Author's note:
I agree with several authors that the friendship between Grey Worm and Ser Jorah is grossly understated and underrepresented. This is my attempt at remedying that.
This is also my humble wedding gift to Ladymelodrama in response to Lobsters. I intended it to be fluff, but these characters have a life of their own and I go where they take me.
ps. It's also my first venture into the GoT fandom as a writer.
Hope everyone enjoys it!
Fighting was easy. All you had to do was kill the man trying to kill you before he succeeded.
Well, it wasn't that easy. You had to be careful about your weapon, your stance, be aware of your surroundings lest someone else end the battle, and somehow find the right combination between defensive and offensive maneuvers to stay alive and be the victor.
So, truthfully it wasn't easy.
But in Jorah Mormont's opinion, it was a hell of a lot easier than dealing with the pain in his chest.
Not that he should have that pain anymore. He was content in his position. And after being given the chance to live again, he was determined to enjoy the blessings he had, rather than mourn for all that he had lost or would never have.
But the heart was always a fool who didn't care for what the head said, and his, in particular, was a rather annoying companion. Even more so than Tyrion.
And seeing the woman he loved more than life itself look at another man hurt quite a bit. It hurt even more knowing that the man was good and honorable.
Unlike him or any other lover or husband, Jon Snow was a man worthy of Daenerys Targaryen. Honorable Ned Stark's bastard, the King in the North, and the man, his father, Jeor Mormont had enough respect and affection to hand him their family sword.
A selfish part of him had been tempted to take it back when offered. But the part that was presumably his honorable and arguably better part, knew that he did not deserve it. Also, his father had chosen to give it to Jon rather than keep it in the hope that his son might someday reclaim it. So, as much as Jorah wanted to be able to wield his family sword again, he knew it wasn't right for him to have it. It was Jon's sword now.
Besides, he told himself while trying to avoid thinking of sour grapes, the Bastard sword had never suited him that well – being made of the lighter Valyrian Steel, it weighed the same as a one-handed long sword, but had the hilt of a two-handed greatsword, with a reach longer than the first but shorter than the latter. Jorah had spent many hours trying to adapt his natural fighting style, which ironically worked well enough with a greatsword or long sword, to it.
Realizing that these thoughts were simply drawing his attention to the dull ache he felt keenly in his chest, he decided to turn his thoughts elsewhere. Like how he was going to handle the armies. Much to his surprise, and rather guilty pleasure, Daenerys had reappointed him as the General of her armies. Tyrion had claimed it to be a brilliant idea, and Missandei had given him a hug in congratulations. The armies' reaction was not the same sadly. He thought back to his argument with Qhono when he refused to listen to his advice about how exposing oneself to the cold by not wearing too many clothes, wasn't a display of strength but rather stupidity. The argument, as was the case with Dothraki became heated and would have resulted in one of them had a rider originally from Drogo's khalasar not told Qhono how he had seen Jorah kill one of the late Khal's bloodriders in single combat. Qhono backed down after that and ordered the rest to bundle themselves in clothes. The Dothraki follow strength, and now that Jorah was seen as strong, they were somewhat more inclined to listen to him. Provided he puffed up his chest and boasted about the battles he fought on this soil while simultaneously insulting their lack of knowledge of this land.
The Unsullied were far better in comparison. Not that Jorah actually had to bother himself with them. Grey Worm was doing wonderfully. The thought of the young Commander bought a slight quirk to his lips. He shifted his position on the pile of furs and returned his sword to its scabbard before picking up his dagger and proceeding to sharpen it with a whetstone.
Grey Worm and Missandei had finally got together. The quirk of his lips slowly turned into a half-smile as he recalled Missandei's shy smile when he asked her how Grey Worm was doing after so long. They, along with the Dothraki had joined the Unsullied at Harrenhall, near the Trident, from where they continued up the Kingsroad.
