A/N: Prompt: Love Triangle.
3. Fons et Origo
Whenever Tyrion catches sight of the Mother of Dragons with the King in the North, he can't help but feel a little sorry for Jorah Mormont. Oh, he's a grumpy bastard to the core and Tyrion has no love for the way that his face remains stone through even the most brilliant of his jokes—and gods he has so many in his repertoire—but there must be something about bears that get into the heart. He'd had great respect for Jeor Mormont, who had proven to be an adept commander and at least had his honour intact, unlike most of the others who crawled and simpered around court at King's Landing, and although their paths had crossed in the most bizarre of ways, Jorah Mormont is his father's son in many ways. He has the pale blue eyes and the soft ginger hair, so unlike the usual darkness that mars the north. If Tyrion was a fair maid, he might even find Mormont attractive. But probably not. Not with the way he scowled and moped about.
Still, for all of his sullen silences and complete lack of personality, Tyrion has grown fond of the other man. He recognises that despite his past mistakes, he is still a good man—one of the best around, if he wants to be truly generous. And that is lacking in Westeros.
Which is why he feels sorry for him.
Because, despite the fact that it could never work out anyway, Daenerys Targaryen is breaking his heart anew with her infatuation with Jon Snow. A boy Tyrion also likes very much. He's in quite the predicament.
Gods, he'd never thought he'd see the day where he felt sorry for bears or wolves.
Daenerys and Jon Snow are conspicuously absent from the halls as he waddles inside for a warm by the fire. Together? He's not sure. If he tries to bring it up, the queen will fix him with one of those glowers—the human form of dracarys. If he didn't know better, he'd say she'd perfected the art of glowering from Mormont himself.
The halls are as damp and lacklustre as the rest of Dragonstone. Tyrion now knows why Stannis Baratheon took the gift as such a slight. Only a madman would want to live here. And the Targaryens have been known for their madness. But it's the only place on this godsforsaken island where he might have the mildew siphoned from his bones for five minutes.
He finds that he's not alone as he treks down the long walkway.
Mormont sits nursing a cup of ale, staring vacantly into the flames that dance in the grate; he obviously hasn't heard his entry. Tyrion clambers onto the bench and bangs his goblet down, bringing the other man out of his reverie with a start.
"I must say, I never thought I'd see you again, Mormont," he says by way of greeting. "I'm rather glad to have been proven wrong."
Mormont grunts. Ah. Greyscale hasn't made him more of a conversationalist. No matter. Tyrion has the talk and charm for the both of them.
"It seems that you and the queen have something in common."
That does make the sullen knight look at him. "I'm not in the mood to listen to your riddles, Lannister."
"That's not a riddle. A riddle is a question of statement intentionally phrased so as to require ingenuity in ascertaining the answer or meaning. Unfortunately for you, you lack the intelligence for working out anything difficult so I must spell things out for you."
"And yet here you are, not making yourself plain. Sounds like a riddle to me. And while I don't lack the intelligence, I do lack the patience for your stupid games."
"Touché." Tyrion takes a moment to swig his wine. Gods, Dragonstone is severely lacking, and he's never been as sober as he is now that he's serving Daenerys. She's most strict when it comes to monitoring his intake. Says that she won't have a drunken fool giving her stupid advice. It's her loss, really. He firmly believes that he comes up with his most ingenious ideas when he's had more than a skinful.
Mormont takes a swig of his flagon, staring into the fire.
"You could share your good fortune," says Tyrion, indicating the bronze jug that sits at his elbow. "That's what drinking is all about."
Mormont grunts, pushing said flagon aside. Tyrion grabs it eagerly, not even bothering to fill his glass as he takes a hefty swig right from the jug's neck.
And almost spits it out.
"That's water!" he says.
"I know," says Jorah. "I won't drink on the eve of a battle. I want my head to be clear." The corner of his mouth turns up slightly.
Perhaps he has a warped sense of humour after all.
Still, that's no consolation to Tyrion. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he mutters, "Fucking bastard."
Mormont tips his head in honour of the title bestowed upon him, and goes back to staring at the flames.
"That's another way you're like our beloved queen," says Tyrion. There's no masking the sourness in his tone, but Mormont is hardly someone who can lecture him on pettiness.
The knight's eyes snap back to him at once. "My patience is wearing thin with you, Lannister."
