Author's Note: Here you go, lovelies! New chapter for you. Oh Dany, honey, don't look now but I think you're falling… ;)

Daenerys

Somewhere north of Deepwood Motte, Daenerys and Jorah reached the coast. The sea was sloshing about restlessly, saltwater spraying against the black rocks with occasional shows of strength, still unsure of whether to wait on the storm in the sky or start throwing its own fits beforehand.

Near twilight, they rode through a clutter of small fishing villages. In another time, the villages might have been bustling with activity this time of day. As the orange sun set, fishermen would be coming in from the water, helping each other unload their catch from ship's deck to wooden crates. Salted barrels would be piled in even rows on the small but sturdy docks. But now, the docks were empty and the winding village paths were utterly vacant and dismally quiet. The thatched roofs were all dusted with snow, windows frosted, without a wisp of smoke coming from any of their brick and stone chimneys.

The villagers were long gone. Perhaps they had answered Jon's call and now lay dead on the Winterfell moors. Perhaps they saw the gathering storm and headed south early, knowing what was coming.

For it was certainly coming. The storm winds teased the change first. Daenerys stood on the salt-splashed docks while Jorah inspected the condition of those few fishing boats that had been left behind. She watched the snow flurries scatter down the shoreline and spin wildly, twisting up into little white cyclones that were dashed to pieces in competing breezes, salt and storm winds colliding like old rivals.

It was still so bitterly cold. She held her arms close to her chest as she cast a glance back beyond the rooftops of the abandoned village, to the eastern skyline where the horizon was painted in shades of widow's black and cinder grey.

The clouds behind them were speeding across the sky, catching up, like a jaguar prowling through the forest, catching a scent and rushing towards it, jaws wide and aiming for the pulsing throat.

Jorah had been relentless all day, pushing them forward through pain, cold, hunger and the overwhelming desire to succumb to the futility of their race against time and storm. He'd barely said a word since waking her that morning, too intent on the road ahead and putting as many miles between them and the claws of the storm as possible. When he did speak, it was only to mutter, "we're running out of time," and she didn't know if he said the words as a reminder to her or himself.

Now, the clock was about to strike. Time had indeed run out. Standing on that desolate dock at the edge of the sea with nowhere left to run, Daenerys should feel fear, she knew. But she didn't. Apprehension, perhaps. Maybe. She couldn't be sure. Her emotions were thoroughly muddled.

Her gaze flickered back to Jorah, as the man worked tirelessly, checking the fishing boats and rigging for a craft that wouldn't founder on rough seas, and she found herself raising her cold fingers up to her frosted lips, wondering why she suddenly felt fire at the memory of touching those lips to his.

The change seemed sudden. She'd felt such an aching numbness on the moors above Winterfell, surrounded by corpses and with her dragons falling from the skies. If they had died in those first hours running from it all, she might have surrendered to the inevitable without protest. But the night before…she found herself, impossibly, feeling hope. She shouldn't be so surprised. The smallest wind can bring the greatest storm. The smallest root can grow the highest oak. A single kiss can awaken something so…what is happening to me?

All day, she'd felt it. There was some new charged energy in the air when she looked at Jorah and when she felt his touch. Did he feel it too? No, likely not. He was too intent on saving their lives to realize that Daenerys was suddenly following the movements of his strong, work-worn hands with too much interest and wondering why the raspy sound of her name falling off his lips now sent a shiver of flame through her entire being.

She almost laughed aloud. The notion currently taking up space in her head was absurd. She was beyond tired, bruised and battered and yet, she couldn't stop thinking about how it might feel to walk over to Jorah Mormont, take that fraying rope out of his hands and cast it aside. She would take his hands and guide them around her waist, watching his pale blue eyes widen in shocked uncertainty. Oh, but she would shock him further. She imagined reaching up and pulling his mouth down to hers, to know how it would feel to have him kiss her back.

The daydream lingered in her head for more minutes than she could account for.

Focus, Dany. She told herself finally, forcing her fingers down from her lips and turning her attention away from her bear knight, with effort.

Still, as her gaze now turned to the open water, she felt that spark of hope remain, and all those other strange, tangled feelings simmered away, unwilling to be doused. Like the unexpected sight of crocus bursting through snow, or a ship's mast visible on a dark horizon. A ship…

"Jorah!" she suddenly exclaimed, in sheer wonderment, uncrossing her arms at once. She pointed out over the water and at the ship bobbing up and down on the choppy sea.