Jorah would have preferred to meet them further up, but they needed someone to guide them across the marshes of the neck. And Jorah was the only one with the practical knowledge and experience in moving an entire army over the pass. It was, as Tyrion so aptly called it, a true logistical nightmare with an army of their size and varied skills. Three days ago, they had reunited with the Queen and Jon Snow's party at Moat Cailin. From there, they had begun the final leg of their march to Winterfell.
Whereas Missandei had hugged him and kissed his cheek in reunion, Grey Worm had looked past her with wide eyes, before approaching Jorah. After a brief explanation about his being cured and his appointment as the General, Grey Worm had shaken his hand and said that he had much to tell him. That was even more surprising than the fact that unlike the Dothraki, Grey Worm made no protest about being placed under his command. To say it bought him great joy to be welcomed back as if the events surrounding his leaving did not matter anymore would be an understatement.
Later in the night, Grey Worm came to Jorah and told him about his and Missandei's relationship. A few cups of wine later, the lad awkwardly asked Jorah's advice on how to please her despite not having any 'stones and pillar'. Two more cups of wine later, and Grey Worm's off-handed comment about not wanting to ask Tyrion, Jorah was able to give him some tips from experience. Three mornings later, Grey Worm came to him and said a curt, thank you. Jorah chuckled to himself remembering Grey Worms stiff-lipped thanks which contrasted to his red-faced and mumbled request for advice.
As if conjured by his thoughts, the Unsullied Commander called to ask if he could enter.
"Come in Torgo Nudho."
"Jorah the Andal." He greeted while ducking into his tent.
"In truth, I'm not an Andal." He replied while gesturing for him to take a seat. Once Grey Worm settled himself, straight-backed as always, he continued. "Northerners are descended from the First Men. The Andals came centuries after them. But to the Dothraki, Westeros is the Land of the Andals- Raesh Andahli. Hence my nickname, Jorah the Andal, which to them means, Jorah the Westerosi."
He nodded in understanding. "Then what should I call you?"
"Just Jorah will be fine. Or Ser Jorah if you want to be formal, but I would rather you didn't."
"Jorah then. I want to ask you something."
"Anything."
"This morning, I saw Jon Snow put flowers in our Queen's hair. That make her happy. Why?"
He ignored the pang he felt at the image of Jon Snow lovingly putting flowers in Daenerys's hair while she smiled at him, and focused on what Grey Worm was asking him. "Well, for thousands of years men have presented gifts to women they love to demonstrate their affection for them. Those gifts sometimes say what men cannot give voice to; at others, they are a reminder of their love. In tourneys, you know what they are? Good. Other than the gold, and other prizes, there is always a crown or bouquet of flowers, whichever are blooming at the time, that the victorious Knight gives to a woman of his choice, be it his wife, betrothed or someone dear, thus crowning her his own Queen of love and beauty." Jorah himself had won his second wife in one such tourney. The act later led to his ruin. But Grey Worm didn't need to know that, nor did Jorah want to share the story with him for the young soldier's respect mattered to him, and also because the topic was an old wound, one he did not want to scratch open.
Grey Worm sat with a thoughtful look on his face. "So, men give gifts, sometimes flowers, to women to show their love?"
"Usually, yes."
"And women like receiving gifts from the men they love?"
"They do." Jorah could see where this line of thought was going and quickly decided to intervene. He'd be damned if he let anyone make the same mistake he did.
"It's not so much what the gift is, but rather the thought behind it. If the woman truly loves you, it won't matter to her whether you gift her a string of pearls or a single rose. The fact that you, the man she loves, gave it to her out of love, will make it more valuable than all the gold in the world." If only he had understood that, years ago. But then again, if he had, he would never have been in Essos, and would never have met Daenerys.
"It will be precious to her because it shows her that she is precious to me?"
He had taught Grey Worm that word. A lesson in military strategy led to him telling the story of why that war started, which led to a long and language gaffe filled conversation about concepts such as justice, individuality, freedom of thought and voicing opinion, love, greed for wealth, pride and honour. All reasons for war throughout history, each because they were precious in some way to someone. What he hadn't realized at the time was that that particular word would later become the beginning of the romance between two former slaves. As Missandei informed him on their way to rendezvous with the Unsullied, 'precious' was Grey Worm's favorite word in the common tongue.