"When is it not?" Tyrion shakes his head. "The queen doesn't let me drink either."
"I'd say that was clever on her behalf."
"Some would argue not all of her decisions are. After all, she ignored one of my key pieces of advice."
"Probably wise of her."
"Yes, I'm sure you would say that. After all, the piece of advice concerned you."
Mormont stiffens. Ah. Tyrion allows himself a smirk. He has the miserable old git's attention now.
Not that it will be easy to draw him into the field of verbal sparring, the one place he can always win. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know very well what I'm talking about. In a Meereenese pyramid I advised our Dragon Queen to spare your life, but not to take you back into her services. And yet here you stand."
"Here I stand," he echoes, saluting him with his tankard. "Though the gods alone know how."
"She never did tell me much about why that decision was made."
"What makes you think you're going to get anything more out of me?"
"Oh, I don't. You're not dynamic enough to weave an interesting tale. But I confess that I'm an avid consumer of stories, and I would be very interested to hear how you wriggled your way into her good graces."
"I didn't," Mormont grunts. "I followed a command, that's all."
"A rather impossible command."
"There's no such thing as an impossible command when it's a command from your queen."
Or the woman you love, Tyrion thinks wryly. "The odds of being cured of greyscale are so miniscule it's hardly a statistic. You know that as well as I do."
"Shireen Baratheon lived with greyscale."
"And was heavily disfigured for it. I never saw the girl myself but everyone heard the talk of the grotesque scales on her face." He sympathised with the girl who had met such an unspeakable end. He knew all about the grotesque. "You don't have the same scars."
"It didn't spread to my face. You haven't seen the rest of me. Unless you'd like to."
Tyrion ignores the second jab. "Might have improved your looks."
Mormont shoots him a scowl, but he says nothing else. Gods, even poking a bear is no fun after a while if said bear won't fight back.
"You're avoiding the question," he says.
"I wasn't aware a question had been asked."
Smart, smug bastard. "What made her change her mind about you? I made it clear to her that she couldn't have a traitor by her side when she returned to Westeros. My warning has clearly fallen on deaf ears."
"I'm not a threat to her, you know. I have no intentions of slitting her throat in her sleep." He gives him a pointed look. "Only Lannisters are such cowards."
"The Red Wedding had nothing to do with me. That was my father's work." Tyrion doesn't know why he cares. After all, his father had drilled it into all three of his children, even his most despised: the lion does not concern itself with the opinion of sheep. And yet he's never quite managed to live by that rule. Perhaps it's a weakness in this particular line of Lannister men. Jaime cares more than he allows. Only Cersei, the one most like Tywin and dismissed by others because of her sex, lives by it. "And I don't think you'll slit her throat in her sleep. You're dangerous in other ways."
"How?" he growls. "I want to see her sit the Iron Throne. I would not jeopardise that."
"Perhaps not willingly, I will grant you that. But you love her."
Mormont stiffens at once, and Tyrion knows he's hit the mark. He's addressed the fact twice. Once in front of the queen, once not. Mormont didn't deny it either time.
He doesn't deny it now. "I fail to see how it's relevant."
"Love is the death of duty," Tyrion intones.
"So they say. I assure you, it's not the death of mine. My purpose is to serve Daenerys Targaryen, to die for her if it comes to that."
Mormont's duty isn't what Tyrion was thinking of.
The queen's is the more pressing.
He'd told her that Jorah Mormont could not be part of her entourage when she returned to Westeros. He'd seen the conflict in her eyes, but the queen in her, the keen political player, had won out.
And yet the woman within was still very much alive. Away from the city, away from her crown, she'd chosen to follow another voice.
It was easier than acknowledging that she might have followed another organ.
But something had happened. He hadn't been able to prise it from the queen's lips, or even from Daario Naharis', and the Tyroshi usually enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Which leads Tyrion to wonder if perhaps Daenerys Targaryen has more complicated feelings for Mormont than she is willing to reveal.
"The queen asked me to find a cure so I could continue advising her. That' what I've done. I want to see her on the Iron Throne more than anyone. I intend to do what I can to help her."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more."
"Good." Tyrion doesn't give further voice to his relief, to his worry that he wouldn't be able to change her mind when it came to Jorah Mormont anyway. Their relationship has been rather strained since they set foot on Dragonstone. A minor hurdle, he hopes, but he wouldn't put it past the Dragon Queen to do the opposite of his next advice simply to spite him.
