Author's Note: I've changed the rating on this fic. Not for the current chapter but…well, I've got plans. And better safe than sorry ;)

Next chapter will be posted soon! Very soon. Like maybe…tomorrow soon? We'll see. In the meantime, sweet dreams my fellow Jorah/Dany shippers. Xo

Daenerys

Daenerys stood at a tall, frost-painted window in one of the upper bedrooms of Mormont Keep on Bear Island.

This is where Lyanna Mormont's maidservant had led her that first night, after she'd kept vigil at Jorah's bedside for hours. She had refused to leave him twice, but on the third try, she nodded finally, finding her own eyes betrayed her watch, slighting their duty by shutting heavily, all those days without proper sleep suddenly catching up to her fast.

Maester Morlan had tended the knight's wounds and Jorah slept soundly, his breath steady and strong. As she finally slipped her hands from where they wrapped around his unconscious grasp, she marveled at his strength again. As strong and stubborn as any bear. All those miles traveled and all those dangers faced and here he remained. Still among the living. Still with her.

She was glad. She was so very glad.

The bedroom that Lyanna gave Daenerys was sparsely furnished, as was the entire Keep. Daenerys was not surprised to find that the Mormonts favored function over frivolity. There were few trimmings in the room—an oval mirror on the wall, a throw blanket embroidered in green threads. But none of the gold-plated resplendence of Qarth, the decadent glories of ancient Meereen or the gaudy excess of Illyrio Mopatis's estate in Pentos could be found in these reserved halls.

There was a cedar chest of drawers and a bed covered in quilts and furs. The bedroom faced the turbulent sea, but its view was obscured, boards nailed together and affixed to the sill with a solid crosspiece, as a defense against the glass-shattering violence of gusty winds and raging snow.

But the fireplace was lit and the bed was soft and warm. After she tumbled into it, Daenerys slept for a day and a half, without dreams, without thought. Not even the storm of a generation could wake her.

Weeks passed.

The storm raged and raged, until all its raging wore out. It screamed until its voice was finally used up. One dark night, when no one was watching, it petered out to nothingness. And the next morning, Daenerys woke to the deep quiet of frosted dawn, with cold strips of winter sunlight falling across the stone floor in her bedroom, creeping in through the cracks of the boarded windows.

Their wounds healed slowly but surely, battlefield grime was washed off, the bites of sword and spear faded in time. The chains on the gates were undone and the boards on the castle windows were taken down to reveal the winter-kissed world that the storm had left behind.

Daenerys leaned forward and blew softly against the cold glass. With two fingers, she brushed away a circle of frost. All its intricate lines and feather patterns, so delicately drawn, melted easily under her warm touch.

Under her hand, the circle widened until she was free to look out. The landscape was silvery white, from the snow-buried cornerstones of the Mormont Keep down to the glittering harbor, where any flicker of stray sunlight glinted off the glistening patches of sea ice. Little flurries of snow, conjured from the air and from the drifts, skated over the ice sheets.

Except for those snow flurries, all was quiet and still. The ship that had carried them to the Island was locked in ice with all the others, and it was frosted over from bow to stern. Its mast slanted at a sharp, unnatural angle, as the hull was wedged against a rise in the ice field.

The ships were ghostly. The docks appeared cluttered with ice sculptures. Every beam and every piling on the pier was white-washed in frost and ice, feathery sprays frozen in time. The landscape left behind by storm and sea breeze was unearthly and coldly beautiful to behold. The harbor resembled a strange, wild garden…which grew only wooden ships, bathed in ice.

Daenerys gazed out that window for some time, lost in her thoughts, contemplating many things. Absently, she brushed the melting frost on her fingertips on the skirt of her dress.

The dress was a plain thing, a rust-red color that matched well with all the subdued greys, browns and greens of this House. But the cut was flattering and fit her perfectly. She'd found it in the cedar drawers, with other garments of her size.

There was a silk, blue nightgown in the bottom drawer that caught her eye when she first went through the chest. It was the same color as the dress she'd worn in Qarth, as the honored guest of the Xaro Xhoan Daxos. When she found it, she had stopped short, her hands playing at the hem of the silky fabric. The vibrant color seemed so out of place with the blacks, browns, greys and dark greens favored by the Island. And yet, the color was found here as naturally as the others, in the winter sky, or a bluebird's wing…or the piercing iris of Jorah's blue eyes.

