Jorah climbed the countless steps from the rocky beach to the castle of Dragonstone, Daenerys just ahead of him, several Unsullied ahead of her. Careful to pace himself to conserve his meager strength, he yearned for the bed that awaited him in the castle. Their journey from Winterfell back to Dragonstone had given him, the Dothraki and Unsullied no chance to rest or recover from their battle with the dead. Their queen brought them here for just that purpose. Wounds needed time to heal; their minds needed time to process the horrors they had witnessed. The knight held the arm of his injured shoulder close to his body as he ascended the long staircase.

No matter how much Khaleesi wanted to march right up to King's Landing to confront Cersei, she knew she couldn't accomplish that with the men remaining, even if they were fully healthy. Jon's army remained in Winterfell to take their rest, and they would communicate by raven until it was time to liberate Westeros from Cersei's rule.

Ser Jorah looked up at the castle as they approached, the light in the sky just beginning to fade as the sun sank closer to the horizon. The size and design of the giant fortress was truly daunting; it was larger and more hostile-looking than any he had ever seen. It sat high on a rocky island, with a narrow stone staircase descending down to the beach. No matter how many times he came here, he had a feeling it would always inspire the awe he felt upon seeing its grandeur. It was a relic of his queen's Targaryen heritage that would take months and many hands to fully restore it to its former glory. The vast majority of rooms in the castle were still muffled with dust and strung with spiderwebs, their doors still closed for now. Only enough rooms to house their current people had been cleared. It gave Jorah an eerie feeling to walk through the cool stone corridors, feeling the discomfort of their emptiness.

Daenerys retired immediately to her room. Jorah bowed as she closed the door, and headed for the kitchens to find something to eat. The cook was finished working for the evening, but as always there were several workers cleaning up from the day's efforts who gave Jorah a warm bowl of stew and some hearty bread. He tasked one of them with taking some to their queen, and sat alone in the dining hall to eat his late meal.

His mind drifted as he ate. He had seen many things throughout his years, but the battle with the white walkers was something that would haunt his memory forever. There were freshly-dead men maimed with wounds that had ended their mortal lives. Other walkers were in all stages of decay with putrid and torn flesh. The oldest ones were full skeletons, their muscle and sinew entirely rotted away. The dead walked at a slow and sinister pace, a horrifying vision of unstoppable doom, until the Night King sent them running toward the army of the living with unnatural speed, overrunning the Dothraki and Unsullied until the only thing left to do was retreat.

His appetite abandoned him.

The practical part of him forced the remaining bread and stew down, determined to give his body the energy it needed to heal itself. He thanked the worker who cleared his plate and bowl, then rose and walked to the great covered balcony to one side of the dining hall, opening the door and going out to watch the sunset. His cloak cracked in the stiff wind from the ocean as the sky melted, a mixture of purple and red clouds, until the light behind them was extinguished and the vibrant colors faded to black.

Jorah returned to Daenerys's room, standing outside with his hand raised to knock. He longed to hold her in his arms, but decided to let her sleep. It was only their first night back. He was certain they would be spending more time together after their long-awaited union before the battle of Winterfell. She had looked after him the few short nights they had stayed at Winterfell after the battle; her doting attention confirmed their night of lovemaking was no accident. He had been patient for years, and his devoted perseverance had finally won the heart of his beloved. Jorah would allow Daenerys to take the reins in this unfamiliar territory until their relationship was clearly defined and he knew what she wanted and expected from him. She was, after all, his queen.

He entered his own chamber next to hers and fell heavily to sleep.

Hours later he awoke to the sound of a closing door. Rising, he dressed quickly and left his room. Daenerys was nowhere in sight. Where would she be going at this time of night? He had a hunch and hurried back to the covered balcony off the dining hall; it would offer a clear view of much of the castle from its great height. He looked down to see her climbing onto Drogon's back in the great courtyard below the dragons' eyrie. The beast flapped his great leathery wings and rose in the air, heading to the distant, lofty cliff on the far side of the narrow stone path. Rhaegal was already there. In the clear moonlight, Jorah could barely see Daenerys climb down from Drogon and stand between her children.

A low, melancholy crooning came to him on the wind. It was unlike any other sound he had heard in all the years he had watched the infant dragons grow into the giant creatures they were today.

The dragons were mourning their brother Viserion.

