Author's Note: Few spare moments so…mid-week post! Annnnnd oh, look what I did. Weren't expecting that, were you?

Or maybe you were expecting something exactly like this from oh, I don't know, S2 onward. Still waiting, darlings. Payoff, boys. Give me my damn payoff. I know, I know, they're currently too busy filming to listen. That is, too busy filming an epic resolution to my fave ship, n'est-ce pas? Ha! Well, we'll see. But thank God for fanfics, right?

Enjoy, m'dears! #mwah

Daenerys

"There!" Daenerys spotted the abandoned cabin first. Somehow, somewhere, the moon's silver glow was finding its way through the mass of clouds above. The bright reflection on snow lit up the landscape enough that she could pick out shapes in the road ahead, despite the hindrance of swirling snowflakes.

Sitting up in the saddle, she pointed to the sad little structure, dark and snow-covered, with its slanting timber and broken windows. But it still had a roof and four walls and it was still standing in the half-burned woods, which was more than could be said for the ruins they had passed along the last ten miles. And they had to stop. The horse couldn't go on much longer without rest. Neither could Jorah.

He was wounded, far worse than he had let on. In the last hour, she'd felt him falter, hands going slack on the reins and the lean of his body falling too far into weariness, the weight of armor and the miles left to ride taking its toll. And pressed against him, under the huddle of his cloak, she had felt the slick stain of blood seeping through the breaks of armor and the soft leather beneath.

He didn't argue this time and the mare didn't wait for his permission. The horse turned off the path by instinct and walked directly to the lean-to shed beside the little cabin without hesitation.

Daenerys dismounted first, sliding down the mare's ribs while holding Jorah's arm for balance. She landed on the one good ankle and kept the other hovering gingerly on the straw-covered floor. She reached up and steadied Jorah as he came off the mare's back. He was such a tall man that there was little she could do, but she felt him lay a hand on her shoulder as he came down, with enough weight that she knew he might not have remained standing if she wasn't there.

Still using her shoulder for support, he undid the mare's saddle clumsily, fumbling in the dark for the cinches and buckles. He pulled it off and laid it on the shed floor in a heap. Exhausted by the simple task, he finally released Daenerys and leaned against the entryway pillar instead. With effort, Daenerys pulled the bridle off, stroking the horse's long face after it came off and melting the ice clumps from the horse's long eyelashes with her fingers. Finally out of the wind and out of that bridle, the horse seemed to sigh. The mare blew air through her chapped lips before dropping down to her knees on the nearest bed of straw.

Daenerys picked the saddle bags off the floor and joined Jorah at the entryway.

It was no more than ten steps to the cabin door but he struggled with them. She let him lean on her as best she could, with both her arms wrapped around his side, her head nestled just beneath his shoulder. Sharp, jagged pain shot up her calf muscle on every second step but the relief upon opening that cabin door and entering a shelter free from wind or swirling snow made up for it.

She helped Jorah to a spot near the fireplace. He groaned as she helped him sit down, with his back supported by a pillar. The floor was as good a place to rest as any other. The few pieces of rough furniture in the place were not much better and she needed the wood. She dragged a spindly, wooden chair to the fireplace and with energy borne of necessity, used her good foot to break it into kindling.

Kneeling on the stone and digging in the saddle bags, she found flint and a flask filled with water. She took a swallow and handed the flask to Jorah, who took it gratefully, though she was dismayed to see how much effort it took for him to raise it to his lips.

Her fingers ached with cold but crawling around in the ashes of the cabin's fireplace, she struck fire after a couple tries, coaxing it to flame with a steady breath that she could not have managed twice. She fed the fire the bones of the chair—arms, legs, seat and all the rest. The fire crackled and complained, but soon fell into compliance, casting a warm, soft glow over the two small rooms of the little cabin.

Daenerys was tempted to throw her hands into those flames and bury her head in the ash bed beneath it, just to thaw the frost that had been eating at her veins for days. But she couldn't rest yet.

"You should take off that armor," she said to him, gently. Jorah was half asleep and could barely keep his eyes open. His face was raw and chapped, with ice in his stubbled beard and streaked through his sandy-colored hair.

