6. The Fight
The crash of steel on steel sliced through the frosty air like a bolt of lightning in a clear summer sky. Jorah gave a start, though he had been watching, waiting for the two swordsmen-swordswomen-in the yard prepare to exchange blows. He was not the only one; in his periphery, the heads of the three youngest of his kinfolk-Lyanna, Erena, and little Ned-popped up from behind the snowdrift where they had been playing to watch the sparring with keen dark eyes.
Beside him, the top of her head scarcely reaching his shoulder, Maege made a grunt that might have been just that, or a gruff chuckle. "And they say women are the worriers."
"That is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms learning swordplay," Jorah ground out through clenched teeth, not taking his eyes off the fight, "and I am the Lord Commander of the Queensguard. I swore a vow to worry about her."
"Oh, so it's because you wear a white cloak that you worry, is it?"
Heat prickled beneath Jorah's cheekbones at her inference, but hoped that the biting air had reddened his skin so that she would take no notice. He thought it prudent to make no reply, but Maege clapped him hard on the shoulder.
"A sharp blade couldn't touch her through all that fur and practice padding you insisted she wear-"
"She is no more accustomed to cold than to combat-"
"-and those swords are blunted. And it's my girls wielding them. Your Queen couldn't be safer."
It did not escape Jorah's notice that she said your Queen. Although Maege and her daughters had made no bold gestures of loyalty to the Iron Throne, he was reasonably certain that in this instance, his aunt implied mockery of a more personal nature. He exhaled through his nostrils, breath steaming in the air, and looked away from her without a word.
No sooner than he had returned his attention to the fighting lesson than the pupil lost her footing and stumbled. The sword and the layers of winter clothing and armor impeded her movement, making it impossible for her to regain her balance, and she fell headlong into the snow, so hard that she sent up a shower of white powder.
"Daenerys!"
Jorah sprang toward her at once, but Maege's strong hand clamped around his elbow, at the same moment as the Queen's head came up and her laugh pealed out, breaking the spell of stunned silence. Jorelle's huskier laugh mingled with Daenerys' as she offered a hand up, underscored by Aly's chuckle, and Jorah let out the breath he'd caught. He did not move, however, or so much as blink, until Daenerys was steady on her feet again and had adjusted her helm, which had been knocked askew in the tumble.
Her silver braid dangled from the back of the dinted steel, its sheen bright in the sunlight, and reminded him of a fairy tale he'd read long ago of a princess with long golden hair in a tower. Though he'd long since given up the belief that life was anything like the songs and stories, this was one instance that he would not mind her being a little more like those damsels. But she was Daenerys of House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, and too extraordinary for that. Of course her eyes had burned bright with fire when the she-b ears regaled her with tales of their exploits in battle.
"I know not how to wield a weapon," she'd said, in a hinting way Jorah recognized-and misliked.
"What do you call a dragon?" had come Jorelle's teasing reply, and they all chuckled, except the Queen.
"But if I'm threatened in King's Landing, my dragons at the Wall will do me little good."
"That's what a Queensguard's for," Jorah muttered.
"My Queensguard are not with me every second of the day. Surely you of all people, Ser Jorah, should approve me being suspicious of spies and traitors and assassins lurking in every dark corner. And occasionally even in broad daylight."
Aly declared it a gross lapse on Jorah's part, not giving Daenerys a few lessons in self-defense at least. Ignoring his protests that he'd been slightly busy keeping the Queen alive in Essos and hadn't time for sparring, she said she and her sisters would meet Daenerys in the training yard after they broke their fast on the morrow, if she was willing. Which Daenerys was. Or perhaps she was merely bored with the limited amusements Bear Island had to offer.
Though she certainly seemed enthralled enough as Aly offered instructions about her stance, committing it all to memory with the same determined look she'd worn in the Dothraki Sea when Jorah had told her all he knew of life in a khalasar. Gruffly, Aly reminded the Queen to keep her feet shoulder-width apart if she wanted to stay on them next time, and to swing the sword from her elbow not her shoulder lest the weight and length of the blade put her off balance again.