"Yes."
Grey Worm nodded once resolutely. "I want to gift Missandei of Naath flowers."
"You don't have to, but it's nice that you want to. I'm sure she will appreciate it." It amused Jorah to know that the man who's mantra was 'Unsullied feel nothing' was planning on gifting flowers to someone dear to him. The masters may have taken his parts, but they could never take his heart.
"Come. Let us go find flowers for Missandei." Grey Worm got to his feet.
"Huh?" Jorah set aside the whetstone and returned the dagger to his belt while standing up. "Torgo Nudho, just ask Jon where he found the flowers for our Queen. He won't refuse."
Grey Worm tilted his head to the side before responding. "I cannot. Jon Snow is not my friend."
Jorah took a step towards him. "He is our friend. He's honorable and we are marching to Winterfell, his house seat, to fight a war against the dead alongside his men."
"I know that. I will fight with his army. If you or our Queen commands it, I will even take orders from him. But he is not my friend. You are my friend. I ask you- will you help me find flowers for Missandei?"
So that's what he meant. When Grey Worm said friend, he didn't mean someone who was not an enemy, or at best an ally… he meant an actual friend. Someone you could turn to for advice, or to have a talk about the women you loved in the middle of the night. Someone to help find flowers in the snow.
"Let me grab my cloak."
They were warriors. They had survived battles and fought side by side. And today, they were on a hunt. For flowers. But a hunt nonetheless.
Of all the things Jorah thought he would do, going on a quest to find flowers, with Grey Worm of all people, was not one of them. But if he had learnt anything in the past decade, it was that his life never ceased to surprise him. He had done things and been in situations that he'd never thought possible, from hearing baby dragons singing to being surrounded by an army of dead men.
"Have you ever searched for flowers in the snow before?"
"I have." He had done it for his first wife often. His way of comforting her, when she lost their babes, or to thank her for holding him close at night when his mind took him to places, he would rather not revisit. It surprised him to find himself thinking of her, it had been so long, close to twenty years since her death. He started talking about her to Grey Worm. His sweet Elena. Always a bit timid, with a shy smile, a kind heart and a simplicity of thought that was wisdom in its own way. She was too soft for the cold and harsh north. Yet, just like the flowers they were hoping to find, she somehow managed to survive amid frost and snow that tried its hardest to smother her. In talking about her, he found, that where once her memory brought up a mix of emotions from anger, and bitterness for her death, to sorrow of her passing and the grief for a family they could have had… there was now a pleasant warmth in his heart.
"Where is your wife?"
"She died many years ago. My second was nothing like her."
Grey Worm stopped abruptly and looked at him with an intensity of expression that somehow conveyed to Jorah without words that such a fate to his loved one was his greatest fear.
"I am sorry."
"It's alright. It was a long time ago. I remember her as a friend that I have not seen in so long, but would never forget. Sometime in the last decade, the pain of her passing has gone with the winds, and now my memories of her can be looked upon with a smile."
"Do you still love her?"
He thought about it. "I do, but not the way I used to. She was my wife then, now, she is a part of my past. Someone I have ten years' worth of memories with, some good, some not. I will always have a fondness for her memory, but she is long gone from this world."
Grey Worm slowly nodded after a moment.
"Torgo Nudho, look." He said pointing to an outcrop of rocks near a small stream. "If we follow that stream, we'll eventually come upon the winter roses that grow in the wild."
Winter Roses. A garland of winter roses had sparked a rebellion and ended the Targaryen dynasty and exiled their queen. The rarest flower, which started to bloom in the fall, stayed throughout winter and bade them farewell at the end of spring. At least in the wild. Winter roses were what his father gifted his mother, the only time Jorah saw tenderness on his bearish face. Winter roses were what Lyanna Stark had loved, and what she had held as she died. Winter roses with their frost colored petals and soft beauty were the only flowers that bloomed here. And so, they would be only ones that Grey Worm would gift to Missandei of the Island of Naath.
