"Under the covers, now," he murmured as he laid her down on the bed. She did as she was told, wrapping herself tightly in the furs while Jorah fumbled in the darkness to light the candle on her bedside stand. Once the flame flickered to life, he turned for the door. "I'll go fetch some hot water—"

Daenerys caught his wrist in a panic. She knew that she was acting like a child, but she was too far gone to care. The thought of lying alone in the darkness of that room again made her skin crawl with dread. "No, I'm fine," she stammered. "I'll be fine." Jorah looked at her skeptically, and she pleaded with him, her voice quavering, "Don't leave me."

Any resistance melted from his face immediately. He sat down at the edge of the bed and lifted her pale hand to his lips. "Never," he promised.

She reclaimed his hand between her own and clutched it under her chin like a child with a blanket. His fingers were warm against her chilled skin, and after a while she found herself nuzzling absently into his hand. When she glanced up again, the look of pure adulation in his eyes stole her breath away. For just a moment, she thought it would be easy, so incredibly easy to draw him down to her, to let him smother her grief in the warmth of his love. Her walls and defenses were in ruins around her; she was completely vulnerable. He needed only to press his advantage.

He wanted to. His eyes ached with it. She could almost see his pulse bounding in his throat, in his temples, as her gaze roamed the rugged lines of his face. Her lips parted, drawing in a tremulous breath.

Jorah stopped breathing.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he leaned down, his eyes never leaving hers. Daenerys returned his gaze unflinchingly, trusting him. Only when she felt the brush of his nose against hers did she allow her eyelashes to flutter shut. She could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the shudder of warm air that passed between their lips. But before she could even consider lifting her mouth to his, he had eased off to one side, following the curve of her cheek. His lips left a whisper of a kiss at her temple, and then he drew back.

Daenerys lay still for a moment, her eyes closed, her heart pounding. A crimson flush burned up her neck and across her cheeks at the realization of what they'd nearly done.

It was her fault, she recognized immediately. He shouldn't have had to be the one to pull away. It was their unspoken agreement that it was her job to hold the shield between them. He professed his love, and she stood still and listened, communicating volumes in her silence. She loved him, too – that much was undisputed – but she had been exceedingly careful never to examine what sort of love it was she felt for him in return. It didn't matter – couldn't matter. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms needed to remain open to a marriage of strategic importance. If she'd followed Tyrion's advice, she would have dismissed Jorah from her court altogether, as she had Daario, cutting any ties that might prove a hindrance to her political pursuits. Perhaps it would have even been kinder to Jorah, to reinstate his Lordship over Bear Island and let him live out the remainder of his days back home, with a wife who could reciprocate his love in the way he deserved, who could bear him children to carry on his family name. She wished she had the strength to give that to him – to command it as his Queen, knowing that he would otherwise refuse. But her heart couldn't take it. The very thought of sending him away again made her whole body go cold.

When she finally dared to open her eyes, the Queen was nowhere to be found; it was Dany who stared up at him, nearly a decade of shared history burning and sparking in the space between them, and all the emotions carried within it storming in her violet eyes – the hurt, the betrayal, the love, the friendship… the crushing, impossible guilt of trapping him there with her, knowing that it would never be enough.

I'm sorry, she told him with her gaze, not trusting her own voice. In her bear's weathered face she found the same steadfast, patient, selfless love she'd seen reflected there for as long as she could remember. He'd already forgiven her, a thousand times over, and a thousand times again.

When she tried to speak his name, he hushed her gently, reading her as clearly as if she'd spoken aloud. "Shh. It doesn't matter. Not tonight." He took her hand, his thumbs brushing delicate circles over her knuckles. "Daenerys, I wish to the gods I could take your pain and bear it myself. Believe me, if I thought for a moment that offering a distraction would help, then I'd…." With great effort, he dropped his gaze from her lips to their joined hands, collecting himself with an iron will. He shifted his seat, and sighed deeply. "I know I cannot begin to fathom… I've never lost a child, not like this. I wasn't able to look on the faces of the babes my wife lost in the birthing bed. But I do understand what it is to lose someone you love very deeply."