Kneeling on the floor by the cedar chest, she'd closed her own eyes briefly at the thought. And now, standing at the window, she did so again, chiding herself in vain for the repeated action, wondering if other women spent as much time contemplating the color of a man's eyes, the cadence of his voice, the muscular lift of his…

Daenerys heard a small knock on the thick planks of her bedroom door. Her heart jumped, thinking it might be the same person her thoughts had drifted to once again. She felt caught in the act and felt her face coloring as she turned, expecting, wishing, hoping? But she relaxed immediately. It was only one of Lyanna's chambermaids.

She should have guessed. After his recovery, Jorah had slipped so seamlessly back to their former roles, redefining the lines of formality that had been breached during the wild rush of battle and outrunning the storm. He was kind, as always. He was hers to command, of course, his vows to her as strong as ever. But he was distant. He didn't seek her out. He said nothing of the past or words left unspoken. He hadn't called her Khaleesi since they reached the Island. And he hadn't touched her since that first day they landed on these shores. Not once.

They were the Silver Queen and her sworn knight once more. Except she was no longer queen of anything and she'd rather have his touch than his vows. At least she could admit that much…to herself, if no one else.

Once he had recovered, she decided that she would tell him. She promised herself, she'd make him see the change he failed to recognize. Isn't that what she had just promised herself again, for the thousandth time, as she looked out on the frozen harbor? But as days turned into weeks, she still didn't have the nerve. And doubt had begun creeping into her head.

Everything that she once knew as certain had turned to dust. Dragons falling from the sky, dead men coming back to life, the Iron Throne a birthright that wasn't hers at all. So why not this too…

What if his feelings had cooled towards her? Just because he loved her once didn't mean he loved her now. She had kept him waiting long enough. She couldn't blame him if he'd moved on.

In the last few weeks, every time she was tempted go to him, she found herself replaying the same two scenes in her head. When he released her hands on the beach at Dragonstone and again, when he released them on the ship bound for Bear Island. She gave her hands freely and he returned them. Twice. Banished back to her keeping.

As you banished him. Twice. The painful memory of her own actions—cold, headstrong girl that she was, plagued her often now.

"Pardon, my lady," the red-headed chambermaid apologized, seeing that she'd startled Daenerys out of deep musings. "Dinner will be served in a few minutes. Lady Lyanna is downstairs already. And Ser Jorah and Captain Claver have just returned from checking the ice of the outer bay."

"Yes," Daenerys nodded. "I'll be down directly."

"Very good, my lady," the girl smiled graciously, with a slight, timid curtesy. She retreated from the doorway quickly, off to other tasks and errands. If her steps had been slower, Daenerys might have called her back.

There was something in the chambermaid's pleasant manner that reminded Daenerys of Missandei. And oh, how she missed Missandei…and Irri before her. She wished they were both here now, to speak of things that she dared not speak to anyone else.

What is it? What troubles you? Missandei could always sense her distress. There was only one other soul in the world who could read her as well…but she couldn't very well take this problem to him, could she?

I'm in love with Jorah Mormont. She admitted in her head, for the very first time. She exhaled, not realizing she'd been holding her breath. But I don't know if he feels the same way anymore.

He loves you, Daenerys, Missandei's features would break into a bright smile and she would nod with encouragement, no hesitation in her talented voice. He loves you in as many languages as I could express the feeling.

It is known. Irri's smirk rose up in the recesses of her mind and, despite herself, Daenerys nearly laughed at the sweet memory of that simple phrase.

But she sobered quickly, as all her memories of Irri were tainted by blood. She couldn't hold the image of the Dothraki girl's wide smile for long before it slipped away again, dissolving into fleeting visions of the Red Waste, Rakharo's head in a bag, dripping blood into the hot sand, Irri laid out, slain in a courtyard in Qarth.

She pushed those memories away. Or Jorah did, as all her memories were so tangled up with him that it circled back naturally. Blue eyes meeting hers as he rushed up the villa stairs. With one glance he read her soul—her grief, her loss, her sorrow, her relief at his return.

You came back.

If she had it to do over again, she would have jumped into his arms then. Why hadn't she?

The specters of her two handmaidens left her too easily and their words were too mixed with her own wishes to be trusted. She sighed and pressed her fingers to her closed eyelids, wondering how she'd allowed herself to be so overwhelmed. Is this how Jorah had felt all those years? The agony of uncertainty tied her in knots and she had no idea how to undo them.

Jorah's touch might help…

After another moment's useless contemplation, she finally turned from the window and went down to dinner.