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03 December 2012 @ 03:07 pm
Title: Home
Author: erolyn2
 A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,507
Characters: Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont
Summary: As Daenerys approaches Westeros, she has conflicting feelings about seeing her homeland for the first time and what it will mean for her and her knight.
AN:  A fic I wrote for Game of Ships' Targ contest. Enjoy!

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Current Music: Mumford and Sons, "After the Storm"
03 December 2012 @ 02:38 pm

Title:The Dragon's Daughter
Author: erolyn2
 A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: PG
Word Count: 486
Characters: Daenerys Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen
Summary: Dany and Viserys put the house with the red door behind them.
AN:  A drabble I wrote for Game of Ships' Targ contest. Enjoy!

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17 October 2012 @ 09:28 pm
Title: The Kill
Author: erolyn2
A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: T for blood and animal death.
Word Count: 578
Characters: Jorah Mormont, Dacey Mormont, Maege Mormont
Summary: "She would be a warrior, not a lady, like her mother and all their mothers before." Jorah remembers his oldest cousin's first kill.
AN: *quiet sobbing*

The first thing he remembered was the squirrel.

For her tenth birthday he had given little Dacey a bow, carved from pine and fitted for her slender hands. She had been training with her Morningstar for years already, but Jorah thought it was time she learned long-range combat as well.

“You can learn to fire from horseback,” he explained, “and it’s easier to hunt with. For small game, at least.”

“Not for bears?”

The girl had been hunting with the men a handful of times and already had a bearskin cloak to show for it, but that wasn’t what he’d intended this gift for.

“No. Not for bears. You know why?”

Dacey grinned. “You can’t miss a bear.”

“That’s right.”

She stared at her present, tracing her fingers along the handle, then looked carefully from Jorah to her mother seated across the table.

“Oh, go on then,” Maege grumbled.

She jumped from her seat before her mother could change her mind, dashing through the door with bow in hand. For several mornings after, the girl was a constant presence in the yard, flinging arrow after arrow at a well-abused target which was, unfortunately, taking little abuse from Lady Maege’s daughter.

“Keep your arm straight”, he’d told her, lifting her drooping elbow. “Make sure the string stays taut.”

She frowned, forming a little furrow of concentration in her small brow. Her arm was nearly shaking, but she kept still until he told her to let go and the thwack of contact told him she’d made her first shot.

And then one evening a brown blur flew at him in the hall.

“Cousin Jorah, look!”

The girl thrust a mass of fur and blood in his face, too close for him to discern what it had once been. Fortunately, she did not wait for his response.

“I killed a squirrel!”

The mass of fur was rodent-sized, he now noticed, and weighed down by a large fluffy tail.  “So you did.”

He looked her over. Her long braid was all undone, her hands splotched with blood, her cheeks flushed with excitement and cold. Her first kill, he thought, but not her last. She would be a warrior, not a lady, like her mother and all their mothers before. How will you celebrate when a man’s blood runs down your arms for the first time, little one?

“Can we eat it?”

Jorah blanched at the thought. There was little meat on a squirrel, and what there was was tough and gamey. He’d only eaten them on long marches, when there was nothing else to be had.

But Dacey was beaming at him, so he cooked it with her, and ate it, and though she spit the first mouthful on the ground they both finished what was left of the tiny animal. His cousin had immediately vowed only to hunt tastier game in the future, but he could see the pride in her eyes at the success of her first solo hunt.

Little had he known, then, that squirrel would seem a delicacy compared to the fare he would find in Essos, in the exile that would keep him from riding south with his family when the King in the North revolted. From being at her side when the axe cut her down.

When they told him he thought of the squirrel first. He could still taste it, the lingering metallic flavor of charred blood, and knew it would always taste of failure.

02 September 2012 @ 12:38 pm

Title: Nothing and Nowhere
Author: erolyn2
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: G
Word Count: 745 words
Summary: Jorah hides in Volantis after his wife's lover has banished him from her side.
Author’s Notes: Happy Birthday, Cassie! She requested Jorah-in-Volantis fic, so here it is. Full of Jorah-angst, but so is Cassie. :)

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This was the first bed Jorah Mormont had seen in days, yet still he did not sleep.

Two weeks ago he had sailed from Lys to Volantis on the first ship he could find,  working among the deck crew in exchange for passage  away from the island city. The few coins he had left from the Bravvosi campaign might keep him for a month or two in the vast city - and there would be room there to hide, lest Ormollen’s men decide to come looking for him.

It irked him still that she had not bothered to speak the words to his face. Instead he’d returned from months of fighting to find a note in their bed, and when he’d gone to Ormollen’s manse to find her the merchant prince and answered in her stead. As though he were a jilted lover and not her husband. As though he had taken all from her, driven her to poverty, when everything he had done had been for her sake, for their marriage. For nothing.

At least he had not yet passed his most recent wages on to her before  he had been banished from the city.

Banished. Was there a more stinging word? The irony had not escaped him; exiled from Westeros for her sake, and now banished from her side.

Perhaps he should have known from the beginning. Perhaps it had been childish to expect that love would conquer all, that a poor homely knight could sweep a fair maiden off her feet and carry her away and live happily ever after. The Bear and the Maiden Fair. A tavern bawdy - not even a proper song. What sort of a fool would believe in something so idiotic? Perhaps, in nearly forty years of life, he had truly learned nothing.

From his window, Jorah could hear shouts and singing, jeers and jests, the trumpet of elephants. A soft glow of flames flickered against the opposite wall - fire dancers, he supposed, accompanying the jugglers he’d seen on the way in. Some sort of festival or religious celebration; it mattered not. He wanted none of it. Volantis was only a place to hide.  Nowhere he could travel would bring him back to his island alive, to his keep, to Maege’s scowls and Dacey’s grins. No words would put Longclaw in his hands again, or restore his lordship, or bring his wife back to his side.

Was there something else he could have done? Or was it inevitable that Leyton Hightower’s daughter would never love the Lord of Bear Island, no matter how many tourneys he won? Would she never have been happy in the cold, stern North, no matter how many jewels and cooks he bought? Lord Stark’s Southron wife seemed happy enough, but Jorah had nothing to give that could compare to Winterfell. Not even sons and daughters. Lady Catelyn had borne three in as many years as he and Lynesse had been wed, and still - nothing.

