3. The Dance

As the feast wound on, Queen Daenerys' fears began to ebb.

She had met Sansa Stark only briefly in Kings' Landing, before her court and advisors. Now, in the Lady's own hall, Dany was surprised to find she had much in common with the younger woman. Aside from her rather intimidating Hand she had had little contact with other noblewomen and found it rather pleasant to sit and make polite conversation with quiet, proper Lady Sansa.

Still, she could not help but be reminded that her dealings with the North were tenuous at best. Jorah had warned her years ago that she would not find the coldest half of the seven kingdoms easy to subdue even if she managed to conquer it; thanks to Lord Stannis, Theon Greyjoy, and Roose Bolton much of the conquering had been already done by the time she arrived, but turning the hearts of those who once rode to battle with the King in the North was difficult work indeed. Young Rickon Stark, a boy of only nine who seemed at times half-wolf, occasionally shot her wary glances from across the table, and Dany had to pretend to ignore his sister's admonishing glares back at him. The future Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North.

Nor could she miss her knight's unease, evident in the way he barely picked at the lavish meal set before them and responded nervously to everyone but Lord Tyrion. Not for the first time, Dany wondered if it had been wise to return him to a home he had fled in disgrace.

When she caught him exchanging a look with their hostess, she decided - perhaps a risk encouraged by the wine she had consumed with dinner - to speak her mind.

"I hope our presence does not cause you discomfort, my lady. I know there was no love lost between Ser Jorah and your lord father."

"He was very angry when Lord Mormont fled his punishment," Lady Sansa admitted. "I think they were friends of a sort, once…Father never said it, but I thought he seemed rather hurt as well."

That explained much; Dany had often wondered at the bitter tone in Jorah's voice when he spoke of Eddard Stark.

"It matters not, Your Grace," Sansa continued. "What is past is past, and you yourself have pardoned greater crimes. My husband's brother slew your father, and yet you allowed Ser Jaime not only to live, but to inherit Casterly Rock."

That had been Dany's hardest decision. For so many years her brother had dreamed of vengeance against the accursed Kingslayer, the man who had betrayed the white cloak her father had entrusted to him. Were it not for the persuasions of Sansa and Tyrion, as well as a plea from Lady Brienne, the newest member of Daenerys' Queensguard, she would have had him roasted in dragonfire. Instead she had stripped him of his knighthood, sent him back to the castle that was his by rights as the eldest living Lannister, and hoped her visits there would be few and far between.

"Besides," Sansa added, "my lord husband seems to rather respect Ser Jorah. And Tyrion's respect hardly comes easily."

Dany giggled at that. She had always rather liked the little Lannister's brash honesty, and she did have to admit he was often a surprisingly good judge of character. He and her knight made a strange pair indeed.

In fact, Tyrion had perhaps saved Ser Jorah's life – not only in the slavers' market, but in Meereen as well. Her fury at the sight of him in her ruined city after she had told him not to return had been cooled somewhat by the Imp's careful words. Were it not for the distraction of the Lannister captive, she may indeed have made good on her promise to tear his head from his shoulders.

Yet she did have to agree that Tyrion's schemes sometimes had undesirable results.

When he led his lady wife from the table, Dany realized she and Jorah were the only two still seated; all the other guests had risen to join the Lord and Lady of Winterfell in their dance. Even her bloodriders were conspicuously missing.

For a while she was content to watch Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa twirl about the floor. They were an odd match, indeed; the lady was tall and lithe, with a wild sort of beauty and an inner quiet, and her husband stunted, scarred, but always ready with a jape and a cup of wine. They could hardly have been more mismatched – not to mention, of course, that their houses were old enemies. After the long war who would ever have expected to find a lion and a wolf living in harmony?

And yet they seemed so happy, together in the hall of her forefathers. Tyrion, who had seemed near to madness when he had found her in Meereen, was calmer now than she had ever seen him, his wife laughing as they danced.

Out of the corner of her vision Daenerys spied one of the young lords approaching her – one of the Umber sons, she thought, but truth be told she was still having difficulty telling the Northern houses apart. She looked him over, trying to decide what her response would be if his intent was to ask her to join the dance, but before she could come to a decision Lord Tyrion stepped away from his wife and called out to the young man.

"Umber!" The Lannister strode towards the Northman as quickly as his legs would carry him. "Lady Sansa was just asking after your lord father. Pray, come and speak with us."

"Of course, my lord," the boy stammered. Dany was amused to see how the huge lad was helpless to refuse the Imp's request; being the interim Lord of Winterfell seemed to have afforded him the sort of power he had always craved. Tyrion shot a pointed look at her Lord Commander as he led the young Umber away.