So perhaps it's better to give Mormont the subtle warning instead. He won't go running to Daenerys, he's quite sure of that, because he wouldn't want her to know. The northerners are a prideful bunch, and Mormont is no better. No, Tyrion is quite sure he'll sulk by himself and lick his wounds in silence.
It's time to take the spear to the bear.
"Anyway, have you seen Jon Snow anywhere?" he asks.
"No," Mormont grunts, taking another swig of water.
Tyrion pretends to mull it over for a moment. "Perhaps the king in the north has a private meeting with our queen before your dangerous journey tomorrow."
The comment hits home; Mormont's knuckles pop around his tankard. It's time to press the advantage, make it clear where he stands.
"Yes, I think our queen has a soft spot for him," he continues. "I suppose he's her type, wouldn't you say? Tall, dark, handsome…"
"Not that tall," says Mormont. He's rattled. Tyrion almost feels sorry for him. Asides from the whole kidnapping-and-punching thing, he isn't so bad. "I'm a half-man. Anyone is tall in my eyes."
"For someone your size, you have a very big mouth."
"And a very big cock. And a very big brain. Jon Snow reminds me of Daario, a little." There, the killer blow. He watches Mormont stiffen.
"Snow is nothing like him," he says.
"Perhaps not in temperament," he concedes. "But I've found all northerners to be a dour bunch. No, in looks they share a certain resemblance. Must be the black beards. And I hear her husband had one too. Dark beards and dark eyes. Women do tend to like them. In fairness, they like most things better than dwarves…"
He's hit a nerve. Knows how keenly it stings when Mormont says, "Can't say I've noticed." Because of all people, Mormont notices things. Especially things that concern his queen.
Tyrion doesn't want to hurt him, not really. As uncharming as he is, he had grown rather fond of the bear on their travels together. But he's no fool either: he wouldn't make a good consort. And as much as Mormont wishes to serve his queen, he is only a man. Tyrion knows how weak men are when faced with their desires. He remembers all too well the soft feel of Shae's skin against his fingers, her hair tickling his lips, the dark kindling of her eyes, the way her tongue softened over her endearment.
My lion, we should have fled when I told you to…
He closes his eyes. He's not drunk enough for the memories.
"Perhaps you should get some sleep," he suggests now. "I don't think you'll have much opportunity after tonight."
"Aye, perhaps you're right," Mormont mutters.
Tyrion pretend to raise a tankard.
"To the dragon and the wolf," he says with grim panache. "May they sing the song for centuries to come."
Mormont doesn't say another word. He pushes his bench away from the table and strides away without looking back. Poor bastard, Tyrion thinks. He ought to know by now that a bear can't compete with a wolf.
"Would you like some more wine?"
Daenerys sits opposite the King in the North, relaxing in her chair. She's had a glass of wine herself and it has loosened her shoulders; her posture isn't quite as queenly as it should be.
Jon Snow gives her a small smile. "I'd better not, Your Grace."
He's rather comely in a dour sort of way, she thinks through the pleasant buzzing in her head. He's got pretty brown eyes and pretty hair…
"I trust you're ready for tomorrow?" she asks, pushing the thoughts aside.
"I am, Your Grace."
"It won't be an easy mission."
"It won't," he acknowledges. "I've fought against them before. It's a terrible experience. But we need proof if we're to face this united. I know you're sceptical yourself…"
"That doesn't matter," she says, stung. "I'm trusting you, aren't I?"
"Aye, I suppose you are," he says.
"And Ser Jorah has offered his services. I trust him to do the right thing. If he says this is it…" She trails off. She can't deny it: she doesn't like the idea. He's only just been returned to her, a miracle she never thought she'd see, and the idea of him leaving her again so soon, especially on such a mad mission…
"Ser Jorah is a northman. He will have grown up hearing the same stories that have been passed down generation by generation. I always thought they were just stories too, but…"
But he says they're not. And Jorah must believe the same, otherwise he would not have offered to go.
"I want him back in one piece," she says.
"I'm not sure I can make such promises."
"I'm not asking for a promise. I'm giving a command."
Jon's mouth thins, but he doesn't argue. Kings don't like taking orders from queens. She doesn't much care. Not when it comes to the people she cares about.
Not when it comes to Jorah.
