10.

Before Jorah opened his eyes he knew he'd slept late into the morning. Darkness yet engulfed the chamber; Bear Hall did not afford the luxury of windows even in the Lord's rooms, panes of glass coming too dear for the meager coffers and every bit of warmth hard earned in these climes besides. Chill air pricked at the skin not draped beneath the furs-his shoulders and face, the bare patch at the top of his head; the fire, if it yet burned at all, no longer had fuel enough to stretch its flickering arms across the bedchamber to embrace the sleepers in its warmth.

The last thing Jorah wanted to do, however, was rise and stoke the flames to life again. His bedmate emitted a heat all her own-not quite fire made flesh, but near enough-and he had not lain so restfully in bed since the last time he slept here, though his comfort had less to do with the spaciousness of the down mattress or the abundance of pelts blanketing him than with the silken hair pillowed on his shoulder, the soft feminine curves pressed to his side, the sweet tickle of her fingertips over the wiry dark hair covering his chest. For some time he did not move a muscle, even of an eyelid, enjoying Daenerys' absent yet somehow affectionate touch even in her sleep. When her small hand moved lower, however, following the thinning hair that trailed below his chest and down his stomach, her strokes too deliberate to be unconscious, he tilted his chin downward and cracked an eye to check that she too had awakened.

At his movement she raised her head from his shoulder, and from the hearth at his back glowed a faint orange light by which Jorah could just make out her face, smiling at him. His own grin must not have stretched quickly enough, because Daenerys' hand emerged from beneath the furs to stroke his brow.

"You look confused," she said.

"Confused?" he repeated, his voice pitched low and husky from sleep and thirst. "Nay." Except by her statement.

"Surprised, then."

With her slender fingertips which bore calluses from the reins of her little silver mare caressing him, Jorah was disinclined to argue. "Mayhaps. A little."

Her hand left his forehead to be replaced by the heat of her mouth, then she pushed up on her elbows so that her breasts just touched his chest as she looked down on him, their legs tangling together beneath the blankets. "To find you've been sleeping in my bed?"

"I think you've got that backward," Jorah said, sliding one hand around her to rest at the curve where her back met her bottom. He did not have to stretch his long fingers far to span the entire width of her waist, and he felt the taut sinews of her muscles, lean and strong from so much time spent in the saddle. In the other hand he cupped one of her small breasts, giving it a light squeeze. "This used to be my bed."

Daenerys giggled and squirmed at his touch, though she did not draw back from it. "That sounds like a story." She affected a deep tone. "Somebody's been sleeping in my bed, the bear said."

"Yes, and she's still here," Jorah said, his arm tightening around her as he rolled so that she lay beneath him.

He pressed his lips to her neck, working his way downward to the hollow of her throat. With the tip of his tongue he traced the delicate u where her collarbones met, tasting the salty sweat from their previous night's activities which mingled with the lingering faintly sweet traces of the perfume she'd worn to dinner. She murmured his name through her teeth as she pressed the heels of her hands against his temples, drawing his head up to claim his mouth with hers.

Though Jorah responded by opening to her tongue, and when she parted her legs he rested his hips against hers and brushed his hardness against her mound, he made no move to enter her. Of course her eagerness aroused him, yet he shared none of her urgency. Only a blessed relaxation, and a desire to go on in this unhurried fashion. To kiss her slowly, to cup her cheek in his hand and with his fingertips trace every curve and line of the face he knew so well by sight and learn them by feel, too, now that he had the liberty and the leisure to do so.

Lulled by time measured out in long deep breaths and slow beating hearts, Jorah realized what it was that made this morning unique from all the others in recent memory-in addition to sharing a bed with the Queen-the reason he felt at leisure, unhurried, where before in the long years of exile and war every breath was hard-earned through battle, every heartbeat might have been the last.

"Rest," he mumbled against her lips.

Daenerys tilted her head back on the pillows to look at him. "What?"

"You said I looked surprised when I awoke." Jorah rolled off her so that he lay facing her, on his side, his hand resting in the curve of her waist. "I was, but not by you."

"What then?"

"By how it felt to sleep a night entire, and not to have been plagued by dreams."

Her touch on his cheek was as soft as her voice. "What do you dream of, Jorah?"

What do you pray for, Ser Jorah?

For a moment he did not answer, his gaze drifting from her eyes to watch his own fingers absently fitting into the hollows between her ribs.

"That is dark talk, for so pleasant a morning as this. Does my Queen command me to speak of it?"

"No. But your lady would know."