For a moment he wished he had never met her. Never begged her favor, never unseated  Mallister and Frey and Blount, never asked the Old Man of Oldtown for her hand. But in his heart he did not wish it, not even for a moment. The worst thing of all, the thing that haunted him most, was the knowledge that he would have done it all again, would have given up everything for love no matter the cost. Jorah Mormont was truly a fool, and always would be.

The flames danced along his wall, cutting through the dark. Sleep might have been impossible regardless of his wandering mind; the noise rising from the square seemed only to increase as the night wore on, and the threadbare mattress in his room on the fourth floor did not encourage peaceful slumber.

With a sigh, Jorah swung his legs over the side of the bed and strapped his sword belt around his waist. He turned the key in the door on instinct, though there was nothing inside the room of any value. Only his sword and a shrinking pouch of silver tied to his hip, and the shirt on his back. It was almost liberating, having nothing to lose and no one to mourn him.  Only ghosts remained, casting shadows in the darkness, disappearing in the light of a new day.

Perhaps he would see what a fool could find in the oldest and largest of the Free Cities.

15 August 2012 @ 06:48 pm
Title: As The Queen Commands
Author: erolyn2
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Dany/Jorah
Rating: M. Things are gonna get pretty adult. You've been warned.
Word Count: 1673
Summary: Dany finds a new way to test her knight's loyalty.
Author’s Note: Written for the porn battle at Game of Ships, for the prompts "enslaved", "restraint", and "lessons learned".

Many thanks to mrstater for beta-ing, and for her encouragement.

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Queen Daenerys had summoned her knight to her, but now that he was here before her she wasn’t sure what to do with him.

            He had only returned to her service the previous day, and already she felt she had waited too long to speak to him. She had spoken to him in front of her court, of course, when he had begged her for forgiveness; though she had agreed to restore him to her service, a part of her wasn’t certain why she had done so, or whether she felt she could trust him.

            It was late now, her bedchamber illuminated only by soft candlelight – Dany had spent most of the day trying to find the courage to send for him – and Jorah Mormont stood before her clad only in an ill-fitting tunic and breeches, which she could only assume had once belonged to a former Second Son. A slightly smaller one, from the look of it.

            As she looked him over, she wondered for the hundredth time that day whether he was truly there, in the room with her. In the Dothraki Sea she had heard his voice through the grass, but he had only been a fever dream - and now here he stood. She remembered how much she had wanted to see his face, to let him wrap her in his arms.

            But this was no dream, and she could not allow herself to forget what he had done. That he had lied to her, betrayed her.

            And paid the price. Or so it seemed. But has he truly learned? She brushed her fingers over the slavers’ brand that marred his cheek, ignoring the way he flinched when she touched it.

            “You were an unruly slave, Ser Jorah.”

            He was watching her very closely, but said nothing.

            “The imp told me you only broke when you heard I had wed.”

            She waited, but still he was silent. Only I can break you. She regretted her power over him, and all the pain it had caused them both, but she could not deny that some part of her also enjoyed it. If you had succumbed before, if you had only apologized, perhaps all of this might have been avoided. She needed to be sure he understood – that he could put aside his pride and allow her to rule. Dany traced the demon’s face slowly with her thumb before removing her hand and settling it on his chest.

            “You would not be unruly for me, would you, my bear?”

            His face twisted a little in confusion. “I swore a vow to obey you, Your Grace.”

            “Do you believe your vows still stand, ser? After I have named you traitor, and banished you from my service?”

            “I will swear them again, if you wish it. Every hour of every day.”

            Dany pressed a finger to his lips before her knight could continue. She had no desire to hear more of his braying about loyalty and love, not now. Not when she was still unsure whether she could believe any word that left his treacherous mouth.

            “And you would do anything I asked?” she murmured, undoing the laces of his tunic to slip her hands underneath, across his broad chest and around to the sides of his neck. His pulse was warm against her fingers.


            Without further discussion, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him.

            At first he stood shocked, but soon Jorah’s lips melted into hers, and she allowed him to grip the back of her neck as their tongues met. She had almost forgotten how he tasted. She nearly slipped back into the memory of the first time – the last time – he had kissed her, but then he reached for her waist and Dany had to slap his hands away.

            “Did I grant you permission to touch me, ser?”

            He paused for a long moment, perplexed.

            “No,” he growled.

            “I am your queen, and you will obey me. Is that understood?”

            The knight swallowed slowly, his eyes searching hers. He nodded.

            Dany slid her arms back around his neck and resumed their embrace. She reached for his hands and settled them at her hips, and was pleased when he did not attempt to move them further. For a moment she allowed herself to relax, to enjoy the press of his mouth and the roughness of his tongue, to let her thoughts fade and simply feel. But then she remembered – I must not let him gain the upper hand.

            She withdrew her mouth, ignoring Jorah’s low grumble of protest, and stepped back, out of his embrace. Silently, she pulled her thin gown over her head and perched on the edge of her bed, dangling her legs over the edge.

            “Kneel, ser.”

            Her knight obeyed, his eyes locked on her bare breasts as he dropped to one knee before her. She spread her legs apart and leaned back.

            “I command you to pleasure me.”

             Jorah shot her a curious look, as though he couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly, and for a long moment he simply waited for confirmation. When she raised an eyebrow, he smirked in return and leaned forward. His hand curled around one of her legs as his mouth trailed slowly up its length, and when he reached the center he planted a slow kiss there as well.

            Dany leaned her head back and moaned softly as his expert tongue dipped between her folds. You’ve done this before. She immediately chastised herself for the thought; his past was no concern of hers. Wasn’t that the purpose of this exercise – to ignore the past?

            Her fingers gripped the thinning hairs at the back of his head, her back arching as he explored her, and when he found the right spot she cried out, and suddenly something inside her unwound and she broke against his mouth, biting back a scream.

            Jorah waited for her to catch her breath before he rose to stand before her, awaiting his next instruction. Dany could see the outline of his arousal through his breeches. Did you enjoy that, my bear? She reached out to untie the straining laces and freed him from the confining cloth. He gasped as she took him in her hand, stroking her fingers along his length.

            “Are you my man now, Ser Jorah? Mine and mine alone?”

            “Yes,” he moaned, “Always. Khaleesi…

            “Lie down,” she ordered, releasing him.

            Dany scooted down a little to give him room, and waited for him to tug his breeches off before he stretched out next to her. She considered toying with him a bit, now that she had him in a compromising position, but found she didn’t have the heart for it. Instead she swung her legs around him an d lowered herself slowly down until he filled her completely, and began to move the way Doreah had taught her, so long ago.


