Interlude VI—Season Seven
Court closes, but there's never time for respite; Varys brings reports of a brawl in Flea Bottom.
Jorah rides into the bowels of the city. Larys of the Fields carries the three-headed dragon banner, and the purposeful clipping of the horses' hooves down the narrow streets brings citizens to their windows to peek at the finery parading below, the unique individuality of each member of the Queensguard in such a break from the traditional gold-enamelled armour.
The ruckus has largely been controlled by the Unsullied soldiers who now make up the City Watch by the time the Queensguard arrive. Nevertheless, a few burly men insist on fighting still. Jorah dismounts his horse in one fluid movement, his hand reaching for Dragonsong and unsheathing it.
It's an almost bloodless contest, ended in just a few short minutes. Jorah is caught in the lip by one man's flailing fist and that busts open, leaving the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. He does his best to staunch it with his cloak, wincing.
Daenerys won't be happy.
She knows that his role doesn't come without its risks. He is a knight, a fighter. He isn't made to sit in perfumed parlours growing fat and soft.
But she doesn't like the fact that he puts himself in danger so often.
"You don't need to," she argues. "You're lord commander. You can give the orders and let others carry them out."
But he won't. He must feel useful. He might be Daenerys' husband but he can't just be that.
"You asked me to find a cure so I could serve you. Allow me serve you."
He'll always remember those words. They are an echo through time. Encapsulate his yearning.
His belief that it was the only way he could ever be useful to her. To give, give, give, in a desperate attempt to assuage his guilt.
As time wore on, gone were the hopes that she might see him.
A spectre in the past. Whenever he leaves her now, she looks upon him with such wistfulness, as if she is attempting to paint his face into the canvas of her mind, a portrait to sustain her until he returns to her.
"We should be better at saying farewell by now," she'd said down on the beach at Dragonstone, her eyes glassy and shimmering with a thousand emotions that neither of them had been able to understand at the time. That day she'd been trying to mask her trepidation with levity. On the Long Night she'd sobbed; in the days that followed she had been moody and contrary, in turns clingy and distant. But he'd returned to her both times, dragging himself with grim determination from the depths of the seven hells because she'd told him that she needed him by her side.
And he will return to her this time, next time, every other time, because she is his queen and he cannot disobey a direct order, no matter how impossible it may be.