Daenerys looked away, unable to bear the sight of his grief reflected back at her like a mirror of her own soul. He'd never told her any of this before. He didn't like to talk about his life before his exile from Westeros. When prodded, any answers he gave about the subject were normally clipped and very brief. She knew by the pain in his voice that he needed to tell this story as much as she needed to hear it. She squeezed his hand and lowered her chin in a half-nod, encouraging him to continue.

"My mother never belonged on Bear Island. She was a southern beauty, with golden hair and roses in her cheeks. Her smile could warm you to the bones just to look at it. She grew up on an orchard, with sunshine and open fields. She wasn't made to survive the harsh winters in the North. When she died, all of the light and warmth went out of our halls. My father went out into the forest for hours at a time, chopping wood to build up the fires. He cleared entire groves of pines, and it was never enough. He was the strongest man I've ever known, and the sorrow broke him. He couldn't bear to live in those walls without her. When he summoned me to the Hall and placed his Valyrian steel sword in my hands, I knew that he was leaving, and that he was never coming back. I wouldn't look at him, wouldn't speak to him. I wouldn't even tell him goodbye."

Jorah reached out to lift her chin, drawing her eyes to his. "When he looked at me, he saw the same expression you wore at supper tonight. He said to me, 'You're angry. That's good. Don't make your Father's mistake, and try to bury the grief. It will only turn to poison. Purge it, burn it away, and let it scar. It will make you stronger, if you let it.'"

Daenerys covered his hand with hers, holding it to her cheek. She hummed thoughtfully, considering his words. "So it's an old Mormont trait, then," she mused, her eyes gentle. "Offering sage advice that you yourself brazenly ignore."

"Aye, I suppose it is." His eyes sparkled for a moment before his face grew serious again. "He was right, though. If I'd listened to him, my life might have turned out much differently."

"I'm glad you didn't," she whispered.

"So am I," Jorah agreed, brushing his thumb over the curve of her cheekbone. Daenerys curled her fingers around his hand to still it, and pressed a kiss to his calloused palm. He sighed shakily, then, and gave her a fleeting, sad smile.

"You are no stranger to loss, Khaleesi. I know you will process the grief in your own time, in your own way. I don't pretend to be any great expert on the subject, but I do know that heavy burdens are easier to bear with a second set of hands. If you need to talk about it… about the way he died, about the way he lived… I'm here to listen."

Her brows knitted together, her eyes far away. She shook her head, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of memories that stretched before her. "I wouldn't even know where to begin," she admitted quietly.

"At the beginning," he said, without a trace of irony. "Perhaps tell me a story from when he was small. Something that makes your heart glad just to think of it."

Daenerys drew herself slowly to a sitting position, bracing her back against the headboard. She sat quietly for a time, fretting a piece of the fur blanket between her thumb and forefinger. When she was fairly certain she could speak in a level voice, she began hesitantly, "Out there, I was…" She swallowed, took a breath. "I was remembering how he and Rhaegal would curl up to sleep at night, when they were little."

"Mm. The Dance of Dragons, we called it," said Jorah, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Yes," she released her breath in a sound that was almost a laugh. "That was it. They were religious about it. The same dance, the same routine, always. Do you remember the night I tried to separate them, to punish them for squabbling?"

"How could I forget? We were on the ship to Astapor. They screamed for hours, kept the whole crew awake. Rhaegal ripped apart half the cargo hold before you gave in."

She tried to smile, but it didn't quite meet her eyes. "They loved each other. From the very first, they…" Her voice faltered, and Jorah took her hand. She drew in a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. "I was meticulous, in the beginning. I knew that a mother should never show a preference among her children. I was so careful to split my time with them evenly. But even when they were babies, there was this… this natural division between them. Drogon wanted me, only me, but Viserion and Rhaegal preferred each other. They loved me, I know they did. They'd purr and sing for as long as I held them. But the moment I placed them back in their basket, they'd twirl together into their little circle to sleep. Whereas Drogon…" She sighed.