            “Your Grace,” she corrected.

            Her bear only groaned in response, digging his fingers into her hips as he pulled her roughly into him. Again she slapped at his hands, pushing them away from her, and sat perfectly still.        

“Oh, gods, don’t stop,” Jorah moaned.

            Dany sat back, incensed. “Do you presume to command me, ser?”

            “No, I…Daenerys…Your Grace…please…

            She smirked at the “please”, at the desperation in his voice. That’s right. Beg for it. Traitor.

            “What did you say?”


            I suppose that will have to do. She was already tired of teasing him. Dany rocked forward again, increasing her pace, and replaced Jorah’s hands on her thighs.

            She had intended to remain calm, to keep control, but before long she forgot to think, forgot to remember that she had a point to make, forgot that there had ever been a moment when they were not connected like this, that they were separate beings. She forgot to discipline her knight when his hands slowly worked their way up along her torso and found her breasts, tracing her nipples in slow circles with his thumbs. For a moment, the queen even forgot to avoid her knight’s gaze, and when his eyes caught hers she gasped in surprise, and remembered.

            My bear. How many times had she looked to him for advice, for comfort? How often had  she glanced at him and seen those same eyes looking back at her with devotion – with love – just as they were now, in spite of everything: the lies, the anger, all her failures…

            Control, she thought desperately, Everything I have tried to control has turned to ashes. In her darkest hours all she had longed for was guidance, for someone to show her the way. I want my bear.

            “Jorah…fuck me…

            With a growl, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled her onto her back. He was still inside her, but only moved to nip lightly at her throat. Dany tugged at the ends of his tunic until he lifted it swiftly over his head and breathed a heavy sigh when his skin finally met hers.

            Only then did he obey her demand, pounding her roughly into her sheets. She tried to grip his back for support, but wherever her fingers landed they found scars or half-healed welts, and she found herself struggling to blink back tears before Jorah could see them. But he must have noticed her distress, because he shifted his weight to one arm and cupped her face with the other and kissed her hard until she forgot the scars and gave over to the rhythm of his thrusts. When he finally succumbed, shuddering against her, she went with him, crying out his name.

            For a few long minutes he hovered over her, trying to catch his breath, and nuzzled his nose along her neck and up to her face, where he paused.

“May I kiss you, Your Grace?”

            Dany smirked and tipped her head up to meet his lips. “Daenerys,” she corrected

            She watched a slow smile spread across his mouth as he pressed it to hers.


08 August 2012 @ 05:50 pm

Title: Left Behind
Author: erolyn2
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: none. except Maege Mormont/awesomeness.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 438
Summary: Speculation as to how Longclaw ended up with Jeor at the wall, when Jorah must have left it on Bear Island after he fled. Maege just can’t bring herself to keep it…
Author’s Note:  Wrote this in a flurry the other night. I meant to write Dacey fluff, but then...this happened.

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Longclaw, the Mormont family’s ancestral sword, laid waiting in Maege’s hall, but she could not bring herself to touch it.

            It had been theirs for generations, passed on from son to son, her brother’s sword and then her nephew’s. Truth be told, Maege had always envied her brother the blade. She fought as well as Jeor did, why should she not also wield Valyrian-forged steel?

            I am Lady of Bear Island now, she thought, by rights it is mine. And yet Maege knew she would never take it. The very sight of it made her feel ill.

            Should it go to Dacey, then? Her eldest daughter was now the heir to the island, but would she want it? No. The girl was only fifteen, just newly a woman grown, and she had loved Jorah like a brother.  It would only hurt her more. Maege already dreaded telling her daughters that their cousin was gone, and was never like to return.

            I could sell it. Valyrian steel was rare, and fetched a high price, and they were in dire need of money now that her nephew had spent it all on his highborn wife. Spent it all, and left her behind to sort out the ruins.

            He had sold everything, even flesh-and-blood men, but not Longclaw.

            Maege knew she would not sell it, either. Even a man as lost to honor as her nephew had become had not taken it with him when he fled. He had disgraced their family’s name, but at least he had left this one thing, one scrap of ancient pride for the Mormonts to hold onto.

            Still, she could not keep it here. Not when it would always remind her and her girls of Jorah.

            Unbidden, her thoughts went to the day the boy’s mother had died – how small he had been then, and how little he had understood. Though she was nearly as close to her nephew’s age as her brother’s, Maege had to admit that she had often thought of the boy as a son, and she was certainly the only mother he remembered. How could he do this to me? To us?

            No. She would not think on that. She had her girls to think of, and something must be done about the damned sword.

            Jeor, she thought, my brother will know what to do with it. Longclaw had been his once, and could be again.

            And she had to send him news of his son eventually.

            With a sigh, Maege told one of the few remaining household servants to wrap up the blade, and went to fetch paper and ink.

31 July 2012 @ 03:26 pm

Title: Three Heads (2/?)
Author: erolyn2
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Dany/Jorah, Dany/Daario
Rating: M
Word Count: 2,261
Summary: "Could I love Daario? What would it mean, if I took him into my bed? Would that make him one of the heads of the dragon? Ser Jorah would be angry, she knew, but he was the one who'd said she had to take two husbands. Perhaps I should marry them both and be done with it." - A Storm of Swords

AU from the above moment in ASOS. Daenerys decides to take two husbands, but can she handle them both?

Author's Note: Written for mrstater's prompt at asoiafkinkmeme.

This is as much as I have written (I combined two short chapters into this one) for what was initially supposed to be a one-shot. I have some vague plot ideas for continuing it, but it could also stand on its own. Opinions as to whether I should add more and/or where to take it are appreciated. :)

Also, this chapter immediately follows the preceding one, time-wise. I wasn't sure if that was clear in the beginning, so just wanted to point it out.

(Chapter 1 is here.)

Daenerys dreamed again that night.

She had not slept without dreams since she had taken Meereen, but every night the dreams were different. Last night, with Daario in her bed, she had dreamt of three dragons in a fighting pit. The largest watched as the two smaller beasts, blue and black, circled one another, tensed for the fight, but when they breathed their fire it was the big silver dragon who burned away in the flames.

She had felt so alone when she woke, and when Daario stirred she had thought he might comfort her, but then he had mumbled, "It was only a dream, my queen. Go back to sleep." And so she had curled herself tighter under the sheets, and prayed she would not dream again.

