A/N: Prequel to Stet Fortuna Domus.

Nihil Difficile Amanti Puto

Jorah and Grey Worm walk together through the streets of King's Landing, armed and armoured but with no real belief that either will be necessary. On the whole, the city surrounding the Red Keep has been easy to manage, with less trouble breaking out than anyone had believed. Tyrion had even gone so far as to say that he couldn't remember a time when there had been such peace in the city, even under his father's iron fist.

"Of course," he'd said, with a tight, twisted smile, "it's partly my fault it fell into such ruin again."

Jorah knows better than to comment on that particular subject.

But it's recovered. There aren't nearly as many skirmishes breaking out as there were before, and the coffers bulge significantly from the visitors to the city for Daenerys' coronation and subsequent tourney. Even though that was several months ago now, the smaller businesses are still profiting from the coin raised. That had been Davos' idea—as a former resident of Flea Bottom, he is better placed than anyone to know how best to improve it.

At one time, the streets might have been a menacing place to walk, filled with unfriendly people that, though having no battle experience, would have far outnumbered the soldiers. Now children dart down the cobbled streets in front of horses and carts, and laughter fills the air like song.

Daenerys has brought freedom once again.

This patrol today is more about reminding people that they are there, that they will defend the queen's peace should the need arise, but the people don't seem interested in causing trouble. No one skulks in the shadows or scatters at the sight of their approach; in fact, they even garner a few smiles from those passing. A novelty indeed.

Even Grey Worm is a little less taciturn than usual, peering with genuine interest at the displays all around him. Westerosi culture is so different to what he was used to in Essos; Jorah supposes that he's never really had the chance to just enjoy meandering around a market before. It's a sad thought.

Grey Worm comes to a pause in front of a particular building, staring. It takes Jorah a few moments to realise he's no longer following. Turning around, he finds the younger man transfixed by the displays of colourful, vibrant flowers, of all varieties and sizes.

"Torgo Nudho," Jorah says, and Grey Worm snaps out of his reverie, apparently embarrassed to have been caught so transfixed. To put him at ease, Jorah returns to his side, turning his own eyes to the beautiful display, filling his lungs with the heady scents of gardenia and jasmine.

"What are they in the Common Tongue?" Grey Worm asks.

"Flowers," says Jorah.

"Flowers," the younger man repeats. "I've never seen so many before, or in so many colours."

That doesn't surprise Jorah. The Unsullied would hardly have had the capacity to notice anything outside of what their Masters would have wanted them to, and in slaver cities the poor never would have been allowed the luxury of such simple frivolities.

Grey Worm remains silent for a moment, watching a couple of women enter.

"Ladies like flowers," he says slowly.

"Most do, yes," says Jorah, thinking back to the road to Meereen, the dreamy look on Daenerys' face as she'd twirled Daario's flowers between her fingers.

"I think Missandei would like them," Grey Worm decides.

"Aye, I think she would," Jorah agrees.

Grey Worm hesitates a moment before, then ventures, "I should get her some."

Jorah fights a smile, not wishing to make the other man feel self-conscious. But it's so endearing, really, that this man, once so hard and stoic, can be so easily tempered by the woman he loves.

Then again, this was the man who had been so very eager to learn the meaning of the word precious, who had tasted it on his tongue like a benediction.

"We've got time if you'd like to look inside," Jorah says. "I'll wait outside. Have you any coin?"

Grey Worm looks stricken. "A few coppers. Will that be enough?"

"It should be. And if it's not, perhaps the shopkeeper will be generous enough to allow you to return later with the payment. You are a Queensguard, after all."

There's no other reason for Grey Worm to delay. Jorah turns his back to the shop's front, idly watching the rest of the world go by as he waits for the younger man to return. It's bustling, but tranquil. Hard to believe that a year ago it had been a place at war, with a false queen who hadn't given two shits about what happened to the common people.

Hard to believe that the Long Night had even happened, that Daenerys had been prepared to sacrifice everything to save Westeros.

That he had almost died, that he might never have had this delirious, unbelievable happiness he is currently experiencing.

The thought of that happiness, of Daenerys—his lover—keeps him occupied until Grey Worm returns, now clutching a pretty bunch of powder blue flowers.

"They're nice," Jorah comments as they begin to walk.

"I don't know what they are," Grey Worm admits. "But Missandei likes the colour. She says it reminds her of Naath."

"It can be nice to have reminders of home," Jorah agrees. He wouldn't leave Daenerys for the North for anything, but the thought of Bear Island still brings him comfort, a comfort he can afford to feel because he knows it's in safe hands with Lyanna. "I'm sure she will love the choice, and it will mean a great deal that you thought of her."