"Oh, I remember." Jorah lifted his right hand to reveal a half-moon scar of white pinpoints the size of baby dragon teeth. "I only ever tried to take him from your shoulder once. I never made that mistake again."

Her eyes shimmered as she took his hand in her own, tracing a finger lightly along the old scar. "It was difficult to be impartial, when he was so desperate to be near me," she admitted. "After a while I told myself it was all right to let him stay with me, so long as Rhaegal and Viserion weren't bothered by it. And they never were. They were never jealous, never spiteful, never. They were content so long as they had each other."

Jorah nodded, his eyes fixed on her face, wordlessly encouraging her to continue. Perhaps he sensed her reluctance to delve any further. There were moments, dark and terrible moments that Daenerys was ashamed to revisit even on her best days. The thought of facing them tonight seemed almost unbearable. Her natural inclination was to skip past them, to smooth over the excruciating parts. She would have, had Jeor Mormont's words not resounded with her. Steeling herself as best she could, she forced herself to purge the last of the poison.

"That's how I justified it to myself, when I locked them away in the catacombs." She allowed the words to slide into a heavy, aching silence before lifting haunted eyes to Jorah's. "You were gone for that."

"I was," he replied softly. He shifted his weight, treading very carefully. "Daario Naharis told me bits and pieces. He said a peasant dropped his child's bones at your feet."

She gave a brisk, small nod. The image of the little girl's charred skeleton still frequented her nightmares, all these years later. It stayed the worst of her Targaryen impulses when the question of burning down the Red Keep crept into her advisors' conversations around the Painted Table.

"Her name was Zala," she whispered. "She was three."

Jorah was silent and still; his fingers had ceased their comforting ministrations along the back of her hand. Even his breathing slowed as he waited for her to continue.

"It was Drogon who killed her. Her father was incoherent with grief, but he did manage to communicate that much. 'The winged shadow,' he called him. I sent Daario and the Second Sons out among the people to spread the word that I was looking for him. How many shepherds and fishermen had come before me to seek repayment for the damage he had caused? I thought surely one of them would be able to tell me where he was. I offered fifty gold pieces to any man, woman or child whose information led to his capture. The line of informers stretched to the city gates by morning. All of them left empty-handed."

She swallowed hard. "I had to do something. I couldn't continue to make excuses or offer bags of gold. It wasn't a goat or a sheep this time, it was someone's child. Her father didn't want payment. He wanted justice for his little girl. I couldn't find Drogon. I couldn't stop him. But I knew exactly where to find Viserion and Rhaegal."

It was becoming difficult to speak; her throat constricted, as if unwilling to let the words pass. "They came willingly. Happily. They thought it was a great adventure. They were thrilled when they found the oxen I'd left for them. They didn't even look up when I locked the irons around their necks. Rhaegal purred for me as I chained him." Jorah's hand tightened on hers. She shook her head, despairing. "They never suspected. I was halfway back to the stairs before Viserion realized he couldn't follow me. They screamed for me, they screamed . They were so betrayed. And I just… left them there. I walked away and I left them, and I shut them in darkness. And they hadn't even done anything wrong ."

Jorah's hand went to her upper arm and kneaded gently. "You had no choice. As soon as word of the child's death spread, your subjects would have demanded blood. They wouldn't have cared which dragon was responsible. Locking Rhaegal and Viserion away protected them just as much as your people."

"Yes, it was a very rational choice," she snapped. "Believe me, I laid awake all night trying to come up with a list of reasons why it was the right decision. It was a long list. And not a single one of them mattered to my children." She shook her head, her teeth set in self-loathing. "I went back to visit them the next night. I wanted them to know that I hadn't abandoned them. I wanted to explain it to them. Do you know what they did?" Jorah shook his head reluctantly, unable to meet her gaze. "They lunged at me, breathing fire. They were furious. For the first time in my life, I was afraid of them. They chased me out of the catacombs long before I could begin to regale them with my practical list of reasons why they deserved to be locked away for their brother's crimes."

