A/N:

And here's Part 2 :)

I'd say bonne chance to all of us watching tonight's series finale…but at this point, I think we need way more than just luck to fix what they've done. #notmyDaenerys

Your comments/faves/general love of this fic gives me life. Love to all. Xo

Sunlight

It was near dawn and Jorah was fixing the fire. In the deep midwinter, it was important not to let the flames go out or risk freezing to death overnight. He reached for kindling in the carriage beside the fireplace, while stoking the smoldering bed of coals back to life with patience.

Daenerys was awake, but only just. She curled on her side beneath the quilts, her bare feet sliding down the sheets as she stretched, hands grasping at the covers to bring them close. She was warm, still snug in a cocoon of furs and the residual heat from Jorah's side of the bed, which he'd only recently vacated.

She blinked the sleep from her eyes a few times, propping her head up on her elbow to watch him work at the fireplace. His strong back was facing towards her, as he was crouched on the grey stones of the hearth. He was still dressed in night clothes, his slate-blue tunic pulled on over loose breeches. In warmer climates, she wondered if they'd sleep with anything on at all.

Unlikely. A small smile graced her lips at the thought.

She remembered watching him fix campfires in Essos a long time ago, on the road through the grasslands with the Dothraki hoard. He would work industriously, and silently, as her brother usually hovered nearby, useless in his constant dream-making, talking for a crowd that didn't exist, prattling on about his birthright and crown until no one within earshot could summon the energy to pretend they cared.

As the miles from Pentos grew wider, her brother became more and more tiresome, insistent…and ridiculous. The Dothraki ignored him. So did Jorah. In time, Daenerys learned how to ignore him too. Her brother's voice, which at one time would have commanded her full attention and fear, finally faded to a dull hum.

The sound of crackling fires, horses bedding down for the night and the cricket snare of insects in the tall meadowlands lulled her to sleep in those days. It felt like a hundred years ago. So much had happened since that long ago day at the edge of the Narrow Sea, where Viserys had sold her off to Khal Drogo in the hopes that he might someday be king of the Seven Kingdoms. Her brother had been such a fool.

But then, so had she. So had they all.

And yet, would she change any of it? If she were given the chance, would she go back and do anything differently?

No, she answered in her head, watching the smooth movements of Jorah's hands as they coaxed the glowing embers back to flames. I wouldn't change anything. Because it led me here. To this place and this life, with you.

Their lives had followed a long, strange path through lands of fire and ice, east and west, north and south, now braided together so tightly that it would be impossible to untangle them. The fates of Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Targaryen had been entwined since the beginning, in a way no other two souls the length and breadth of two continents could claim. Her only regret was that she didn't see it sooner. But she saw it now. She saw him for who he truly was, who he had been the entire time.

You are my home. You are my heart.

"Jorah?" she murmured into the shadow-light of early morning, suddenly unwilling to let those words pass through her mind without sharing them with him. Gods knew he deserved to hear them.

At Daenerys's voice, Jorah looked up from the flames. His features, naturally so grim, always softened when his eyes met hers. And this time was no different. He looked younger in the morning light and fully at peace. Rays of sunlight, dawn's first blush, were sneaking in through the higher windows of their bedchamber and washing his craggy features free of years of war and worry.

He wondered if he woke her, she could tell. She gave the slightest shake of her head and her eyes spoke of other things, beckoning him close.

He rose from the stones, brushing soot from his fingers. She propped herself up further as he joined her at the bedside, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. Their hands found each other immediately, with little caresses on both sides. He looked at her curiously, wondering what it was she wanted to tell him. And she meant to say the words aloud. She truly did. She even tried once, her lips parting, but the words didn't seem enough.

With Jorah, words were never enough. For him, for her. It had been this way since the beginning.

Blood of my blood…

He nodded, seeing the struggle on her face and somehow knowing the cause of it. Her eyes betrayed her feelings and he could read them like a book. He lifted her hand and pressed a sweet kiss against the inside of her palm.

The fire snapped on a piece of kindling, breaking the silence for her.

"Do you remember that day on the beach at Dragonstone, when you were leaving to go North with Jon?" she asked suddenly, the memory coming back to her in a rush, vivid and brushed with color—black, white, red and violet. The cliffs, the sand, the sea. "When we were talking of farewells?"

"Yes, I remember," he replied, the creases on his brow deepening slightly, wondering why she brought it up.

"I stopped you before you could finish," she recounted, her eyes faraway and her tone taking on a measure of wistfulness. She admitted, "I didn't want to say goodbye. We'd said goodbye too many times before."

"Far too many times, Khaleesi…," he agreed, reaching out to stroke back a loose strand of her hair.

"But what would you have said?" she pressed him.

"You know what I would have said," he looked at her, a wry, half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Jon Snow had been at Dragonstone that day too. Ser Davos and the others had already matched up the dragon queen with their King in the North, almost from their first meeting. They called it destiny and fulfillment of prophecy, and Jorah hadn't been able to deny the sense in it, even if it tore his own heart in two.

He would have given her his blessing. He thought he made that clear, by stepping aside. Is that what she wanted to know?

"No, I mean—," she took a breath, clarifying, "If Jon had not come down to interrupt us. If Jon had never come to Dragonstone or if I'd never known him at all…if it had just been you and I on the beach that day and no one else…"

Her eyes were so filled with the memory and…love, he suddenly realized that maybe she had fallen in love with him a little earlier than he'd guessed. Maybe it wasn't the King of the North who caught her fancy on Dragonstone after all. They'd never spoken of it, not in so many words. He just assumed…

"I told you how I felt on the cliffs above Vaes Dothrak," he reminded her, saying, "My feelings for you have never wavered."

