DAENERYS I

"I think you should wear your armour tonight, Ser."

He collects her before the sun sinks behind the great golden mountains that surround them, the sky rippling in pink, lilac and golden hues as the fires speckled around the camp crackle and spark, sending burning hot embers up into the air in a flurry. Her hair covered and tucked under thick cloaks, her still growing belly swaddled under thick clothes and her hands smooth it, clutches at it and holds her son close as he stirs beneath her fingers, and Doreah fixes her one last time; reaching beneath the hem of her hood and pushes a curl of silver from its place on her tear-stained cheek to behind her ear, hiding it from view.

Jorah reaches his hand out to her, Rakharo and Kovarro standing at his heel, and she looks back to Irri.

"The eggs," She says, her voice barely above a whisper and Irri lifts her own cloak, a thick leather satchel hanging at her waist and upon Daenerys' nod she opens the bag, the dragon eggs glinting in the fire light. She nods again and Irri tucks them away again. "I must say goodbye."

Jorah looks at her, his brow creasing. "Khaleesi…" He says, his voice low and dripping with regret, a 'no' teetering on the edge of his tongue.

She stares back, lilac eyes full of ice. "I must." She says firmly. And then her eyes soften, fill with tears that blur her vision and she smooths her belly. She begs. "I must… I must say goodbye if I am to leave in the dead of night as my mother before me. Please, Ser Jorah. I must see him."

His mouth closes and settles into a thin, stony line. His face shows his age, older than her by fifteen years, and is weathered further by a life of exile and pain, but his eyes are soft to her, they look at her hands cradling her belly and then meet back to her eyes and they soften further at her tears.

"Five minutes." He tells her, softly but firmly. "I can get you five minutes while Rakharo and Kovarro move our horses." Daenerys nods, casting her eyes back to Irri and Doreah, with Jhiqui standing further back in the shadows, as he speaks to them. "Go with Rakharo and Kovarro, take the eggs and the rest of the Khaleesi's things."

Doreah and Irri nod after glancing at one another, while Jhiqui tilts her head. "What about the witch?" She asks. "I heard she was trained in childbirth, will we be taking her with us to deliver Khaleesi's son?"

"The witch will be staying here." Daenerys tells her, lifting her hands to tug her hood further over her head, almost completely obscuring her vision. "I don't want the woman who is killing my husband to deliver my son. We will leave her to the khalasar, they deserve to repay what she did to the blood of their blood."

This time when Jorah offers her his hand, she takes it, and he drags her outside into their camp in the Red Waste where the embers dance like stars in the early dusk. He leads her between the tents, ducking out of view from any of the khalasar that happened to walk by; it doesn't take long for them to reach Drogo's sick tent and they find it thankfully empty. The incense smoking the air reaches deep into her nostrils, masking the scent of death, and she is filled with a sudden wave of sadness that smells like eucalyptus and mint.

He lies across the floor from her, groaning and moaning as he tremors in a fitful sleep, large chest heaving under the pressure of breathing but still thankfully, blessfully, alive. She crosses the tent in three steps, falling down at his side in a crumpled mess of fabric and skin as her hands scramble for his own, clasping his calloused fingers and lifting to press them gently to her lips; with her left she reaches out to cradle his head and smooth his hair.

His eyes crack open only to roll back into his head, and he seizes again as words catch in his throat. Daenerys hushes him, her voice low and soft as she holds his hand to her lips.

"I must go, my sun and stars," She whispers into his skin, her thumb smoothing his forehead. "I must. I am so sorry, I let this happen to you, I shouldn't have let her touch you." Drogo's mouth opens and he tries to say something, force it out between the fits that seize him, he clasps onto her hand and with sadness she notices his once strong grip is weak. "Save your strength, please. Remember me, my sun and stars."

"Khaleesi." Jorah's voice hisses.

Daenerys' head snaps back to Drogo, pressing his hand to her lips more fitfully before she stands, his hand trying to grip hers as she drops his hand and steps away. He groans, pulling himself up and rolling over as he moans out in pain, scratching at the floor with his nails and Daenerys stops in her flight to leave, kneeling down to right him, forcing him back into bed as he resists.

"Stay, sun and stars." Daenerys begs as he pushes against her, she glances back at Jorah who shoots her an urgent glance. "I will return, I promise you that. I will return, with Rhaego alongside me." She promises, taking his hand one last time to press it flush against her stomach.

Finally, Drogo stills, falling back into his pillows in silence and Daenerys bends, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. When she is sure he is settled she stands again, hurrying over to Jorah as he takes her by the shoulder and takes her from her husband.

