7.

For the remainder of the day, and a good part of the next, Jorah kept out of Daenerys' way. However, the smallness of Bear Hall made it impossible to do so for long, and avoidance, as he well knew from countless similar experiences with Lynesse, did not help matters anyway. Left to stew in his own juices, his wounds would only be more tender when he inevitably found himself in her company again, the simmering anger perilously close to boiling over. He feared how it would go when they must interact. Would it be Meereen all over again, when they could not speak to one another without shouting?

For now, he kept company with his kinswomen-and Aly's lad-who trudged through the snow to the side of the hall to split logs for firewood, and they seemed to have no other purpose than to make his wounds the topic of conversation.

"You ought to let someone see to that," Aly said, eyes on his right hand as he shoved his left into a glove; the knuckles glared, raw and red, where he took the skin off when he foolishly planted his fist in the tree.

Quickly he pulled on the other glove, grumbling that he'd grown accustomed to tending his own injuries-when they required it. He pushed aside the memory that leapt to the front of his mind of Daenerys' gentle hands in Vaes Tolorro, cleaning and bandaging the arakh wound Qotho had dealt his hip.

"And to inflicting them on yourself, as well?" Maege said.

Her level gaze from beneath her thick brows and the thicker grey fringe that spilled over her forehead sought his eyes as aggressively as Daenerys had avoided them during the brief midday meal, at which she had eaten little, and quickly, before asking Jorelle for a private sparring session in the training yard. Jorah could hear the clangs of their swords-he could have seen them sparring from here, if he looked, but ut he kept his back to his cousin and the Queen as he placed a log on the stump and picked up the axe. He gritted his teeth as he gripped the handle hard, preparing to swing, and the scabs broke as his bruised knuckles flexed. He'd rather a sword were in his hands now and not an axe, his head cleared by the jarring crash of his sword against an arakh as he sparred with one of the bloodriders-or the other way around; they liked to trade weapons sometimes. Occasionally, Jorah even convinced them to don armor. The slice of the axe head through the firewood brought about as much satisfaction as a knife through butter.

"I did not ask for your company," he growled at his aunt. He had asked if there was something he could do for the household, anything with which to occupy himself, so long as it involved physical labor. "Is there nowhere on this bloody island that isn't infested with women?"

"No."

"If Ned were a bit older you could go off on one of your hunting or fishing trips," Aly said with a nod at her boy, who scurried out from the folds of her cloak to collect the wood chips that splintered from the blow of the axe.

Lyra looked up with a smirk as she placed another log on the stump for him to split. "As you used to when we were all on our moon's blood."

"STOP!" Jorah brought the axe down again.

His flare of temper only amused the she-bears further; of course they thought it was the typical male reaction to the matters of women, and in part it was. Though those excursions to which they referred had most often included young Galbart Glover, Erena's brother who had squired for Jorah for a time, and he no more wanted to remember those old days than the current one. Pivoting to turn his back on them as he caught his breath, he found himself directly in view of the training yard through the trees.

Clearly Daenerys had forgotten everything his kinswomen taught her the previous day-he clutched the axe handle till his fingers ached in the attempt not to think of how he had stood behind her, holding her hand to adjust her grip and instruct a proper swing-and Jorelle made no effort to correct her. If she even noticed the errors, which was unlikely given how engrossed they both seemed in the discussion they were having while swinging their swords about. Jabbering. Couldn't they do that over something more suitably feminine, like needlework, and leave the sparring to the men?

Not, he thought as the scene was momentarily obscured by the cloud formed by his own breath in the air, that he would have been able to convince the Dothraki to set food outside the warmth of the hall even if the Queen had not requisitioned the training yard for her personal use. Daenerys' bloodriders had adapted to much since they bound themselves to her-not plundering, not raping, not mindlessly slaughtering-yet they apparently drew the line at the cold. Although if Irri were outside, Jorah reckoned not even the frigid climate of Bear Island would keep Rakharo indoors. He had never come to the tiny room where he bunked with Jorah and the other two during their stay in the hall of his fathers, and judging from the sly sleepy looks Rakharo traded with the handmaid across the table as they broke their fast, he had not been standing guard outside the khaleesi's bedchamber.