"You cut that close, Mormont," Seffius Claver pronounced to Jorah bluntly, as they boarded Claver's ship. The captain had spotted them himself, two figures moving on the dilapidated docks of Wren Harbor, and sent a rowboat ashore to gather them. As they came alongside the larger vessel, the ferryman kept the smaller boat steady as Jorah lifted Daenerys up to the waiting arms of the captain and his first mate. Then they reached down and helped Jorah climb up after her.

The captain knew Jorah well, Daenerys could tell by his manner and the lack of a formal greeting. Northerners had an uncanny ability to pick up exactly where they left off, even with years between meetings. It was as if time passed slower up here, the influence of old oaths and forgotten times still palpable, even to a girl who had been born thousands of miles away. Captain Claver continued, almost curious, "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"I didn't," Jorah answered, with candor.

He had confessed as much to Daenerys, almost as soon as he woke her that morning, reaching down and squeezing her hand gently until her eyelids fluttered open.

We have to go. I'm not sure how we'll get there, but I'm taking you someplace safe. I'm taking us home.

She wished he'd said her name. It was a frivolous thing to want, but bleary-eyed and coming up from half-dreams that teased her heart, that was her first thought.

Her second was that she believed him, just as she believed, when she stepped into the fire that would usher Khal Drogo's soul into the Nightlands, that she would walk away unscathed when the flames finally burned out. She believed him because he was so certain and because she'd seen that look in his blue eyes so many times before. He would not fail her. Even if it killed him, he would not fail.

And it might kill you yet, she thought miserably, after Captain Claver ordered his crew to turn the ship north and head for home, and Jorah sat down wearily on the nearest flat surface. She hovered near him, sinking beside him on the narrow bench which ran the length of the starboard rail. She reached her hand up to turn his face towards her, noting his feverish pallor and the heat of his skin, despite the chill in the sea air. She wasn't able to clean that wound properly and there was a good chance it would fester if left for long without proper tending.

"I'm all right," he promised her, reaching up and pulling her hand down from where it lingered against his too warm cheek. He let his thumb run over the curve of her palm. He held it for a long moment, to prove his words were so, but then released her hand back to her own keeping. She wished he'd kept it. She remembered wishing he'd kept it that day at Dragonstone too.

But they were surrounded by a dozen sailors so she swallowed her disappointment and instead, busied her hands in ministering to her still-useless ankle. Under her breath, she prayed that the winds pushed them to their destination quickly, where a maester might force Jorah to take the rest and medicine he sorely needed.

She wasn't sure which gods she should pray to but the further north they traveled, the more she felt the presence of the Old Earth, taking on the physical shapes of those crusty forest-creatures and sea-dwellers that appeared in all those songs and poems that filled up the books Jorah had given her on the day they first met. She knew nothing of the Old Gods but she prayed to them anyway.

I don't know who you are or what power you have in this place, but don't take him away from me.

He was the only familiar face in a ship full of strangers. Every single person she had ever known or loved was dead or lost to her forever…except for him. She couldn't lose him too. Especially not now…

And why is that, Dany? Why is it so important now? She asked herself. The question was a fair one but her emotions were still too raw and cluttered, she dared not answer it. Not even in her own head.

So she continued praying instead, a two word plea to the gods of Jorah's forefathers, Please don't.

After teasing for so long, the winds changed decisively in that moment, whether in answer to Daenerys's prayers or at the whims of that angry storm, as it had feasted at Winterfell long enough and now decided to turn its hungry eyes elsewhere. Either way, the sails swelled and drank their fill of the approaching gale, gulping it up and speeding along the dusk-painted waters to Bear Island.

With the strong sea breeze, came a large, black shadow. It swept over the deck, its massive wingspan outlined with clear lines and edges. Daenerys turned her gaze to the sky immediately and saw Drogon fly overhead in a long glide, make a sweeping pass along the breaking surf of the mainland shores before curving back again.

He didn't touch down but continued to follow the ship, skimming the moody waters beside them. The sailors on Claver's ship had never seen a dragon, and like every other man and woman before them, they gasped and spoke excitedly amongst themselves at the wondrous sight of a truly mythical creature. Daenerys took her hands from her swollen, bruised ankle and aching calf muscles. A small smile crept over her grave expression as she straightened up, eyes following the dragon's movements exactly.

Beside her, Jorah's weary features lightened by a degree as well, though Daenerys didn't witness the change, as she was still watching the beat of Drogon's wings against the resilient starlight of the western horizon. Unlike every other soul on that ship, her knight's eyes were not on the black dragon in the grey skies, but rather, on the woman sitting beside him and the welcome sight of that smile curving over her lips.