"It does make me wonder," Maege spoke suddenly to Jorah.
In spite of his resolve to ignore her, he turned to face his aunt. He saw the lines of her face deepen, her eyes seeming not to see the scene before her, but something in the past.
"If the girls had been kinder…if I'd made more of an effort…"
Immediately he understood her. "You're a bloody fool if you think any amount of kindness would have made Lynesse hide her lovely clothes beneath practice pads and crush her coif beneath a helm and roughen her hands to learn swordplay like a she-bear."
Maege puffed a grim chuckle. "True. But-"
"The only person who could have done anything to change what happened was me," Jorah said. "I was a bloody fool to wed her." A fool for love.
That had not changed.
His aunt remained silent for so long that Jorah thought the conversation must be at an end. They watched as Daenerys and Aly took their positions and brought their swords together with a clash, the seasoned she-bear obviously measuring her strength against her smaller and inexperienced opponent. Nevertheless, Jorelle cheered as the Queen stayed upright.
"And yet," Maege said at length, "it would seem your foolishness served a greater purpose."
"That's pious talk."
"Mayhaps. I don't know much of gods, but I do know a ruler like her never sat the Iron Throne. And you played no small part in putting her there."
While he appreciated what Maege was trying to do, and could not deny there was a measure of truth to it, he was not entirely comfortable with the turn the talk had taken, either. Muttering about how none of the girls had bothered to correct Daenerys' grip, he trudged off through the deep snow to them. His three cousins looked none too pleased about the male intrusion-and once again over the rise he noticed Lyanna had paused in her play to regard him through the dark slits of her eyes-but everyone else faded away as Daenerys looked up and bestowed on him one of her brightest smiles.
"How am I faring, Ser Jorah?"
Breathless from exertion, her beauty took his breath away despite her bulky clothes and the ill-fitting armor and helm. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, it was true, and part of him wanted to tell her to go back into the hall with her Dothraki and warm up with a hot grog; Jhogo had poked his head out the carved door several times, watching the khaleesi fight with an expression that seemed to say he felt the same. But neither would Jorah snuff out the enthusiasm that played in her eyes like sunlight on deep water. It took him back to an earlier day, when their friendship had been new and untainted by her discovery of love and treachery, when he had taken such pleasure in watching the frightened girl he met in Pentos come into her womanhood.
"I think Brienne of Tarth is in no danger yet of losing her position as best swordswoman in Westeros," Jorah said.
"I've heard the lady's better than most of the swordsmen," Lyra said to Aly.
"But I've seen worse first lessons," he hastily added.
Jorelle chortled. "Your grace employs my cousin for his flattering tongue, I see!"
The back of his neck prickled and the warmth crept upward into his face. He thought he glimpsed a deeper red on Daenerys' cheek, too, though he stepped behind her to avoid uncomfortable eye contact, his big hand closing around hers on the hilt of her sword.
"I only mean your strokes will be more efficient if you grip your sword properly. It's a deadly weapon in its own right. You need not clutch onto it for dear life."
Daenerys stood very quiet and very still, her gaze locked on his gloved hand as he manipulated her fingers so that the thumb and first two fingers did most of the work, the others curved but lightly around the pommel. Thus positioned, he held her gingerly about the wrist to keep it still as he instructed her to swing from the elbow. As she tried it, he saw Aly lean in to Lyra again, and caught a snatch of her snigger: "Perhaps I ought to take a more hands-on approach to teaching."
"Now on your own." Jorah released Daenerys' wrist as if it burst into flames, and stepped away from her-
-exposing the Queen's back to a volley of snowball fire.
They had chased the girls and Ned out into a large clearing, Dany nearly forgetting to remove her helm before Maege called after her. She had caught up to the other girls and joined the battle, leaving armor and sword behind in the yard in favor of lighter weaponry.
Though as the enemy – Lyanna, Erena, and Ned against Dany, Lyra, and Jorelle, the older Mormonts providing counsel and commentary – continued to land hits that seemed to seep through her heavy fur cloak, the Queen began to sorely miss the shelter of steel, heavy or no.
