[A/N: Viserys needs some Zoloft and a fucking hug.]
It is nearly midnight in the depths of the Dothraki Sea, and Jorah Mormont is contemplating killing his king.
It's become an almost nightly routine these past few weeks. After the Dothraki take their evening meal (and before the deaths and raping and dancing start), Viserys and his loyal Ser Jorah retire to the area outside their tent, where they share another drink in the relative peace and quiet of the grasslands.
Sometimes, in hopes of diverting his King's attentions from the sorrows to be found in a cup, Jorah tells stories of his life before his exile. While he hardly had an idyllic childhood (or adulthood thus far), he can admit to himself that having your sister hit you in the arm with an axe is far preferable to seeing your mother die in front of you. Viserys usually responds to these stories with a half-smirk or a grunt, and Jorah always nods in acknowledgement (though how he'd like the man to smile...).
Other times, (like tonight), he remains stoic, unable to drum up the energy after a long day of riding to tell tales to an obviously uninterested audience.
He always regrets this.
For, without a distraction from the particular sadness of wine, Viserys often slips into one of his fits, shaking and crying as though he had been driven out of the Seven Kingdoms only yesterday, while Jorah sits powerless to help him (for he knows his king is not a man to be rocked and gentled like a babe). This never stops him from (chastely?) offering Viserys a place next to him on his bedroll, however, even if he is always sharply rebuffed, and even if he hears ragged sobs from under furs more often than not afterwards.
He understands, of course, that Viserys is damaged. Of course he feels pity for the younger man. But Jorah is a true Northman, and thus he has a low tolerance for wallowing in pain that could easily be at least soothed.
That is why, after weeks of restless nights and dreams of haunted lilac eyes, Jorah decides to disregard the wishes of his king and sleep beside the small, shaking form illuminated so pathetically in the moonlight, praying to the old gods and the new that he might be able to offer a semblance of comfort to this man who hadn't asked for tragedy.
Jorah gathers his blankets and mat and moves silently across the tent they share. With only a moment's hesitation, he sets his things down and arranges himself so that he is several inches from Viserys. Taking a deep breath, Jorah turns himself to face his King's back and gently places his hand on the slight curve of Viserys's waist.
One punch in the neck later, and Jorah decides that he really should've thought that through better, considering Viserys had been on the run from assassins for nigh on a decade.
Viserys, ever acting the king even when scared and tear-stained like a child, soon whips the rest of his body around to face Jorah.
"What in the Seven Hells are you doing, Ser?" he practically growls.
"Protecting my king, Your Grace," Jorah replies evenly, rubbing his neck, "Or at least attempting to."
"Do you see any sellswords, any bloody shadowcats, any rabid Dothraki whores? Neither do I. Remember your place, Ser, and let me sleep." With this, Viserys turns back around, gathers up his furs, and pulls them over his head.
Jorah swallows a sad chuckle at this petulant gesture from a man who seeks to rule Westeros. He rolls over, speaking to the darkness. "No, Your Grace, I see none of these dangers present. However, I still sense there is one in this tent." The lump of blankets stiffens at this, and Jorah takes a deep breath before continuing. "It is your memory, Your Grace, that will be your greatest threat. It will eat away at you if you let it, and I would be guilty of kingslaying if I did nothing to help you. Please, my king, let me try to offer you comfort, in this way and in any other." (Gods, he blushes like a maiden then).
Jorah hears a sniffle, and suddenly finds Viserys attached to him like some sort of unfortunate growth. It takes several moments of deep breathing to calm himself from the sensation of arms around his waist and legs entwined with his (and oh Gods, a face buried in his neck and he won't think about anything lower...) before he can relax and enjoy the soft breathing of sleep from his king.
Jorah sighs and falls asleep dreaming of nights to come.