Author's Note:

24,000 words later…

*pours gasoline on slow burn*

#mwah

Jorah

Jorah entered his bedchambers with a frown, running his hand over his unshaven face. Daenerys's reaction at dinner had been unexpected. He thought to make her happy with news that the sea ice didn't extend to the outer bays yet and that she may be able to return to Dragonstone sooner rather than later. Lyanna's dry comments in reply—I'm sure you'll be pleased to return to your own island—edged on "good riddance" but surely, Daenerys didn't think he shared those thoughts?

Still, Daenerys had pushed back her chair and left the table so suddenly. The sound of wood scraping against stone echoed loudly in the dining hall, leaving behind a deafening silence. She said nothing, she didn't look at him. Jorah watched her go, helplessly.

At the head of the table, Lyanna took a drink of frost-berry wine. She appeared undisturbed by the woman's behavior. Over her wine goblet, she met her older cousin's glance neutrally. But the little she-bear's thoughts were plain.

Targaryens…

Jorah left the dining hall soon after. But the continued silence that he'd been met with when he knocked on her bedroom door afterwards was piercing. Her displeasure tore at him, as always.

It was easy to forget, but their history was not an easy one. And he could never shake the memory, shallow as it was buried, of what passed between them in the throne room of the Great Pyramid in Meereen.

You will never be alone with her again. Ser Barristan Selmy had said. False words then, false words now. And yet they came back to him too easily, with cruel taunts, dredging up the same acute feelings of that long, terrible walk up the pyramid's dark, unyielding corridors to face her. The pain of that particular memory, and the sting of the separation that came afterwards, followed him like a shadow. He was convinced that the wound would remain raw for the rest of his life.

But her manner tonight, this silence—this was something different. He had displeased her when he let Lyanna's comment go by without answer. He knew she wanted him to say something. But what? There was something stirring in his heart, something that spoke of a truth he dared not hope for. He'd seen it in her eyes over the last several weeks, he heard it in the way she said his name. But he couldn't believe it, wouldn't believe it, and old habits die hard.

He suppressed the idea admirably, ignoring an insistent voice in his head—his father's again? Or perhaps his mother this time, as the voice was soft, gentle and advising romantic nonsense that he couldn't equate with the gruffness of his father.

Go to her, the voice begged. Go and make this right.

He would not. The voice was wrong. She didn't want to see him, she didn't want to hear his voice. He was convinced and didn't allow any thoughts to the contrary. He suppressed the voice and busied himself preparing for bed, stripping off his outer tunic and tossing it to a nearby chair carelessly, almost angrily. But angry at what, he couldn't say. He left the muslin undershirt on, unlaced, open at his neck, as he gripped the back of the chair with both hands. He was at war with himself. The voice would not stay silent but he was strong. So strong. And would not be dissuaded in his decision, as stubborn as a bear.

You're a fool. He imagined his mother's voice pronouncing this bluntly before she disappeared, back to the land of ghosts and buried things.

He was a fool, stubborn and blind and…

He heard the latch click over and he heard the door to his bedroom open. He turned at the sound and found Daenerys standing in his bedroom. Facing him, she leaned back against the door purposefully, closing it behind her.

She was dressed in a sheer blue nightgown that had not been made by Mormont hands. She must have found it in these halls but where? And who did it belong to? Was it one of the many gifts he'd brought to Lynesse—trying to appease her and keep her happy? One that she looked at in disgust and put away in a drawer never to be taken out again? He couldn't be sure. He couldn't think of Lynesse now. He couldn't bring her face to mind. For the only vision in his head was the one before him—of Daenerys, with her silver-blond hair unbraided and down, loose around her shoulders, dressed in that sheer, blue nightgown. His grip on the chair lessened by a degree, as he met her steady gaze with a bewildered stare.

Daenerys wasn't smiling either. Her expression was shaded in misery and lingering tension. Jorah opened his mouth to ask what she was doing here but she spoke first, in a rush to force the words out while she had the nerve.

"I don't want to go back to Dragonstone," she stated with finality, adding, "I don't want to be Queen of anything."

"But you are a Queen," he answered, his expression breaking on a sad, wry smile. "Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Breaker of Chains…"

She didn't let him finish, saying flatly, "Jon was the rightful king all along."

"Jon is dead, Daenerys," he reminded her gently.

But she shook her head with conviction, imploring him to understand, "If it was mine to take, it's mine to give up. And I don't want it."

Her words surprised him. The tone she said them in unnerved him. He knew she felt the losses of that last battle keenly, but it had been weeks. Their physical wounds had nearly healed and the emotional scars were no worse than the ones they'd accumulated over however many battles against however many foes. She'd always recovered so quickly before, taking up the mission of her life, the restoration of her House, the vengeance of those crimes committed against her family—always, always the same talisman that guided her forward.