"I know," she promised, squeezing his hand just a little. "And neither will mine. Not ever, Jorah."

He swallowed hard before continuing. She was speaking of vows now. The kind that lasted forever. Through winter and summer and winter again. Is that what this was about? Though she hadn't said the words, he knew she loved him. He could see it in her eyes and feel it in her touch whenever they were together.

But there was a part of him that still didn't believe it. Or didn't believe it would last anyway. He'd seen too much and he knew the world too well. And while he could dismiss her visions easy enough, as they were gloomy, cruel things that sought to torment the woman he loved…it was much harder to dismiss his own reservations. That happiness was a fleeting, unreliable thing, that Daenerys would eventually regret her choice. That it wasn't all some sweet dream that might vanish as fast as sunlight behind clouds.

"If I'd dared hope that you felt the same way at Dragonstone…," he paused, unsure if he should finish. But her eyes begged him to continue. He thought back, surprising himself with the bare honesty of his answer, "I would have told you I loved you then as I love you now, as I've loved you from the moment I met you. And I would have asked you to be my wife, damn the consequences."

At this, Daenerys smiled widely, prettily, taking his arm to draw herself up from the pillows and furs to press an affectionate kiss against his cheek. Oh, he loved that smile, so foreign for so long, as her world had always been a dark place. Since childhood, men and women had forced their own wills and desires upon her, sacrificing her for claims and prophesies that would lead her to a darker fate.

But those ugly prophesies had no power here, in the middle of winter on Bear Island, where Daenerys Stormborn's smile was laced in dreams of spring, sunlight and a purer love than she'd found anywhere else.

She clung to him, nestling her head against his shoulder, as she requested in a quiet, hopeful voice, "Would you ask me now?"

Jorah closed his eyes briefly at those words, heart overflowing. The feel of Daenerys there beside him, her scent, her beautiful smile—it was familiar now, but no less a balm on his weary soul than all the times before. The idea that she would want to stay with him always gave him more joy than he thought possible. He took a moment to impress the scene upon his soul, as he knew he would remember it until his last breath.

"Yes, Daenerys, I would."

Seffius Claver married them in the godswood of Bear Island. Mary, the servant girl with dark hair and a soft spot for the Targaryen princess, gladly served as a second witness.

The ceremony was performed in the manner pleasing the Old Gods, as the Mormonts had never taken to the Seven with as much passion as their Southern brethren and still kept the old ways of their ancestors. The other gods were not invited. The God of Death had no place at weddings. And despite the fire that ran in Daenerys's blood, the Lord of Light would never be welcome on Bear Island.

If nothing else, Lyanna would stare him down until his flame was doused by her icy glare.

It was a cold day but the hands of the couple were warm as they joined them together, kneeling before the gnarled old face of the weirwood tree, its white bark matching the dust of snow in its tangled branches. Ice crystals in the copse of evergreens surrounding the godswood were lit up by winter's pale sunlight, transforming the woods into a frost cathedral, with azure blue skies for high rafters.

The Island was coldly beautiful that day, like a painting, but Jorah had eyes for nothing but Daenerys. Mary had found her a lavender gown trimmed with snow-white fur and a delicate crown of holly berries for her hair. The scarlet-red beads of the winter berries played in the strands of Daenerys's silver hair, as a nod to her family's colors.

Jorah wore his usual black and brown, with a dark green undershirt showing itself at his collar, in deference to his family crest as well. The clean lines of the leather and wool gave him such a noble stature. Not that he needed it. Jorah was born lord of this place and it showed. He had the bearing of a king and, in another life, he would have made a wise and benevolent one.

Daenerys liked him in these colors. In Meereen, he'd worn a blue scarf around his neck, for her sake. But, that morning, she'd told him why she didn't mind the lack of that particular color in his wedding attire.

The only blue that matters to me is the blue in your eyes.

"Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, would you take Daenerys of House Targaryen as your wife?" Captain Claver asked, turning first to his former lord.

"If she'll have me," Jorah answered, slyly grinning on the same words he spoke at Dragonstone, when he returned to her against all odds. Daenerys answered his grin with one of her own, in shared memory.

"Daenerys Targaryen, do you accept Jorah Mormont as your husband?" Seffius continued, indulging in one of his own uncommon smiles. Standing near the captain, Mary was doing the same. Based on the look on Daenerys's face, the question he asked was an easy one.

"It would be my honor," Daenerys replied cleverly, using Jorah's same trick, while listening to the echoes of other words they'd exchanged over the years play back through her head, charged with new meaning and promises that would outlast them both.

As you are mine.

I can't believe you're real.

I need you by my side.

I love you. I'll always love you.

Seffius nodded his approval and Mary beamed at the couple, as there was nothing more to say. The Old Gods needed little ceremony and were less concerned with heaped up phrases and inadequate words than the vainer deities.

"I love you," Jorah said now, his grin softening into something deeper, something stronger. He got to his feet, retaining her hand and helping her rise to stand beside him. Daenerys fixed her gaze on his eyes, lost in the swimming depths of her favorite shade of blue.

"As I love you," she answered, wetting her lips in anticipation, as Jorah then bent to kiss his wife.

His wife. Her husband. From this day until their last day.

As always, words were never enough. But these, at least, came close.