Rakharo was not the only one lacking sleep. It was a rare night that Jorah managed more than a few hours for nightmares of slavers' brands or, more frequently, the flames of Khal Drogo's funeral pyre licking higher-fire, always fire-but last night he had tossed and turned more than usual on his narrow bed of furs as the thought of another man knowing the warmth and softness of a woman's body bent his thoughts to where he least wanted them to dwell.

On the way she had nudged against his fingers until he opened his hand to cup her cheek, so delicate, that he could not but regret the necessity of wearing gloves against the cold…on the warmth of her skin and breath as her lips touched his, gently coaxing his apart…most of all on what he had read-or hoped he read-in her eyes as she looked up at him, just before she kissed him.

It would not be the first time he had seen what he wanted to where Daenerys' affections were concerned. The same foolish hope had prompted him to kiss her on Balerion, emblazoning his mind forever with the memory of how the heel of his hand fitted in the small of her naked back, his fingers slotting into the notches between her ribs, her nipples hardening to pink points on her small breasts where they rubbed against his leather jerkin as he embraced her. Her response, parting her lips without hesitation when he sought to deepen the kiss, had made him believe that he might press his suit. Thankfully he had not been so carried away by madness this time, compounding his humiliation, yet in every way that mattered most, Jorah felt that this was Balerion all over again. He had been the first to break the kiss then, too. Did she not know what it cost him to do so?

At least the first time she had stayed to face him. Now she had run from him, her rejection complete.

The rage that had brought him to blows with the tree yesterday roiled again. He spun and plunged his axe into the firewood instead, swinging so hard that the two pieces went flying and his kinswomen leapt backward, Aly grabbing little Ned roughly by the shoulders to dodge them.

"I suppose now would not be the ideal time to tell you it might be necessary to have a manly word with the skinny Dothraki?" she said.

"With Jhogo? What about?" In truth Jorah was grateful for the distraction-for a moment.

Then Maege said, "It seems Jory overheard her name bandied about by him and the tall handsome one."

"Rakharo." Jorah didn't mean to growl his young friend's name, but the reference to his handsomeness-by Maege, no less-only made him think again of what seemed to be transpiring between the bloodrider and the Queen's handmaid. "What did they say about her?"

"It was all Dothraki gibberish," Lyra said, eyes glinting mischievously. "That's why you need to talk to him. Find out what they said."

"She thought Rakharo was japing and Jhogo went red in the face," Maege said.

The women having abandoned all pretense of helping him, Jorah moved to grab another log to split. Ned scurried ahead of him, straining to pick up the heavy end. Was that why Jhogo had kept peeking at the swordplay from the hall yesterday? To admire the she-bear? Jorah scowled. He was not in the mood for one lovelorn Dothraki, much less two. Especially when the object of Jhogo's affection was his cousin.

"Sounds like the sort of gossip that interests women." He picked up one side and let little Ned assist him in carrying it to the stump. "Ask the handmaids."

"We did," Aly said, looking vaguely irritated by the suggestion, or as if she were considering giving him a good slap. "All they did was giggle."

"So you'd best make them talk, cousin," Lyra said, "so we can laugh at Jory, too."


"What happened to Jorah's hand?"

Dany had been in the yard sparring with Jorelle since midday, and only now had Jory bothered to speak in anything but corrections and techniques.

"I do not know," she lied. She knew her knight too well not to understand exactly what had happened and why he had been cold and silent towards her since the previous day.

She felt a complete fool for destroying the easiness between them that had taken so long to build again after Meereen. Still a stupid girl, acting on whims without thinking. That same behavior had destroyed her reign in Slaver's Bay, made her dally with a man she knew was not trustworthy, and ended with three cities returned to brick and blood. Will I never learn?