Jorah buckled inside at that, but still he hesitated to speak. He trailed his fingers down from her ribcage to her hips, following the paths of the pinkish marks on her skin where her belly had stretched to accommodate the growth of her son. Crooked and curled, like upward licking flames.

"Fire," he answered at last, thickly. "You, walking into the flames of Khal Drogo's funeral pyre. The shadows dancing on the walls of his tent and the fever that raged in your body after you delivered Rhaego-" Dead. "The fear that you would be lost. And that I would be, also."

For a long time Daenerys lay looking at him, so still that Jorah had almost forgotten that her hand was on his cheek until he felt the tip of her forefinger trace the line of his cheekbone down to his jaw. The rasp of his beard against her skin broke the silence first, followed by her voice.

"As I wandered alone in the Dothraki Sea, I burned with fever."

Jorah's eyes snapped up to her face. She had been ill-and alone? And he never knew? Not that he could have done anything then, nor did it matter now. His anxiety must have shown on his brow, because her hand moved up to smooth the furrows, and she smiled.

"In my dreams you came to me. You whispered to me in the ghost grass."

Her voice, her touch, might have been a trick played on his mind by a gentle breeze, so gentle were they. Just as he had dreamed so many nights. He caught his eyes drifting shut as she soothed him, but made himself keep them open, not trusting entirely that this was not a dream which he would find himself wakening from. He took her hand and drew it down to his mouth, kissing it, and then clutching it to his chest as she slipped her knee between his legs.

"What did I say to you, in the ghost grass?"

"You reminded me who I was. Where my home is." One corner of her lips hitched higher than the other, and playfulness danced in her eyes. "And you didn't do it in the politest way. Even in hallucinations you're my gruff and grizzly bear."

Jorah attempted a frown of mock displeasure at that, but it was difficult to hold as the ball of her foot rubbed against the back of his calf and her soft giggle brought the peaks of her nipples against his chest where his own chuckle rumbled with it.

Then abruptly she was no longer laughing, but pressed herself tight against him and tucked her head beneath his chin.

"And my greatest comfort," she said. "I wanted only to be in your arms."

"You are now." Jorah's voice was taut again, and the muscles of his arms tensed beneath his skin as he wrapped them tight around her. "No hallucinations. No dreams." But here, truly.

Daenerys felt so small in his embrace, but he did not relax his hold. He knew the strength belied by her size, knew that it was even more to be trusted than his own conviction that nowhere in the wide world was she safer than this.

No sooner had he thought it than her little hand pushed against his chest and she raised her head to claim a kiss. Jorah's lips had scarcely touched hers when her tongue swept in, seeking his, and he found himself nudged onto his back by the slip of the girl who straddled his waist. His groan into her mouth as his arousal rubbed against her-she was so wet- tuned to a gasp when she broke the kiss to sit up, one hand resting on his stomach as the other wrapped around his cock to guide it inside her. Mindful of the discomfort Daenerys endured when he first entered her last night, Jorah did not push in, allowing her to sink onto him by little as her body learned to accommodate him, though when she bit down on her lower lip, drawing in a sharp breath, he did reach out to touch the pad of one thumb to her folds; the moan she made as she sheathed him completely was one of pleasure, and not of pain.

She lingered like that for a moment, during which Jorah followed her gaze down to where their bodies joined, his dark hair and swarthy skin pressed to her fairness. The sight alone was enough to make him swell within her; when she rocked her hips forward, grinding harder onto him, his thumb still caught between them, he groaned again with the effort of not spilling into her straight away. Then she retreated, so slowly, and he removed his hand, wrapping his fingers instead around her pale thigh, lean and sinewy from the saddle, the other hand cupping her arse as it rested on his lap.

Jorah lay almost passive beneath Daenerys as she rode him, enjoying the pace she set for their lovemaking. His eyelids fluttered shut, mesmerized by the slow sway of her hips, exquisite and excruciating, the steady almost plodding rhythm bringing images to mind of riding with her through the endless grasslands of Essos. They must have made the most unlikely pair, a man past forty and a woman scarcely flowered, the only thing they appeared to share in common that they were exiles from the same homeland, she through no fault of her own and he for sinning knowingly. Yet friendship formed effortlessly between them in the khalasar. The path to love had not run so smooth, but now that they were on their way, they became lovers as easily as they had become friends. Of course for Jorah, this was the fruition of years of long nights passed in the vain attempt not to desire her; but nothing in Daenerys' demeanor since he awoke indicated that she found it any stranger than he did to be together in this fashion with the very man whom she once told she did not desire.

