08x06, 'The Iron Throne'
The Stark household gathers outside to see them off, though Daenerys is under no illusion that they really care about her.
"Goodbye, Your Grace," Sansa says stiffly, with all the warmth of the Night King's wrath, and with equal disinterest Daenerys thanks the lady of Winterfell for her hospitality.
There is no rejoining thanks for the support and sacrifice she has made in saving the north and the rest of Westeros with the beloved troops that meant so much to her not for their worth as fodder against Cersei but their value as human beings who trusted her and believed in her.
Arya says nothing at all, eyeing her with cool mistrust.
Most disconcerting of all is Bran, whose dark eyes burn into her as if he's seeing her whole future right before his eyes.
She flashes back to his words—wolves will howl in the north—and wonders if he would warn her if she was riding to her death.
She has a horrible suspicion that he wouldn't.
They start out of the gates of Winterfell. It will be nice to escape those judgemental looks. She doesn't belong in the north.
Most of this place has been destroyed by the Night King and will take years to rebuild, but the remnants are there, wasted splendour in the face of devastation.
They stop between two hills, the best to protect them from the frigid winds. She turns away from Jon when he meets her eye, following Jorah up one of the hills. When at last she reaches him, flushed and panting for breath, he takes her hand and pulls her up the last few feet, steadying her as she stumbles in the crags.
"I wanted to show you something," he says as she recovers.
He points over the star-kissed moors, to where the great, hulking shadows of her dragons shift in the darkness.
Jorah continues. "I thought it would bring you some comfort to be able to see them tonight."
He's right, of course. Ever since Viserion's tragic death she has felt more protective than ever of her children. It would sound ridiculous to outsiders, given that they are a thousand times her size. She hadn't worried about them since Qarth, but now every time Drogon and Rhaegal are out of sight anxiety gnaws at her.
They're unlikely to stay close as the party makes its slow way south, but knowing that Jorah understands and cares enough about her feelings means the world.
Of course he does, she thinks to herself. As if it would ever be different. It doesn't bear thinking that she could have lost that.
But she hasn't. And, gods be good, she never will.
"Thank you," she says, resisting the urge to slip her hand into his and squeeze it in gratitude. "It's a beautiful sight."
"Aye, it is," Jorah murmurs, but she has the distinct feeling that he isn't looking upon the same spectacle as she is; that he is, in fact, looking at her.