AN: Thank you again for the lovely reviews. I've had a tough week and seeing your messages really does help. If any of you have Tumblr, do feel free to follow and come chat with me forsakenluciscaelum
CHAPTER 9
-Jorah-
Jorah was gently brought out from his sleep by the morning sun spilling in through the cave's gaping maw. He almost started to sit up, before realising and remembering the gentle weight currently nestled in the crook of his arm, face nuzzling into his neck.
Daenerys hated the cold, this he knew. And as the fire had long since guttered out, the winter chill had crept into the cave around them. No doubt his lingering fever had finally served a useful purpose and kept her warm as she slept.
He brought a hand slowly up, and almost cupped her face to wake her. Immediately, Jorah wondered if that would be too bold, and instead, rested his hand on her shoulder to gently shake her.
"Khaleesi...we ought to set of while the weather is in our favour," Jorah spoke softly as the bleary-eyed Queen inhaled deeply and coiled in on herself a little. She pushed against his chest to help herself sit up, and for a moment, looked at him in utter confusion as sleep groggily unwound from her mind.
Once it did, Daenerys offered him a smile.
"I was quite comfortable there, but I can't imagine you were. Apologies," she said, sitting up properly and giving Jorah space to sit up himself. As he did so, he could feel his shoulder had seized up. Discreetly, he rolled it back, though it didn't seem to want to loosen, the bones grinding a little painfully in response.
He was getting far too old to sleep rough on the ground, Jorah thought to himself sullenly. It wasn't until his Queen drew nearer, eyes prying around the collar of his shirt at his shoulder that he thought to look down at his sore limb. Pulling the loose material of his shirt down over his shoulder, the sight of scales beneath nearly caused Jorah to jolt back away from his Queen in fear of the greyscale having returned.
The burns that had scarred over his right shoulder and arm had peeled away even further across his skin, revealing a slew of jagged, sharp coppery scales. He couldn't see how far up they stretched, and lifted one hand to tentatively feel his shoulder and up towards his neck. The rough texture continued up over his throat, thinning away to a few scattered scales over his jaw and over the right side of his face.
He hadn't noticed Daenerys move closer to him until she was near enough to bring her hands up to his face and slowly remove the eye patch covering his scalded right eye. Blinking against the sudden light, the blurring vision swam for a moment and then cleared, settling on the Queen's concerned expression.
"Jorah, it's..."
Jorah's hand moved to inspect his eye, fingers grazing his brow bone, eye socket, and cheek bone in turn. He could feel tiny, sharp spikes running along his cheekbone beneath his lower eyelid, angled up towards his ear and disappearing before his hairline began.
"Damn. My enviable good looks are ruined," Jorah offered dryly, a half-smile tugging at his face. His words softened the worry on Daenerys' features, which was all he wanted. Even if fear had settled and began to take root in his own mind — what in Seven Hells was happening to him?
Despite his increasingly bizarre appearance, the Dragon Queen didn't flinch away. Instead, one hand came up to brush the scales of his exposed collar bone, brow knotting as she did so.
"I had thought the scales were copper," she noted lightly, as if to try and soothe the knight. "But...they are silver beneath..."
Curious, Jorah reached for his discarded sword belt. Pulling one of the smaller daggers from its sheathe, his used the flat of the blade to observe his reflection, angling it to his shoulder and neck.
Indeed, many of the scales that blossomed there had the reddish, copper hue his Queen spoke of, but others shone a bright and brilliant silver as the morning light caught them. Using the collar of his shirt, Jorah rubbed away at one of the copper-coloured scales. After a moment, he let the cloth fall back to reveal another silver scale, and a coppery mark left on his shirt.
As blood stains steel, he thought to himself. These scales truly were growing out from his flesh, stained with his blood as they pierced over his skin.
I am becoming a monster, he thought to himself numbly. Ill-suited to serve a Queen.