Tonight she dreamt of the Red Keep, her father's seat in Kings Landing. The palace that was hers by rights. She had never seen it, but Viserys had spoken of it so often that she sometimes believed she had. In the dream the silver dragon towered over the castle, burning everything in its sight, and she exulted. In the dragon's body she reached out to touch the Iron Throne, but its blades cut through her scales, and her blood ran along its edges. When she tried to scream, only fire came from the dragon's mouth, igniting the bloody throne, and it all began to slip away as she fell through the ground, deeper and deeper…

When she woke she was sweating, and she could not stop a small cry from escaping her lips. She felt an arm fall over her waist, but for a moment she could not remember who it belonged to. She rolled onto her side and pulled the arm across her, clutching it to her chest.

Jorah nuzzled her hair in response, muttering sleepily in her ear.

"What troubles you, my queen?"

Dany shook her head. "It was only a dream."

He waited for her to continue, stretching his body a little so he could hold her closer.

"What did you dream of?"

She hesitated a moment. "Westeros," she whispered. "Fire and blood."

Jorah exhaled slowly but said nothing. Instead he pressed his lips to her shoulder and ran a thumb along her hand where it gripped his own, and Dany knew he had understood.

I would have had to explain to Daario. Could she ever explain to Daario what Westeros meant to her? Would he ever understand?

Dany didn't want to think about Daario – or her dreams - anymore. She turned to face her husband and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"What would our wedding have been like in Westeros, Jorah?"

He thought a moment. "Well…that depends."

"On what?"

"In the south – in Kings Landing - we would be wed by the High Septon, in the Sept of Baelor, before the eyes of the Seven."

Were my parents wed there? "What does the Sept of Baelor look like?"

"I do not know, my queen. I have visited Kings Landing on only a few occasions, and never had cause to go to a sept."

"Why not?"

"My house worships the old gods, Daenerys. Not the Seven."

Oh. "And if we were wed before the old gods?"

He smiled. "That is done in the godswood, before a heart tree."

"A tree? Outside?"

"Even in winter, yes."

"And what does a heart tree look like?"

"Pure white, with blood red leaves, and the faces of ancients carved into their bark. There are few left in Westeros now, but it is said that beyond the Wall they grow in abundance."

Dany pushed back so she could look at him. "You are jesting. Trees do not have faces."

"Weirwoods do, khaleesi. It is said that the children of the forest carved them, and that the gods see through their eyes. Their sap dries red, and when it drips it sometimes seems as though the gods weep tears of blood."

How strange, and sad. And beautiful. That seemed right for him somehow, for the sort of gods that a man like Jorah Mormont would follow.

She tipped her head up to kiss him, and he brushed a strand of silver hair back from her face.

Dany had never heard of a heart tree before, though she remembered a little about Westerosi weddings from the songs and histories Ser Jorah had given to her. At my first wedding. My Dothraki wedding. She, the last Targaryen, had wed one husband in the Dothraki style, and now two more in Ghisgari fashion, to please the Meereenese people who despised her. She might never have a wedding like the ones she had read about, or enter the Sept of Baelor, or see a heart tree.

Jorah brushed his lips over hers, his fingers weaving through her hair. Yet I still managed to find a Westerosi husband, she thought. But she had married a man from the Free Cities as well. Was this her fate - forever torn between Essos and Westeros, never truly at peace?

What would a Tyroshi wedding be like? Dany shook the thought away. Westeros was her home, not Tyrosh. And not Meereen, either. Had she forgotten?

"Do you know the words, Jorah? Do you remember them?"

He did not have to ask her what words she meant. "The old or the new?"

"Either," she replied, "Whichever you prefer."

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife," he whispered against her mouth, "and my queen," and kissed her again. "Now you repeat it."

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband." Dany kissed him back harder, parting his lips with her tongue, and his hand tightened around the back of her neck.

When he rolled her over onto her back and covered her body with his she thought they were done with words, but he spoke softly between kisses, continuing the ceremony.

"Here in the sight of gods and men…"

Can the gods see us here, so far from home?

"I do solemnly proclaim…Jorah of House Mormont…and Daenerys Stormborn…of House Targaryen…Queen of the Andals and the First Men…ruler of the Seven Kingdoms…and protector of the realm…"

Dany laughed. "I don't think we need all the titles."

"Daenerys of House Targaryen," he repeated, "to be man and wife…"

"And king and queen," she added.

"One flesh…one heart…one soul…now and forever…" he slid his hands down her bare torso and settled them on her waist. "And cursed be the one who comes between them."

"Cursed be the one who comes between us," Dany whispered, and brought her hips up to meet his.

Jorah groaned, and then they did not speak again until morning.

Her heart was heavy all the next day. She held court as usual, listened to the moanings of the Meereenese nobles, the sorrows of her people. Her tokar felt more tightly wound than it ever had. Queen of the Rabbits, she thought.

The King of the Rabbits sat on her left, though he had shunned his pair of floppy ears in favor of his usual outlandish garb. The seat to her right was empty; Ser Jorah had taken his customary position as Commander of her Queensguard, standing before her ebony bench with his hand on his sword.

When she had entered her throne room that morning, her captains and advisors were waiting for her, and so were both her husbands. Daario had swaggered up to her immediately, seizing her in his arms, and kissed her violently before the entire assembly.

"Bright queen," he said when he had released her, "I have missed you."

Dany only blushed in response, and flashed him a shy smile. She thought she heard one of her bloodriders mutter something in Dothraki, but couldn't make out the words. They were waiting with Ser Jorah and the others as she made her way to her makeshift throne, King Daario at her heels. She could not bring herself to look at Jorah's face, but planted a kiss on his cheek in apology.


"Khaleesi." His use of her Dothraki title made Dany nervous. Was he angry with her? It was not her fault if Daario overstepped a bit sometimes…should she have reprimanded him for being so forward in front of her court? In front of her other husband?

Perhaps she ought to have thought more carefully about their arrangements at court. Should she keep only one king on the throne at a time, the way she kept only one in her bed each night? Had Aegon the Conqueror kept his sister queens apart, Visenya ruling one day and Rhaenys the next? For the thousandth time she wished there were another Targaryen by her side, someone to tell her what to do. How to rule the way her ancestors had. How to love two men at once.

"Will you join us, Ser?" For Daario had already taken his place at the side of her bench, and she could feel his eyes on her.