"You're close to Ser Jorah," Jon notes. Is there a tinge of jealousy in his tone? It thrills her a little.
"Ser Jorah has been by my side since I was little more than a girl sold to the Dothraki. He was my only friend for a long time."
"He wasn't with you until today," Jon points out.
"He was on an important mission for me," Dany says. She has no intention of sharing Jorah's brush with death. It's not her story to tell, and she respects his privacy.
It's a story she wants to hear for herself, for she's not yet had the chance to speak to Jorah alone.
And nor will she get that opportunity any time soon, not with him leaving on the morrow.
She pushes the thought aside, returns her attention to Jon Snow. He's scrutinising her across the table. It's rather disconcerting. Those dark eyes are intense.
And very different to Jorah's. His are piercing blue. She wonders which shade is more prevalent in the north.
"What's wrong?" she asks, shaking the thought away.
"Nothing," says Jon. "Just…thank you."
"Thank you?"
"For giving me the chance to prove to you what's coming."
"You didn't give me much choice. As you pointed out, you are a king." Jorah had given her even less chance. She might not fully trust the King in the North, but she trust Jorah beyond anything. If he thinks there's something in this, she will follow his instinct.
Jon glances at the candles burning low in their holders. "I should be getting to bed."
"Yes, of course." Daenerys sets her cup down, and rises. Jon follows suit. He inclines his head towards her. She follows him to the door.
"Goodnight, Your Grace," he murmurs.
"Goodnight," she returns.
For a moment he lingers on the threshold, dark eyes scrutinising. She feels herself flushing hot beneath the intensity of that gaze. It's a feeling she isn't used to. Only one other man's eyes have pinned her in place so, and then she'd felt as if she was drowning in the Jade Sea.
For a moment she thinks Jon Snow, King in the North, will lean in to kiss her.
For a moment, she doesn't know what she will do if he does.
But then the moment passes, and he turns from her with one final nod, leaving her along with the confused jumble of thoughts in her mind, where two men compete for attention.
She pushes Jorah away. She's got very good at that. But he would understand.
After all, there's no room in the history books for queens and their knights, and she can't love him the way he wants her to.
She returns to bed but doesn't dream of anything.
What a few weeks it had been. What a few fucking weeks.
Tyrion Lannister carries his jug of wine into the mess hall, careful not to spill a single drop. He'd have a cup bearer do it under other circumstances but the young boy who has been assigned to him, an orphan from Flea Bottom, hasn't yet mastered the art of care when it comes to the most important treasure in the whole of the world, and Tyrion doesn't want to waste anything tonight.
He expects to be completely alone, so the voice from the shadows is enough to make him jump—though thankfully he doesn't spill any. If he had, he would have bludgeoned their heads in with the tankard.
"Lord Tyrion, it' nice to see you here."
Jon Snow—Jon Targaryen, he corrects himself—sits swathed in darkness. He barely ever wears anything other than black.
"What in seven hells are you doing here?" Tyrion asks.
Jon shrugs. "Escaping the madness of court. You?"
"Looking for a place to have a drink in peace."
"I can go if you'd like."
Tyrion waves the suggestion away. "No, stay. You're a damned sight better than any other companion I could have had at this moment." Except for Jorah Mormont, who says even less than Jon does. But Mormont is likely to be otherwise engaged, the dirty bastard.
Tyrion shakes his head. That's what's made the last few weeks so fucking strange.
He waddles over to the long table and clambers up after seeing his precious wine to safety. Once he's seated, he takes his jug, fills the goblet, and takes a long, long drink.
"Ah, that's better," he says, smacking his lips together. "Drink is one of only two things the gods got right."
"What's the other?" asks Jon.
"The female form. Nice firm tits and a nice wet hole to keep your cock warm? The gods knew what they were doing."
Jon takes a swig of whatever he has in his own goblet to save himself from answering. He looks distinctly uncomfortable. Well, no matter. Mormont would say he's good at talking at people. He'd prefer to call it making conversation.
"I don't get much of either these days," he says.
"You surprise me, Lannister."
"Well, I shouldn't. You do know your aunt, don't you?"
Jon's expression clears, and his lips twitch. "Ah, I see. Now it makes more sense."
"Well, it's her loss. I happen to come up with most of my greatest ideas when I'm drunk."
"Yes, I've heard all about your desire to merge brothels with political meetings."