With the morning sun clear in the sky, the storm's rain slowly dried away as they sat around a small fire and a humble meal of foraged fresh honeycomb to break their fast. An uncomfortable silence had settled between the two. For Jorah, his mind was ensnared in concern over what he was becoming — would it jeopardise his Queen's conquest for her throne? Her heart, unique as it was, called to people and united them together in admiration of her as a leader. Would his...unnatural appearance...draw unease and fear towards her? Her dragons were fearsome to be sure, but the people knew what they were and recognised their form from legends of old, eventually settling into awe of them. But for him, his appearance was now warped and unlike any creature from tales of yore. It would bring nothing but fear of the unknown into the suspicious minds of common folk. Of curses and omens.
Jorah chanced a look at Daenerys. She too seemed lost in thought, an air of sorrow holding her otherwise poised form. He knew better than to pry; she would speak if she wished to, and not before then. He only hoped she was not blaming herself for whatever malady was gripping him.
The silence of thoughts remained even as the pair approached Drogon to make the rest of their journey to Stoney Sept. As Daenerys made her way atop the dragon, Jorah paused.
"You should go on ahead, Khaleesi," Jorah said, trying to ignore Drogon's snout huffing and snuffling at him, the creature apparently intrigued by the scales appearing over the man's face. "People put great value in first impressions. I don't think it would be wise for me to make myself known to the town as I am."
The conflict in Daenerys' eyes clearly played upon her tongue as well — no doubt she was more than tempted to proclaim the foolishness of judgement at first sight, but knew that he was, unfortunately, correct in his observation. People were cautious of the unusual, and terrified of the unknown. His unique condition was very much an unknown that would draw fear and worse.
Wordlessly, the Queen descended from where she had been seated atop the obsidian dragon. She shrugged off the maroon silken capelet that was draped over her right shoulder, unfastening it from the silver dragon-head chain that crossed her torso.
"Ser Jorah, I have already given you your orders," Daenerys reminded him, bunching the dark red material in her hands and tearing it to strips. "When I take the Seven Kingdoms—"
She began wrapping the shredded silks around his neck, up and over his jaw and mouth, and diagonally across his face until only his left eye remained uncovered. She replaced his eyepatch, which now served mainly to hold the makeshift mask in place. "—I will need you by my side."
"Silently by your side?" The man asked lightly, his voice muffled by the material swathing and hiding his odd looks. The silver-haired woman gave him a smirk, turning to head back to her scaled steed.
"I pray your counsel always has a voice, Ser Jorah."
It had taken another half day's flight before they arrived at Stoney Sept. Daenerys had decided that the sight of two dragons soaring overhead was enough excitement for one day, landing a little further afield and making the two of them walk for a short while to arrive in the town properly.
"I have not come here to rule atop a dragon," she had said as they walked. "I want my people to see the truth of me, and not the fear of dragonfire. They will come to learn dragons are not to be feared, but only if I teach them this."
"Do you regret it then?" Jorah dared to broach the subject within her words. "The Tarlys?"
"No," her answer came swift and resolute. "They were traitors. I offered them mercy and they refused it. They played the part of loyalty, Ser Jorah. Claimed to be utterly loyal to their false Queen, the wife of the late Robert Baratheon..."
Daenery's gaze moved to the sept upon the hill looming over them as they travelled. "Tell me, Ser Jorah: what battle happened here?"
Jorah felt his heart beat a little faster. Stoney Sept had been an intrinsic part of Robert Baratheon's rebellion — the townsfolk had helped to hide the man following his one and only defeat on the battlefield.
"The Battle of the Bells, Khaleesi. Robert Baratheon, House Tully, House Arryn, and House Stark fought against the royal army."
"And why was Robert here?"
Jorah took a moment to study Dany's face; a difficult feat with the majority of his face covered. Still, he answered, though he knew she knew the answer:
"He was hiding, Your Grace. Nursing wounds from his one and only defeat — The Battle of Ashford."