Unsure of what to say, Jorah wisely said nothing. Daenerys studied him for a time, watching his fingers resume their slow, absent strokes across the back of her hand. With a sigh, she rested her head back against the headboard. "I should have known better. I read every last page of the songs and histories you gave me. I knew what happened to the dragons once my ancestors put them in chains. Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor. "

A dragon is not a slave .

"No," Jorah agreed. "But neither can they be allowed to lay waste to the land and its people without consequence. It was a dilemma your ancestors were never able to solve, I'm afraid. They did the best they could under the circumstances, and so did you."

Daenerys gave him a small nod, unable to argue with his logic. She wasn't certain whether her ancestors' failings made hers any less reprehensible, but it sounded like good sense coming out of Jorah's mouth.

"Some of the historians from those books of yours claim that dragons are more intelligent than men," he continued. "I'm inclined to believe them. Your children may have been angry with you at first, but from my understanding, they flew to your side to join you in battle the moment they had their freedom."

"Freedom their own mother never gave them," she said bitterly. "It was a Lannister, of all people, who unchained them in the end."

Jorah snorted. "Tyrion's a bold man, I'll grant him that much. But the point remains." He gave her a look.

She bristled at the challenge. "The city was under attack," she answered with a tinge of exasperation. "They saw their brother fly overhead, and yes, they joined him."

"Mm." His lips twitched knowingly. "I suppose it was Drogon who commanded them to burn the Wise Masters' flagship?"

"Who told you all of this?" she demanded, her brow furrowed in disapproval.

"Your Hand enjoys the sound of his own voice," he answered. "Particularly when he's drunk."

Daenerys rolled her eyes off to one side. "My Hand enjoys the sound of his own voice when he's perfectly sober."

"Aye, that he does."

The moment of levity passed as swiftly as it had come, leaving Daenerys staring once again into her bear's knowing blue eyes. Unarmed by the genuine understanding written there, she dropped her gaze, and tucked her knees up to her chest. Her throat rolled with a swallow, and at last she answered him, hoarsely, vulnerably. "Yes. They forgave me. Without question and without hesitation. Don't you understand? That only made it worse."

"Why?" he prodded gently, though she could see in his face that he already knew the answer.

"Because I didn't deserve it," she insisted, her voice ragged with pain. "I abandoned them to rot in the dungeons and then I used them as weapons for my own political gain. The moment they had their freedom, they should have flown far away from me."

Jorah reached up, then, to cup her cheek in his hand. "The dragons followed you because you are their mother. No matter how much destruction they wreaked, no matter how much trouble they caused you, you never stopped loving them. That love works both ways, Khaleesi."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she demanded, feeling her jaw begin to ache with the threat of tears. "That Viserion loved me enough to follow me to his death?"

"Perhaps," Jorah agreed softly. "Is there any better way to die than in service to the ones we love?"

"I didn't want him to die at all!" she cried. Her voice cracked, and she felt herself rapidly coming undone. "I'm supposed to be the Protector of the Realm. How can I possibly claim that title if I can't even protect the ones I love most in this world?"

Her bear was shaking his head, a litany of excuses rising on his tongue to defend her. Before they could escape, she choked out a broken sob. "He was my baby, Jorah," she rasped through a throat cinched with pain. Her eyes welled with tears, begging him to understand. "He was my baby…"

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Jorah slid into bed beside her and took her in his arms. Daenerys grasped fistfuls of his tunic and buried her face in the crook of his neck, lost to her grief.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his own voice strained with sorrow.

"It's my fault," she sobbed.

"No. Shh, no, it's not."

