Chapter Three

A/N: No reviewers.

Night had fallen once again, and Ser Jorah Mormont had not moved from the place which he had seated himself that very morning. Healers and blood riders had been in and out of the tent in abundant droves, along with her handmaidens, Irri, Jhiqui and Doreah, at least one of whom had remained in the tent at all times during the day, but now they had all gone to bed, trusting that the Andal would allow no harm to come to his precious sovereign. The only one who remained awake was the Andal, his hand entwined with that of the sleeping queen, Daenerys.

'How strange.' he observed, as he clasped her hand a little more firmly. 'For fifteen moons' turning, I have tried to win her affections, far more so in the past couple, and yet it is only now, when she lies dying in a bed, a state that I am responsible for, that I may be able to hold her hand in mine, as I have wanted to do all this time.'

Once again, the knight felt his eyes blur with tears, and for what felt like the thousandth time that day, he blinked them back. He would not abandon his principles and cry, not while there was still life in the body of the khaleesi. While there was still life, there was still a chance, and a chance was all he needed.

Jorah shook his head to himself, looking down on the face of the woman, whose face was now near as white as her silvery hair. She had been poisoned, that much was certain, as the handmaidens had checked her for wounds and found none. However, as idiotic as the Usurper might have been, it was unlikely that he would have attempted to kill Daenerys with a toxin that had an antidote. In fact, now that he thought of it, this was not the kind of way he would have expected the man would try to kill her at all. Though he had given it little thought, for peace of his own mind, the man had to admit that, should Robert himself have given the order, he would have sent a knife and a bold man to wield it. Something was not right in this, not right at all.

Suddenly, the Andal was pulled from his thoughts, as the hand he held in his own jerked violently. The man turned to face his queen immediately, his hopes rising into the air like the dragons that the woman had hatched, but the moment her face caught his eye, he realised that she was not awake at all, but merely tossing and turning in the throes of a nightmare.

Jorah was at a loss as to what to do. Having not been surrounded by a great deal of people as a young man, or indeed in his own childhood, that would submit to a bad dream, the knight had never become accustomed to how to comfort someone when they experienced a terror in the night. Though he did not doubt that many of the fellow bannermen to the Starks had had nightmares, none had ever admitted this, let alone, gods forbid, sought comfort. This meant that now, when Daenerys truly needed him, he had no clue what he could do to help her.

At a loss as to what else he could do, the bearded man rest one strong hand on the Targaryen queen's face, feeling her skin burn at a scorching heat beneath his palm. Perhaps this was due to her illness, her body attempting to fight the awful poison that coursed through her veins, but he could not be sure. It was said of her line, after all, that they were fire made flesh, and all rumours had to come from a source.

Despite his evident lack of knowledge, the gesture seemed to soothe the blonde just a little, as her fitting ended, and she collapsed back into the rough feather pillows, her head lolling heavily backwards. Instantly, the man groped at the wrist of his sovereign, relieved to find that the pulse still beat strongly beneath her skin. Or at least, as strongly as it had done since the attempt on her life. 'Perhaps now she can finally have a little peace.' he thought, and cursed the implication of these words not a second later, as he realised exactly how much he stood to lose, should this 'peace' be a permanent arrangement.

'She is far too young to have such a shadow of death hanging over her.' Jorah mused darkly, the words so painfully true that he once again felt the irritating prickle in his eyes, though he used his knuckles to rid himself of it quite quickly. 'She has never done anything to hurt anyone. She is the gentlest soul I have ever had the fortune to meet, and why anyone, even Robert Baratheon should wish to cause her harm is beyond my own understanding. I am well aware that this attempt on the life of the khaleesi was the work of the Usurper. There is no other who could have a vendetta against a child, yet still I do not think that this is the way he would go about her death. He would want her blood spilled. Not this.'

A cry sounded through the tent, bringing the man from his thoughts once again. He could not stand this any longer. He had loved Daenerys Targaryen for a long while, much longer than he would have cared to admit, and after all of this, he would not merely stand by and watch as her life was stolen away.

Pushing the fabric aside, the man stormed through the fabric of the tent, making for his horse, one of the few that still remained alive. He mounted the stallion in a swift fluid motion, riding it up to a gallop as quickly as was possible. He needed to reach Qohor, before it was too late.

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