Author's Note:
Unexpected double feature! Wha-aaat? Yes, because you deserve it, I deserve it and Jorah definitely deserves it.
Enjoy, m'dears! Xo
Jorah
Wake up, Jorah. You have to wake up, son. Now.
His father's growling voice was in his head. He hadn't heard his father's voice in years and yet, there it was, as if he'd spoken with the Old Bear only the day before—gruff, resolute and commanding as always.
Take care of the island. Jeor Mormont, clad in Night's Watch black, gripped Jorah's shoulder once before releasing him and sailing off to the mainland. It was the height of the long summer and the deep blue waters surrounding Bear Island held only the chill of Northern waters, not the freeze of Arctic seas.
With Longclaw still at his belt, Jorah stood on the Bear Island docks and watched until the white mast on his father's ship disappeared into a swell of clouds on the horizon. Lynesse, his young bride, had returned to the Keep before the ship even left the harbor, upset with a discovered tear in the lace collar of her day dress, fussing with it and pulling out threads in her haste, muttering about the lack of acceptable fabric on this gods-forsaken island and the heavy-handed needlework she might expect from any repairs made by Maege's girls.
Lynesse said her complaints loudly and within earshot of Jorah's aunt and cousins, all present on the docks that day to bid farewell to their kin. But Maege and her daughters, from Dacey to the baby, Lyanna, ignored the southern beauty's sulky complaints with little effort.
The sun broke through those white, cumulous clouds and glinted off the sheer whiteness of the ship's mast and it reappeared for one last second, before slip, slip, slipping away. Jeor's ship vanished out of sight. Water continued to lap gently against the wood pillars supporting the island's main dock, gulls fought over oysters on the sandy beach, while terns and gannets dove at the sight of silver fins breaking the surface in the bay.
As the ship slipped from view, Maege and her daughters finally followed Lynesse up to the Keep. But Jorah remained on the docks for a long moment, alone, eyes still on that calm horizon. No more than an hour had passed since the Old Bear's departure, and yet the absence in losing sight of his father's ship was keen. There are some things that are known, not out of a knowledge of senses, sight, taste, touch or sound—but because they are written out in stark veracity and screamed across the chambers of our hearts.
Jorah would not see his father again. He could not have known then the nature of those events that would make it so—betrayal, exile, mutiny and death. These were ugly words that tore at Jorah's soul and colored his face with shame for himself and anger for his father's sake. But he remembers knowing the truth, as if the sea breeze rose off the white-tipped waves to whisper it in his ear.
You will never see your father again. It said, in a demi-god's crystalline voice, cruel and empty in its vivid hopelessness. The breeze turned cold and grey and the sky cluttered with grey clouds that blocked out the sun's golden rays.
No, you'll see him again. Perhaps not in this life, but you will see your father again. A young woman with blonde hair dismissed the wind's words with a mother's chiding. She suddenly appeared beside him, at his elbow, sharing his gaze over the cold, blue waters. Her words rooted strongly, as he wanted to believe them. She was flesh and blood while the wind was vapor. And she spoke the longing of his heart, not the fear of his soul. He was astonished.
He glanced down at the girl who stood with him on the docks. With that blonde hair? Had Lynesse returned to his side, after all? But he remembered that part of the memory clearly. His wife locked herself in her bedchamber that day, refusing to come out until he promised to order a shipment of lace from Oldtown to fix her ruined collar. And this girl's hair was more silver than gold. He was tempted to reach out and touch the strands that escaped her braids.
She looked up at him then, with wide, violet eyes. Her small smile, tinged with sadness for his sake, split apart the clouds above and the sun returned to dance on the blue waters. Daenerys's smile. On Bear Island. In a summer that passed long ago.
He was dreaming, he suddenly realized. As if in agreement, the Old Bear's growls returned with vehemence.
Wake up, Jorah! You have miles to go and a storm to outrun. You have to wake up now.
Jorah blinked once and then twice more, gaining his bearings quickly as the dream landscape melted away and the events of the night before came flooding back to the forefront of his mind. The little fire that Daenerys had built in the cabin smoldered and was threatening to go out. It choked and sputtered on its last embers. The false warmth of the dream faded swiftly, leaving his skin cold…except for his left side, where Daenerys was still sleeping under the cloak, curled up beside him tightly.