That was certainly not the case when, at her bidding, he opened his eyes and saw how she looked as she gave him his pleasure…and received it from him. Her head tilted back slightly, her lips parted as she panted in time to the rolling of her hips, and a pink flush painted her chest and the apples of her cheeks.

Snaking his arm around her waist, Jorah used his other hand to push himself upright. Her hands went to his shoulders as he leaned forward to take her breast in his mouth. Daenerys gasped as his tongue curled around her nipple, and again when he sucked a little harder at it, just grazing with his teeth-though that, Jorah realized, belatedly, had less to do with him than with the knock that sounded at the door.

"If that's one of my kinswomen," Jorah muttered, "gods help them."

Daenerys cinched around him with her quiet giggle. Clinging to his shoulders, she turned slightly in his lap to call over her shoulder, "Who's there?"

"Khaleesi's handmaids," came the reply-Irri-followed by Jhiqui's more hesitant, "Does…does khaleesi need anything?"

"We have all we require," Daenerys said, eyes widening a little, conspiratorially, as she turned back to Jorah. "We'll come down in a moment."

When the scurrying-and giggling-of the handmaids receded down the hall, Jorah said, "A moment, eh? You'd best move faster then."

"I will continue just as I have been," Daenerys replied with authority and gave his shoulders a push, gripping them tightly as she positioned herself low over him. "Unless you're in a hurry to leave this bed?"

In answer, Jorah wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down onto his chest. He kissed her deeply and bucked his hips up against hers as she rocked into him, at once falling into stride with each other's movements. Despite her teasing him about being in a hurry, Daenerys urged him into a faster pace than they had kept before, and he willingly went with her. His heart pounded in his chest and he felt hers beat wildly from without, increasing in rapidness until they were breathless and her hair whipped across his face. They were galloping again, across the hill country at the edge of the Dothraki Sea, and as they reached the highest peak, they broke into flight.

Afterwards, Jorah dressed again in the white tunic, trousers, and cloak he had worn to dinner and Daenerys in a fresh woolen dress of midnight blue. They spoke little as they made themselves presentable for the other occupants of the hall who, if they had any doubt as to the change in the relationship between the Queen and her Lord Commander, could not be unaware now that the handmaids had been up to check on her. Jorah paused doing up the laces in back of Daenerys' gown, a thought about that interaction occurring to him now which had not at the time.

"You said we," he remarked.

Daenerys stopped fingering the end of her braid she was plaiting over her shoulder, out of the way of her laces. "We?"

"To Irri and Jhiqui. You have no wish to keep this a secret, then? To hide our…?"

He swallowed, casting about for a suitable word to describe the state of things between them. He had told her he loved her before, in desperation, when she cast him out. That she wanted him now was a certainty, but he could not bring himself to utter the word again before he heard it from her lips.

"I've been rather too loud for secrets in this hall, and you are too large to hide." The laughter faded from her lips and eyes as she turned to look up at him, caressing his ruined cheek with her gentle hand. "But even if you were not, do you think I would hide our love as if it were some shameful secret?" She stretched on the balls of her feet and brushed her lips to his. "I am not ashamed, Jorah."

As they stepped out of the bedchamber, the Queen's hand firmly in his, neither was he.

Maege led the way through the village, navigating Dany and the others down the winding dirt path in search of the local blacksmith.

Dany wondered if it could even be properly called a village; it was little more than a cluster of thatched houses clinging to the shore, their occupants peering out from windows and milling about the yards. She had been to Flea Bottom, of course, when she could find reason to abandon her castle and show herself to her people, and she had seen other towns and hamlets across Westeros, but rarely one so tiny as this.

Jory had approached her that morning and asked the Queen if she would like to accompany Maege, Aly, and herself to the village. Dany had certainly done her part in wearing down the armory's steel of late, and she wanted to see more of the island and its people; two weeks ago when they along the shore they had walked through the village to reach the Mormonts' keep on the hill above, but she had been so nervous then that she had seen little beyond her own feet. Despite her curiosity, she recoiled from the offer at first, realizing they meant to leave Jorah behind. But Lyanna's glares had driven her out of the hall, and now that she was out in the open air Dany was grateful for a bit of distance after the intensity of the previous evening.

And morning, she thought, praying her face was not as red as it felt, or that the other women would attribute her blush to the cold air.

They must have all known what passed between her and their cousin in the night – theirs was not a large hall – yet none of the she-bears had given her any hint of their knowledge. Looking again at Aly's boy, whose father yet remained unknown, Dany suspected that the other women were accustomed to remaining silent about what occurred within their walls.