Tyrion swears. "Gods, does that woman spread my shame everywhere?"
"I think she enjoys humour at your cost, since you enjoy it so much at everyone else's."
"You wound me, bastard."
"I'm not a bastard, dwarf."
"Ah, yes, that's right. My apologies. You share the same vice as my brother instead."
Jon blinks, horrified. Tyrion rolls his eyes.
"Don't look so stricken," he says. "Targaryens wed brother to sister for centuries. Aunt and nephew isn't so bad in comparison. And neither of you wanted to pursue that, so no harm done." Though he suspects that isn't quite true. A certain bear took many a wound from that. "Look, I'm sorry if I caused offence. I tend to do that all the time."
"Actually, I remember you as the man who taught me harsh truths when I was a lad," says Jon, forgiving him silently with a small smile. "No one else wanted to tell me the truth. Only you."
"I find life is much easier to deal with, no matter how unpleasant the truth might be."
"Aye, I think you're right."
They lapse into silence. Tyrion takes the opportunity to scrutinise his companion. Dark hair, dark eyes, no ornament or grand design. He never would have guessed that Jon Snow was actually a trueborn Targaryen. There is nothing of the dragon in him. No, he's all wolf.
Some hadn't believed the truth of it when it had been announced. Tyrion doesn't blame them. But he hadn't doubted it. Its sources were trustworthy. Samwell Tarly is a decent fellow, and Jon isn't a liar.
Far and wide across the kingdom, there will be those who whisper that Jon Targaryen should sit the throne. There's sure to be staunch support for it in the north.
Convenient, Tyrion thinks idly. When he'd been nothing but a bastard boy, there had been no protests to him being sent to freeze in the vast hell of the Wall.
But there's one thing he knows for sure about Jon Snow, and that's he's as honourable as Ned Stark. He might not have been his son but he has grown to be a man just like him. When he says he doesn't want power, he means it. When he says he supports Daenerys, he means it. It makes him a great ally.
Not that she needs it. Every day the Dragon Queen proves that she was born to rule.
Varys had been very smug about this.
Tyrion supposes he has a right to be. Daenerys is everything he'd said she'd be and so much more. Strong but compassionate. Firm but fair. Never shies away from her people, whether they are rich or poor. Is willing to get herself dirty doing the necessary work, not just hiding behind the Red Keep's walls.
She's won the hearts of many by giving them a choice.
The north had been given the choice between independence and a fresh alliance. They'd chosen independence and Sansa Stark had donned the crown her cousin had cast aside.
The Iron Islands had been granted their independence for their loyalty to the crown. Yara Greyjoy had claim that crown of salt and rock, and was their most loyal ally.
The other kingdoms had been given the same choice. Each had deliberated long and hard over their answer, but each had come back with the same: they would be part of the Six Kingdoms.
Representatives from each kingdom come here to have a voice on her second council. They get seats of honour when it's time to dine. And she knows how to charm. Most men melt in her presence.
Yes, she's very good. It isn't hard to see why people adore her. The greatest Targaryen since Jaehaerys the Conciliator, including present company.
"Where is Dany?" Jon asks now, shaking Tyrion from his thoughts. "I thought she might have been here."
Tyrion coughs. "Ah, yes. Well, under ordinary circumstances she would have been. But it seems as if she's been very busy over the last couple of months."
"Brokering new alliances?"
"Something like that." From what he knows of the last few weeks, Queen Daenerys has been exploring her new alliance very thoroughly indeed.
Jon frowns. "What's so funny?"
Tyrion tries to school his features. "Oh, nothing. And don't worry about Daenerys. I'm sure she'll see you tomorrow."
Jon nods, mulling the words over. "You're right. It's difficult being a ruler. I was only king for a short time and only over one kingdom. One kingdom disagrees enough. I have no idea how she's doing it."
"Well, she's a very determined woman. Quite the force to be reckoned with."
Jon smiles softly. "Aye, she is."
He's fond of her, Tyrion knows. Torn as he still is between the Starks and the Targaryens, he clearly has great affection for his aunt. He wonders what it might have been if the truth had never been discovered.
There had been something between them on Dragonstone. He isn't blind. A simmering tension, a sense of inevitability.
Ice and fire…
And yet he remembers Daenerys' outburst at Winterfell.
I do not love him.