The gash on his ribs stung angrily but it was no longer bleeding. He ached all over and a few hours of sleep had not chased away the overwhelming desire to sleep for days. But it was desire now and not need.
And Jorah had plenty experience ignoring desire.
His gaze fell on the woman sleeping next to him on the cabin floor. As in the dream, he was tempted to reach out and touch her hair, which was tangled and wild and falling across her blood-and-mud streaked features. But he kept his hand back.
Oh yes, he had plenty experience ignoring desire.
A thin, grey light filtered in through the cracked and frosted cabin windows. It spoke of dawn, but weakly. If the sun was shining, it was behind hurricane-bred clouds. Though perhaps, by sheer luck, the storm was still staying west of them. The howl of wind still gnashed against the timbers, as it had all night, but its violence was currently more bark than bite.
Jorah was careful as he pushed himself up from the floor, quietly, extricating himself from her touch, with effort. She had rolled against him in the night, her hand lightly clutching at his forearm and her knee grazing his thigh. He felt numbness as he pulled away and a passing compulsion to return and let the tenuous, if unconscious, physical bonds between them remain. If only for a few moments more.
No matter how many times he felt her touch, it was always the same. He couldn't describe it. One sense should not overwhelm the rest with such fearsome power. And having never experienced it before he met her, made it difficult to explain. But Daenerys's mere touch, her hands reaching out and grasping his, her fingers stroking the side of his face—oh, he succumbed to it without choice. Pulling away from her touch was like willingly leaving lush, green shores for a barren, cold wasteland. And what kind of fool would do that?
Jorah Mormont, apparently. He recalled her reaching for his hands, taking both of his in hers on the salt-sprayed beach at Dragonstone. The expectant look in her eyes caught him by surprise and rendered him speechless. He couldn't remember the words that fled his lips. Words…words had never been enough. Her beautiful eyes sparked with something unexpressed and, in that moment, he was her captive. She sunk her small hands into the curves of his fingers, and he grasped them tightly, his thumbs tracing her knuckles gently, both waiting for…
But as Jon Snow came down the beach, Jorah made a decision. A decision that had been simmering in his head since that day he returned to her side, on the cliffs, with all three dragons flying in the air above them, alive and confident, ready to take on the world. Like Jon Snow, who he found standing beside Daenerys, with all Ned Stark's brooding nobility written over his young features. Jorah thought he saw her future with too much clarity.
He was mistaken, they were all mistaken. But he didn't know that on the beach at Dragonstone.
So he bent down and pressed a kiss to the back of her hands. He released her, he stepped back. As was his habit, as was his sworn duty. He would serve and protect her until his dying breath, but gods help him if he ever expected more. Still, as her fingers slipped out of his, like water rushing over stones, he felt hollow—cold, numb and hollow.
As he rose from the cabin floor, and his forearm slipped from her sleeping grasp, he felt the same sensation. Hollow. But his father's insistent voice didn't let him linger on the feeling. There was no time for that now.
Thinking he'd give her a few more precious minutes of sleep, he slipped out of the cabin quietly to ready the horse.
The wind was playing games. And the sky was as fickle-natured as his dream version. As he led the watered and saddled mare to the cabin door, he spared a glance back towards the path they'd followed through the ruins of the Wolfswood. In daylight, he watched multiple storm fronts colliding along the entire eastern horizon, North from the Wall and south beyond Winterfell, with all that same dark, wintery fury it lashed out in the night before. The rising sun peeked out once and then immediately dove for cover.
As those fronts clashed, he saw sparks of lightening in the distance and the wind appeared to change. One stiff breeze in the wrong direction and they would be in the midst of it. No more flurries but deep snows that would strand them in the forest, buried in cold, white graves.
But with each mile west, they were slowly being backed up to the edge of the sea.
In lingering weariness, Jorah considered staying here, in this wreck of a cabin…just until the storm passed. At least it had a roof and four walls. But there was no food, little water and nothing left to burn. And home was calling for him, even stronger than before, like a beacon to a sailor caught in the Drowned God's clutches.
Look to the Island. His father's voice agreed.
He had no idea if they could continue to stay ahead of the storm or how they'd cross the channel if they made it in time…but with no other choice, Jorah tied the mare to one of the cabin's old, slanted pillars and quickly went inside to wake Daenerys.