Chapter Seven

A/N: Thank you to . 10, RMoors, Reviewer and LineSofie for reviewing the last chapter.

Ser Jorah fell on his knees to the ground, not caring for the blood that stained his breeches. It couldn't be true, it couldn't be. But it was.

He had killed her. The cloaked intruder had been trying to give the khaleesi the antidote to the poison she had been given, and he had killed the man, and allowed the antidote to smash on the ground. Now, she was most certainly going to die, and it was all his doing.

Amidst the pool of blood still slowly pouring from the man, a piece of parchment caught Jorah's eyes. It was steadily becoming stained crimson, but the words were still readable, and so the man lifted it, his eyes moving slowly across the page. He had never been a particularly quick reader, and as a young man he had been far more interested in quickening the swing of his word than the pace at which he read, much to his father's despair. 'Yet another reason I was a disappointment to him.' he noted, shaking his head softly, before returning his gaze to the parchment, reading it once over again to ensure he had understood correctly. More than a small part of him wished he had not.

You are to travel across the Narrow Sea, locate the Dothraki horde who follow Khal Drogo and administer this antidote to Daenerys Targaryen, to counteract the poison she was given before. If you fail to do so, you will be executed for treason, on account of failing to carry out the wishes of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

It had been signed by Eddard Stark, but had been sealed with the golden wax of the crown, imprinted with the shape of a crowned stag. 'Something must have happened to Robert.' he realised. 'But the antidote was to be given on his wishes. He changed his mind; he was trying to save her.'

Looking down at the pool of crimson, he could see the lighter patch, where the thick liquid had been diluted by the watery antidote. It was clear where the liquid had spilled, clear exactly where it was, which made it all the more agonising to know that he could not retrieve it. 'If only I knew what it was, then perhaps I could find a way to make more.'

But there was no way to know what had been in the antidote, not without consulting the person who had been carrying it. Suddenly, a thought came into his mind. 'Or consulting the person who had given it to him.'

It had been well over a decade since Jorah had fled to Essos and during that time, he had never contacted the crown. He had never had any need to do so, and had never wanted to take the risk of being found and taken back to the home he had fled. But now, he was willing to risk the headsman's axe if it meant that Daenerys would see another sunrise.

Immediately, the man leapt to his feet and raced across to his tent, gathering as many supplies as he could together and throwing them into a satchel. He did nothing by way of disposing of the body; the Dothraki would think nothing of a dead body appearing in their encampment, so long as it was not one of their own.

Before three minutes had passed, he was galloping off towards Qohor. He had promised himself that he was not going to return to the city, not after what he had done to betray Daenerys. But now he had no choice. There was nothing else that he could do.

He would send a letter to Robert Baratheon, explaining what had happened and begging for the name of the potion he had given to the man. He would not omit the detail of what he had done, slaughtering the man in cold blood, and he would allow for the king to do as he wished with him, as long as he saved the life of his khaleesi. After all, she was the queen who would reunite the Seven Kingdoms; he was just an exiled slave trader, with no real consequence in the world. How could he place the value of his life above hers?

He thought back to the signature on the parchment he had found, recalling the fact that Robert Baratheon no longer seemed to rule in Westeros. He found himself questioning who he petitioned. The Hand of the King? Eddard Stark was the man who had cried for his head when he had sold those slaves at auction. Robert's queen? Jorah had caught sight of the woman a handful of times, but he had heard tales of her for decades. Such a cold woman would never consider saving a queen who might one day oppose her. Jorah forced himself to see reality; even if Robert lived, he may not be willing to let old embers die. 'He could have sent that man in the spur of the moment. Now, after some thought, he may just let her die anyway.'

Jorah knew the danger he faced. If the wrong person should receive his letter, it could be his head that would pay for it. 'But what else can I do?' he asked himself. 'I refuse to let her die.'

He had acted quickly, afraid of cowardice clouding his judgement, and his appeal was written and sent before the sun had moved across the sky. He would be forced to wait in Qohor for his response, and it would be a day or two at least in coming. It was painful to have to leave Daenerys for so long, with no way to know whether she fared well or ill.

'But I am saving her.' he told himself, each time he felt the pang of loneliness that accompanied his being separated from his khaleesi. He only hoped that his thoughts were true.

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