She shivered as minimally as possible as she fought back, not wanting to appear as though she could not brave the harsh weather. Here, the cold was less a temperature and more an actual presence, an entity that belonged on the island as much as the forests did. Its denizens seemed to pay it no mind; or perhaps it merely was part of them, something unchanged and unacknowledged.
Dany, however, was accustomed to fire, not ice. She had grown somewhat more comfortable in the weeks of travel through the northern half of her kingdom, but still felt ill-suited to the climate. Often in the hall she found herself inching closer to the fires, until the girls began to mutter and shoot concerned glances in her direction. Once she'd reached a hand out towards the flame, as she often did to warm her hands in her own palace, and heard a chorus of gasps from across the room. When she turned, Jorah was holding Aly back by the arm, muttering something about "Targaryens".
Though she might never welcome the cold, Dany felt she could grow accustomed to the other denizens of the island. But for the occasional stay in Dorne and meetings with her Hand's cousins - whose nickname, "sand snakes", was well-deserved - the first Queen of Westeros had spent little time surrounded by so many women. Her small council, aside from the Hand, was all men, her Queensguard the same but for the inclusion of Brienne of Tarth, and all her travels in Essos had been in the company of her battle commanders and soldiers. Seeing a house run almost entirely by women made her feel a bit more secure about her control of the realm - despite the vague air of defiance she still sensed from the Northerners.
Lyanna Mormont, for one, remained wary of her, and spoke little. Jorelle - whose sisters called her Jory more often than not - had been curious and friendly from the beginning, and Aly had regarded her with a sort of gruff respect after their conversation about their children. Lyra was puzzling; Dany could not tell if her aloof cynicism was customary, or directed specifically at the Queen and her party. Yet most of her time was spent with Lyra and Jory, as Maege and her eldest daughter were usually occupied with their responsibilities to their children and the concerns of the islanders, and Lyanna and Erena simply ignored her.
Not that she minded - Jory was almost exactly of an age with Dany, and easily her favorite of the she-bears. Even Jorah seemed fondest of his namesake, and would happily have told her tales of Essos all day had there been time for it.
A sharp sting of cold hit the back of Dany's neck; she turned to find Lyanna and Erena ducked behind a cluster of trees, giggling.
Well. She may not be a match for the she-bears with a sword, but surely the ruler of the realm could throw snow. Her right arm was beginning to grow sore from the effort of her earlier training, but again she kept silent. She had heard enough tales of how weaker women had fallen prey to the pack of she-bears…
Not that that was any of her concern. You are his Queen, not his wife, she chastised herself, why should the approval of his kin matter?
"Make sure you pack it tight," Jory instructed from above as she knelt to form a round white ball between her gloves.
Her first projectile flew several feet to the left of the younger girls' hiding spot. The giggling grew louder, and a volley of white launched in Dany's direction. Jory tugged her arm and pulled her back to where Lyra hunched over a small hill of snow, building it steadily higher.
"What is this for?"
"For cover, your grace," Lyra replied, "If I can build a wall high enough, we can duck behind it for defense, and launch our attack while the enemy resupplies."
"A bit like a siege?"
Jory laughed. "Yes, your grace, a bit like that."
"You could use a few trebuchets, perhaps," Jorah put in. He and his aunt stood a ways away from the heart of the action, observing.
"Perhaps you ought to crawl through the sewers, Ser Jorah," Dany quipped, "since you seem intent on ignoring your duty to defend your liege."
"Oh, I think her grace can fight a battle or two on her own."
Maege shot her nephew a curious look. "Sewers?"
Dany did not hear his explanation; Jory had pulled her down below the cover of their makeshift battlement as another round was launched from the trees ahead.
"You roll more, your grace, and I'll help Lyra build the wall."
The Queen did as she was bid, trying again to roll the soft powder blanketing the ground into an effective weapon. "If we're going to fight alongside one another you may as well call me Daenerys," she remarked to her fellow soldiers.
Lyra grinned for the first time that Dany had ever seen. "Aye, your grace."
