Confessions

A/N: This is just a short drabble set during A Clash of Kings when Dany leads the weaker members of the Khalasar into the Red Waste. I always loved Jorah's dedication to Daenerys, but I also always loved that she could never accept that kind of love.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own aspects of the plot. Game of Thrones belongs to G.R.R. Martin.

"Khaleesi." Jorah murmured her title under his breath.

"Khaleesi." Jorah raised his voice ever so slightly.

"Khaleesi." Jorah begged her to turn his way. He was too weak to raise his voice over the dull throbbing of his own pulse.

The sun was hot. The dirt was hot. The air was hot.

For a moment, his dry eyes swept across the meager Khalasar spread out around him and his Khaleesi. Most were swaying unsteadily despite having sat down ages ago. Flies buzzed about them, making it impossible to discern who was alive and who was dead. A trail of dark shapes contrasting with the light colored dirt disappeared into the distance in the south, marking the path the Khalasar had taken up to this point. They were the deathly, rotting breadcrumbs of this gods-cursed journey. He groaned and forced his grainy eyes back to his Khaleesi.

She was lying back against the only rock they had found for the gods only knew how long. It barely offered any shade, and what little relief from the sun it held was sacrificed so that her dragons could snooze in mild comfort. As for his Daenerys, she sat as close to them as she could, with her head leaning back against a skin a servant had draped over the rock. She was as beautiful as she had been the day he met her. It didn't matter that her hair was still patchy from the funeral pyre of her husband, or that beads of sweat dampened her tattered excuse of a dress and left tracks through the dirt that caked her skin. She was his Maiden. She had to know that before they died.

"Khaleesi," he croaked a final time.

This time, she heard him.

Slowly, she opened her violet eyes. Gods, those eyes. Her parched lips parted and she returned his call in a broken voice.

"Yes, my bear?" She managed to say.

He struggled to push himself up off the dirt. Endless declarations ran through his mind as his muscles shook in protest. You are my queen. You are my goddess. You belong with me on Bear Island, you belong in the great oak bed my grandfather built, you belong in my wooden halls wearing the most elegant dress in all of Westeros. You are all I want. You are all I need. I love you. "Khaleesi."

He stopped. A different noise was disrupting his thought. Hoofbeats, distant yet audible. Dany heard them too. One of her servants lifted her head groggily. A few of the surviving Dothraki stirred from their grim resting places. For a minute, no one moved, but soon it became apparent who the rider was. Rakharo.

Dany became revitalized with hope. She managed to stand, though a little unsteadily, and took a few steps toward her approaching bloodrider.

"Rakharo!" The Khaleesi cried harshly from lack of water.

The horseman reached their morbid camp and slowed his horse to a stop in front of the young girl. He broke into a grin. "Khaleesi. There is a city with water, food, and shelter. We will not die here."

The others rose to their feet, finding new life in the hope of survival. Jorah did the same, though with regret weighing deep in his stomach. Daenerys had forgotten about his attempt to speak. That much was clear by how she was gathering her dragons in her arms, whispering encouragements to them as she began to lead her people toward Vaes Tolorro. She would never hear his dying confession.

What he failed to realize was that the Khaleesi would never belong to anyone.