Phantom pain shot up the left side of his body. No matter how much time had passed since he was cured of greyscale it was as if the pain was still there, the ailment leaving his body but never his soul. Part of him believed he should've become a man of stone, but the other part, much larger and commanding, expected him to die to protect his queen instead of dying because some disease took over him.

Jorah stared over the walls of Winterfell. Three days, three days and the dead would rise to knock at the walls surrounding the last shield between humanity and the long night. Would he be strong enough to protect his queen? Would he be strong enough to protect the people counting on him? Would he be strong enough to protect himself?

None of the questions that seemed to float around his mind had an answer to them, not like he expected them to. After all, it was a man's brain that made him weak in the face of danger, his fears, the guilt or even the insecurity that would rise in the face of certain death.

Jorah would die if it meant keeping the people of Winterfell safe, a death much more honorable than being sent to Old Valyria to live out the rest of his days without having any sort of control over his actions, being a mindless creature made of stone that would attack anyone he'd ever set eyes on. He would hate himself for it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps, gaze turning over his shoulder to spot you walking through the snowy battlement, dipping under the arch to stand by his side and he gave you a curt nod of his head in greeting.

"Can't sleep either?"