A/N:

Hey, friends. This is Part 1 of the long-promised Deleted Scene for this story. Should have Part 2 up by next weekend :) Sorry it took so long for me to write/post it. I was waiting for inspiration from S8 (and hoping to maybe tie in a few bits and pieces from canon at the same time)…which, yeah, mission accomplished. Haha sort of. When they give me tragic angst, I make angsty lemonade…or something.

Cheers to MormontofRivia for the reminder that I owed you guys the Mormont-Targaryen wedding chapter(s). I might post this as its own little two-shot as well, since I think it can stand alone and serves as another fix it for the events of S8 (shame, shame, shame on those boys). We need as many fix it fics as we can get ;)

Chronologically, these chapters take place right after Chapter 28. Thanks for reading! Xo

Shadows

Under winter skies, Theon Greyjoy's body burned to cinders on Bear Island.

Flames consumed the pyre that the Mormonts had built for the Greyjoy heir, the fallen Prince of Winterfell, the castaway who had appeared on their frozen shores so wretchedly, dying within hours of finding refuge in their halls.

The refuge was too late. Theon had crossed too many miles of sea ice, alone and without provisions. The cold and frost had done its worst. Winter allowed no mercy, not even for those who needed it most.

Daenerys watched her former ally burn with a heavy heart. She'd stayed up with Theon while he took his last breaths, holding his limp hand until the end. It was the least she could do for the boy, she told herself. Dying so far from home, alone and among strangers—no one deserved an end like that.

No one.

Jorah had kept vigil with her all night. He stood close, always within reach. Just as he did now, as they stood together with the others and watched the flames devour Theon, and the mortal coil that kept them all chained to the world of flesh and blood.

The air was so cold, like the inside of an ice box, and Daenerys pulled her silver and black furs tight around her. But there was a chill that crept into her veins as she watched Theon's body burn that had nothing to do with the weather. It filled her with a prickling dread, as the flames suddenly shifted and she would have sworn she saw her own face reflected in the fire, as it rose up from the pyre and licked the underside of a pale, snow-speckled breeze.

A glimpse of image, a snatch of shadow, a whisper of someone else's memory.

Daenerys had walked among flames twice, unburnt. But she'd never seen anything in those flames except her own victory, with dragons hatched and villains slain. Perhaps she saw that it would all turn to ash in the end, and ignored it? But nothing so concrete as those visions that had the red priestesses of Asshai fixing their gaze on fire until they spoke of nothing but long nights and hideous terrors.

Until this moment…

I'm hurt. Jorah's voice, so low, so dangerously low—why did these words suddenly rush into her head? And with it a vision, not so unlike the ones she'd had in the House of the Undying, when the Thirteen had tried their best to ensnare her in their traps and steal her children. But it wasn't her baby dragons that were crying this time…no, it was her own cries she heard. Just her. In the dark, in the cold. On the same night Jon Snow killed the Night King and Rhaegal and Viserion fell from the sky.

But the night she saw in the flames was different. She remembered tears stinging her eyes, in fear and frustration, but not like this. She remembered being swarmed by dead men and thinking it was the end, but then Jorah was there. Of course, he was there. And he was present in the vision as well. But this time…oh gods, why was she crying?

The cries were soft at first, unsure, not believing—until broken sobs began to rack her body. Then those sobs muffled, as she watched herself lay her weary head against Jorah's too silent chest.

No, that's not what happened. Her mind rebelled against the vision, calling it out for lies. In the present, she felt herself shake her head slightly, hidden deep in the hood of her cloak. Still, she couldn't look away. And she saw more things. The terrible things that preceded her cries. She saw Jorah fall. In the dance of fire, she saw herself in a field of dead men with blood on her hands. His blood stained scarlet on her fingers. Too much of it, spilling from too many wounds.

Wounds taken for her.

And then another fire…another funeral. Another place, another time. Theon's body was still burning, this time with a wolf's pin laid at his breast. And he wasn't the only one burning. The pyres multiplied before her, filling a field, far beyond the walls of Winterfell. And in the vision, Daenerys saw herself, torch in hand, tears flooding her eyes, as she walked out in the blood-stained snow and set Jorah's cold corpse aflame.

No, no, no!…this isn't what happened.

She felt herself waver but she still couldn't look away. Her mind felt joined with another, her own but somehow not her own. A different version of herself. A shadow of herself. And the shadow-girl continued weeping. How could he? How could he leave me alone? This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Her eyes burned and the vision shimmered under a sharp sheen of tears. Dread—deep, hollow dread clutched at her heart as she tried to pry her eyes away from that pyre but found she couldn't. She couldn't…

"Daenerys?" Jorah's hushed voice broke the vision. And his solid touch on her arm shattered it as easy as Valyrian steel through ice. The contours of the hillside above the Mormont Keep sharpened and the frosty landscape of Bear Island, the jagged coast, the evergreens, pushed away the hazier landscapes of the fading vision, all ruined battlefields and charred remains.

She looked up, finally, breaking away from those red-orange flames.

Jorah's gaze was not on Theon's pyre but fixed on her instead. And having seen the hollow dread that haunted her eyes, he asked, his voice heavy with concern, "Are you all right, lass?"

She nodded, her lungs sighing in relief as her breath was restored. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it. Warmth rushed back into her veins as the horrors of the vision receded back into the land of shadows, banished beyond the flames. She took another breath and steadied herself, eyes locked on his dear, unmarked face—there were no deep gashes, he was not washed in blood. No, of course not.

Jorah was not dead. Jorah was not gone. Here he stood, beside her. As always.

My place is by your side.

