Chapter 4

Once For Love and Once By Love

After travelling aimlessly most of the day and night with his meagre worldly possessions slung over the back of a horse, trusting only in a sense caught between dumb luck and fate and his horse's ability to remember roads. Jorah finally decided to say enough and give the flagging beast beneath his legs a bit of respite while he took a chance to get his bearings.

The ride had not been too taxing once he had escaped the confines of Meereen. After his talk with Daenerys and her insistence that he leave he had done as he had been bid and quickly, fearing that if he lingered too long in the city he would never leave and would force Daenerys to make good on her promise of having Belwas relieve him of his head, a feat he was fairly certain the eunuch could accomplish with no more thought or effort than he gave when tearing apart the livers he was partial to.

As a consequence, he had left the city at a speed that would have implied to all those who did not know better that the hounds unleashed from all Seven Hells had been set upon him to drive him out.

Nevertheless, while he slowed their pace considerably after a few hours, realising that he had rather heedlessly plunged into the wilderness surrounding Meereen without much thought of where he was going, he had ridden for a long time and the strains were now showing on his horse.

The animal had been gifted to him by Khal Drogo after he had saved Daenerys from the poisoned wine. He had had no choice but to accept the token, unable to refuse without arousing a certain suspicion he would have preferred to avoid, and while he had maintained that he would find some way to relieve himself of the beast and the burden of guilt that accompanied it, he had inadvertently grown rather fond of the horse.

He had known enough about them to choose well enough so as not to insult Drogo. The animal was sturdy, sure-footed and calm, comfortable around the other horses and even, it soon transpired, Daenerys' dragons, something that he was infinitely thankful for after witnessing several riders being shamefully thrown from their animals in their panic after being introduced to the foreign lizards.

Now however, he could see the thin film of sweat coming from the horse's heaving sides and took pity in it, realising that he felt as exhausted as it looked, and led it off the worn dirt track into a little thicket of trees, instinct and some half-forgotten memory leading him to a narrow but deep pool a half mile from the road.

Once there, he swung down from the large animal and fished around in the saddlebags for a while, taking longer than was necessary and removed a long length of rope. He tied it around the thick, gnarled trunk of an old tree that had claimed the side of the deep pool beside it for its own, roots spreading out in all directions, forming a maze of writhing stems hidden beneath the thick skin of the earth preventing the growth of most everything but the dense, green moss that slithered comfortably up its side and the defiant little purple flowers that erupted at random intervals around its feet.

Once he had attached the horse to the tree he allowed it to stray a little from him, gratefully tearing up large chunks of the thick, unruly grass that sprouted in tufts beside the pool and to quench its thirst in the lake.

He slumped down in the shade of the tree and rested against it, the rough bark scratching at his tunic like so many prying fingers with rough, broken nails.

He took a moment to glance around himself, vaguely recognising his surroundings. He considered clambering up the tree to take better stock of his bearings but after glancing up at the towering, menacing old branches like long, hooked claws, he thought better of it and closed his eyes instead, trying to picture.

The image his mind presented him with initially was blurred and uncertain, like a painting that met with water before it had dried causing the colours to run in to one another making the original image uncertain. After a bit of grim coercion however he managed to draw something tangible from it and opened his eyes with a fairly good idea of where he was.

He had gone West from Meereen, something he now considered a fortunate unconscious decision and was currently in wilderness between large cities. Had he gone East he would have ended, almost certainly, in the midst of the Red Waste once more. Having braved it previously, and having watched men and horses alike drop dead in their tracks, the endless expanse of dry heat making no distinction between man or beast and simply killing them all; and he nearly joining them, he found himself with no desire to attempt it again with the only possible destination being Qarth and several other cities dotted along the coast he could barely name.

Now that he had gone West he had a few more options...

He remembered the first time he had landed on Essos and gazed out around the barbarian lands. He had lived most of his life in Westeros and of that most of it had been spent on Bear Island which was, in comparison, relatively small and isolated.

He had once told Daenerys that it had been 'rich in trees and bears and aught else' and found the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips in response to the painful accuracy of that statement and the altogether more painful pang of longing that resonated through his chest. With each passing day he seemed to move farther and farther from the home he so desired.

Bear Island may have been small and remote and may not have the most spectacular scenery to someone who had seen the likes of King's Landing, Casterly Rock or the exuberant and eccentric but altogether beautiful Qarth. But it was home and that was more than he could say about Essos.

He had been here for years now and was fairly comfortable in saying that he knew most of the lands there as well as he knew himself. He had taken work here as a sellsword and most sellswords, old or young, skilled or the equivalent of human armour, had little choice in where he found himself. He would travel with the winds, the war-cries and the bloodthirsty lords that seemed to be forever at someone's throat, sparking wars over land and herds and, more often than not, boredom. It had served the purpose of educating him in the lands better than most.