Jorah spoke carefully. "My place is here."

He is angry, she thought, until he pulled her gently towards him and pressed his lips to her forehead.

My knight. He would sooner protect me than rule at my side. Dany didn't know how to feel about that, but she sat her rabbit's throne without protest and let her Queensguard keep watch over her court.

The heavy feeling followed her all day, and grew worse as each of her people came forth, Hizdahr zo Lorak complaining about the fighting pits, her Unsullied reporting the activities of the Sons of the Harpy, former slaves and former masters at odds for countless offenses. Meereen had begun to seem an endless pit of mud, sucking her in with its flow of troubles, dragging her ever further from her Iron Throne.

After the tension of the day, she had expected another nightmare, but her dream that night was a good one.

In her sleep, Dany stood before a forest of heart trees, blood red against stark white, blanketed in snowfall. She felt the cold on her face, and when she touched the largest tree it was cold as well, its bark smooth. She laughed, and brushed the red sap from beneath its carved eyes, and then she felt something warm and soft cover her shoulders. When she turned Ser Jorah was standing before her, in a white cloak and gilded armor, and the cloak around her own shoulders was green velvet lined with fur. He closed the clasp around her neck and bent to kiss her, and then she was on the ground, in his arms, and they were making love as they had on their delayed wedding night, only this time there was a bearskin beneath them, and a fire burned in a wooden hearth…

She woke all at once, and her chest hurt. She wanted to fall back into the dream, but knew it was gone.

Where is my husband? Which one is it, tonight?

She reached out a hand, but touched no one. Confused, she sat up and looked over the bed, and found Daario perched on the edge, fully dressed, pulling on his boots. She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, but he drew away.

"You were dreaming of your other husband, I think," he growled, "perhaps you ought to summon him."

He left in a storm, and slammed her door behind him.

Dany's blood was racing. What have I done?

She yanked a nightshift over her head and followed Daario out the door, but her feet led her down the hall, past her servants' quarters and towards the slightly larger rooms where her bloodriders slept, and her Queensguard. She pounded on the door with a fist, not caring who might hear.

"Jorah!" It came out like a sob, so she tried again. "Jorah!"

He was half asleep when he opened the door, and half naked, but she didn't care. "Daenerys?" he groaned, "What…"

Dany flung herself at him, locking her arms around his neck, and began to weep softly into his shoulder. His arms went around her, his face buried in her hair, and she felt safe again.

"I want to go home, Jorah."

He held her tightly but did not speak. There was nothing to say. It is done, and we all must live with it. Dany was so tired of doing what she must; she must please her people, must be their floppy-eared ruler, must be fair to both her husbands when she wanted to be free to spend her nights where she chose. But she had chosen this, hadn't she?

She had stayed in Meereen – ignoring Jorah's council – because she believed it was right for her people, and married two men because she believed it was right for her. But what did she truly want?

What have I done?

Current Music: "Heavy in Your Arms", Florence and the Machine
26 July 2012 @ 12:55 pm

Title: Three Heads (1/?)
Author: erolyn2
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Dany/Jorah, Dany/Daario
Rating: M
Word Count: 2,310
Summary: "Could I love Daario? What would it mean, if I took him into my bed? Would that make him one of the heads of the dragon? Ser Jorah would be angry, she knew, but he was the one who'd said she had to take two husbands. Perhaps I should marry them both and be done with it." - A Storm of Swords

AU from the above moment in ASOS. Daenerys decides to take two husbands, but can she handle them both?

Author's Note:  Rated M for...well, it's their wedding night, so you can guess. Also I've never written...things...of such a nature...before...so apologies for the quality of said writings.

Written for mrstater's prompt at asoiafkinkmeme. And many thanks to phoenikxs for her encouragement (even though she's already done an awesome job filling the same prompt).

Daenerys Targaryen did not summon Jorah Mormont to her until the second night after their wedding.

She had donned a Qartheen gown for the occasion, and she traced her fingers along the violet silk as she waited. She felt strangely calm.

The previous evening, Queen Daenerys had given Meereen not one, but two kings. The dragon has three heads, Ser Jorah had told her, and so she had decided to simply marry them both: the man who loved her and the man she desired. It was perhaps the strangest wedding in living memory; the Queen smiling in her tokar at the head of the hall, with a blue-haired Tyroshi sellsword grinning at her left side and her Westerosi knight scowling at her right.

She had spent the first night with Daario. She knew it was cruel to Ser Jorah, but one of them had to be second, and she had wanted to sleep with Daario Naharis from the moment he had swaggered into her tent outside of Yunkai. Jorah had waited for her this long, he could wait a bit longer. Neither of them would have had my maidenhead, so what does it matter?

Her bear had been angry anyway, of course, until she had calmly told him he was welcome to join her and Daario on their wedding night. Jorah had turned even redder at that, and stormed off, and she had not seen him again until the ceremony.

It was fortunate that he had not taken her offer seriously. That would have been a disaster. Dany was certain both men would sooner murder each other.

She still feared their marriage might end that way. The warlocks in the House of the Undying had told her the dragon had three heads, but she knew she could hardly have chosen two heads more likely to tear each other apart. Only their love for her forced them to tolerate one another – and Daenerys still wondered whether Daario Naharis loved her at all. Or whether she loved him - or Ser Jorah. Both, neither, one and not the other…but it did not matter. She had wed them both the same, and all three would share the consequence of it.

I must keep them separate. I must not think of one when I am with the other. That is the only way this will work. But she had spent the whole day thinking of both her husbands, and worrying about them both. She could still feel Daario's hands on her, could still see the glint of his smile when she closed her eyes. And yet when she thought of the evening to come, she also tasted the sweetness of Jorah's mouth, and felt the roughness of his beard, and remembered the way her nipples had hardened at his touch.

Dany was not sure she had been entirely truthful in Yunkai, when she had told Ser Jorah she did not desire him. It had seemed better, at the time, to choose the harder answer than to lead him along without one. But now they were wed. She had married him. And Daario Naharis as well.

For a moment she could not remember why she had done it. Had she simply wed one man to bed him, and another because she could not bear to hurt him any longer?

Her heart hammered in her chest. It is done. It is done, and we must all live with it.

The door opened with a creak that did nothing to slow the pounding of Dany's heart. Ser Jorah stepped through, shutting it behind him, and nodded at her.

"Your Grace."