Loud. Clear. Unwavering. As if it had been held back by storm defences for so long, the pressure allowed to build and build until it could be contained no longer. Streaming forth in an unstoppable frenzy, the words sweeping everything else aside until it drowned reason with the force of its conviction.
I do not love him.
Spoken with the sincerity and naivety of a young woman who still thought such things mattered.
She had been prepared to marry the Meereneese nobleman for the sake of her kingdom.
She had left Daario Naharis in Essos because it wasn't prudent to have a lover when she entered the game of thrones.
And yet then, when her whole reign had potentially depended on that decision, she had turned her back on it. It had given him and Varys hours of sleepless discussions about how they could move forward from there, against a kingdom which could withdraw its support whenever it wanted now it had achieved its needs.
It makes sense in hindsight, of course. Another reign held together on incest, no matter the family, would not have been the cleverest move, and nor would Jon Snow ever have been comfortable with such a notion.
But at the time he had worried that there might have been other reasons for it.
I do not love him.
Because she'd loved another?
A knight she had been told could not be with her when she came to Westeros?
A knight she had brought with her anyway, a decision she refused to discuss?
Tyrion had watched carefully for any signs. Varys had heard the whispers. The dragon queen and the bear knight, romping together beneath the wolf's roof.
But there had been nothing to cause alarm. Mormont, stoic and sullen as ever. Daenerys, focused on her one goal. And so his anxieties had eased a little.
He was her friend, he'd told Varys. He'd been with her from the beginning. And she'd almost lost him on the Long Night. People were allowed to care for their friends. It showed that she was human, that she was a good choice for Westeros.
So he'd comforted himself with that. She would understand the merits of a good match in time, and there was plenty to do in the meantime. He would watch and ensure that nothing arose from this.
"The best swordsman I ever knew once told me that watching wasn't seeing," Arya Stark had told him with a smirk, reclining in a chair in front of a roaring fire. That look was almost a reminder of why his family hated the Starks so much.
But it was a blow that rang with truth.
He shakes his head ruefully. He should have known.
"You seem preoccupied," Jon notes.
"You have no idea."
"Perhaps I can help."
"Daenerys will tell you in her own time."
Jon frowns. "If there's anything I can do to help…"
"I'm sure there is. But it will have to come from our queen. Now drink up, Jon Snow. We've plenty of wine to get through. And you can tell me of your adventures in the wild north fighting snarks and grumkins."
"There was a time you didn't believe in grumkins and snarks."
"I'd be a fucking idiot if I didn't after all we've seen."
"I don't think anyone could accuse you of being an idiot, my lord."
"I'm sure Ser Jorah thinks it a million times a day."
Jon snorts. "Well, it does take a bit of time to get used to your…flamboyancy."
"I'm wounded. My flamboyancy is one of my best features. It's you northerners. You're all the same."
"Speaking of Ser Jorah, I haven't seen much of him, either. I was hoping to catch a drink with him. He's the only one here who understands that longing for the north."
Tyrion is quite sure that Mormont hasn't longed for the north for a lengthy time, especially with such a southron beauty sharing his bed these days. Still, he schools his features and says, "I'm sure you'll catch him at some point. I am also equally sure he's extremely busy at the moment and wouldn't want to be disturbed."
"Talking from experience?"
"You have no idea," says Tyrion, thinking about what he'd stumbled across a mere few weeks ago. Gods, he's still a little jealous. Mormont, older and scarred as he is, is still in very good shape. And Daenerys, rumpled and clearly very content with the choices she had made…
It's not going to be an easy path. He himself is torn on what he thinks about the solution. The cynical politician who has a duty to the realm is exasperated and irritated that they didn't have the sense of self-control not to give in to their passion. Mormont is not consort material. The high lords of Westeros will be affronted. It could jeopardise the foundations which are far from settled yet, so short into Daenerys' reign as they are.
And yet…
And yet that part of him that somehow still survives, the part of him who has always craved love because he's a stunted little monster who has had nothing for so long…that part is happy for them.
Is a little envious of them.
They've dived right in, fuck the consequences.
Come with me, he hears the echo of Shae's voice.
She is the ghost that will never leave. The ghost of the happiness he might have had if he'd been braver.
Seeming to sense his melancholy, Jon refills his cup and pushes it towards him. "Here. If you need a friend to get drunk with…I'm here."