He had studied the lands across the Narrow Sea as a child, of course, but, as he had found with most things, books only went so far and could not adequately describe something. Living counted for much more than reading in his eyes. Not to say that he disliked it but he had never found a book or even a song that had managed to capture the essence of a landscape or the rush of a battle as well as he had found it captured within himself in the moments he had experienced them for himself.

Now however, he could get most anywhere and knew much of the differing cultures and cities and even the odd little towns along the way, something that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Far to the West and across the Narrow Sea lay Westeros and his home but it was as out of reach to him here as it would have been had he been forced to cross all Seven Hells in order to get to it. A prospect whose chances of coming to pass only seemed to be increasing by the day...

Twice exiled. He mused bitterly to himself as his irritable fingers tore large clumps of the delicate little violet flower that persistently sprouted around his feet, nestled in the thick folds of the trees' roots, crushing them in his hands as he realised that the gentle little blossoms reminded him of her eyes, Once for love and once by love...

He turned his thoughts back to the question of where he would go now. He could not stay here. In the middle of nowhere, with the closest city one he had been banished from, he realised that he could not stay here. West was his only option. Not home. But somewhere better than this. Somewhere better than nowhere.

Volantis seemed to be the best opportunity but there were many leagues between here and there.

When he had first left Lys after Lynesse had forsaken him for the sake of a richer man he had become used to travelling alone. It had been nice to be alone. Bear Island was small and, as such places are want to do, meant that everyone lived in the pockets of everyone else, there were no secrets and there was no privacy. He had taken no small pleasure in the silence and the whispering calm that had enveloped him.

However, after a few weeks of aimlessly wandering around the wilderness, learning how to live on less and less as the dragons that had clinked happily together in his purse began to flatten dramatically, he discovered that he missed the smooth, lilting voice of his wife almost as much as he missed her soft, tender touches and began to long for some more human contact.

He had become a sellsword whilst on Lys, risking his life so that she might enjoy hers but it had never been enough for her. He had known that. Every time he returned he expected her to have left. It shouldn't have been a surprise when she was gone, and yet it was.

When he had left Lys the first place he had journeyed to had been Volantis. He had found something as close to a home as he had had since leaving her, tired of living under trees and in cheap hotels, with beds more insects than sheets. He was as good a fighter as any and became known around the Free Cities and wanted by most lords allowing him to sit back and allow the river of yellow to ripple around him as his sword was fought for with words and bids, selling himself to the highest bidder and doing what he could to stay alive.

He found himself with enough money to afford the lifestyle of Volantis. He lived there for the best part of a year and enjoyed the company and the culture of the place becoming almost comfortable within the confines of the city walls.

He travelled across Essos as a hired sword, never allowing himself to settle in one place for too long, knowing where his home was and knowing that he would never find another and not even wanting to try.

He became well travelled in Essos and learned the languages and cultures of the people he encountered rapidly, finding that knowing neither was excellent encouragement to learn, eventually falling in with Khal Drogo's khalasar that had taken him to the doorstep of Viserys Targaryen and had eventually brought him to his silver-haired dragon queen.

"Daenerys..." he murmured softly, the wind catching his word and casting it, mockingly in to the air.

He found a thick, gnarled hunk of wood that the old tree had spat from its depths and drew the dagger from his boot. Bracing the unyielding mass between his thumb and forefinger he began to draw the blade in smooth strokes across its surface.

Bear Island being as it was, full of trees and bears and aught else, most men found their sport in one or the other, either hunting or carving. He had tried and found a liking for both but had only discovered a rare talent in one.

He had not attempted to carve anything since leaving Westeros, finding that it returned too many thoughts of his home and his family, that he would, like as not, never see again and had abandoned the practice. Now however, he found a strange comfort in it. And would prefer to think on anything other than Daenerys...

Their last talk began to intrude in his mind as the coils of wood were stripped from the chunk between his hands, fingers surprisingly deft,

"No..."He said quietly, "My 'masters' at King's Landing would not have me back now..."

"And neither will I."

He began to irritably stab the point of the knife in to the wood, digging out large shapes without much notion of what he intended to create. A mess at this rate. Much like most everything else he had heedlessly thrown himself in to without considering all of the possible consequences.

How could I have ever known, ever even suspected what she would become...All I wanted was to be able to return home. I never thought that I would fall...

No. No he had not expected that he would ever fall for Daenerys Targaryen, the terrified child who had approached her future husband in a way one might approach a savage, wild dog, terror in her eyes, controlled as much by that as she had been her brother and Iliyrio Mopatis. He had never looked at that child and thought that she would become what she was today.