She couldn't just give it up. Not after all this time. And what had happened that would make her change her mind?

"What do you want, Daenerys?" he asked, hearing an echo of those same words across time and space, as his lips formed the syllables. The words resonated in his ears, with a weighted meaning he didn't intend. But she must have heard it too. Her expression flickered on the memory of a long ago night in Qarth, when they argued over the nature of trust. They both felt the change. There was too much similarity between the two moments. The candlelight, the blue color she wore, the charge in the air between them.

What do you want? Tell me.

He hadn't told her all back then, though she knew. She must have known. How could she not when his feelings had been so strong? He was her captive from the beginning, whether he wanted to be or not. He had no choice in the matter. He still didn't.

I'll always love you.

This was no idle promise he'd made her. His fate was sealed a long time ago. For him, love—in every form that was fashioned on earth—was synonymous only with her. But at the word want, falling from his lips in the present and hers in the past, it wasn't only pious love that suddenly sparked between them.

Nor, he realized with sudden, dawning clarity, was it only on his side.

Daenerys's full lips parted slightly but she couldn't manage an answer. Perhaps she didn't know the answer. Not yet. But that veiled look in her eyes said she'd like to find out.

Jorah's hands slid from the back of that chair without his knowledge. He hesitated, not believing the words he found written so explicitly across her lust-saturated features. But he watched her violet eyes, shaded darker in the orange glow of firelight, slip from his…as her gaze moved lower, over his lips, throat and further, devouring the sight of him like he was hers alone.

Which, of course, he was.

One of them moved first. Or both. When her eyes snapped back up to his, the hesitation was over. Only want remained. And need. The space between them never stood a chance.

His mouth found hers quickly, hers lips parting on the taste of his kiss. There was pine and salt in that kiss, and the cusp of wintergreen and wine. He drank of her and she drank of him, with the urgency of a caress that should have happened years ago. Her hands slipped up his neck and into his red-blond hair. His arms slid around her smooth curves, his fingers clutching the silky fabric at the small of her back and pressing her closer against him. She melted in his arms, fitting against him with an easy, natural grace that made his blood turn hot.

"Khaleesi, I—," he tried to speak once, as they came up for breath, but the dragon girl in his arms wouldn't let him finish the thought. She didn't want to give him a chance to think, lest he tried to talk them both out of what was happening. She tightened her hold around his neck, climbing against his tall frame, and covered his feeble words with another kiss that plunged deeper, her teeth lightly scraping his bottom lip as she beckoned him into it.

He didn't need the invitation, answering her kiss with one of his own, followed by another and another. She smiled into the barrage of kisses, grinning into his fervent attentions and pressing herself ever closer, as he lifted her from the grey stones of the bedroom floor, her legs wrapping around his hips.

The bed was only a few steps away but he took his time. She didn't appear to mind, her hands sneaking up beneath the muslin of his undershirt, sliding up the bare skin of his torso like flames rushing over a prairie, catching everything it touches on fire. He breathed in sharply as her eager hands found the wound at his ribs, not quite healed. But the sharpness of pain was mixed with a far sharper pleasure that sent shivers running all through his body.

"Oh, Jorah, I'm sor—," hearing his intake of breath, Daenerys broke the kiss and tried to apologize for hurting him. Now it was his turn to silence her, shaking his head silently and drowning her words in the taste of his kisses. She moaned softly, with pleasure, and fell headlong into it. Her arms slid around his neck, useless except to hold on.

Without breaking that kiss, he laid her down on the bed—the softness of skin and fur, the heat of fire and flesh. With insistent hands, she forced him to take off that undershirt, helping him strip it off and throw it to the floor beside the bed. She explored his naked chest with her delicate, teasing fingertips, sending a thrill of wanton desires through the pit of his stomach. His hand slid up the side of her thigh slowly, beneath the silk of that blue nightgown, and he felt her whole body arch slightly in response.

The kisses continued, deeper, sensual, filled with heat and fire. She had seized his mouth as her own and he was only too happy to give it to her. With every touch of her lips, every nip of her teeth, every pass of her tongue, he felt that same shivers of pleasure. With every break, he felt the primal need for more. As did she, apparently, for she kept coming back, never quite satisfied.

His hands tangled in strands of her silver-blond hair, gathered up around the curve of her shoulder. He lifted her off the mattress with a bear's strength, tilting his mouth against hers, as she held on tight, before coming down to rest against the sheets again.

He might have kissed her in the Red Waste, at Qarth, at Meereen, at Dragonstone. But he didn't.

Because you were a fool, he might have thought again, if thought was given an audience in that bed on that night. But thoughts had no place here. Only senses, flooded with desire.

Daenerys's wandering fingers had moved lower, passing the muscular ridges of his torso with loving caresses, all the way down to the laces of his breeches.

He felt her grin into his kiss again. And with another moan of pleasure, she pulled the laces loose.