Now, as then, all she wanted was to speak to her advisor, her right hand, her oldest friend. But again she had pushed him away. She might have been less concerned than she was – they had put each other through much worse in the past, after all – but it was not at all like him to avoid her completely. Only once before had he done so –the day they had learned what the term "Red Wedding" meant.

It had been a mistake to have him guarding her while she questioned prisoners – she had still not yet allowed him access to her military councils – but she had wanted as many of her Queensguard with her as possible when dealing with Lannister captives. Jorah had stormed out without a word when it was clear what had happened to Robb Stark's young companions at the Twins, and for once Dany had not commented on his lack of decorum.

She had found him in his tent later that day, sitting like a stone near the corner.

"It should have been me," he said without preamble or provocation. "I should have been the one riding into battle when Stark called his banners. I left them alone to fight my battles…" At that he stopped, his final word a choking sound.

Dany approached carefully. "You were fighting my battles, were you not?" Her knight did not respond; she had thought it might comfort him to remember how much she had needed him, and could not help but feel wounded when the expression on his face suggested it was little consolation. "Would you prefer I had perished at the hand of a poisoner, or in the Red Waste, and your kin had survived?"

His hand slammed against the table beside him.

"Enough!" The volume of his voice had shocked Dany, enough that she stepped back as he rose to loom above her, nearly spitting his words in her face. "You know perfectly well that there is nothing I would trade your life for – not a pardon, not an island, nothing. I have done all I can to prove that to you, have sweated and bled and knelt for you, I have begged like a dog to convince you of it. Enough." He had grabbed her arm then, more roughly than perhaps he had intended. "Do not question my intentions again, Daenerys. Not today."

She must have looked as frightened as she felt, for he released his grip and stepped away the instant she met his eye. She had left him there, back in his chair with his hands over his face, and for a few days following he had not looked her in the face at all. He had seemed slightly more himself after the next battle, though, she recalled…suddenly Dany felt a bit guilty that she and Jory were occupying the training yard.

The sinking in her stomach only worsened when her sparring partner set her sword point on the ground, refusing to accept Dany's reply to her question.

"Forgive me, your grace, but I suspect you do know."

She may have been ill-equipped to deflect the she-bear's sword, but she could at least deflect her queries. "I have already told you, you may call me by my name."

"Do not change the subject - Daenerys."

Or not.

With a sigh, Dany found herself explaining what had happened in the woods the previous day. The other girl looked less surprised than she had expected – is it so obvious? She must have made a laughable conqueror if she could not even hide something so small as a kiss from a woman who barely knew her.

"But why did you run?"

"I do not know." Perhaps she did know, or perhaps not, but either way she could not explain it. Not to Jorelle, likely not even to Arianne; if there was anyone in whom she ever wished to confide, it was Ser Jorah, and now it might be days, even weeks, before he would deign to speak to her again.

"Do you love him?"

"I…I do not…it is more complicated than that."

"Is it?"

How should I know? Both her marriages had been political orchestrations, her attempt to take a lover a spectacular failure….how could she expect to know what it meant that she still trusted the man she had named traitor, that she had been so certain years before that she did not desire him but had dreamt of the heat of his mouth last night? What I have called love has always been a passing fancy, she thought, or worse.

Dany swung at Jory's left shoulder in response, and suspected that the girl's hesitation to parry the blow was only a kindness.

"Lighter, Daenerys. It is a sword, not an axe."

For several minutes she thought, with relief, that Jory had forgotten their discussion, content to lazily block strike after strike and call out occasional instructions, and allowed herself to be lost in the sharp sounds of steel meeting steel against the chill air until her foe stepped back to catch her breath and spoke again in a gentle tone.

"Jorah told us what he did, you know."

Dany wondered how much, exactly, he had told them – there was certainly a great deal for telling, and little he would be unashamed to speak of to his kinswomen.

