Interlude VIII—Season Nine

As soon as the children are tucked into bed, Daenerys rounds on her husband.

"Remove those clothes, ser," she says.

"Daenerys, you're overreacting," he says wearily.

"I'll be the judge of that. Now, undress."

He sets his jaw but moves to obey.

She can't stop her sharp intake of breath.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Jorah says gruffly.

She doesn't care about his opinion in this moment; he'll always try to downplay his injuries for her sake.

Blood has smeared across his skin from where his rudimentary bandage hasn't contained the flow properly.

It's not life-threatening. That she can acknowledge.

It doesn't make her any less cross.

"What happened?" she growls.

Jorah's mouth thins. "A skirmish, that's all. We put the fools down in short order. One of them took a swing and caught me, but it's hardly the worst I've suffered."

She knows how true that is, but it's not an excuse. "They could've punctured a lung!"

"They didn't," he says, exasperated. "It's a flesh wound."

He can't fully understand the trauma she still holds. Drogo's festered wound, how close she had come to losing him on the Long Night. She hopes he never has to understand, for his protectiveness would be stifling.

It gives her reason to pause.

Perhaps that's how he feels. She's used to getting what she wants, but Jorah is his own person. He wants to be lord commander of her queensguard still even though he doesn't have to be, for he enjoys it. Danger and all.

She sighs.

"I'm sorry," she says. "You're right. I overreacted."

Jorah gives her a forgiving smile. "It's all right."

"I still want Sam to take a look," she warns. "I'll call him now."

"It can wait until morning—"

"No, it can't." She fixes him with a look. "Don't test my patience, ser. You've had a narrow escape with my wrath as it is."

That makes him chuckle. He crosses the room to her side, and slips his arms around her, gifting a kiss to the crown of her head.

"I am well aware," he murmurs.