Midwinter Prompt #9: Winter's Words (ASOIAF)
Title: Winter's Words
Author: mrstater
Prompt: #9, "In a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time then thaw and become audible, so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer." (Moralia by Plutarch)
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters & Pairings: Jorah Mormont, Samwell Tarly; implied Jorah/Dany
Rating & Warnings: rated G, spoilers for ASOS and AFFC; future fic
Word Count: 671 words
Summary: Sam finally delivers the message no raven could carry.
Winter's Words
"They tell me you were with my lord father when he died."
Samwell looks up, startled, from the books and scrolls spread across his desk, to find that the gruff voice belongs to a big man filling the doorway of the cell. A big man with a bald head and what appears to be a demon burned into the flesh of one cheek, so that his black beard won't grow there, though it's plain from how heavily it grows everywhere else that he's trying to cover the brand. The lord's head ducks below the doorpost as he hunches suddenly into his fur-trimmed cloak, which could be because of the cold, but the gestures nevertheless makes Sam realize he's staring and snap his gaze from the ruined cheek.
"The Old Bear," the man says, slowly, as though to a child, or an imbecile. "I was his son. Before--"
"Yes, I know," Samwell interrupts. "You're Jorah Mormont."
The legs of his chair screech on the stone floor as he pushes back from his desk to stand. Once upon a time Sam was a child, and an imbecile, too, but no longer. He's a maester now, and has the chain to prove it--short though it is. He knows the Old Bear's son at once, though he's never met him--though, honestly, the black bear prancing on the front of his green surcoat is a pretty big clue--and, more importantly, what Ser Jorah had been going to say. Which is why Sam stopped him from saying it. Before he took the black or before I dishonored my House, it's all the same; the former would have been a cover for the latter, and both died with Jeor Mormont in Craster's Muddy Keep.
In the uncertain candlelight, Lord Jorah's face seems to shift as though with surprise--Sam knows he'd be surprised to know his own father spoke to anyone of his disappointing son--though Mormont's low steady voice betrays no such emotion when he asks, "How did he die?"
"With your name on his lips," Samwell replies, as he's rehearsed so many times in his mind since the Old Bear died in his arms.
Somehow, he never imagined Lord Jorah reacting to this by emitting out a puff of laughter that steams in the cold air of the cell.
"Give me the grisly details, Maester, and save your pretty sentiments for the ladies."
In another life Sam would have cowed at this, sniffling and sobbing as he narrated one of the most terrible moments of his life for the big knight who needs no sword to seriously damage a man. Not now, though. Instead he draws back his shoulders beneath the weight of his chain and speaks the words he's carried with him for so long.
"I won't, my lord. The Lord Commander charged me with finding you and telling you he forgave you. And nothing else."
Not strictly true. There was also the bit about Mormont wishing for his son to take the black, but Sam leaves that part out. All Westeros knows how the exiled knight won his pardon and his lordship and even the queen's hand, but if he had none of that, the mark on his face speaks of justice that will be served for a lifetime as surely as it would at the Wall.
"Well," says Lord Jorah, clearing his throat; but his voice is still hoarse as he goes on. "You didn't find me."
For a moment Sam wavers, but he schools into submission the flush of shame that he failed the Old Bear and meets the dark eyes. "Didn't I?"
A faint smile. "Spoken like a true maester."
Jorah Mormont ducks through the door, but as he makes his way down the dim corridor of maesters' cells, Sam notices that the Old Bear's son no longer hunches down into his cloak. When he returns to his desk, sun slants through the high narrow window, warming his books and scrolls and his back.
Almost like summer.
Author: mrstater
Prompt: #9, "In a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time then thaw and become audible, so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer." (Moralia by Plutarch)
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters & Pairings: Jorah Mormont, Samwell Tarly; implied Jorah/Dany
Rating & Warnings: rated G, spoilers for ASOS and AFFC; future fic
Word Count: 671 words
Summary: Sam finally delivers the message no raven could carry.
Winter's Words
"They tell me you were with my lord father when he died."
Samwell looks up, startled, from the books and scrolls spread across his desk, to find that the gruff voice belongs to a big man filling the doorway of the cell. A big man with a bald head and what appears to be a demon burned into the flesh of one cheek, so that his black beard won't grow there, though it's plain from how heavily it grows everywhere else that he's trying to cover the brand. The lord's head ducks below the doorpost as he hunches suddenly into his fur-trimmed cloak, which could be because of the cold, but the gestures nevertheless makes Sam realize he's staring and snap his gaze from the ruined cheek.
"The Old Bear," the man says, slowly, as though to a child, or an imbecile. "I was his son. Before--"
"Yes, I know," Samwell interrupts. "You're Jorah Mormont."
The legs of his chair screech on the stone floor as he pushes back from his desk to stand. Once upon a time Sam was a child, and an imbecile, too, but no longer. He's a maester now, and has the chain to prove it--short though it is. He knows the Old Bear's son at once, though he's never met him--though, honestly, the black bear prancing on the front of his green surcoat is a pretty big clue--and, more importantly, what Ser Jorah had been going to say. Which is why Sam stopped him from saying it. Before he took the black or before I dishonored my House, it's all the same; the former would have been a cover for the latter, and both died with Jeor Mormont in Craster's Muddy Keep.
In the uncertain candlelight, Lord Jorah's face seems to shift as though with surprise--Sam knows he'd be surprised to know his own father spoke to anyone of his disappointing son--though Mormont's low steady voice betrays no such emotion when he asks, "How did he die?"
"With your name on his lips," Samwell replies, as he's rehearsed so many times in his mind since the Old Bear died in his arms.
Somehow, he never imagined Lord Jorah reacting to this by emitting out a puff of laughter that steams in the cold air of the cell.
"Give me the grisly details, Maester, and save your pretty sentiments for the ladies."
In another life Sam would have cowed at this, sniffling and sobbing as he narrated one of the most terrible moments of his life for the big knight who needs no sword to seriously damage a man. Not now, though. Instead he draws back his shoulders beneath the weight of his chain and speaks the words he's carried with him for so long.
"I won't, my lord. The Lord Commander charged me with finding you and telling you he forgave you. And nothing else."
Not strictly true. There was also the bit about Mormont wishing for his son to take the black, but Sam leaves that part out. All Westeros knows how the exiled knight won his pardon and his lordship and even the queen's hand, but if he had none of that, the mark on his face speaks of justice that will be served for a lifetime as surely as it would at the Wall.
"Well," says Lord Jorah, clearing his throat; but his voice is still hoarse as he goes on. "You didn't find me."
For a moment Sam wavers, but he schools into submission the flush of shame that he failed the Old Bear and meets the dark eyes. "Didn't I?"
A faint smile. "Spoken like a true maester."
Jorah Mormont ducks through the door, but as he makes his way down the dim corridor of maesters' cells, Sam notices that the Old Bear's son no longer hunches down into his cloak. When he returns to his desk, sun slants through the high narrow window, warming his books and scrolls and his back.
Almost like summer.