Dany had barely heard his voice since before the wedding. He had mumbled his way through the ceremony, and spoken not a word to her during the feast afterward. And she had not seen him at all today. She had missed his voice, she realized.

She smiled at him with more ease than she felt. "I do not think you are required to call me 'Your Grace' any longer," she said, "now that you are a king."

"Half a king," he snorted. He would not meet her eyes, though Dany did see him cast a glance over her bared breast.

"One of two is not half," she replied. "Your Grace."

Jorah frowned. "Truly, I prefer 'Ser.'"

Daario loved the idea of being a king. He had muttered it as he made love to her – "King Daario and Queen Daenerys" - and jested with her about the hair colors that would best compliment a crown.

Dany could not imagine Jorah ever wearing a crown. She could hardly imagine him a king at all, and yet he had asked her to marry him knowing full well what she was – he had been the first man to declare her his liege, to pledge his service to the crown. Did he not understand what it would mean to love her?

"You would truly prefer not to be wed to a queen?" she quipped.

"That is not what I said, Daenerys."

But is it what you meant? She had not had time to think it until now, preoccupied as she had been with Daario the previous evening. But what sort of bridegroom scowled through his wedding? She had known he would not be happy to share her, but it was his idea in the first place, and she had thought he would at least be happy to have her as his wife. Was that not why she had married him?

He sighed, and looked up at her – finally – but did not move any closer. She allowed him to study her, and even stood a bit straighter so that he could see the gown to its full effect.

"Qartheen," he muttered. "An interesting choice."

"You seemed to admire them when we were in Qarth." Jorah turned slightly red at that, and she smiled. "I thought it would please you."

He made no response, but even in the candlelight Dany could see his eyes darken, and the roll of his throat as he swallowed.

"I wanted you to remember where we've been," she added, taking a few careful steps toward him, "and how far we have come."

"I have not forgotten."

His voice was thick, and Dany feared she had not pleased him at all, but rather upset him again. So she closed the gap between them, and placed a hand on his cheek.

"Tonight there is only us, my bear."

Jorah sighed again, and cupped her face in his hands.

"Daenerys," he began, "I know I am not a young man, and not worthy of your beauty. But…" He traced his fingers along the lines of her face, so slowly. "I wish you had given me a chance…to show you…"

"You may show me now."

Dany had expected him to act on her words, or at least move, but he did not. He seemed to be waiting for something, so she reached up on her toes and kissed him.

His hands stretched around her neck and wove into her hair as he returned the kiss, parting her lips gently with the tip of his tongue, and this time her mouth opened for him when she told it to.

Still sweet, she thought, her own tongue exploring further, tasting him.

She had only just begun to familiarize herself with his mouth when he removed it. Dany gasped in disappointment, but Jorah's lips soon returned to her, trailing slowly down the curve of her neck to her collarbone, and then further down, until they reached her exposed breast and lingered there. His tongue flicked across her bare nipple; the heat of his breath made the air around it feel colder, and when he abandoned it to return to her lips a chill ran down her spine.

His kisses were hard now, and she could feel the press of his manhood straining against her thigh. She pressed back against him, but to her surprise he released her mouth and pulled away.

"Daenerys," he said, "Is this truly what you want?"

She hadn't thought about it, truly. She had married him, and had known what their wedding night would entail. But did she want it?

She had told Ser Jorah she did not want him. She had slapped him, on Balerion, angered by his presumption. She had been so confused, after he kissed her. She could not deny that she had enjoyed it, but she had told herself it was only loneliness, that it had been too long since she had felt the touch of a man.

Yet she had been with Daario yesterday, and today she still enjoyed Jorah's kisses. Dany wasn't sure what that meant, but she was sure she wanted to find out.

In place of an answer, she reached her palm down and curled it around his arousal.

Jorah drew a sharp breath in, and then he claimed her mouth again, and she looped her arms around his neck to pull him in closer. His fingers slipped down from her neck and across her shoulders, his left hand brushing aside the thin strap of fabric that held her gown to her body. As it fell to the floor, his thumbs followed it down her arms, across the tips of her breasts, until his hands stretched around the curve of her arse.

Though he held her tightly against his hips, Dany needed to be closer. She tugged at the fabric of his tunic and slid her hands underneath, brushing the soft trail of hairs that led into his breeches, and he swiftly pulled it over his head and tossed it to the floor. When his chest met hers, his bare skin warm against her breasts and stomach, she let a soft sigh escape her lips, and Jorah echoed it with a low rumble.

She could not remember exactly what followed, but suddenly she was lying on her back on her bed, with her bear leaning over her, planting soft kisses along her neck and collarbone.

Jorah sat back on his knees to look at her. It was not the first time he had seen her in this state of undress; she had risen from Drogo's funeral pyre naked and hairless before her khalasar, and there had been that night on Balerion, and he'd seen certain parts of her many times in Qarth. But she had not seen him before, and it suddenly seemed vastly unfair to her that he was sitting there gazing over her exposed form while still wearing his breeches, so she reached up to fumble with the laces until he helped her slide them down, kicking them off of his feet as he arched his body back over hers.

They hovered there for a minute, laid bare to one another for the first time. It seemed like so long ago that she had first seen him in Pentos and wondered about the dark Westerosi knight lurking in Drogo's manse. If I look back I am lost, Dany thought, and she met her husband's eyes, and nodded slowly.

Jorah held her gaze as he entered her, pressing slowly in until he filled her completely.

"Daenerys," he breathed. The look on his face made Dany fear that it was already over, but he steadied himself and drew back gingerly so he could return again, and she moaned softly as his cock stroked her sex.

He moved carefully above her, keeping her with him as he pushed deeper, keeping control. But Dany wasn't ready to let her knight have control just yet. She pressed her hands against his chest to turn him over, and though at first he looked confused, he acquiesced, and lay still beneath her.

For several moments he allowed her to ride him, and she marveled at the sight of her knight spread out beneath her, his neck stretched out as he moaned softly. But then he sat up all at once, so that she was straddling him, and curled his legs underneath her. His fingers gripped her back, and he had seized her mouth again, and rocked his hips in a way that sent a shock of pleasure through Dany's body.

It took her awhile to find the rhythm of it, but when she finally matched his pace the sensation hit her like a wave, the familiar pressure coiling deep inside.