Assuming he could get there without slipping on the ice that covered the rocks ("Be careful, lad, or you'll slip and fall into the stream.") or trudge through the snow without freezing his feet ("Lift your legs and walk… aye, that's it"). Thankfully Jorah had enough sense to have them leave their armors in his tent and be dressed only in soft leather and furs.
It did not take them long to reach a small cove where there grew a couple of shrubs bearing this rare flower. Enough to make a bouquet or two.
Grey Worm stepped forward and knelt before one shrub. "Clear blue. Just like the waters of the beaches of the Island of Naath." He turned to Jorah and nodded his approval. "Missandei will like these flowers."
"I dare say she will. Come now, I'll show you how to pick them. Take off your gloves and draw your short sword."
With that, he knelt beside him and showed the Unsullied how to pick and choose which flowers to take. "We'll only take those in full bloom, and some larger half bloomed ones, leave the buds and the smaller ones. Be mindful of the thorns." He showed him to cut off near the branch they hung on, and how to skin off the thorns and most of the leaves, leaving only a few of the latter to complement the look. Once they had gathered about a dozen and half, Jorah sat back on his haunches, and helped Grey Worm tie them into a bouquet.
"Well, looks quite good to me. Think Missandei will like it?"
Grey Worm had a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "Yes. Now let us make another bouquet."
"Another?" Jorah was confused at that. Was he planning on gifting Missandei two?
"Yes. For you to give to our Queen."
"I… what?" As much he would like to give her flowers and see her smile, his sense kept him rooted in place.
"You said men give flowers to women because the women are precious to them. The Queen is precious to you, so you should give her flowers just as I am giving them to Missandei."
If nothing else, Jorah appreciated his thoughtfulness. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Torgo Nudho… listen to me. I know it sounds simple when put like that, but there is another thing to be considered. Women appreciate flowers from men who are important to them-"
"You are important to the Queen. She named you General of her armies. Twice." Since when does he interrupt someone? The answer came as quickly as the question. Tyrion. That imp was influencing Grey Worm and Missandei far too much.
"I know that. When I said important, I meant that someone who is as dear- as precious to the woman as the woman is to the man."
"You are precious to the Queen."
He said it so matter of factly, for a moment Jorah almost believed him. Almost.
"I am. But not in the way you and Missandei are to each other. Not the way she and Jon Snow are becoming to each other."
She did love him. In a way, one loved a friend or a family member at best. Not the way he loved her. It didn't matter though. His place was by her side, as her sworn Knight, not as her man. And the former was a great honour. One higher than he deserved or could have hoped for.
Grey Worm frowned. "Jon Snow has not known our Queen for very long."
"And how long did you know Missandei for before you fell in love, eh?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but decided better of it. He did not argue any further and instead stood up and fell into step next to Jorah as they made their way back to the camp.
He did say something on the way that forced Jorah to stop.
"She cried when she told us that you would die."
"What?"
Grey Worm stopped a few steps ahead of him and elaborated while pretending to examine the bouquet.
"Tyrion asked her why she did not forgive you and bring you back with her and Daario. He said that by saving her life again in the fighting pits, you had proven your loyalty beyond doubt. She told Daario to leave and then told me, Missandei, and Tyrion that you were going to die, and no one could save you because there was nothing that could save someone from greyscale. She was crying when she told us. The only time I saw her cry. No one was happy to hear that. I said I would take the Unsullied and march them to kill greyscale, but she laughed at that, and told me while wiping tears that I could not fight it with a spear."
He didn't know how to respond to the knowledge of her tears. He had seen tears in her eyes at Vaes Dothrak, but none of it was her fault. He made mistakes and paid for them. She didn't have to cry, not for him. She should never cry for him.
"Why did you want to march the armies?"
This time he did glace at him. A quick glance, before looking away, mildly embarrassed. "I am Grey Worm, I thought greyscale was a person. If he was, I would have killed him before he killed you."
