Chapter Eight

A/N: No reviewers.

Jorah crumpled the letter between his fingers. It was the best he could have hoped for, and he knew that he should be elated at its content, but somehow, he could not see past his own selfishness.

He had been given the name of the antidote and Jorah had been ecstatic to see it, knowing that his khaleesi, his Daenerys could be saved and could live to fight another day. She could travel to Westeros, claim her birthright and her crown, while he...

He glanced down at the crumpled note, its message engraved in his brain. He was to return to the Seven Kingdoms as soon as he was able, to await execution for treason. He had foreseen the scenario as soon as he had sent the raven and had thought he had prepared for the news, but nothing could prepare a man for the knowledge that the moment he set foot in his home country, he would be sent straight to the axe of the King's Justice. 'I suppose I should consider myself lucky, to have that honour.' he quipped to himself, but even making light of the situation could not lift the heavy weight on his heart.

She shook his head, scattering his morbid thoughts of blood running down the steps of the Sept of Baelor, staining the ageless stones a deeper shade of red. Daenerys needed him; that was all that mattered now.

He had searched far and wide to find the antidote, which was no mean feat in the barren depths of the Red Waste. His horse, the only one remaining to the khalasar, had been near killed by the speed he had ridden towards the neighbouring cities. Eventually, it had been in a town almost as barren as the landscape where he had found the tiny bottle he was looking for.

He had cradled the tiny glass bottle in the velvet lining of his doublet for the whole of the journey back to the encampment. It jabbed painfully against his ribs with each galloping step of his horse, but any pain was worth knowing that the antidote was safe, that he was not going to let another opportunity slip through his fingers.

It did not take long for him to reach the khalasar, and yet it seemed the longest journey he had made in his life, for he spent the whole of it wondering if he would reach his khaleesi in time to save her life. He would never forgive himself if he arrived just a little too late.

He moved quickly, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, for he feared that if he thought of Daenerys lying dead on her pallet, he would collapse to the ground in his grief. 'I will not think of her dead.' he told himself endlessly, repeating the words until they were scribed across his brain. 'I will not think of her dead.'

It was only when he reached her tent that he finally slowed to a stop, breathing deeply in preparation for the sight to come. He had no doubt that his queen would not have improved during the time he had been gone; she would have deteriorated significantly. There was nothing to be done. He could have given the antidote to one of Daenerys' handmaidens, of course, but he would not. 'This was my fault. I will be the one to make it right.'

The stench was appalling, so strong that it made Jorah's head spin before the tent flaps had had a chance to swing closed behind him. It smelt of Dothraki healing poultices, of strong perfumes, but most strongly of decay, of impending death. It was all the knight could do to hope that he was not too late to save her.

The stench only became more pungent as he moved to Daenerys' side, the hand holding the bottle of antidote shaking so violently he could see the liquid swaying up against the glass. He tightened his grip on the bottle, so as not to drop it; he had come this far and he could not lose it all now, not when he was so close to saving her.

When he reached her side, Jorah could not resist the urge to take his queen's hand in one of his own. The hand was burning hot, but that was not a new sensation; Daenerys Targaryen was, after all, a dragon. Still, the heat was comfortable, as it reminded him that she still breathed and lived by his side.

Though he could have held onto her hand forever, Jorah tore himself away, instead concentrating on the task in hand. If he gave her the antidote now, then she would live. True, he might never have the chance to hold her hand again, but if he let his own selfish desires overwhelm him, then there was only be a few short hours remaining in her life.

'I cannot let that happen.' the man told himself sharply. 'She cannot die. The khalasar needs her, the Seven Kingdoms need her. I need her.'

Steadying his hands, Jorah poured the miracle tincture through Daenerys' slightly parted lips, ensuring that not a single drop escaped her mouth. He could not take the risk of the cure not working.

Now, all there was to do was wait. Each instant passed like an eternity and it seemed to Jorah that he would be dead himself by the time it had its effect, like as not. The man rested his head heavily against the decorated fabric of the tent, wishing that none of this had ever happened. 'I should not have informed on her. I should not have even come here. I should have just let her be and then perhaps she would be awake and well, with a living son cradled against her breast. Now, she may never be well again.'

Jorah considered for a moment what his life would have been if he had never met Daenerys, but stopped his thoughts in their tracks. He had often thought of his life with his dear first wife or with the lovely Lynesse and longed to return to those happy days again, but the thought of a life without Daenerys was too painful to consider.

He did not know which gods had heard his prayers, the old or the new, the Great Stallion or any others, but he praised them all as he heard a spluttering cough from behind him. He could barely see through the tears of relief that flooded his eyes, but he could make out a flash of silver, a glorious smile and eyes of sparkling violet.

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