Ser Jorah said nothing in response. He may not have noticed the gesture at all; her knight sat hunched over the table, studying his mug of ale as though it were full of secret assassins. Dany was certain he knew what she was about to ask and dreaded it. Yet it would not do for the Queen to sit aside and watch all the other guests at the feast be merry, and Tyrion seemed determined to ensure that she had no other partner to choose.

With a sigh she rose from her seat and stood before him, thrusting her hands out impatiently.

"Come on, then."

"Your Grace- " he grumbled, not turning to face her.

"I know what you intend to say, Ser Jorah, and it matters not. Dance with me."

"I do not dance."

"You do what I command," she reminded him. "Now come."

Growling, he gulped down the remainder of his ale and set the mug down hard before standing to accept her hands.

Dany quickly understood why he had protested so strongly; her knight, though graceful with a sword, was hardly light on his feet. She managed, with careful concentration, to guide him along somewhat successfully, but was secretly relieved when the dancers changed partners. Her relief turned instantly to guilt, however, when she realized he was faring much worse without her. The other ladies made valiant attempts to avoid his large feet; Lady Sansa in particular struggled to be gracious when he reached her, which only seemed to make Jorah more nervous than ever. Tyrion hovered nearby, the little lord's eyes shining with amusement as he watched her knight struggle. I have to say something. Perhaps if I distract him it will help.

Fortunately she had returned to him at last, and could now mutter softly in Dothraki as she spun into his arms.

"Hash yer nesae fin Tyrion qosay?"-Do you know what sort of trouble Lord Tyrion is plotting?

"Arranae anna, anha dirgak," he replied. -To embarrass me, I suspect. "Vosma anha tiholak mahrazh fitte qosarvenikhi avvos."-But I never understand the Imp's plans.

"I believe I heard my name somewhere in that barbarian garble of yours," Tyrion called from several feet away, pulling a breathless Sansa back into his arms. "It is very rude to insult a man in his own hall."

"Hash anha fatilak yeri, nesakoon." -When I insult you, you'll know.

Dany laughed aloud. Perhaps it was inappropriate to jest at Lady Stark's husband in a language he did not speak, but it did seem to improve her knight's temper greatly.

She drew closer to him unconsciously, not taking notice of it until she felt a strong arm press against her back. How long had it been since she had been in a man's arms? Certainly she had not danced so closely with anyone at court; in fact, she suspected she was somewhat closer to her knight at the moment than was strictly proper. The wine had disarmed her...or perhaps it was the surprise of laughter, a thing she rarely indulged in of late, especially not with the man she had once named a traitor.

Dany lifted her eyes and found Jorah smiling cautiously at her. Unbidden, her memory drew her to a ship's cabin, a pair of arms drawing her close, a man's tongue coaxing her lips apart…

A sharp stab of pain drew her out of her reverie. Dany yelped, stepping back to shift her weight to her left foot as she analyzed the throbbing in her right. She kept her eyes locked on the floor, not wanting to see her knight's expression.

Well I suppose he did try to warn me.

Jorah had felt the crunch of Daenerys' toes beneath the sturdy sole of his boot at the same moment her cry of pain pierced his ears. Instantly he recoiled from her, the moment's indulgence of holding his Queen as close as he dared, of her eyes holding his and making him hope that the Imp's notions were correct, effectively quashed. She could not look at him now, nor he at her as he sputtered apologies which scarcely sounded coherent to him, swallowed up by the musicians' tune and the dancers' steps. Having expected something like to happen-past attempts at satisfying Lynesse's love for dancing had generally ended in this fashion-did not make it any less humiliating. The flush prickled hotter at the collar of his tunic as he noted the bruise already darkening on her pale skin exposed by the dainty embroidered slipper.

"You ought to have your ladies tend to that," he said gruffly. "And if I may beg Your Grace's leave, I trust you can find a partner with more talent than a dancing bear."

As he made her a curt bow he saw her start to raise her head, but before she could see the humiliation that burned on his face as surely as the demon's mask, he span away, ignoring her voice calling after him. He was almost relieved when he found himself stumbling again to keep from barreling over Tyrion Lannister, whose cringe indicated he had witnessed the entire scene. Anger burned as Jorah found someone besides himself to blame for his embarrassment.

"Damn you to the seven hells, Imp," he snarled, bulling past the little man. "And keep your nose in your own affairs."

"You might have noticed I haven't got one."

"Would that you had not a tongue."

Scarcely knowing-or caring-where his clumsy feet carried him, except out of the great hall of Winterfell, Jorah strode blindly through the well heated corridors of the castle keep. Too well heated; he was sweating in his woolen layers of clothing as profusely as ever he had in the sweltering climes of the eastern continent. At last he found himself blundering out into the courtyard. In the light that glowed from the windows behind, he made out the white flakes of snow billowing against the black of the night sky; they alit on his face like soft kisses, cooling his flush and his temper, yet when he drew deep breaths of the once familiar northern air, his lungs burned with the empty cold of it. Was there no place on earth where he belonged?

