn and Petyr Baelish, coming for him to make him pay for his inability to act. And still, he heard Clegane continue to scream, only now he also heard Daenerys as the dead finally swarmed her. Jorah could not run to either of them as the blood around his ankles solidified him, held him where he could not move. The dead continued to merge into one giant mass before him, every single one watching him.
As one, they halted just feet away from him and an irrepressible cold descended upon him as if he had been frozen in time, doomed to never feel warmth again. Tilting his head back, he could see a lone figure standing atop the wall above. It raised its arms and Jorah was plunged into a wave of darkness, drowning him, engulfing him, killing him…
Waking was not sudden or jarring. He opened his eyes slowly to stare at the wooden rafters above his bed, knowing he had just seen a very probable future in which there was no future. His body's reaction was delayed and he sat up slowly, holding his head. As he planted his feet on the floor, he saw that the chair beside his bed was occupied and Daenerys sat there, watching him with concern.
"I had planned to come and speak with you on your watch but Beric Dondarrion had taken over, claiming you never arrived, so I came to find you," she explained.
Jorah chided himself for sleeping past the time he had allotted himself and missing duty, which was completely unlike him. He reached for his sword with the full intention of finishing out his wall rotation with whatever hours remained of the night but Daenerys stopped him.
"The wall can manage without you there to guard it," she assured him. "At least for a few minutes more if you are so adamant about standing patrol." The expression on her face told Jorah that she had some stern words to give him, though he could not say what he had done that would warrant such words.
"I suppose it is my turn to ask: have I done something to upset you, my queen?"
"Rather, you have done something that puzzles me. In the courtyard today, Lady Sansa tells me that you came to the aid of Lord Baelish and nearly got yourself killed by your so-called friend Sandor Clegane for your trouble."
"I did not come to Lord Baelish's aid," Jorah corrected. "Lady Sansa and I both did our best to dissuade Clegane from harming Lord Baelish when Clegane attempted to take justice into his own hands. If you are concerned that I acted brashly, I would alleviate your worries by reminding you that Clegane was never in a position to harm me. I was not his intended target and he had the wherewithal to come to his senses once he heard me speaking to him."
"You put much trust in him," said Daenerys somewhat disapprovingly.
"I have good reason to. I trust those men who fought alongside me at Last Hearth."
"But not Lord Baelish."
His queen had been observing him closely, for he was not aware that his actions were being so closely monitored and certainly had not expected her to have any insight in his dealings with Baelish.
"I never trusted him to begin with."
"Then do you feel betrayed by him, Ser Jorah?"
"Again, there would have had to be some establishment of trust. He thought I could overlook his ill deeds and I did try for a time, but ultimately, he was always the same man, just an experienced liar."
"You trusted him enough to allow him to go to Last Hearth with you."
"I thought he was doing it out of sincerity to Lady Sansa."
"He never pretended to be anything different from what he presented to you. I do not know him but I know he betrayed the Starks. I know he is not a good man but I have seen him contributing. I would wager a guess that many men finally find some semblance of honor and courage when they know their days are numbered. Not all men, but many, and I would say that Lord Baelish is trying in some way to earn back some small shred of humanity."
Jorah would never have believed that he would hear Daenerys defending the likes of Petyr Baelish, but for as long as he had known her, she was still capable of surprising him. The question was: why was she defending Baelish? And why now?
"I have no doubt that he has done unspeakable things and that he deserves what is coming to him, but I also know that I judged too harshly before when I was betrayed by a man close to me. I do not speak for Lady Sansa or her relationship with Lord Baelish, but I speak for my own experiences when I say that I would see you extend to him the same mercy I showed you. He has not betrayed you or Sandor Clegane and so neither of you have cause to judge him."
"The hour is late to be calling for mercy and forgiveness, khaleesi. And I would not squander my last days discussing Lord Baelish with you. Instead, I would ask you if you are ready for what lies ahead."
A soft swallow was the only emotion she betrayed but she had not displayed much fear since her days in the company of Khal Drogo. As a woman with dragons at her back and armies at her command, she had little to fear, yet she also had never faced terrors like the one headed for Winterfell. She had already lost one dragon to the dead but had no choice in whether or not she wanted to offer up the other two if they stood any chance of winning. She would have to risk her entire family for that chance. Of course she wasn't ready.
"One can never be ready to face the odds we are about to face but if we wait until we are ready, we never will be. I have my armies and my dragons, I have skilled warriors, brave men and women, and thousands of allies, and I have you. I must be ready because time will not wait for me."
Fastening his sword to his belt, Jorah held out his hand to her and helped her stand. "Then I am ready if you are, my queen."
He had so many things he would have liked to have told her but he knew that she had guessed those things, seen them in his eyes and his actions, and knew them already. Speaking them now would only be redundant. And so he touched his forehead to her hands, squeezing hard as a promise to her that he would fight beside her until the bitter end and hope that the end would not come.
Out in the corridor, they reached a fork where Jorah planned to go left down the staircase and outside and she would take the right to return to her quarters but they were approached by a Stark man who looked like he was about to faint or scream.
"Your Grace, we have received word that the dead are nearing Winterfell," said the Stark guard.
Daenerys stood there for a beat and then asked calmly, "How long do we have?"
"The scouts say we have until sundown tomorrow, maybe a few hours more."