Impulsively, she reached out a gloved hand to lay her palm flat against his ribs. Beneath the layers of leather and fabric, there was a scar against his flesh, the remnants of the wound she'd seared close on their dash from the storms above Winterfell. She'd traced the outline of that scar many times and knew the spot well. It was the mark of monsters, who might have taken him from her.

In another life, but not this one. Never this one…

Jorah took her hand in his, watching her face, wondering what dark thoughts plagued her mind now. His physical presence chased away much of the vision but it lingered, as a shadow thing. She whispered a response to his question, for his ears only. He bent his tall frame down closer, to hear her melancholy musings.

She said only, "I think 'fire and blood' are the most cursed words in the world."

Jorah's other hand slid around her waist, resting at the small of her back, insisting gently but with authority, "They're just words."

You are not your words. And this is not your fault.

They said no more, slipping into a deep silence, his simple touch more comforting than any words he might have offered.

Daenerys didn't dare look into the flames again.

Instead, she found her gaze drifting across Theon's pyre, meeting Lyanna's through the swirl of snow and cinders. She wondered what the young she-bear thought of her. Theon had come to these shores, and to his ruin, stumbling through the last steps of a journey that could, in part, be blamed on Daenerys and her mad quest for that iron chair in the South.

Because, oh, didn't every dark impulse and tragic ending lead back to that damned thing? Theon's presence here, his rambling warnings of his uncle, his wasted death, it only served as a reminder of everything that had come before.

The dark brown eyes of the Mormont girl were inscrutable. And yet, surprisingly, Daenerys saw no judgment, no laying of blame. For just a moment, she might have sworn she saw sympathy.

But then the wind picked up and a strong spray of snow swirled around the gathering of mourners. The snow had the consistency of ice pellets against Daenerys's already cold face and she hid from winter's bite. Beside her, Jorah lifted his arm around her shoulders and she stepped into his embrace fully, hugging his side tightly, hiding her face in the folds of his coat, happy to find refuge from the weather so near, happier to find it in his warm and living embrace.

Later that night, alone in their chambers, Daenerys told him of the visions she saw in the flames.

Jorah knew Theon's death had upset her, he just didn't know why. From the chair by the fireplace, he watched her pace, restless and agitated. Did she think the boy's death was her fault? He thought he'd made that clear already. Theon Greyjoy had taken his own path and, if anyone deserved blame, it was his pirate-uncle who refused to recognize that the wars of men were over.

"I know that…," she answered shortly when he said it again. So it was something else. He remained silent, letting her pace a little longer.

At first, she didn't want to talk about it. But they had no secrets now. He pressed her gently, by not pressing at all, and she told him everything.

"I saw you laid out on a pyre," her tone was still dark, even though hours had passed and the strength of that vision had receded quick enough. Magic, if that's what it was, came and went in its fickle way.

"I saw you fall," she continued, her voice quavering enough that she couldn't say the rest out loud. I wept over you. I kissed your cold skin the next morning and heard myself whisper goodbye. More than goodbye…

The words she'd heard herself say in the vision pierced her soul. For those words were tinged with regret and the haunting lilt of a woman driven mad in grief.

The same woman who might have been her. In another place, in another life…

"But it wasn't me," Jorah promised her, rising from his chair. He crossed the distance between them and took her in his arms again, to make sure she knew he was present. This was no dream.

"It might have been," she surprised herself with those dark words, but Theon's death had been such a cruel reminder. She'd been born into tragedy and could never quite shake the feeling that it waited around every corner, ready to pounce at any given moment. She accepted his arms around her but didn't look at him, dropping her voice and arguing the inevitable, "Someday…"

"Not today, Daenerys," Jorah answered her, firmly. He wished no ill on Theon Greyjoy but he cursed the day the boy had wandered to these shores, as his death brought a shadow that Daenerys was finding difficult to shake. Turning her chin so she was forced to look at him, Jorah implored her to understand, "Not as long as I have any say in the matter."

"But it felt so real and I can't help but wonder…"

She would have said more, dwelling on her fears and visions until they ate her alive, but Jorah wouldn't allow it. He never cared much for fear and visions anyway. Let the priests haggle over them, let the dead keep them.

He kissed her, cutting her off by simple distraction. She accepted the kiss too, no more happy with her darker thoughts than he was. And if anyone could chase them away, it was Jorah.

He murmured against her cheek as he briefly pulled back, "Does this seem real to you?"

She moistened her lips before nodding slowly, hesitantly…shyly? Her violet eyes were still uncertain but willing to be convinced. Her fingers drifted up to his face, thumb running along his bottom lip as an invitation. So he kissed her again. Her hand slid to his jawline, cupping the slant of his mouth against hers. The kiss was deeper this time, her mouth opening beneath his to allow his tongue entrance. The heat of that kiss did its best to burn away her doubts, shredding them, sending them to hell in ragged cinders.

With his forehead pressed against hers, he asked again, "Does this seem real?"

"Yes," she answered breathlessly, knees going weak beneath her. The vision in the flames had played such a strange fiction in her head. The pain of losing him—or the pain of that other Dany, the Dany in that cold, dark place, weeping over the dead—Jorah in her arms, Drogon curled around them both. She felt it, as one reality bled into the other.

But she felt Jorah too. Felt his lean muscles pressed against her soft curves, felt his lips trade kisses with hers. And he was stronger than the vision, solid and sure. With his warm touch, he cut down the madness and nonsense of what-might-have-been as easily as a thousand wights.

He was here. Smoke and shadow couldn't argue otherwise. Here, in their bedroom, as he grasped her tighter to him, gathering her up into his embrace, laying her down on the bed, where his kisses moved to her throat. Her fingers were in his hair while his hands were sliding up beneath her skirt…turning the chill of her skin to flames wherever he touched.

And there was nothing but him and her and both of them…together.