"I know you think he betrayed you, but I must tell you truly, any of us would have done the same to return to Bear Island. To one another. Especially if it meant protecting the realm from the Mad King's daughter."

No one – no one – in Westeros ever referred to the Queen as the Mad King's daughter. Not to her face. Dany could only drop her jaw in stunned silence at the brazenness of it – which was just as well, as the Mormont girl seemed intent on continuing her tirade.

"You must understand what you have meant to him, Daenerys. He fled Westeros to escape Ned Stark's sword and left us behind, fled Lys and his wife to escape the slaver's brand – what did he do when you sent him away, and threatened to have his head if he returned?"

He came back to me anyway.

She had never considered it that way, but the weight of the truth nearly staggered her.

"Tyrion…Lord Tyrion told me that when Jorah kidnapped him in Volantis, he expected to be brought back to Cersei in exchange for a pardon. But Jorah took them to Meereen instead."

And into the slavers' hands, and to Belwas' arakh, for all he knew.

Jory nodded. "He might have returned home, to us, but he returned to you instead."

I thought home was all he wanted…how could she have been so wrong? Blinded by my anger, finding treachery in every corner…perhaps I truly am the Mad King's daughter after all.

Though she felt a sudden urge to weep and be sick all at once, Dany managed a wan smile.

"Does it please you to find you are wiser than the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?"

Jorelle laughed. "Rarely can one see what is right before them, Daenerys. Even a queen." She flung a blow at Dany's chest, as if to prove her point, but for once the Queen managed to catch her opponent's blade.

"Have you not seen how Jhogo looks at you, then," she retorted, batting the attack away as the she-bears had taught her to do, "when he believes I am not watching?"

Jory's face was immediately a much deeper shade of pink than the cold would have painted it. Her abruptly renewed interest in correcting Dany's grip was amusingly familiar; it seemed the she-bear was not the only one with the power to raise uncomfortable subjects.

Apparently she was not the only one with lingering concerns, either.

"You call him blood of your blood – pray, what does that mean, exactly?" The girl's vision was trained intently on their blades, but Dany could see how much the answer would mean to her. Would it were an easier one.

"A bloodrider is a bit like a knight, only…their vows are more permanent even than those of the white cloaks." Jory's face had gone pale, and Dany wished she could stop explaining but felt she owed the courtesy of truth to the woman she had begun to consider a friend. "He is my blood, and I am his. Our lives are bound together, and cannot be undone. Where I go, he goes – I offered to release all three of them, so they might return to their grass sea, and all refused. It cannot be undone, Jory."

The girl was silent, the expression on her face a painful echo of the way Jorah had looked in Yunkai when she had spurned him. Dany decided now was the time to make the offer she had been mulling over for the past few days.

"But perhaps…you could go where I go as well, if you wished it. I could find a place for you at court – as a lady in waiting, or even perhaps a squire, given your skill with a blade. Lady Brienne would be thrilled to meet another swordswoman, I am certain, and mayhaps my bear would feel more at home in the South if one of his kin were there as well."

As she spoke, Jorelle seemed at first to brighten, but then blushed, as if in shame.

"I…that is a very generous offer, your grace, but I…I have never been at court…but for King Robb's camps in the Riverlands I have never crossed south of the Neck…"

"It was only a suggestion, Jory, not a command. Think it over." Dany tried to keep her voice light and even, but in truth she had hoped the girl would be more keen to join her…there were so few at court that the Queen felt she could trust, and fewer still whom might name friend, but for Arianne – and Jorah, if he ever forgives me. Perhaps the company of his cousin would ease his temper…

"I will, your – Daenerys."

They said nothing more until the sun began to lower on the horizon, and Jory mumbled that they ought to be getting inside for supper. Dany followed her obediently back to the hall, the nauseated feeling in her gut returning in full force at the likely inevitability of being thrown into close quarters with yet another Mormont she had managed to offend in the span of a day.

Within the week, she thought bitterly, I'll have a whole pack of bears at my throat.