"Duck!" Jory cried. A volley of snow flew overhead again, but shorter than the last.
"I think they're running short," Lyra observed. "Do we have enough ammunition to launch an attack?"
"I think so," Dany answered.
"On my mark, then. Aim and….fire!"
A chorus of squeals erupted from the woods as several of Lyra and Jory's shots made contact with their targets. Dany, however, only succeeded in lobbing snow at the local fauna.
"I believe you were supposed to aim at your enemies, khaleesi," her knight called. "Not trees." When she turned his aunt was chuckling, and she could see that Jorah struggled to maintain his stern expression.
"Was I? Silly me." She scooped up one of the last snowballs and hurled it at his chest; this time, to her gratification, the projectile exploded against the neck of his cloak.
"It appears I was right to name you my Commander after all," she shouted back. "White suits you."
Maege was laughing loudly now, while her knight stood perfectly still and seemed to be carefully measuring his next action.
There was one last packed snowball left on the ground. Dany needed little time to decide what to do with it.
The second shot struck the side of his face, hitting with a satisfying whack and shocking Jorah out of his hesitation. She thought she caught a flash of something in his eyes as they narrowed, forming the calculating look she knew all too well. Only at the moment she was uncertain whether it was genuine, or if he was merely playing at anger…
Often Dany forgot her bear had claws.
"Surely a proper knight such as you would not harm an unarmed woman, Ser Jorah?" She could not help but laugh at the sinister grin that crossed his mouth while he knelt, calmly collecting a handful of snow, and held her gaze as he rose with his weapon in hand. Dany stepped back slowly, still laughing.
"I am your Queen. Do not dare-"
When his arm lifted she turned and ran for the trees, hoping that with cover she might lose him, or that he would simply abandon the game rather than put forth the effort of chasing her. Soon her breath was spent, and she ducked behind a tall weirwood to rest a moment. The strange white trees grew on their own this far North, and were becoming commonplace to Dany, who had never seen one before landing in Westeros. And they were wider than other trees, offering better cover.
Not good enough, however.
Suddenly her head was freezing cold, a mound of snow unceremoniously plopped down upon it. Rivers of icy water ran down her face, down her head and neck, beneath her cloak. When she managed to clear enough of it from her eyes to see again, she found Jorah grinning before her.
"Did you think I spent my whole youth here and never learned to track an animal?"
"I imagine I was not a difficult quarry." Dany replied coolly, trying to shake more of the melting snow off her face.
He laughed again, but his smug expression softened. "Here, let me."
The thumbs of his gloves brushed carefully along her face, drying the moisture from them before it could freeze. The rush of heat to her cheeks was too quick to be merely relief from the cold…when she raised her eyes, Jorah's head was much nearer to her own than she had realized. She studied it silently, waiting for him to meet her gaze, but he remained focused on his task, as though he did not notice the unusual warmth in the air, the way everything in the wood seemed still as ice…
Before she quite understood what she was doing, Dany nudged against his palm. Now he was looking at her, his features drawn in confusion. It seemed so easy, suddenly, to close the distance between them, to press her lips to his and wait for them to slowly part. His fingers closed against her skin, accepting the embrace, and for just a moment she felt them both relax, felt everything in the world fall away but the taste of her knight, the softness of his mouth.
It was over sooner than her thoughts could catch up to the racing of her heart – not as long as the last time? Jorah had pulled away, but still held her head in his hands, his fixed stare searching for something. He said nothing, but she could see how much he wanted to speak. All the things that had seemed to disappear seconds before were in his eyes, and Dany could not face any of them. Not now.
Hating herself every second, she ducked out of his embrace and walked away from the grove as quickly as her boots would carry her through drifts of snowfall. She half-expected Jorah to come after her, or call her name, but there was nothing. Nothing but the muffled sound of a fist hitting wood.
Yet that one sound followed her out of the trees, past the field where the cluster of women gave her stunned looks as she marched past them, and into the lord's chamber in Bear Hall where she collapsed onto the wide pile of furs draped along the bed and finally, finally, inhaled.