She had grown up. She had been forced to. She had grown in to a strong, capable young woman. She had accepted him. She had given him a place in the little khalasar that she had been building, had allowed him to look after her and her children, had given him something as close to a home as he had had since he had left Bear Island all those years ago.

He had admired her. Admired her strength and her courage. Admired how far she had come, admired how far she was no doubt going to go. And that admiration had festered away in a deep part of him he thought had died when Lynesse had left him, it had kindled flames he had long ago thought turned to ash and he had found himself in love once more. With Daenerys Targaryen nonetheless. Mother of Dragons. Breaker of Chains. And rightful heir to the Iron Throne. A Khaleesi. A Queen. His queen. Though no more...

He closed his eyes and grimaced. When he had married Lynesse he had married above his birth, he had known that, they all had, no more so than when he had taken her home. But this. This was something else entirely.

Unbidden, he found his thoughts wandering back to the time when he had kissed her. Alone together in the dingy cabin on the ship, floor rocking beneath them, the lantern that was strung from the ceiling bathing the cabin in a dull, yellow glow, only serving to make her more beautiful in his eyes.

It had been madness that had seized him then. But he had loved her for too long and had done too little about it and no longer cared about the consequences, sick of living in limbo and treading on knives.

He wondered now what would have become of them had he not kissed her...

Much the same thing as has happened now... He thought, bitterly, You made your choices long ago...Ironically enough, that was one of your better ones...

He turned back to the little carving in his hands, deft blade still seeking out shapes his hands had not seen fit to share with his head quite yet. But however hard he tried, he could not banish the image of Daenerys Targaryen from his mind.

Her face still swam before him, her eyes still consumed his, her voice still the only thing he could hear in the deafening silence of his solitude, her touch still played across his skin, her lips still brushed against his.

He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to run his hands over them, too afraid that he would pry them out with the dagger that was still clutched in his hands, that being easier than continuing in this vein, finding something everywhere that reminded him of his sliver queen.

No. Not his. Never his...

"I will not have you near me. You are banished ser."

His muscles tensed as her bitter voice flooded his ears once more. He tried to focus on the carving in his hands but to no avail. She had him trapped. Backed in to a corner. From miles away, she still ruled him.

"Do not ever presume to touch me again, or to speak my name."

He shuddered involuntarily, feeling the flat of the blade press against his burning skin, harshly cold. He could see the pain that had lurked in her eyes, he could feel the pain that was coursing through her as she stared down at him. And for the first time in his life, Jorah Mormont considered the possibility that he was actually going mad.

"Remove this liar from my sight."

She may as well have slapped him across the face. His eyes snapped open once more as a sharp pain burned through his hand. Looking down he saw a river of red coursing from his thumb, the dagger having slipped and shorn a thick hunk of skin from it, baring the tender, raw flesh below.

At least that gave him something to think about other than Daenerys. He had dropped the knife, it lay sprawled in the thick, tough dark grass that grew in stubborn clumps around him, the faint flush of red that had crept up one side of the blade standing out in stark contrast to the dull, colourless world he had descended in to.

Cursing, he used the blade to cut a strip from one of the blankets that bound his pack together and bound it around his hand.

Curiously, he retrieved the little carving that had insistently continued to take shape as he had brooded. It was drenched in his blood and so he carried it to a small stream that burbled behind him and fed the deep pool at his back and allowed the blood to run from it, blossoming in the cool liquid pooling around his feet like ink drops spilt in water before being swept away by the persistent current.

Withdrawing it he found a cruel smile grimly twist his mouth as he beheld the strange likeness of a little dragon. His fingers delicately traced the curve of the high, arched wing, the snapping mouth, the hooked claws that seemed to curl around his hand.

It was then he made his choice.

Returning to the pool he lashed his meagre supplies to the horse and swung on to its back. He tossed the little dragon carving in to the lake and was already gone before it struck the water, sinking slowly and forlornly to the bottom of the pool, lost and forgotten, trapped amongst a tangle of thick green reeds as he made his way from it and back on to the road...

A/N: Alright, so a little warning ahead of time. The next few chapters will follow Jorah in the gap between ASOS and ADWD, from then on in I'll look at the storylines he was involved in in a little more detail and from his perspective. Once I get to the end of ADWD (if we get that far) I'll pick up Daenerys again and alternate between them so there will be spoilers approaching!

Thanks for reading! And thank you all so much for the lovely reviews I got on that last chapter, I'm going to try and consistently update on Sunday nights and your reviews really helped this chapter along so thank you once again :)