"And who defeated him?"
"...Houses loyal to House Targaryen; the vanguard of House Tyrell and...House Tarly."
The silver queen nodded solemnly. At this point, they were approaching the gates of the town, with the sept looking somehow less imposing up close than it had as a shadow from afar.
"House Tarly, loyal to House Targaryen — but only when it suited them. Randyll Tarly attacked Robert Baratheon in loyalty to my father...then claimed steadfast loyalty to Robert's wife against House Targaryen when it seemed most profitable to him. There are few things I loathe more than false loyalty, Ser Jorah. Many men use it as a means to polish their pride, but it is a vile habit. True loyalty doesn't change with the winds of war. That man looked me in the eye and had the nerve to play the part of a just and loyal knight, acting as though his refusal to bend the knee was admirable. Knowing he had declared the same steadfast loyalty to my father. He disgusted me, Ser Jorah.
"But I did not come here to place people in chains. No one ever came around to believing in someone who put them in chains. If my mercy would not sway them, mercy they did not deserve in light of their fickle false loyalty, then nothing would. I would not take them as prisoners. But...I confess I ought not have executed them in the manner I chose. Dragonfire is not a painless death. For that, I will carry the burden of my fury. With that, I will learn what it means to be Queen."
Jorah expected a chilly reception from the town. But, whether it was that word had reached them of the Dragon Queen's part in keeping the Night King at bay, or simply memories as short as Randyll's loyalties, the townsfolk did not seem angered by the presence of the Targaryen. It was not a warm welcome by any means, but it wasn't unpleasant either.
House Tully had received word from Winterfell of Daenerys' arrival, and she and Jorah were given rooms within the stonework sept atop the hill. A nervous-looking Tully lord had briefly asked about the safety of the dragons close by the town. He received reassurances for his people, and a pouch of gold in advance of any "missing sheep or goats". The gold given would have been enough for any farmer to buy several flocks more than Drogon and Rhaegal could hope to eat in a month, and was apparently a satisfactory advance repayment of anything the dragons should take.
It was a few more days before the fragments of Stark forces and Unsullied arrived, along with Tyrion. Not long after, a raven arrived from Harrenhal signed by Jon Snow to give word of his arrival there with the Dothraki and other Stark forces.
"I take it you're not a natural at dragonflight then?" Tyrion drawled, nodding at Jorah's covered face. The man had been in the Sept no longer than an hour and Jorah already found himself wishing the man had been stationed at Dragonstone.
Worryingly, they had heard nothing of their forces in Dragonstone. It would take longer for them to arrive, Jorah had assured Daenerys, but it did little to appease the worry in her eyes. Missandei had been within the forces sent across the sea, as she had noted the need for Dany to have someone close to her that she could trust over with her split forces. It was a smart move: the Dothraki at Harrenhal were unwaveringly loyal to their Khaleesi, but the same could not be said of the remaining Iron Born and Varys, who sailed to Dragonstone too. Missandei being among their number was a wise move.
"One more day, Jorah," Daenerys had agreed. "One more day and then I will have to take Drogon to Dragonstone. I must know she-that they are safe."
Jorah prayed that the raven came soon to herald a safe landing in Dragonstone, not only for his concern for Missandei, who had become as close a friend as any to him over the years, but for worry of his Queen. Her mercy was great, but her temper and patience was decidedly short. Despite the risks of flying oversea that she herself had pointed out, if it was to defend her people, Jorah knew all too well that she would risk herself to take that flight.
The troubling thought stayed with the knight as he left Stoney Sept with his companion.