As Jorah leads her through camp, hiding amongst the growing, long shadows cast by the darkening sky and burning fires, she can hear music and bells and the cries of her khalasar mingling with the sounds of crackling fires and chirping bugs. They are chanting something in Dothraki in overlapping voices that merge into one cacophonous music that she cannot decipher, and, as her and Jorah finish their climb of a dune just on the edge of the camp, she pauses and looks back at the people below her.

She can see their shadows dancing around the fire, their laughter and the rough intonation of their language and shouts, hear their bells chiming in their hair as they move. Jorah's hand is on her arm now, trying to move her away, but she wrenches it back and watches as a large figure she can only assume is Qotho rises above the rest of the khalasar as they lapse into impatient silence, screams out as he lifts a head of long black hair high above him.

Noise erupts again from the camp as Qotho tosses it onto the fire, and the Dothraki are chanting and singing again, and Daenerys purses her lips.

"Was that Drogo?" She asks, looking back at Jorah from the corner of her eye.

"No, khaleesi," He says, hesitating before he speaks again, "I overheard Qotho talking about beheading the witch tonight; he thinks a blood sacrifice may help the Khal recover."

She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, and then breathes in deeply through her nose, allowing the scent of sweat and heat and herby incense to permeate her senses. "Will he recover, Ser Jorah?" She asks, wincing as she does.

"I do not know," He says. "He may, he may not. We could still go back, and I will protect you with my life. But the Khal… he is sick, he cannot ride a horse. A Khal isn't a Khal if he cannot ride."

Daenerys places her hands on her belly, rubbing the spot that her son is kicking and, as he calms inside of her, she calms. "Am I doing what is right?" She asks him, and she hears Jorah step up behind her.

"I think you are doing what is smart." He tells her firmly. "You cannot go home if you are dead."

Home.

She nods and turns back to him, looking up into his eyes and giving him a tiny, tense smile. "We must go," she steps forward, pushing her hood down to shake out her hair that almost glows in the moonlight. "Where are they waiting?"

Jorah points just over the horizon and Daenerys follows it, climbing over the top of one last dune before he eyes fall on a small cluster of people, Jhiqui and Irri sitting atop Rakharo and Kovarro's horses respectively, while Doreah stands between Daenerys' white mare and Jorah's brown stallion. She rushes down the dune, almost tripping as she runs and Doreah drops the reins and rushes to catch her as she stumbles, leading her by the elbow to her horse.

She takes its muzzle in her hands, smoothing it softly before she presses her head against it and the horse whinnies and noses at her hair. She hears Jorah's footsteps approach behind her and she turns to look.

"How far is Asshai?" She asks him.

"Three months away, maybe less if we make good time, maybe more if the weather disagrees." He says.

Daenerys' mouth falls open. "Three months? I will have given birth by then." She hisses, trying to make sure her voice doesn't rise to a shout. "Can we not go back to Pentos or even Braavos?"

Jorah shakes his head. "That would require us heading back the way we came, and Vaes Dothrak is the only city in the Dothraki Sea. You would be taken as a dosh khaleen by the crones there, for being a widow." He explains and Daenerys' brow creases as he continues, "We have no choice but Asshai in the east."

"No, we must go west." She says with a shake of her head. "I don't have time to travel three months in the opposite direction. There must be another city we can go to; we could head through the Dothraki Sea and avoid Vaes Dothrak entirely."

Jorah shifts on his feet, hand resting idly on the pommel on his sword as he thinks. "That could work, however with the Dothraki Sea so frequently travelled by khalasars you will be at risk for capture." He tells her as he examines her from beneath an aged and creased brow. "We could head south-west, there are… coastal cities where we could find a ship to continue west. However…"

Daenerys raises an eyebrow. "However?" she repeats.

"They are slaver cities." Jorah explains and she frowns. "There are three. Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen, all situated in Slaver's Bay. All we could reach by crossing the Red Waste for just under a month, and then diverge west for a fortnight."

Daenerys draws her bottom lip between her teeth once more as she thinks and looks at him, he is watching her and waiting patiently for her decision. He trusts her so deeply, looks so worried for her and she eventually rests a hand atop her belly and gestures down to it, looking to Doreah.

"Will we reach those cities before I am due?" She asks Doreah.

Doreah's eyes flick down to her belly as she approaches, hands outstretched. "May I, Khaleesi?" She asks, waiting for Daenerys' nod of assent and for her to lift her skirt up and her skirt down below her bump before she places her hands on her belly and feels around to the bottom of her bump, pressing in gently with her fingers and then moving them up to the sides and pressing again. Doreah repeats this a couple more times before she steps away. "He does not seem to have turned yet, I think we could make it in time."