But at her insistence, she helped him lean forward and undo the last of the armor. He had trouble raising his left arm but she undid the clasp at his shoulder and it came away, clattering beside him on the stone floor. He breathed deeply, finally free of the burdensome weight. She pulled away the leather on his left side, and found the shirt beneath soaked in blood. She ripped the fabric, digging deeper, to the wound itself. He gritted his teeth as the shirt pulled away from the skin roughly, soaked and then frozen by the steady drip of blood. The gash was six inches wide at the side of his ribs, narrow but deep. It reopened when the shirt came away. She grimaced—he'd already lost so much blood.

"I have nothing to sew this up," she whispered, fear coloring her tone. She pulled the saddle bags near and searched them, looking for clean cloth. She looked around, helpless. Her clothes were filthy, as were his. She continued in a small voice, "Nothing to bind it either."

She was scared. She didn't know what to do.

"Sear it closed," Jorah replied softly, with his eyes still closed. The faintest smile curled over his frosty lips as he added, cleverly reminding her, "Fire and blood, Your Grace."

Daenerys didn't smile back, too worried that he was fading away in front of her. But she did as he commanded, looking for one of the longer metal clasps in the discarded armor on the floor. She crawled to the fire, heating the clasp with her bare hand. She felt only a glimmer of heat, no more, and held it until the metal turned red.

Jorah clenched his teeth in pain and winced as the heated metal ran over his flesh, cauterizing the gash. She was careful and worked quickly, pushing wayward strands of her hair that threatened to obscure her vision back with her aching wrists. When she was done, she threw the clasp into the fire. It threw up sparks of flame that flickered against the brick behind it. She sat back on her knees and exhaled softly, all her remaining energy spent.

"Thank you, Khalee—," he mumbled the words softly and fell asleep soon after, head resting back against that pillar, unable to stay awake any longer.

"Jorah?" she whispered but couldn't rouse him. For a dreadful, heady moment, she thought he was dead. Pressing her ear to his chest she heard his steady heartbeat beneath, as she had over the miles they had traveled in the night, the familiarity of that sound the only constant of the last few hours. She breathed a sigh of stark relief, wondering at the onslaught of saltwater tears that had gathered in her eyes so quickly in fear that…

Her body and mind both rebelled against staying awake. Her thoughts rambled and her hands and arms felt weighed down by lead weights. She might have fallen asleep right then and there. But she raised herself from his chest reluctantly—she didn't want to tempt the wound to reopen.

Besides, there was more cluttering nonsense in her head, despite the hour, despite the day, and she was suddenly reminded that certain things between her and Jorah Mormont remained painfully unresolved.

She busied her hands. The fire's warmth would keep them from freezing to death but the cabin was still frigid. She pulled his ruined shirt and leather coat back over his exposed skin…or rather, she would have.

But that's when she noticed them. Her hands hesitated, fingers curled around the blood-stained leather. Scars criss-crossed over his entire left side, running from his muscled torso up to his shoulder and then out of sight, the left arm still fully clothed. The scars were light, hardly visible in the orange glow of fire. If she didn't know what she was seeing, she might not have noticed them at all. But she knew where those scars came from.

The grey scale had been extensive and spread far beyond what he had revealed to her on that dusty mountain outside Vaes Dothrak.

He had revealed much to her that day.

Tyrion Lannister was right. I love you. I'll always love you.

Her eyes lingered over the old wounds. There were other scars too—a Dothraki arakh's bite here, a Meereenese spear's glancing blow there. His devotion to her was written on his skin.

Daenerys was tempted to trace the lines of those faint scars with her fingertips. Releasing the leather, her fingers hovered for a long moment before she brought them back, too unsure that she had any right to take more from a man who always gave her everything.

And yet…

With her palm flat against the cabin's stone floor, she impulsively leaned up and gently, oh so gently, pressed her lips against his, with a kiss so delicate it might have been made of glass or slivers of ice. Though no, not ice…as there was no chill in Daenerys's heart as she pulled back from the sleeping man, violet eyes wide and watching her bear knight's face curiously, a myriad of strange emotions written on her own.

The wind outside continued to howl and moan but the fire inside the cabin crackled and snapped in defiance.

Daenerys pulled Jorah's ruined shirt back and laid the leather coat and half the wool cloak over him. She kept half for herself, curling up on the floor beside him and closing her eyes to dreams filled with snow, storms, dead men and…Jorah Mormont.