She met his eyes again. Something was happening that had not happened to her before, not on her first wedding night, nor last night. Daario had been…athletic, and skilled, and she had enjoyed their wedding night, but Ser Jorah made love like a drowning man searching for air, like she was the only thing in the world to him.

"Jorah," she moaned, feeling the pressure building to its peak.

He groaned against her neck. His breath was ragged, and she knew he was close as well. "Say my name again," he commanded.

She did, but it was more a cry than a word, and then she was over the edge, and falling, and Jorah's fingers clenched, pressing hard into her skin as he fell with her.

They were still for a long time, panting in each other's arms. When Dany had slowed her pulse and caught her breath again, she kissed her knight again. He still held her firmly in his arms; she was almost afraid to move, to end the safe, warm feeling of his body wrapped around her. It felt like…like…home.

She had nearly drifted off when she felt Jorah lean her gently back onto the bed. She stretched lazily along it, waiting for him to stretch out next to her so she could rest her head on his broad shoulder and drape an arm across his stomach.

Dany barely felt his hands thread into her hair before her eyes fluttered shut, and everything faded into the rise and fall of her husband's chest.

Current Mood: accomplished
11 July 2012 @ 05:00 pm

Disclaimer: George R.R. Martin put way more time and energy into these characters than I have, and also he has them copyrighted.

AN: This was inspired by Dany's first chapter in ACOK, when she's in Vaes Tolorro. After the Awkward Character Exposition conversation, there's a bit about them waiting for the bloodriders to come back, and it mentions that "Dany tended Ser Jorah's wound herself, and it began to heal." I thought, "That must have been super awkward, since she just figured out he loves her and all." So then this happened.

The queen summoned him at midday, and for once Ser Jorah Mormont was dreading their meeting. His stomach knotted as he passed the rows of tents laid out under the shadow of the enormous ruined palace in the heart of Vaes Tolorro.

He feared he had said too much, when he'd left her tent the previous evening.

She looked a bit like you, Daenerys. What in the seven hells had possessed him to say that? He wasn't even sure it was true. After so many years, it was difficult for him to picture Lynesse's face clearly. She was a haze, a glossy outline of something he'd once thought he would remember forever. A ghost. She had been young and fair, he was certain of that, and perhaps that was what had made him think of the khaleesi. Though, truth be told, he'd never seen a woman who truly looked like Daenerys, and he suspected no one else in Essos or Westeros had, either.

The dragon, born into the world again, he thought.

The mother of dragons was sitting cross-legged on the floor when he entered, with Irri next to her. She was, mercifully, fully clothed this time, the pelt of the hrakkar draped over her sleeping mat. Her own silver hair was beginning to dot her scalp again, though it more closely resembled the fuzz on a peach than human hair.

She did look much less like Lynesse without her hair. And a bit more like a dragon.

The black beast – the one she called Drogon – cried at Jorah from its woven cage, as though in greeting. Dany turned from Irri and smiled at him.

"Ser Jorah."

Jorah cleared his throat. Don't say anything stupid this time. "Your Grace? You summoned me?"

"Yes. Irri has been bringing me bits of cloth, from the ruins. For bandages."

She had said it as though it were an explanation, but he wasn't sure what it had to do with him. "That is…clever, Your Grace, but what…"

"You have neglected your wound long enough," she interrupted, "Come, let me see it."

For a second he was confused, until he remembered that the wound Qotho's arakh had made in his side had never been properly tended. Panicked, he shook his head. "It is fine, khaleesi. It does not pain me." He tried to shift his weight to his other foot, to prove it, but couldn't stop himself from flinching.

And of course she noticed.

"Khal Drogo said the same, after we fought the lamb men," she reminded him, in a soft voice. The expression on her face made him feel instantly guilty.

"I will take care of it," he protested, but as always she ignored him.

"Come here, Ser Jorah."

"Your Grace," he tried, "I do not think…that it would be proper…"

She laughed. "There is no privacy in the khalasar, Jorah, remember? You found me in

the ashes of Drogo's pyre, naked as my name day, and you are concerned about modesty?"

I certainly haven't forgotten that, Your Grace.

"Surely," she continued, "you can sacrifice a bit of your dignity to ease the pain."

He couldn't tell her that allowing her to touch him would, in fact, make his pain much worse. Or that he had such little dignity left to him - now that he had become an exile, a sellsword, a spy, a traitor - that he would do nearly anything to guard what remained.

Instead he obeyed, easing slowly down beside her. His hip protested sharply when he made contact with the hard paved stone, and he couldn't help wincing again.

Daenerys held out her hand. "Shirt," she commanded.

He met her gaze, trying to plead with her silently, but she only cocked an eyebrow, glanced down at her hand, and then looked back at him.

Jorah sighed and peeled the thin yellow cloth over his head. At least he'd made an attempt at washing it this morning, he thought, as he handed it over to her. She put it aside and placed a hand on his thigh to steady herself as she bent to get a closer look at the wound.

When she gasped in shock, he wondered if he had missed something. It seemed better yesterday. Her hand had flown from his leg to her mouth, and he followed her eyes down to his side. The cut was jagged, and raw, and there was as much black as red in it, though it hadn't yet begun to spread through his skin the way Drogo's infection had. If he hadn't looked at it every day for weeks, he might have been a bit shocked as well.

He turned back to Dany, who drew her hand back and slapped him, hard, across the face.

"Were you going to tell me?" she asked, in the shaking voice that meant he'd woken the dragon.


"You watched my sun-and-stars die of a wound like this one, and yet you said nothing? Have you no regard for me at all, Ser?"

For you? Jorah wasn't sure what his wound had to do with her. He rubbed his cheek where her hand had made contact. Surely I'm the one who would suffer if it grew worse…

And then he saw her face, and understood.

The realization hit him harder than her fingers had. The queen had lost everything – her brother, her sun-and-stars, her child, even Doreah just days before. Another death would add to the ghosts that followed her now, and re-open the wounds that had barely begun to heal.

Even if it was only the death of a knight.

But her expression made him think – or hope, foolishly, perhaps – that his death might mean more to her than that.

He spoke quietly, and carefully. "Forgive me, khaleesi."

The queen did not respond. She turned her head up to Irri, who had been standing warily nearby. "Irri. Fetch me that cloth, and a basin of water."

The handmaiden did as she was told.

"And then leave us," Daenerys added.

Jorah wasn't sure whether to be relieved that one less person would be a witness now, or terrified at being left alone with an angry dragon.