"Good," Daenerys says and she rights her clothes and turns back to Jorah. "Which city would you have us go to?"

"Astapor, Khaleesi," Jorah replies. "It is the furthest away, and the khalasars will not follow you so far south-west."

She stands there for a minute, blood rushing in her ears so loud she can barely hear the noises around her, staring far off into the distance until her mare nuzzles into her arm, pressing her muzzle into her hand, and she jumps before smiling softly and beginning to smooth her soft silver coat. Her silver.
She does not look back up at Jorah, into his face and eyes which always seem to be looking through her, and continues to stroke her mare.

"Astapor then." She says, as her mare presses her wet nose into her palm, ears twitching, she reaches out to comb out a knot in her mane. "And where then?"

"Westeros, Khalessi." Jorah tells her. "I am going to take you home."

There it is again. Home.

When Daenerys thinks of Westeros she thinks of the shape of the continent she has only seen on maps, tracing its jagged lines with her fingers as Viserys and Magister Illyrio talked in hushed whispers in an adjacent room - "This is a conversation for men," he had hissed at her when she had tried to listen in, trying to shut the door on her fingers. "For a king. Not for little princesses.". Lit by candlelight she would travel the Kingsroad with her nail, trying to imagine the bustling towns and cities she would pass through, the ports and people she would see.

Once, she had tried to ask Illyrio about the towns in Westeros, the small-people, what wares they sold and what music they played in the streets. Instead he had told her that Westeros was a poor country, that most people lived in squalor, barely feeding themselves and answering to their lords; he hadn't laughed at her, but he had smiled and she thought that was worse.
He tried to enamour her with stories of Kings Landing, of a town called Winterfell and her brother Rhaegar, but by that point she had lost interest and she listened absently, looking out over the window as his words hummed in her ears.

She couldn't understand why Viserys wanted to go back so badly, to a country of poverty and famine, and when she was younger and more naive she had tried to ask him that and had got beaten blue as a result. She learned not to question why her brother wanted what he did, all that mattered to him was that he got his crown and sat on the throne.

Daenerys nods and moves around her horse to mount her, brushing Doreah off as she tries to help. "Home." She agrees softly, unsure. "Thank you, Ser."

Jorah bows to her and then takes his own horse from Doreah, climbing atop it and then holding his hand out to help Doreah up behind him. Rakharo whistles, something shrill and bird-like, and he and Kovarro move ahead of the group, leading the way south as Daenerys follows in the middle with Jorah and Doreah at the rear.

As they move further away from the camp, the symphony of bells and chanting fades and is overtaken by the sound of horse's hooves on the rock and sand and of leather against leather, she sways along with her horse's walking, allowing her silver to jostle her back into herself as she bites down on her lip, chewing until she tastes blood.

"Am I smart?" She whispers to herself. "Or am I a coward?"

She thinks that maybe those two things are the same.

The aches begin a week later, her belly tensing as tight pains ripple through her, and they catch her so off guard she falls from her horse and lands on her back in the sand, winded and wheezing. Her ears are ringing as Doreah rushes over to her, sand flying as she struggles to help her up and only succeeding when Jorah helps and hoists her up fully; he helps her and Doreah over to a nearby rock, and the moment she is sat Doreah rips at her skirts, and Daenerys chuckles as Jorah quickly turns away, indicating for Kovarroh and Rakharo to do the same.

"I thought you were used to gore, Ser." She breathes, rubbing a particularly sore spot on her belly with a flat palm, sighing as the pain finally begins to ease.

"Childbirth is not gore, Khaleesi." He says and she snorts at that.

"You've not read the same books I have."

She can hear the smile in his voice as he replies, "In any case, I won't look." And she smiles back, mostly to herself.

Doreah is between her legs now, and she doesn't have the energy to feel ashamed when her fingers hook into her, searching and scraping as she winces at the sensation. She pulls back, wiping her hand off on her skirt and then moves up her shirt far above her breasts and for that she is thankful Jorah is not looking. Doreah begins to press at her belly again, feeling around for her son's position before she purses her lips, feels again with fingers that are almost uncomfortable and then fixes her top and skirts and helps her onto her feet.

The sun is beating heavily down upon them, warm and oppressive, and she can feel the sun burn itching at her cheeks, her arms and legs and the little abdomen she has exposed is golden where it once was pale. The Red Waste is unforgiving, and she just wants to keep moving before any of them fall over from exhaustion or dehydration or both. She takes a step towards her horse, but Doreah holds on tight to her hand.