The memory of his death came to Jorah unbidden. Jorah and Jon, together with a small company, had gone north of the wall to capture a wight with the purpose of bringing it to King's Landing. Cersei thought the Night King and his army was a fool's tale; Tyrion had realized she would not see the truth of it until she saw one of the monsters with her own eyes. When Jorah had volunteered to go, the day after she had come to his bedchamber and declared her love, Daenerys had all but begged him with her eyes not to leave. He had insisted. I returned to serve you. Allow me to do so, he had said.

Despite the danger of the mission, Jorah was certain he would return to her arms. He never expected to be surrounded by wights, protected only by their inability to cross the frozen lake which shattered beneath their collective weight. He never expected to be rescued by none other than his love mounted upon the great Drogon, flanked by his brothers as the three of them spewed fire upon the army of the dead. He never expected to see one of them fall. The Night King had appeared, hurling a great icy spear into the air with unnatural strength, piercing Viserion's chest. The dragon had cried out in pain, fire and blood spraying from his wound as he fell to the ice and sank beneath the frigid water, dragging Jorah's heart with him. Witnessing such a great and powerful beast succumb to death was a consummate tragedy; they were thought to be gone from the world forever when Daenerys had received three eggs as a wedding gift. Knowledge of his queen's agony in that moment had all but butchered his own heart.

He stood watch over them from afar until Daenerys climbed onto Drogon's back once more. Ser Jorah descended the outdoor stairwell to one side of the balcony and made his way to the landing to await her.

Drogon uttered a low, throaty rumble in acknowledgement of the knight's presence as he landed, gusts of wind from his wings brushing Jorah's rusty hair from his face. Daenerys looked at him from atop the dragon, her expression tired and sorrowful, but warmed with gratitude. She dismounted and half-ran to Jorah's embrace. He held her.

"I haven't been able to truly mourn Viserion until now," she admitted, her face flushed and wet with tears.

Jorah brushed them from her rosy cheeks. "You don't have to maintain the appearance of strength at all times, Khaleesi. Grief is something we all experience in this life. Your allies understand that."

Daenerys raised her chin with pride and replied in a firm voice. "But I am a queen. Shouldn't a queen be disciplined in her emotions?"

"To a degree, yes. People need a confident leader, but no one will bat an eye if their ruler sometimes gets angry or sad. Emotion is human. Hide too much of it, and you risk alienating your people. I don't want them to see you as the Targaryen with an iron heart."

Daenerys drew back to look at him. "I have an iron will, not an iron heart."

"I know, Khaleesi. Better than most. But there have been whispers beyond the stubborn hostility of the northerners to outside influence."

"What whispers?"

Jorah hesitated. "The Tarleys... changed things. Your people know you are here to break the wheel of oppression, and they have seen you do great things. The Dothraki watched you rise from the ashes of Drogo's pyre. The Unsullied owe you their freedom, as do thousands in Slaver's Bay. They have seen your kind heart, your determination, your good intentions." He gripped her upper arm in a gesture urging her consideration. "The people here in Westeros know nothing of you but what they have seen with their own eyes. The Lannister army was not just carrying treasure from their battle with the Tyrells. There were carts and carts of grain. Food that would have fed thousands. Food that you burned. Many will go hungry. Some will die."

"It's not like I could tell Drogon which carts to burn and which to spare," she said with irritation, turning away. "This is war, after all."

Jorah let out a sigh through his nose. "Daenerys..." He rarely called her that and hoped it would convey the urgency and sincerity of his message. "When I heard you had burned a man to death along with his son, I thought it was a lie. A cruel rumor spread by Cersei about the Targaryen woman from Essos."

Daenerys said nothing, but her head drooped with remorse. She spoke over her shoulder. "I wish you had been there with me." After a moment, she turned to look at her closest friend, her advisor, her protector, her lover. "Where is the line between strength and brutality? Weakness and mercy? How do I show them compassion while fighting for the throne to rule them all? Men will die in battle. I cannot avoid that."

"Spare those that you can. If their leaders balk, imprison them. Many will submit to your rule in time."

"I am not here to put men in chains! I would rather die with honor than live in a cell."

"Given the same choice, would some not choose the cell?"

Daenerys was silent.

"I know you are trying to make things simple, but war is not waged in black and white, Khaleesi. There has to be some middle ground. A compromise. Something between surrender and defiance."

Daenerys shivered in the stiff wind. Jorah stepped forward and embraced her.

"Let's get you inside."