She wet a strip of cloth and returned her hand to his leg as she dabbed at the blood congealing at his side. The queen was silent, her mouth set in a thin line. Jorah tried to maintain a humble pose, so as not to anger her further, but it was difficult not to imagine her tiny hand sliding its way further up his thigh…

That hand might kill me before the wound does.

He struggled to think of something else. Anything but her. But he had been failing miserably at that for months, because everything was her.

Perhaps if he closed his eyes he could pretend the soft palms were someone else's. Lynesse? But that was no good – the memory of his wife was just as painful, if not more so.


He had no idea why that name had come to his mind next. The thought of the mighty Khal tending to his wounds was absurd, and Jorah nearly laughed aloud at the image. But it was an apt replacement, indeed; he might as well see Drogo's face instead of Dany's, not only now but every time he looked at her. He could see it in her eyes plainly enough. Drogo had been her sun-and-stars, and she still mourned for him.

She is his. She will always be his.

Jorah had been at her wedding – at the betrothal feast, even. She had belonged to Khal Drogo from the instant he had met her, and he had watched her grow to love her husband as his own feelings for her took root, spreading like a disease. I must be the biggest fool in all of Westeros and Essos combined. He still couldn't believe he had allowed it to happen. Again.

No matter how he tried, it seemed he would always be wounded. And always by his own hand. The king of fools.

The queen's arms wrapped around his waist, startling him out of his reverie. He looked down and saw her winding a strip of cloth across his stomach to bind the wound. She tied it off with a sharp pull – more forcefully than Jorah suspected was necessary – and he gasped in pain. I deserved that, I suppose.

He knew he should get up and leave, now that she was done. But her hand was still resting on his leg, tethering him to the floor. She was looking down, away from him, but he sensed that she intended to speak, and so he waited. The silence hung like a weight in the air, stretching the seconds. He wished she'd remove the hand, at least.

He wished she would leave it there forever.

Her voice finally came, though her head never moved, and Jorah had to strain to hear it.

"My brother is dead. My husband –ˮ her voice broke for a second, drawing a dull ache from his chest. "Is dead."

"I know, khaleesi."

Dany looked up at him for the first time since she had struck him, minutes before.

"Do you remember what I said to you in Vaes Dothrak, when you told me Viserys had tried to take my dragon's eggs? The reason I defended him?"

I remember everything you've said to me, my queen. "That he was all you had," Jorah mumbled, regretting for the hundredth time that she had spent most of her life with no company but Viserys', with no one to protect her, to guide her.

"And you said that I belonged to the Dothraki. That in my womb rode the stallion who mounts the world."

He didn't know whether that part ached because her son was gone, or because she had remembered his words almost exactly.

"You still have your khalasar, Daenerys. You are still a khaleesi." He'd spoken softly enough that he hoped she would miss - or ignore - his use of her given name.

She did, continuing with a bitter snort. "Of what? Less than a hundred old men, women, and babes, with four warriors to sweep seven kingdoms from half a world away."

However much Jorah wanted to refute it, her count was accurate.

"And three dragons -"

"No larger than cats."

"They will grow, my queen. And burn kingdoms in their wake." As they did in his dreams now, the fire laying waste to Kings' Landing, to Casterly Rock, to Winterfell. And though the fires gave way to images of Daenerys, crowned and brilliant, sitting the Iron Throne, Jorah often woke sweating, or shouting.

"Kingdoms I have never seen but in my sleep. I have only heard of them from Viserys' lips, and yours, only read of them in the books you gave to me at my wedding. Without you, my knight, how could I begin to conquer, to plan, to win over a land I hardly know?"

He had stopped breathing. Her violet eyes were fixed on his, and though he wanted to look away, they held him still.

"You are all I have left of home, Ser Jorah."

The ache grew like a ripple in water, flowing farther and deeper. What could he say to her now? With each passing day he felt less certain they would ever reach Westeros, less certain that he could protect her, or that Westeros was truly their home, or that he had any notion of what "home" was, anymore. All his life he had thought that home was a place, that it was Bear Island and pine trees and his wooden keep. When he had fled with Lynesse, he'd told himself that she was his home, wherever they were together. When she had left, all his thoughts returned to Westeros again, to Maege and his father, Dacey and her sisters, though he had no reason to think they would welcome him, or forgive him.

But now there was Daenerys. His queen. The woman he had sworn to serve and protect, whatever may come. The girl he had betrayed, spied on, lied to. He could never tell her the truth, the thing that kept him awake night after night – that he was beginning to suspect she meant more to him than Bear Island ever had, or ever would.

The woman I love.

Jorah allowed himself to admit it, finally, irrevocably. His next letter to Varys would be the last, though he still did not know what it would say.

And only if we reach a city again. A living city. That wasn't certain either, but he had paused too long now, and he couldn't meet her eyes. He had to say something.

"We will go home one day, Your Grace."

Daenerys smiled, and some of the pain lifted. She moved her hand from his thigh to his cheek, where she had hit him, and let it linger there for a moment.

"I know you swore to die for me," she continued, "but… will you try harder not to?"

Jorah returned her smile. "I will. I swear it."

She nodded. The pause in the air held for a second, and Dany was the first to break it.

"You may go, Ser Jorah." Finally the hand was gone, and Jorah instantly missed it.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Could I have my shirt back, first?"

Dany smirked at that. As she reached for the tunic and allowed him to take it from her, her eyes never left his.

Jorah didn't say a word as he pulled his shirt back over his chest. He'd said enough already. When he was decent again he stood and bowed his head to the queen, who remained cross-legged on the ground, watching him.


Daenerys nodded, still smiling. Jorah pushed back her tent flap and strode out into the City of Bones, the cracked ruins baking under the midday heat.

She had done a good job binding the wound; he noticed he could place more of his weight on his right foot as he walked. Perhaps it was starting to heal.

You are all I have left of home.

Jorah Mormont was used to having nothing left. No home, no wife, no hope. He had known for some time that his queen was all he had. She was the only thing that tethered him to life, the only chance for a life with any meaning. The only way home.

He had never considered that he might be her only way home, as well. That seemed a reason to hope, if ever there was one.

Perhaps both their wounds might one day heal.

Current Music: "The Light and the Glass", Coheed and Cambria
27 June 2012 @ 05:54 pm
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Current Mood: depresseddepressed
Current Music: "Here We Are Juggernaut", by Coheed and Cambria