Irri and Jhiqui, in keeping with the usual Dothraki openness about such matters, had been less discreet, and Dany had been relieved to leave them behind at the hall.

She tried not think of them as the path sloped further downward and the huts along it grew closer together. There were even more islanders now, and many emerged into the street as they spotted the women approaching. Lady Mormont seemed to know all her people by name, and they greeted her without fear as she passed, some of them bowing only by nodding their heads. Dany was surprised to see so many of them out in the cold, behaving as though the winds that seemed to crawl beneath her very skin were no worse than average weather. They love her, Dany thought as Maege inquired about wives and children. She is one of them. The Lady of Bear Island made ruling seem easy, though of course the Queen knew it was not. But perhaps somewhat easier to rule one single island than seven kingdoms.

Not for the first time, the scale of her own responsibility staggered Dany. How many hundreds of villages like this one were there across Westeros, how many people in their huts? And every one of them her subject, under her care.

Under her hooded fur cloak, however, she was no more than a pale stranger to them; Aggo, with his Dothraki features, received more wary glances from the villagers than Dany did as they passed.

The smithy lay at the end of the road, surrounded by the sea on the left and the forest behind. It, too, was tiny compared to the one in Kings' Landing, or even the one within the walls of Winterfell, with only a lone man filling its cramped walls.

"I've got what you need, Maege," he called, not looking up from his anvil and hammer. "Only give me a moment."

They waited patiently – well, mostly patiently; little Ned kept trying to break free of Aly's grip to touch the weapons lined up along the walls – until the large man finally turned around to face them.

"I hear strange rumors, Lady Maege. Some say the Dragon Queen is up on your hill."

"She stands before you," Maege replied with a grin, nodding in Dany's direction.

The man sized her up calmly, taking in her silver hair and violet eyes against the simple cloak draped over her shoulders, which looked more similar to what Maege and her girls wore than to the Queen's usual raiment.

After a long moment, he finally bowed his head. "Your Grace." She accepted that with a smile, and let him look her over again. "I thought a dragon would be larger."

Dany laughed. "A dragon need not be large to breathe fire."

"True enough." He grinned darkly at her in return, which seemed as much approval as the Queen could hope for.

There was nothing else said after that; the smith handed Maege and the girls the items they had come for, patted Aly's boy on the head, and sent them on their way again with hardly a second glance at Daenerys.

She thought a great deal about him, however, as she followed Maege and the girls back to the keep.

Lyanna's outburst the previous evening had been more a confirmation of Dany's fears than a shock. She had not come to Westeros, as her brother might have, expecting to find hidden dragon banners in the

homes of the common folk. What Jorah had told her in the Dothraki Sea was still true; her people cared little who sat the Iron Throne, so long as they lived in peace, and so she had tried to bring them peace.

But some, like Lyanna Mormont, still clung to their dead kings, and she could hardly blame them. How long had she clung to dreams of vengeance for her father and brother? It had taken years to see that her reign could be more than that, that there might be a kingdom built on more than blood and anger, and she had wanted so much for her people to see it as well.

She knew she should not place such value on the approval of a blacksmith, yet the willingness of the Northmen – well, most of them – to accept her as their Queen was still a surprise to her.

But perhaps it should not have been…Jorah had been Lord of this island once, and he had thought her fit to rule Westeros. Without him at her side – and Barristan, my poor old knight – would she ever have believed that herself?

For a moment she regretted leaving her knight back at the hall. Has Lyanna torn him apart by now?

There was a tug at her cloak, and Dany looked down to find Ned's tiny hand clutching the fabric as he ambled along. She looked to Aly behind her for help, unsure what to do; the other woman only grinned and continued walking, unconcerned.

Jory, who had kept pace with the Queen for some time, was grinning as well.

"Have you given any more thought to my offer?" Dany asked.

"Aye."

"And?"

The other woman paused for a long while, measuring her words carefully before she replied.

"I wondered – well, we all did, when we heard our cousin was in the company of a Targaryen – wondered what could have possessed him to follow Aerys' daughter across the world. Why he didn't come back to us as soon as he could, but stayed in Kings' Landing with you instead."

I have wondered that as well.

"But you…you have a way about you, Daenerys, that I cannot place." Jory was almost shy now, or as shy as a Mormont ever got."Harlan is not an easy man to win over, and yet you won him with only a few short words. I think…I can understand it now. Why one might devote their life to the service of a woman such as you."

"Does that mean you will come?"

"Aye." The grin that stretched across Jory's face made her seem younger than Dany, more childlike.

"It would be my honor, your grace."

"Daenerys," the Queen corrected.

"Daenerys."