A/N: This was started as soon as I had time after last week's episode (mild spoilers for it). I don't have much to say about this, other than it's basically a little character study of Jorah and what he might have been thinking after riding away and beyond that. I took liberties with the ending of course.

Ramblings of a Lonesome Fool

Jorah Mormont had a lot on his mind. He also had a lot of time on his hands, but not enough; never enough time. There was never enough time for the things that truly mattered. He sat atop his horse watching his queen, his khaleesi, lead her new Dothraki army away from Vaas Dothrak, Daario Naharis at her side. While the other male was a sellsword and Jorah had distrusted him, Daario had been nothing but loyal to Daenerys since he joined her guard.

Jorah wished he could say that he had been completely loyal from the first. Instead, he'd done the unthinkable. Instead, he'd sold out her secrets to Varys. Instead, he'd betrayed her. Just as he'd betrayed his father.

Jorah turned his horse away and trotted off into the Dothraki sea. He didn't have a plan, he knew of no one who could heal the Greyscale; bringing it to the forefront of his mind caused the diseased skin to itch and crawl beneath his thin tunic. But she had given him a purpose when he had nothing, when he would have ended it because he had failed the one person who meant something to him. He had always imagined death would be at the hand of one of her enemies, protecting her to his last, not to an incurable disease that left him no other choice than to end it himself.

Gods, what a mess he had gotten himself into. He would never pass the blame to anyone but himself. He had made his choice and he had spent all that time trying to prove to her that he was utterly devoted to her. That she was the only queen he bowed to. That she was the one he loved, and would always love.

And she had sent him away. Not that he blamed her. And he had gone back to her because without her, what was his purpose? He didn't have one. He had nowhere else if not with her.

And now? Seven hells, he was stranded. And he was a fool. A cursed fool. And she was his curse. She was fire and he a moth. He was drawn to her by a force he couldn't explain. She was his curse, his beautiful curse. However, her pull was muted, a side effect of the broken stone his arm was covered in.

Her words came back to him and they squeezed at the heart sitting within his breast. He stopped his horse and glanced behind him. In the distance he could still see the silver of her hair blowing in the wind.

"When I take the Seven Kingdoms, I need you by my side."

A few words had changed everything. He had been ready to find a secluded place to succumb to his wrong doings and she had stopped him. She had stopped him cold by reminding him that he'd promised his life to her. That he still had a purpose; to serve her. To find a cure.

Jorah spurred his horse into a gallop. He would go to the ends of the world to find that cute, to find his way back to her side.

Because it would make all his lonesome ramblings worth it if he could just see her sitting upon her true throne.

x.x.x

Gods, he was a fool. It had been too long, there hadn't been enough time. There never was. That morning when he woke up, he knew the time had come. His entire left arm was disfigured by the disease. The stone was a mess of shattered lines and broken bits, hardly an arm any longer. It had traveled up his neck and across his chest, a grotesque criss-cross pattern of doom.

He'd gone down to the market and gone to the apothecary and picked up a vial that he had ordered much in advance in case. "In case" had definitely come. It had gone too far. There was no cure

Then he'd gone down to the raven coop and paid the man to send the letter that he'd dropped off months in advance in case. "In case" had definitely come. It had gone too far. There was no cure.

Now, Jorah Mormont sat against the wall of his lodgings, vial clutched in his right hand. He felt bad for the poor maid that would find him. Every inch of skin was covered, there was no chance someone would contract the disease from him. He would not be the cause of its spread.

Seven hells, how had he come to this? But he knew. He knew and he blamed no one but his own foolishness. He had wished to see Daenerys one last time, though she knew of he love and he was lightened to know that a part of her had forgiven him. Forgiveness was a release but forgiveness from Daenerys… That could lift a centuries old burden.

Though the fact he was failing her pulled the burden back down upon his heavy shoulders. She had commanded him to find a cure. He had not found it. In the vial was the closest thing to a cure he'd found.

He would not see her sit upon the Iron Throne. He would not see Westeros bow before her. He would not see how much they loved her and how a smile would light up her eyes as she moved through King's Landing. He would not see her again.

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, uncorking the vial and drinking. He recorked it and set it on the ground, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He felt the poison burn down his throat and settle in his stomach. There was no turning back now.

He thought back to his letter. Forgive me, Khaleesi. Signed Jorah. He didn't even know if it would reach her. He didn't know if he wanted it to. He didn't want her to know of his failure though it was better than waiting for someone who would not return.

He swallowed hard and his solution took him under. And in his dreams, Daenerys was with him. Her cheek brushed his and she cursed the gods. Cursed them, told them they couldn't have him. He told her that the gods were good, that they had given him chances he didn't deserve, that they had set him on a path to serve the rightful queen.

Now, if someone had told him that Daenerys Targaryen, the First of her Name, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, Stormborn was a goddess, Jorah would have believed them. Every day since he knelt at her feet and begged for forgiveness, Jorah had thought bad on his decision to spy on her for Varys. He'd sold her secrets, he'd betrayed her trust from the first day and yet he had loved her since it as well. She, who was once a little girl, now a queen worthy of the world. Though this was not this world. She was too good for this world. He longed for there to be a world that he could give her, but there was none worthy of her. There were none worthy of her heart for she was fire. Though perhaps if she were fire, than he were the pyre because he'd long since been burnt to a crisp by her fire.

He felt drips of her tears on her face. He hated to be the cause of those tears. He watched them flow down across her cheeks, dripping off her chin and felt his heart clench in his chest. He could do nothing to stop them, save perhaps live but that wasn't in his power.

He didn't want to remember his choice even in this dream world. He only wanted to remember her, the blue-violet of her eyes, the soft twist of her lips when she was amused, the soft locks of her hair and how they framed her face when not pulled back in braids. He wanted to remember the strength of her voice as she commanded thousands, the softness in her gaze for a child.

He shifted, to press his hand to her face, rough skin of his thumb against her cheek bone as he brushed gently at the tears. Normally he would not be so brazen to touch her unless first gaining her permission, but he feared he would never again feel her skin beneath his after this day. Even it was just a vision of a dying man, it felt real. It was as real as he'd ever get now. There was no chance of something like this happening, and in his last moments, Jorah selfishly allowed himself to think thoughts he never allowed himself to think.

In his dreamscape, Daenerys kissed him. Her lips were soft and her kiss was velvet, gentleness and dripped with melancholy raindrops. In his dreamscape, she repeated his words of love and of passion. Her words were gentle and their meaning was coated with forgiveness and loss. In his dreamscape, everything was easy. His chest was light and breathing was easy while in reality his throat constricted and his lungs clenched, yearning for air that wouldn't come.

In his dreamscape, Jorah found his paradise. And it was in that paradise where he found his peace. His chest was calm, small struggled breaths causing it to rise and fall and then a long exhale...

Then stillness.