"It is." She choked, and coughed, before continuing brokenly, "People have been telling me I'm in mortal danger for so long that I stopped believing them. It's the Targaryen hubris, isn't it? Our own blind arrogance. I didn't even see the Night King take up the spear. I didn't know Viserion was in danger until I heard him scream. I couldn't call out to him, I couldn't reach him, I couldn't…" She heaved several shuddering breaths, her tears drenching his skin. "And now he's gone, and I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye. I couldn't tell him how sorry I am for being such a terrible mother…"

Jorah shook his head, bringing his lips to the shell of her ear. "You are many things, Daenerys Stormborn," he murmured. "But a terrible mother has never been one of them." His hand smoothed broad, gentle circles along her back as he spoke. "Shhh. Listen to me. Listen now. Let me tell you what I remember, hm?" He was rocking her, subconsciously, swaying gently at the hips. "I remember a young widow, bleeding, in pain, blistered from the sun. The last of the horse meat was gone. You hadn't eaten in two days. You barely had the strength to stand when Irri returned to camp with a desert hare. We tried to get you to eat, but you refused to take a single bite until the best cuts had been divided in three and given to your babies." He smoothed her hair back from her face and gently lifted her chin to look at him. "A mother's love is a fearsome, unbreakable thing. You would have sacrificed your life for your children. Viserion knew that, I promise you. He knew it in the Red Waste, he knew it in the catacombs, and he knew it with his dying breath."

There was healing in his words, Daenerys knew, when the day came that she could begin to accept them. For now, her guilt still howled in her breast, insisting that she was to blame for all of this – that somehow she should have known, should have prevented it. She tucked her face back into the curve of his neck and cried until her ribs ached, until her eyes were puffy and her throat raw. Her breath hitched and shuddered with sobs long after she ran out of tears, dwindling gradually to whimpers, then hiccups. Jorah did his best to comfort her, gently massaging the rigid muscles of her back, her shoulders, her neck. When she was quiet in his arms, exhausted and completely cried out, his fingers began to work through her hair, gently teasing and smoothing over the fine threads of silver until she began to relax against him little by little. With time, her breathing grew slow and even, and she closed her eyes, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

When he thought her asleep, Jorah's hand finally stilled at the base of her neck, cradling her, as he lowered his lips to her forehead. He breathed her in, pressing slow, gentle kisses along the top of her head before whispering into her hair, "Gods, but I love you."

The terror at just how quickly, how clearly, the natural response rose to the tip of Daenerys's tongue was enough to arrest it there. It was all she could do to maintain the pretense of sleep while her pulse thrummed so frantically in her veins that she was sure he must feel it.

I can't, she reminded herself, fiercely, repeatedly.

Already the sky beyond the port window was tinged through with violet and grey, the promise of morning waiting on the horizon. They would be home, soon, and then on to King's Landing.

We can't.

And so she lay perfectly still in his arms, trying her best to convince herself that she hadn't known the truth all along.

Jorah stayed with her a while longer, as unwilling to leave her as she was to let him go. When the first rays of dawn broke through the window, he finally eased out from underneath her, laying her head carefully down on the pillows. His spine cracked as he stood, and she heard him hiss a little through his teeth. After the strain of full-contact battle and two nights without sleep, it occurred to her, suddenly, how sore, how bruised, how utterly exhausted he must be.

It didn't stop him from turning back, one last time, to whisper his fingers through her hair. He heaved a great sigh before turning for the door. When he lifted the heavy metal latch, Daenerys allowed her eyes to drift halfway open, watching him leave.

"Ñuha gryves," she murmured, lapsing sleepily into her mother tongue. My bear. He turned his head to look back at her. She locked gazes with him, letting her expression say what she couldn't.

He gave her a tender smile. "Try to get some rest, my Queen," he said, returning to the formalities that would constrain them going forward. "We will be at Dragonstone by midday, if the winds are with us."

She closed her eyes by means of assent, and moved to pull the furs up around her chin. As her door clicked shut, she realized with a start that she was still wrapped in his coat. She went to sit up, to call out to him, and then thought better of it – it would not do to have someone overhear her, and wake to find Jorah sneaking out of her room at this hour. She removed the coat and folded it in half lengthwise, intending to place it on her bedside stand – but, missing the warmth and the comfort of him, she found herself curling up in it instead. She buried her face in the soft fur collar, and within minutes, the weight of exhaustion pulled her down into sleep.