Here I Stand
Disclaimer: I do not own ASOIAF or Game of Thrones. One is owned by the supremely talented but frustrating George R.R. Martin and the other is owned by HBO, respectively.
The world is so very different across the Narrow Sea, Jorah muses. Where Westeros was all lush, green forests, here...here is nothing but nearly endless bone-dry desert. Here, where the sun shines hot and merciless, it seems as if it is a place that is free of winter's cold embrace. Here, the people know nothing of desperate last minute harvests, three foot snow drifts, and children born and dying without ever seeing the sun.
He inhales a quiet breath, taking in the salted tang of the sea. Here, the waters are warm and calm. Where he is from, the sea is prone to violent storms and brutal, lashing winds. It is possibly and odd thing to miss the cold, but he does. In spite of years of living amongst the nomadic Dothraki, he's never entirely adjusted to the heat. Barring the rare occasional rainfall, there is little variety in the weather in this Seven forsaken place.
And yet, in spite of the harshness of Westeros, he misses it. A yearning stirs in his heart for when he would hunt down an elk to roast that very night in the kitchens. The rich, sharp smell of the pines of Bear Island. The green that blanketed Westeros during the long summers, and the cruel beauty of the long winter he'd endured in his youth. He can scarcely remember the last time he's seen snow. His father, he muses, is surrounded by it at his post on the Wall. He hasn't heard from him for many years, he realizes, and feels a stab of regret that he knows he'll never see him again.
However, it is not as if Jeor Mormont would want to see him, considering all he's done and how far he's fallen, tarnishing his once honorable family name. Truth be told, if he did go back to Westeros, what would be there for him? It wouldn't be as if his family would welcome him back with loving arms. He'd been stripped of his knighthood, and he'd fled like a coward from the justice of Ned Stark.
To think, it had all been for the sake of a woman. Oh, what a bloody stupid fool he'd been, blinded by her love and her beauty. She'd been a vain, selfish creature, much unlike his first wife, whom he had loved for her gentleness, even though she'd been far plainer than his pretty, vain Lynesse. He'd gone to every length and made every sacrifice to please her, bringing out singers to amuse her and making sure she had all the fine clothes that she could ever want, until her expensive tastes had bled his coffers dry.
For a long time, he'd believed that he would never lay eyes on Westeros again. Until he had found her
She, who was now the last living Targaryen ever since her brother had been granted a crown forged from melted gold, and died screaming. He has watched as she's grown from a frail, shy, meek girl into the conqueror that she was born to be. She is the most beautiful creature he's ever seen, making Lynesse pale in comparison. He sees the flame that burns in her soul, remembering her words as Viserys had died screaming.
He was no dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon.
Her brother had been nothing more than a small, pitiful lizard in comparison to her.
Jorah knows, without a single doubt, that it will be her. She will be the one to retake Westeros with fire and blood. She will be the one to uproot the usurpers and put them to the sword. She will be the one to command the people's love as well as their fear, when the roars of her dragons once again echo throughout the halls of the Red Keep.
She is his hope that he may once again set foot upon Westerosi soil. He entertains such lofty notions of perhaps acting as the Hand of the Queen, guiding her and influencing her, knowing that she will make a good, kind, and just ruler. He knows that while she may love him in her way, as a dear friend and sage adviser, she will forever be out of his reach. He will never be the man that commands her heart. He will never able to call her his wife. She will never bear his children. He wishes that he were far younger than he is, and his body wasn't so weary and battle worn because of the long years he's spent fighting for the sake of others, whether as a proud bannered knight on a shining charger or as a much maligned sellsword, going from once being the pride of his house to its greatest shame.
He remembers the first time he saw her. Her beauty had taken his breath away with her hair like pale silver and her eyes like amethysts. With her solemnity and deep gravitas, he'd seen much of Rhaegar in her, and he felt something in his heart stir. He remembers when he had been taken into the service of the siblings. He'd felt a profound relief at the death of her loathsome brother, and vowed that even though he was a knight that was far past his prime, he would use the very last breath in his body to protect his beloved queen, even if it means that he will die upon this soil and never see Westeros again.
No, not queen, he corrects himself.
Khaleesi.
To him and the others in their ragged, motley little band she will always be their khaleesi. The gods have not been kind to her, but she still stands strong and defiant. She is undaunted, and she will be unstoppable when the time comes.
She will be the one to retake and sit upon the Iron Throne. He knows it in his bones, and he will do everything in his power to make that happen, even if it comes at the cost of his own life.
She will be the one who, at long last, perhaps will lead him home.