The image of Daenerys crying for him, Tyrion arguing his case in his absence, Grey Worm wanting to march the entire army for his sake, it was… a bit too much. He quickly took a shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. After blinking a few times, he turned back to his companion and saw him staring at him with… was that concern? It was hard to tell with him.
He walked up to him and clapped him on the shoulder with what he hoped was a smile. Grey Worm nodded. No more was said between them, as they were both men of few words and far too many had been exchanged today. They trekked back to the camp in companionable silence.
Back in his own tent, he found a fully bloomed and rather lovely winter rose intact with its thorns and leaves sticking to the fur at the bottom of his cloak. He gently pried it from the fur and proceeded to remove the thorns. It must have caught while he showing Grey Worm how to handle them without crushing them. He had been most gentle with the flowers. There was no doubt in his mind that Missandei was in good hands. He finished with the rose and dropped it next to the book he intended to read tonight.
"Ser Jorah?"
"Come in, Your Grace."
She did, with a chide on her lips. "Daenerys. You needn't call me by my title when we are alone."
Never presume to speak my name again.
Was this forgiveness or privilege being granted to him?
"You called me by my title, so I responded in kind." He hesitated before adding softly while lowering his gaze. "I did not want to presume anything."
"Presume? What- Oh." He heard her sigh and consequently found himself unable to look at her. He felt her step closer. She took his hands stopping him from twisting the ring he wore on his right hand. Her hands were soft and very warm. Blood of the Dragon indeed.
"Jorah," the dropping of his title was deliberate, "What happened, it's in the past. Let us leave it there, shall we? I would go ahead to say that it was for the best for it made the bond between us stronger. You are my most trusted and dearest friend and advisor. Do not doubt that. And you can call me by name and touch me whenever and wherever you want." The way she spoke to him, softly and deliberately, as if she were talking to a scared animal that was liable to run off if she was not gentle, her cadence as if she were explaining something to a child. Some years ago, it would have offended his pride to be spoken as such. But his pride had drowned somewhere on the way to Volantis and Slaver's Bay when he was put in chains. He let her words sink, staying in silence to preserve the sanctity of the moment. A chain around his heart was removed.
But then a spark of mischief arose in his chest, it had been some time since he had felt so free, why not test his boundaries? Before he could talk himself out of it, he spoke.
"I suggest you rethink your words- are you certain that I have your permission to touch you wherever and whenever I want?"
He saw her cheeks redden slightly. But instead of blushing like a maid, a slow smirk crept over her lips. She tipped her head back slightly and then quirked an eyebrow at him, in mock invitation. She did not utter any words though. Which was just as well, because he didn't think he could hear anything beyond the thudding of his heart.
He had words he wanted to give voice to. I love you… it was right there on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't say it. That was the true pain of one-sided love. Not the knowledge that what you felt would not be reciprocated, but having such love to give someone, but not being to give it, for the knowledge that it would not be welcomed. He could tell her how beautiful she was, within and without, he could tell how much he loved her, how every moment with her was special in a way he could not describe, how he wanted nothing more than to see her safe and happy.
But it was not his place to tell her any of that. Jon Snow should be the one to tell her all that, for he was the one she would want to hear from.
He couldn't hold her teasing gaze for very long. He had to look away before his mouth decided to run away again the way it had in Qarth.
Her fingers ghosted at his chin, lifting it slightly so he would meet her gaze.
"How does it feel?" The teasing was at an end. A genuine concern for him had replaced it.
It hurts. It's both a pleasant pain, and a dull ache, like sword through my belly and a chain around my throat, and a thousand needles in my heart. Gods, it hurts so much to love you and to hold myself back from telling you every moment as you deserve-
"To go home, after being away for so long…" her fingertips scraped across his scruff. Such sweet torture was her touch.
Home? I was home the moment you wrapped your arms around me and pressed me to yourself on that cliff.
