Jorah had paid little attention to the tales; the Dothraki were a people of fables and stories to entertain the children and themselves during long rides. Yet now here she was; a Khaleesi with hair as vibrant as a ruby standing before him. The Blood Khaleesi, the riders called her. She won her khalesaar when her husband died. Fierce in combat and feared as a witch, thousands of riders followed the pale woman, and behind them, thousands more women and children. Khals had bowed to her and joined behind her, not daring to ask her hand in marriage.
Instead of declaring war, Daenerys had been intrigued and demanded to meet the khaleesi her outriders had ridden back with news of. Jorah thought it was a smart move, whether the stories were true or not.
Now the Blood Khaleesi stood alone. She wore the boiled leathers just as a rider and needed no crown. Her long hair was braided and adorned with dozens of bells. Whether she'd earned them with sword or when khals gave up their own rule to join her, Jorah wasn't certain. An akrah hung at her side and a dagger at her other. Something about her seemed eerily familiar to him, but he shook the notion away. He'd have remembered another Westerosi khaleesi.
"Andals?" Her green eyes flickered to Daenerys, then to Jorah. The young queen had clearly expected Dothraki riders instead of two white people. One eyebrow arched curiously.
Daenerys smiled. "By name, yes, but no, we are Westerosi."
"As am I," the Blood Khaleesi replied callously. "How, I wonder, have two Westerosi riders wandered the Red Waste without my knowing? For years I have ruled these sands, warred with the Dothraki, and ridden to survive." Her strong jaw gave her a fierce look, yet she oozed a calm and serenity that she likely even wore into battle. Her voice commanded the attention of anyone could hear it, though it was not unkind. "There's little that happens here without my knowing."
The silver-haired queen looked uncertainly to Jorah, who was admittedly just as perplexed as his charge. "I, too, ride with my own kalesaar. I am Daenerys Targaryen, rightful heir and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great-"
The red queen waved her hand and interrupted. "Ah, yes, I've heard much about the Targaryens and the Baratheons and the Starks." She nodded and touched her lips thoughtfully. "Stories from my childhood that passed the time and gave us fanciful dreams of knights and queens. Now are you truly one of them? I thought the Targaryens were supposed to have dragons." Impatience flashed across her face.
"I do," Daenerys quickly answered. "I left them at camp as to not seem threatening. I mean you no malice. I hoped we might work together. My riders bring word that you war openly with slavers and seek to free those with masters."
The woman studied Jorah for a moment. "These things are true. You wish to join my cause, yet you've brought your soldier husband with you. Why would you wish to join a ruler you mistrust?"
"He is my general, not my husband," Daenerys replied. "Ser Jorah the Andal," she introduced him. "Now you know our names. What is yours?"
With a coy smile on her lips, the ginger lady shrugged. "I don't have one. The Blood Khaleesi, my riders call me. They'd never seen someone with red hair. They thought me a witch, at first. The names were less kind then, you'll imagine."
"You must have a name," Daenerys scoffed.
Silver bells in red hair rang out as the khaleesi shifted her weight. "None bothered to give me one. It's said my whore mother ran away from her husband and left me in a brothel in Essos. The whores called me many things, but none a true name."
"That's terrible. I'm sorry," Daenerys nodded. "I didn't know my mother, either. Surely your father looked for you?"
The queen hesitated, bemused that her parentage was of such interest to a stranger. "I presume he knew nothing of me. My mother lived at that brothel for the better part of a year, pushed me out and left on her away. Word is she warms a rich merchant's bed. It seems abandoning me was a smart move." The story seemed to make her uncomfortable, but she did not break eye contact. A khaleesi would never. The red woman's demeanor changed and pride rang true in her tone. "But my father was a Westerosi knight, they say. A great warrior who fought with kings. Warring is in my blood. It has served me well and here I am. No name, no family, but a queen."
Jorah had stopped breathing. Daenerys slowly turned her head to look at him. She didn't need to ask. He understood. "How old are you?" Jorah asked slowly.
The queen sneered. "Old enough. If you're wondering after my experience, stop. I could best you in combat, old man, and will take your head from your shoulders before you could draw your sword." Then she turned to Daenerys. "You call yourself a khaleesi, hmm? So young. I'm certain you've faced the same tired old questions from men as well." She glared at Jorah for a moment, then smiled sadly at Daenerys. "You must learn right at this moment that you must be thrice as hard as any man if you want to rule in the Great Grass Sea."
Jorah's feet carried him forward, even as his mind struggled to form thoughts.
The Blood Khaleesi put a hand on her akrah and stood her ground. "Enough. I had hoped not to spill blood today, but I shall should you take another step."
"Lynesse Hightower," he breathed.
When the red haired queen stepped back in surprise, Jorah dropped to his knees. The change on the her face was enough. Her lip curled, then quickly fell back to a neutral expression. Her eyes remained wide and shocked. "Who sent you?" she breathed. The arkah rang as she drew it menacingly. "What do you know of my mother?"
"Her name was Lynesse," Jorah breathed, his body numb and hands trembling. He forced himself to look upon her face; the face he'd sworn he knew but couldn't place. It was familiar because it was so like his own. Her features. Her air. Her personality. It cannot be.
The red queen nodded but didn't sheathe her weapon. "And who was she to you?"
"My wife," he breathed. "Lynesse Hightower was my wife. She left four and twenty years ago. How – how old-?"
The silent calm had returned to the khaleesi and she nodded once. "Aye. I have four and twenty years."
Daenerys knelt at his side. "Jorah?"
He stared at the red haired queen, only able to blink. "I have a daughter. An heir." Long forgotten memories flooded his mind once again. Lynesse Hightower was the love of his life and he'd thrown everything away for her. Exile, dishonor, hunger, injury; it was all because of her. Looking back, Jorah knew he'd gladly do it again.
"I'll not give my khalesaar to you or fall under your rule," the khaleesi replied shortly. Something in her had changed and her confidence suddenly seemed an act. "Though you may be my father, that changes nothing in my life. I don't live by the Westerosi customs." She turned back to Daenerys. "Should you wish to join my khalesaar, I'll see it done. You'll cut your braid before your men and you'll join my counsel."
"I'll do no such thing," the silver haired queen snapped. "I'll stand beside you as an equal. Why should one of us rule the other?"
"Leyla," Jorah whispered.
The queens glared at him. "What?" the Blood Khaleesi snapped.
"Your name, if you want it." Jorah stood slowly. "Your mother and I were going to name a daughter Leyla, if the gods saw fit to give us one. Leyla. Of House Mormont."
"Mormont?" the queen repeated. "The bear lords of the north." A small smile tugged at her lips. "How fearsome." The Blood Khaleesi's calm returned. "I'm pleased to have found you on the other side of the world, father." She sheathed her akrah and held his gaze for a moment before turning to Daenerys. "Young khaleesi, you seem to need time to consider my offer. I'll meet you here again in the morning. Bring your bloodriders." She turned and swung onto her horse.
"Leyla," Jorah called after her, his heart simultaneously soaring and breaking. "Is there anything you'd ask of me?"
She looked over her shoulder and simply replied, "No, father."