Grateful, Tyrion snatches it up. "Who would ever have thought when all the shit began that a Stark and a Lannister could be friends?"
"Or a Lannister would serve a Targaryen?"
"Or the bastard of Winterfell would live with the free folk?"
"Or Westeros would finally start to know what peace is?"
Or Jorah Mormont fucking the beautiful Targaryen girl he had given his heart to for so many years, Tyrion thinks, but says, "I'll drink to that."
Jon grins, clinking his tankard against his.
"Daenerys?"
Jorah's voice, husky with sleep, sounds through the darkness.
"I'm here," she says.
She smiles as she hears him fumbling in the darkness, the sheets whispering against his naked skin.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"Writing a letter."
"Can't that wait until morning?"
"No, it can't. I need peace and quiet to collect my thoughts, which I never get during the day."
Jorah hums. She hears his feet hitting the stone floor with a thud, then his familiar tread across the floor as he makes his way to her side. He nuzzles against her neck, bracing his arms against her desk.
"Who are you writing to?" he asks.
There's no need to hide anything from him. "Jon."
Jorah pulls away at that, frowning. "Jon?"
"Yes."
"Why do you need to write to him? He's here in King's Landing. You could speak to him now if you wished."
"I know. But some things are best said in writing."
"And what are those things?"
She rolls her eyes. "I think you know."
Jorah moves around the desk, leaning in to peer at the parchment. She doesn't try to stop him. He is her lover. These past moons she has tried her best to diminish the difference in status between them, especially in private. She doesn't want to be a queen with him. She wants to be a woman. His lover.
Jorah studies the words on the parchment for a moment then turns away, a blush on his cheeks. He is a man of few words, and no doubt the idea of her pouring her heart out to her nephew brings him mild discomfort. "I'm still not sure I understand. The meeting today…"
Yes, the meeting in which she had admitted to her small council that she had been taking her lord commander to bed right under their noses for the last few weeks without any of them knowing.
Tyrion's lecherous smirk.
The grim horror on the thin line of Varys' mouth.
Sam's bright red visage.
Davos' embarrassed sputtering.
Missandei's bitten back grin.
Grey Worm's muted surprise.
Jorah's embarrassed dip of the head as he stared at the table top.
Knowing that her firm queenliness masked more than she was ready to say.
I love you.
It had been the longest meeting of her reign. But its results had not been unsatisfactory.
"I've changed my mind," she tells Jorah now. "I had thought that I might need Jon's help in stating my cause, but it went better than I'd been expecting. So I've decided that I'm going to give him a letter to read when he leaves for the north again. Right now, I just want this to be for us and the ones closest to us."
"Varys isn't happy," Jorah points out.
"Varys was never going to be happy. He does love his dedication to the realm."
"And if our relationship jeopardises that…"
"Varys will voice his concerns to me in private if he has any, as I asked him to."
"Varys has never been loyal to anyone."
"And yet I trust him. He's hard for me to fathom too. But if he thinks I'm failing I know he will come to me and explain why."
"And if he thinks you're endangering everything by taking me into your bed?"
"I will do what I said I would do this morning: educate him."
Jorah purses his lips, but doesn't argue further. She's grateful for that. There's a time and a place for it, and she would rather it not be in her private chambers where they have the rare opportunity to be completely alone. This space is for them, where she can leave the queen at the door.
"Get back into bed," she tells him now.
"Are you giving orders, my queen?" he says.
Daenerys turns slightly, letting the robe she pulled on fall apart just slightly. Jorah swallows hard, his gaze falling to her cleavage, teased by the dancing shadows of the candles.
"It was merely a suggestion," she says, lowering her voice.
"A good one," he agrees, his voice taking on that husky tone that makes her toes curl.
"Then what are you waiting for?"
He dips in to steal a brief kiss before she can deny him, padding back over to her bed. Daenerys scribbles the last few lines, her writing decidedly wobblier, then pushes the parchment away to be completed in the light of day. She rises, discarding the robe as she follows the path back to her bed. Jorah opens his arms to her and she moves into them at once, running the flat of her palm down the outside of his thigh to leave him in no doubt of what she wants. He gives a hoarse chuckle but only pulls her closer to him, covering the smile that crawls across her face. His hand moves to the back of her thigh, cupping the cheek of her arse, pushing her against his stirring front, and Jon doesn't cross her mind for the rest of the night.
