Notes:

-Original post date 5/10/2019
-Revised on 5/11/2019
-Added chapters 2 and 3 on 5/12/2019
-Added chapter 4 on 5/19/2019
-Added chapter 5 on 5/24/2019

This was supposed to be a one-shot with just one chapter, but I was inspired and ended up writing some more. I don't know how many chapters there will be, but I'm going to keep going!

Enjoy!

P.S. See this story on Archive Of Our Own for the R-rated version! :)

P.P.S. *Interested in collaborating on an original science fiction or fantasy book? I have always wanted to write a novel but lack ideas at the moment, and would love to co-author something unique. Email me at c3sky3 and let's chat!*


Ser Jorah opened the door to find his queen standing there. He said nothing, uncertain of the purpose for her visit, afraid that the fleeting hope he held close to his heart was but a foolish dream.

"May I come in?" she asked.

He lowered his head in acknowledgement and moved aside to allow her entry, closing the heavy oak door softly behind her, his heart beating against the intricate black armor Daenerys had given him upon his most recent return to her services. He could not find the words to even ask why she was here.

"That armor suits you, Ser Jorah," she said appreciatively.

"Thank you, Your Grace. It was a fine gift. I believe it will serve me well." His voice sounded so course compared to hers.

"I hope it serves you as well as you have served me," she said with a tender smile.

Jorah's heart nearly burst with pride and joy. He had never forgiven himself for sending news of her exploits and location to Varys's little birds, even though Daenerys was but a stranger to him then. When she banished him upon his confession, he had wanted to lay down and die rather than live apart from his queen. Instead, he had captured Tyrion Lannister and brought him before her as a gift, only to contract greyscale during the journey. She had sent him away once more to find a cure; Jorah had gone to Oldtown and endured a torturous removal of his infected flesh at the hands of an apprentice maester. He remembered how the Dothraki had brought him to her, how her eyes had lit up upon his arrival, how she had embraced him for the first time in the years they had known each other. Her forgiveness filled him with gratification.

"Remove it," she commanded, stiffly.

Jorah froze, his heart brittle as glass. She wanted him to bare himself before her. "I don't under-"

"I wish to see how you are healing," Daenerys said, her voice soft once again. "Please." Her beautiful blue eyes were worried, pleading.

Jorah turned away from his queen, struggling to control his fear. He was a brave fighter; even when he and Tyrion had been captured as slaves and sold to the fighting pits, Jorah was confident in his strength. He won every match. But now, faced with removing his armor before Daenerys, he faltered. Whether she knew it or not, she had the power to utterly destroy him. Hiding his trembling hands, he began to remove his armor, piece by piece, setting each one down in the chest at the foot of the bed, until he was left standing clad only from the waist down. Behind him, Daenerys was silent. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he found the courage to face her, and turned around.

She gasped at the sight of his scarred flesh, a hand flying to cover her mouth.

Jorah stepped forward to console her, taking her hands in his. In all the time they spent together, they rarely shared any physical contact. Her hands were not forbidden, but even that felt like he was taking something he did not deserve. "It's all right. The infection is gone. I am not in any pain."

"How?" she asked, freeing one hand from Jorah's to caress his ravaged chest with abundant tenderness.

He closed his eyes for a moment at her touch, his entire body tense, then relaxing with gratification. She had breached their separation of her own accord. This contact carried a wealth of meaning. He had to force his eyelids open to look at her. "The infected flesh had to be cut away."

"That... must have been..."

"...excruciating," he finished for her. Plunging deep into his will, he found the bravery to speak the words on his mind, squeezing the queen's hand he still held as the other trailed lightly across his chest. "But nothing can compare to the pain of your absence." There. He had said it. He had laid bare his ultimate vulnerability before her without asking anything in return.

They gazed at each other for a long moment, Jorah's expression somber and fragile, Khaleesi's eyes transforming from sorrow to wounded affection and filling with tears. "Please, don't ever leave me again," she said, her voice trembling.

He had only seen her this broken a few times - when her brother sold her to the Dothraki like a slave, when Khal Drogo had died, and when her dragon had died. Jorah reached out to slide his fingers into her silver-blonde hair, cupping her sweet face. "I will never leave your side as long as you want me there, my queen." In his eyes was a fierce devotion.

Danaerys kissed him, her lips firm with affirmation and passion. He kissed her with fervor, releasing the intense ardor that had been chained in his heart for so long. Jorah would do anything for her. Anything. Tears squeezed their way out between his closed eyelids as they kissed. Her touch became more firm as she realized it would not hurt him. The kiss ended; he was still holding her face with one hand. The other reached around to grace the curve of her lower back, pulling her toward him with a gentle pleading that told her she was still in control in case she had second thoughts about where this was going. She responded by wrapping her slender arms around his neck and leaning into another kiss, surrendering herself completely to her guardian.


Afterwards, they shared a look of warm compassion and mutual satisfaction. He brushed a strand of her hair from her face and spoke, his words heavy with the weight of his devotion to her.

"I have always loved you."

Daenerys's hair was soft between his fingers as he played with it idly, lying on his side in bed and gazing at her face in adoration. She looked at him, humbled by the depth of devotion evident in his eyes and a little frightened of its ferocity.

"I have seen that look before," she told him, her expression worn out but content. "You were never very good at hiding it."

He gave her a sheepish smile, but said nothing.

"Have I embarrassed the great Ser Jorah Mormont into silence by pointing out his obvious feelings for his queen?"

"You have, Your Grace."

The Mother of Dragons shifted in the bedsheets to put her back against Ser Jorah's scarred chest, nestling herself into his embrace. He wrapped an arm around her waist and sighed into her hair, expecting to wake at any moment from a dream that was now reality.