"I'm scared, to be honest. I've been away from the North for so long, and the circumstances of my leaving… the North remembers, and no matter what I've done, they might not forgive." They will not forgive him, of that Jorah was certain. But what scared him to return to the North, from where he had come from, and fled in disgrace, was that no one would care enough to even acknowledge him. Especially his little cousin, Lyanna Mormont. How had she ended up with the Lordship when she was the fifth daughter of her mother? He still didn't know what had happened to the rest of his kinswomen.
"If the North fails to see your worth, and insists on clinging to crimes you have long since redeemed yourself for, then it is their loss." He prayed to whichever God was still kind enough to listen that no one would insult him in front of her. Her tone seemed to imply that she would gladly rip them to shreds with her bare hands if they did. Oh, how he loved that fire in her that came out when she protected those she cared about.
"Let us hope for the best, Your Gr- Daenerys."
She nodded, letting go of his hands, looked around his tent.
"I came to warn you."
"Now what did I do?"
She smiled without sparing him a glance, "Careful Ser. Grey Worm attempted to crown Missandei his Lady of Love and Beauty but bungled it. So, he simply resorted to holding out the bouquet for her while informing her of the romantic notions of tourneys and flower crowns and reciting an abridged tale of how you two went on a flower hunt as you named it. Tyrion was also present and will undoubtedly tease you mercilessly for being a romantic."
"A punch in the face ought to shut him up." He absentmindedly picked up the flower he had left next to his book. "Was Missandei pleased by Torgo Nudho's attempt?"
"She had tears of joy in her eyes at seeing the bouquet, it was very lovely Ser, and Grey Worm asked her to cry some more when he found she wept of happiness and not sadness."
He chuckled at that. At least someone was free to both love and be loved.
"The flower is a wonderful color. When Drogon flies above the clouds, and I look at the clear sky, I find that it is a deeper shade of blue than what it seems from the ground." She stepped closer to him and cupped the flower gently in her hand, without having him relinquish it.
"It's the same as your eyes." She says more to herself than to him. She stills abruptly, perhaps realizing that she said something she shouldn't have.
Maybe that's what compels him, or perhaps it's Grey Worm's voice telling him that he should give her flowers or that he is indeed precious to her.
He pushes the flower into her hand without saying a word. She accepts it, and gently strokes one petal with the tip of her finger.
She looks at him and meets his eyes, and everything around them seems to melt away. He can only look at her, and the Gods know what has her rooted to her place. She is standing close to him, and without his armor he suddenly feels very exposed to her. Does she know that in this moment she holds the power to break him? He can't remember to breathe. All he knows is that he wants to kiss her.
She licks her lips, and her eyes seem to ask him something. Are they afraid or hopeful? He can't tell. They are on the threshold of something, and now the question is to cross or not to cross.
Is it his wishful thinking or does she truly want to kiss him?
This should not be happening. Not when she is with another. Thankfully a call from outside his tent's entrance breaks him free of the spell he was under and enables him to step back, away from her fire before he burns completely.
May the gods bless Missandei for coming to his tent to thank him for indulging Grey Worm's touching yet childish quest.
Daenerys thanks him for the flower and wishes him a good night's rest. He only half listens to Missandei's expression of gratitude, instead wondering if he had somehow overstepped his bounds; if he made her uncomfortable by once again allowing his heart to bleed out its affection and tainting their interaction.
"Missandei, he loves you. Let him show that love however he wants. It's the least you can allow him. And if he decides that my assistance is required to help him express his love for you, then it is my honour to have a role to play. What you two have, it's rare, beautiful, and pure. I would gladly go flower hunting daily if it means he can be free with his affections."
She smiles sadly at him. "Is that what you want Ser? To be able to love freely?"
She knows, she understands. Missandei is fluent in nineteen tongues and understands words never spoken just as well.
He doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. Just looks away. What a sorry excuse for a Knight he is, to be unable to let go of his love and focus solely on his duty.
Missandei doesn't need an answer. She hugs him tightly for a moment and leaves a kiss on his cheek. And plants a seed of hope in his heart as well. For just before letting go and excusing herself, she whispers, "Open your eyes, Ser. You are free."
The heart is a fool, and his is stubborn. Fighting was easier.