Chapter Four

A/N: Thank you to RMoors for being my first reviewer for this story, I really appreciate it!

His horse was near dead by the time that Ser Jorah Mormont reached Qohor, but he did not slow in the least, leaving another to tend with his mount while he sprinted in the direction of a small cabin on the edge of the dirt track. He had seen this cabin a great many times before, and none of those occasions were memories he was particularly proud of, but it was known to him, and was perhaps the only place that could hold the answers he sought.

As he approached the doorway of the place, which was covered by only a tattered piece of cloth, for the sake of privacy alone, the knight took a moment to gather his courage. Whenever he had visited the place in the past, he had always felt a slight tinge of guilt when he had come to accomplish his task, more and more so since he had gotten to know his young queen better, but now, the guilt was twisting and turning his stomach.

But his years of fighting and facing the enemy, both in his homeland and across the Free Cities, had made him stronger than other men, and so he walked forward, crossing the threshold of the hut, knowing that to delay any further could cost Daenerys Targaryen her life, if he had not done so already by his atrocious betrayal of her.

For a moment, one filled with relief and with dread, Jorah thought that there was no one present in the hut, that all his work to get there had been for nothing. In a way, that would be a positive thing to happen, as he would not have to face the guilt of pleading to help the very girl he had betrayed, but it would also be a terrible one, as it could mean that the khaleesi would meet her fate without him able to do anything to save her.

Suddenly, a pointed cough came from the corner of the darkened room, and the knight jerked his head toward the source of the sound. He quickly found it in an old man, his back bent crooked with age and his hair and beard so long they reached past his waist, which had become over time just as raw-boned as the rest of his frail body, due to the lack of food that could be found on such a small wage as he received. There were not many willing to sell their souls for a royal pardon, not many that would sink so low as Jorah Mormont had done.

"Ah, Jorah the Andal." the old man greeted, in a voice that was as low and gravelly as the knight remembered his own father's to be. "What brings you back to Qohor? Have you more information for King Robert and his council?"

"No, I do not." Jorah responded quickly, in a tone that was far more sharp than he had intended it to be. He did not regret this, though, not at all, and doubted that he would have done, even if his mind had given him the chance to think of anything but his khaleesi. "I wish to send a message to the king, asking of him the name of a certain poison that causes a slow death."

"Well, there are apothecaries far and wide which could provide you with sufficient poisons to do so, Ser Jorah." the ancient man wheezed, crossing the room to approach the knight at a pace which was as slow as his words were spoken. Once he had reached the exile, he spoke once again. "Why do you require it of the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Because it was he that commissioned its use." Jorah replied, his voice low and emotionless, as he feared that to allow his emotions into his tone would bring his fear to the forefront of his mind, and would allow the tears he had tried so hard to hold back to fall. "Daenerys Targaryen has been poisoned in the night, and without the name of the poison used, she will most certainly die before the fortnight is out, if not far sooner. There is no doubt in my mind that this was the work of King Robert, and I hope that he will have enough compassion to allow her to be saved."

"Targaryen, you say?" the shopkeep asked, warming to the new information he was given. There was a wicked grin spreading across his face now, and his eyes burned with a twisted sort of humour. "Then it is hopeless. Robert Baratheon would not take the time to save an exile in Essos, though his council perhaps would give some aid, but a Targaryen? If any of his advisors sent the name of the poison that was used, he would have their heads on a spike above the city walls before sundown. It is no use to make this request, Ser Jorah, when there is no chance in the seven hells that it will be granted."

"But what else can I do?" Jorah asked the man, his voice no longer monotonous, but beginning to fill with anger. "I'll not allow an innocent woman, a child in years, to die because of my actions. I swore that I would protect her, and I have enough honour left in my soul to allow me to do everything in my power to save her."

Seeing now that the ancient man would give him no assistance, Jorah swept out of the small hut, throwing the curtain aside with such force that it was almost ripped from where it hung. Desperate to return to the khalasar before they got too far into the Red Waste to be tracked, the knight mounted his horse and kicked it into movement. Once again, he was sure that the stallion would tire by the time they were partway through the journey, but he was determined to spur it on nonetheless, not caring for the safety of the beast, only for that of Daenerys.

As the horse's hooves pounded against the dirt track which signalled the beginning of the desert, Jorah felt a sinking pain in his heart. He had failed in his quest, had failed to even attempt to discover the name of the poison. Now, with every beat of the horse's hooves, another precious beat would be stolen from the heart of his khaleesi. And above all, the guilt resounded through his mind, repeating one phrase over and over again until he was sure it would drive him to madness.

'And it is all my fault.'

A/N: Please review!