"Restrain him!" Daenerys Targaryen cried in horror, her small frame filled with tremors as she threw her hands defensively in front of her face. Her hair was slightly tussled, a distinction from her normally smooth and perfect grooming. The sleeve of her revealing and beautiful gown was slightly thrown askew off her shoulder, uncovering more of her pale skin.
"No, khaleesi, I did not-" but Ser Jorah could not finish speaking before two of Daenerys' Dothraki guards threw themselves on his sides, dragging him from her tent. "Please, Daenerys, you must know that I never-"
"Wait," Daenerys ordered as one of the khas opened the flap to her tent, leading outside to the cold, betraying night. "Do not go just yet. I have words for this betrayer." Her eyes narrowed, and now her eyes were filled with a storm, and her tremors were those of anger, not fear. "If you speak a word of this to any of the Dothraki, I will have your head, should my husband not find it first."
Jorah could only tremble at the harsh words of his queen; but he stood tall, eyes cast down to the ground.
"Yes, khaleesi." Daenerys' nostrils flared, and as she moved down towards him, her white hair flew around her face like a halo of incandescent light.
"I am not your khaleesi," she replied, furiously. "And you are no longer my knight. Bind him so he may not move. And remove him from my sight."
"Daenerys," Jorah said, with great importance. When he knew he had caught her attention, he held her gaze, wavering. His jaw tightened, and his mouth twitched, but he could not hide it any longer. "I love you."
"No," Daenerys whispered, and Jorah frowned.
"Yes, khaleesi, it is true. It is the truest thing I have ever told you. Believe me."
The young Targaryen princess balked, but did not reply.
The last thing Jorah saw before being pulled from her tent was the sheen in her eyes, and the slight movement of her shoulders.
The khasar obeyed their queen.
They rode in the early morning sun, and Jorah could feel his vision begin to blur. He needed water. His mouth had not been parched as it was now for years, nor had he ever felt so repentant. The khalessar rode around him, shooting him grim looks that lead him to believe they despised him more than the poison sea. And yet, all Jorah could think of was the softness of her lips and the coolness of her skin, as though she bore scales on her body, and not flesh and blood. But those images were shaken from his head as he felt himself begin to slip from his horse, his legs no longer possessing the strength to keep him upright on its back. His hands were bound with a tight rope that chaffed his skin, and so he was powerless to prevent his fall. He did not even cry out when his face hit the muddy ground, but he heard cries from his entourage, and eventually a female voice directed the riders to come to a halt.
"It appears you have fallen, Ser," spoke a familiar voice.
"It appears so, khaleesi." Jorah replied.
"Then rise." When he did not, she cried, harshly, "Akko!"
Ser Jorah could not see her from where he lay on the ground, but he wondered if there was not a mocking glint in her eye. Why is she being so cruel? He wondered. But nonetheless, the former knight pushed himself from the ground with his right shoulder and spat out the mud that had found its way into his mouth. From there he shifted his position so he might sit, and try to push himself up with his feet, but his attempts were in vain. His muscles tensed and shuddered, and he could barely moved. Drops of sweat formed on his forehead, and slid down his face. And yet Daenerys stared down at him with an ice-cold expression. She is a dragon, though oftentimes I wonder if she should not have been born in the North. By the shadows on her face, her eyes nearly seemed black. She was forbidding, yet beautiful.
"How sad it is, to watch you struggle," Daenerys commented, riding forth. "I hope you will rise soon enough, ser, or you will be killed by my riders."
Cruel indeed.
But perhaps it was the price he needed to pay for his crimes. For the depth of his emotions.
Once more, the night was cold. Jorah stared up at the moon, who gazed back at him with its unyielding and silent inspection. Jorah wished for the comfort of his furs to keep him warm, but more than comfort he wished for forgiveness. He remembered how she had felt when he held her in his arms, how her body had complied to the wishes of his own; how fluid she had felt there, with him. Yet in an instant, she had turned on him. She had acted as if he were her foe. I will never forgive myself for this, he mused, retelling the story to himself over and over, knowing it would bring naught but insanity to his mind. This ill-thinking will only open the gates to madness, Jorah thought, yet he could not remove the brokenness of her eyes as she removed him from her presence, nor the sorrow in his heart as he listened to her command it to be done. Tomorrow, if he lived to see the light of dawn, he would tell her this. He would make his regrets known.
"Ser," a female voice intoned from the darkness. Jorah, startled, looked to his right, and found Irri, one of Daenerys' handmaids. "Khaleesi wishes to speak with you." She helped him stand, and Jorah shifted his weight onto her as much as he could, to demonstrate the importance of his next words.
"Tell me, please—am I to die now?" Jorah could feel his heart pounding through his chest as it had not since battle, but it was not in fear of death; no, it was in fear that the woman he admired more than any other would kill him with her own blade. Or would be pleased in watching his death. Irri did not reply. Jorah persisted. "Tell me! If I am to die, there are things khaleesi must know."
The handmaid did not reply. She merely motioned with her hand to Daenerys' tent, and helped him move.
"Come, she waits."