"I can walk," Daenerys assures, as Doreah tries to lead her to Jorah and place her hand in his. "I'm okay. The pain just surprised me."

"You cannot," Doreah says with a shake of her head, tugging her back by the elbow when she tries to walk back to her horse. "Walking may speed it up and you cannot ride alone anymore. We may not make it in time, you are in false labour."

Daenerys pauses in her step, her hands faltering on her belly as she slowly blinks down at it and then back up to Doreah. Her son moves inside of her, twisting. "I… I thought I wasn't due for at least two moons." She repeats, her mouth suddenly feeling very dry. "I thought we had time!"

"We did," Doreah says before frowning. "We do."

She draws in a strangled breath, trying to calm her racing heart. "What does this mean?" She asks. "False labour?"

"You will feel pains; it is your womb practicing for birth, like your moon pains. It means your body is getting ready to birth your son." Doreah tells her before she takes both of her hands in her own, squeezing them tight in reassurance. "But I checked, you have not softened, so he will not be born yet not for a fortnight at least."

Daernerys nods, her mouth as dry as the sand and rock she stands on, and squeezes Doreah's hands back in return. "Doreah, will you be able to birth my son, should he come early?" She asks and Doreah's brow furrows.

'I… I do not want you to die in childbed, Khaleesi." She says with a shake of her head, looking down at her feet. "I do not know enough to assure you I can."

Daenerys reaches out to cup Doreah's face in her hands, tilting her face back up to her and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, before she lends forward and presses her forehead against hers. "I understand, blood of my blood," she whispers. "Do not be afraid to tell me what you cannot do."

"What do you wish us to do, Khaleesi." Jorah asks, hand on his sword's pommel.

The words catch in throat as she looks over her tiny khalasar, all of them tired and sun-burnt, dishevelled and looking at her with such loyalty and expectation, and all she wants to do is hold them in her arms and make sure they do not get hurt. Then her eyes land on Jorah, and he is looking right through her and gives her a nod of encouragement, and it's like he knows her, truly deeply knows her enough to know that the tiny nod he gave her was enough to relax the knot in her stomach.

"I will take Ser Jorah and we will travel ahead," Daenerys says, her voice hoarse. "We will travel two days at a time on my mare, and hopefully cut the journey in half."

"Then we will do the same," Kovarro says.

She shakes her head. "I cannot allow you to do that." She tells him. "I do not wish for you all to be exhausted, and I cannot ride by myself. Ser Jorah will protect me, and you will meet us in Astapor."

Doreah squeezes her hand again. "I will come with you, I will ride on your mare." She says and Daenerys opens her mouth to protest but Doreah shakes her head. "I will not hear it; I can ride ahead and get help if your son comes early, and I know how much you love your mare."

Daenerys looks back at her mare, standing ready and waiting and her gaze softens as she looks back to Doreah. "As you wish. Irri," she says and Irri nods to her. "Give the eggs to Doreah."

"Yes, Khaleesi." She says, slinging the satchel over her shoulder to hand them over to Doreah, who takes the bag gently and then places the strap over her head and onto the shoulder.

Daenerys smiles as she turns to Jorah. "Shall we?"

He nods and mounts his horse once more, sitting further back this time, before he reaches out to her and takes her hand. She can feel Doreah at her back as she helps her atop the horse in front of Jorah, settling her and making sure she is comfortable and has a waterskin within reach to then turn and mount Daenerys' horse, stroking her twice behind the ears. His arm wraps around her waist and loops back around her to hold the reins.

As they start moving again she feels steadier on his horse, he isn't jostling her around so much as was being jostled on her own, and she attempts to sit up as much as she is able even though her back protests. She cracks after five minutes, finally giving in to slouch back in Jorah's chest, breathing deeply as she allows her eyes to flutter shut, almost chuckling as she feels him stiffen beneath her and then relax - his arm squeezing her tighter, closer.

She can smell him now that they are close, sweat and leather and aloe ointment fills her nose, and she wants to drink it like wine and drown in it. His arms are strong and close around her in walls, his chest is wide and hard and she leans against it like she would a wrought wooden door, she wants to open it and peer in, look into his heart and see all the secrets he keeps from her behind wistful words and stares off into the distance in longing whenever he speaks of home.

Let me in, his body says as it sinks around hers. His arm squeezes her again, I will, hers says as she feels herself drifting further into sleep, Give me time.