Or to be left to my morose ponderings? He gritted his teeth and exhaled a steaming puff of air through his nostrils at the soft crunch of snow beneath approaching footsteps, and the glimpse of Daenerys' bright but simple red dress in his periphery.

"With all due respect to Your Grace," he said, "I would prefer to be alone."

"Would my Lord Commander prefer me to be alone in this strange place? You advised me to tend my foot. I thought a cold compress."

"My advice was to let your maids see to-" Jorah abandoned his argument at the sharp upward cut of her eyes as she knelt on the ground to scoop snow into her pale hands. "I'll do that," he said, and went to her.

His fingers wrapped around her elbow and drew her up gently to sit on a low stone ledge that had recently been brushed clear of snow, the sooty remnant of the old burnt castle walls. At the softening of her gaze on him he averted his eyes, but felt the prickle of heat at the back of his neck anyway, licking like fire along his jaw into his face despite the cold of the winter night. Crouching at her feet, he packed a lump of snow into a ball and knotted around it a cloth procured from a pocket of his tunic. He steadfastly avoided her stare as he slipped off her shoe and placed the compress on her swollen toes, but when her shiver rippled beneath his hand, he looked up at her.

"You have no cloak."

Daenerys smiled wanly, but she must have emitted a quiet chuckle, for he saw a little cloud puff from her lips. "What good is blood of the dragon if it doesn't keep a person warm in all weather conditions?"

"Take mine." Standing, Jorah fumbled with the silver dragon cloak pin at his throat.

"Then you won't have one."

"I'm a Northman."

Ignoring the cold which cut through cloth and skin, settling into his bones, Jorah swept off his white cloak and draped it about the Queen's slight shoulders. As she huddled into its warm folds, grateful in spite of her protests, Jorah noted her long silver braid tucked into the collar and, without thinking, stretched out his hand again to sweep it free. Even bound, the strands caressed his rough and callused hand like cords of the finest spun silk, and he could not but let his fingers linger around it a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Or appropriate. Though the lilac eyes that captured his held no rebuke as his hand fell to his side, and he thought he saw her shiver again.

"And I wanted to apologize," Daenerys said. "For what happened at the feast."

Jorah shook his head. "I am the one who stomped on Your Grace's toes."

"You would not have had I not forced you to dance against your wishes."

"But you would not have forced me if the Imp had not engineered the awkward situation in the first place ."

Daenerys' eyes shone. "Then we're in agreement. It is Tyrion's fault."

"Aye." Jorah's own lips twitched to return her grin, but he felt a pang in his chest and turned away from her. The ache, however, did not ease as he stared once more into the snowy night.

"My bear?" Her fingertips brushed the back of his sleeve, and he stepped just beyond her reach, outside the pocket of torchlight. The night was impenetrable, though he heard her sigh. "What troubles you, ser?"

He had a thought that it was hardly fair of her to employ her royal authority in this context, but neither did he hesitate to make her an answer. "It is not fitting, that a Lord Commander should be such an embarrassment to his sworn Queen."

"What is not fitting is that my Lord Commander should think me so easily shamed by such a triviality as a missed dance step. Or that he should be, after he won me a kingdom."

She did not understand, and again he ground his teeth. "I refer not to the dance. Tyrion is not the only one who mocks me openly. Your own Hand-"

"I told you, do not trouble yourself about Lady Arianne. She was teasing me, not you."

"I would not have you appear a fool because of my…" Love for you, he had nearly said, but thankfully caught himself before he was even further humiliated by a verbal misstep.

Even so, his cheek seemed to burn with the heat of the branding iron again when Daenerys slipped softly around to stand before him, the folds of his too-large cloak dragging in the white snow, and she regarded the mark upon his face.

"If people think me a fool for believing a man can be redeemed, then so be it," she said. "I know no other way to be a Queen."

Jorah said nothing as she looked intently up into his eyes, her smooth brow folding into lines as she realized she still had not touched the correct reason for his shame.

"I cannot claim to know your mind, Jorah," she said, turning to gaze out into the impenetrable night beyond the castle keep. "I can only guess what painful memories this place holds for you, of a life once lived, and what you fear you will find at home. But if I am certain of anything in life, it is that to look back is to be lost."

"If only looking ahead were a certainty," he mumbled then added hastily, "My Queen speaks wisely."

Would to the gods that she did not. For her words contained echoes of that favorite phrase of his father's-the things we love destroy us every time. Try as he might, Jorah could not leave his love for her behind.