"Are you going to tell me why you've swaddled your face, or am I going to be left at the mercy of my vivid imagination indefinitely?" Tyrion's voice sounded yet again as the pair set off along the road from Stoney Sept. The two had been ordered by the Queen to ensure the passage to the tunnels remained open — if they received word from Dragonstone, they would head through the tunnels as soon as possible. If it turned out that Cersei had learned of the tunnels and had collapsed them, they would need to orchestrate their next move to blockade all supplies. Jorah knew Dany would rather not risk harming the people of King's Landing with such a tactic; if the tunnels were crumbled in, he would dig them out if he had to. Depleting Cersei's forces from the inside was a far more favourable move for the people.
He chose to ignore the Lannister at his side, walking along the riverside towards the cliff face Varys had spoken of. It would be too tempting to throw the man into the waters rushing alongside them if he responded and gave Tyrion the means to keep conversing with him.
Jorah was then swiftly reminded that his responses, or lack thereof, had never stopped Tyrion's gums from flapping in the past.
"You know, Mormont...I'm rather glad you didn't die."
"...I did die."
"I'm rather glad you didn't die permanently."
This earned a raised eyebrow from the knight, as best he could anyway, and he turned to look at the Queen's Hand. The pair hardly made much effort to hide their distaste of one another — Tyrion talked far too much for Jorah's liking, and Jorah talked far too little for Tyrion's. But the pair held an unspoken mutual respect for the other's talents. Unspoken, that is, until this sudden admittance from Tyrion.
"Why's that? Worried you'd have to learn to wield a greatsword in my absence?"
"It's a personal rule of mine not to pick up a blade bigger than my entire self. But no — I was worried I would not be able to appeal to the Queen's kinder heart as you do."
They continued walking over the increasingly-rugged terrain, the sun setting rapidly over the hills around them. Winter's war may be over, but the season had not yet relinquished its grip. The nights still drew in quickly.
"I merely offer our Queen other roads she may not have realised were open to her."
"You sell yourself short, Mormont. I suppose I should be grateful. Had you not, I have no doubt you would be wearing this pin now."
Jorah turned to offer Tyrion a hand up a particularly steep incline in the road where rubble from the surrounding cliff-face had collapsed into the road.
"I am best suited as the hand of the Queen that wields her sword. You were always better suited to being the other Hand."
"We have a saying about what that other Hand does, but I've a terrible feeling you'd have me dine on my teeth if I told you it."
Jorah quickly pulled his offered hand back in, letting Tyrion stumble and fall on the rocks for the moment. He knew damn well what the nobles of King's Landing crudely said of the Hand's duty. It was not an image he wanted near his Queen at all.
Tyrion, however, tried to grab at whatever he could to halt his fall with Jorah's hand no longer there. His hand coiled around the makeshift scarf-end hanging at Jorah's shoulder, and suddenly it was yanked down from him, unravelling from his face and knocking him down to his knees painfully. Jorah felt shards of stone underfoot cutting his trousers and burying in his knees. Gods, would he make it through any simple journey without wounds?
He could not gather the silken cloth in time to re-hide his face before Tyrion saw it. Irritated, Jorah sighed and stuffed the makeshift mask into his pocket to re-mask his face before they returned to the town, at least. In truth, he was glad to get this out of the way now if it meant being able to breathe properly without the uncomfortable damp press of cloth against his face.
"What—Mormont, where's your fur?"
Jorah frowned, even though he could feel himself walking in to some sort of verbal trap.
"Fur?"
"Well, if you were going to be a were-anything, I would have assumed a werebear to be far more fitting. You make a terrible weredragon, look at you."
Had Tyrion not already been lying on his back, Jorah might very well have sent him to the ground for that irritating comment. He made do with a scowl, getting to his feet and pretending he didn't hear the guttural growl rumble in his throat without intention.
"There's no such thing as werebears. Or weredragons. Of which I am neither. Please...the Queen and Tarly know of this...condition. I would prefer it to be kept that way, but since you have seen, I would ask for your secrecy at least."
The shifting of rocks told Jorah that Tyrion had gotten up and was following behind him along the road once more.
"If it's any consolation," the Lannister said, "I don't think even I could find the words to describe to anyone what has happened to you."