Grey Worm says nothing, but Jorah can tell he is pleased by the assessment, a lovelorn warrior prepared to do anything for his soulmate. He leaves the younger man to his thoughts, where he is no doubt daydreaming of the moment he can present Missandei with the token of his affections.

As is customary, when the rest of the Red Keep falls silent, Jorah finds himself in Daenerys' chambers. Since their first time together all those moons ago, they have barely spent a night apart. It's strange, he thinks as he slides between Daenerys' cool sheets; he had spent years sleeping alone in countless different places, but if he has to spend the night away from Daenerys now, he finds it difficult to sleep. She slumbers in his arms as if she was meant to be there, as if she'd been fashioned for it by the gods.

Daenerys clambers into bed beside him, blowing out the candle. As they're plunged into darkness, Jorah enjoys the weight of her against him as she gets comfortable.

"Missandei was very happy with the flowers Grey Worm bought for her," she says, moving to rest her chin against his chest so she is peering up at him through the darkness.

"He'll be pleased about that," he says, pressing a kiss to her temple as his hand moves to rest against her bare hip. "He was worrying about his choice all the way home."

"I think it was very sweet of him."

"Well, he thinks the world of her. He'd do absolutely anything for her."

"I didn't understand it, not at first," she admits. "I didn't know they could make it work when there was never going to be any way that they could be properly together."

"Yara Greyjoy would have thought you small-minded," he teases.

"Oh, she's hinted plenty of times that she'd be happy to teach me," Daenerys smirks. "But that's not what I mean. At that time my only experience had been with Drogo, and, well…" Her voice tails off, but he knows what she's inferring. The Dothraki mated like stallions and mares; there was no seduction or finesse or experimenting with different things. She had only just started taking Daario into her bed; queen she might have been, but when it came to intimacy and matters of the heart, there had still been plenty for her to learn. "The point is, I understand it now. Having someone to love and trust is far more important than anything else. Physical intimacy is only one aspect of a relationship, and it's the least important one when you think of all the things that really matter. It's obvious that they're meant to be together, even if they don't seem like a conventional pairing."

Jorah hums in agreement, stifling a yawn. He doesn't want her to think that he isn't interested in what she has to say, even if he is bone tired.

Thankfully, Daenerys seems to be coming to the end of her musings. "Well, I'm glad that Missandei is happy. Receiving flowers is a very romantic thing. I haven't had any in years. Daario was the last person to give them to me on the road to Meereen, but I didn't entirely appreciate them at the time because I knew he was only doing those things to get a deliberate rise out of me."

Jorah grunts. Deliberate or not, his persistence had won her over in the end. It had been obvious from the beginning that she'd been attracted to him. The outcome had been inevitable.

But he prefers not to think on Daenerys and Daario together—the smug little shit had known exactly how to fray his nerves.

He focuses on Daenerys' words instead, and a plan begins to form.

Three days later, he finds himself traversing the streets of King's Landing alone, this time in an unofficial capacity.

There's only one destination in his mind.

Out of his armour, he blends in quite well with the people of King's Landing. Daenerys would be cross to know that he'd done it—if she had it her way, he'd wear full armour all of the time after what had happened on the Long Night—but he doesn't want to stand out today. Discretion is key.

The bell tinkles merrily above the flower shop's door. At once Jorah is engulfed in an explosion of floral scents. Heavy and cloying, they cling to him, make him woozy, tickle the back of his throat.

"Good day, ser."

The voice from the shadows makes him jump. He turns to find a stooped old woman partially hidden by a display of spider flowers, her eyes milky with blindness. He clears his throat, finding his manners. "Good day. I'm here to buy some flowers."

"I didn't think you were here to buy armour." She turns her face up to him, though he isn't sure how much she can see. Her fingers are claw-like with arthritis. When she smiles, it reveals a few missing teeth—no doubt knocked out by men who couldn't handle her cheek. Jorah feels a rush of pity and disgust. Lower than sewer rats, to beat a defenceless old woman.

She waves a gnarled hand in front of his face, breaking his thoughts. "Is there anyone at home in there?"

"Yes," he says. "Sorry. I was wondering if you might help me put something together. A bouquet of some sorts. I can't say I know much about flowers."

She tsks. "That's men for you. They all know the songs of Florian the Fool, yet would much rather liken themselves to the heroics of The Hammer and the Anvil, spilling guts and seeking glory."

"Perhaps some," he says mildly.

"Ah," says the old woman, "so you are one of the rare few who prefers the odes to Jenny of Oldstone and the beauty of Two Hearts That Beat As One?"

"Something like that."

The admission seems to have warmed the old woman to him. "Well, don't just stand there blocking the light. Come in, come in. If you want help, you've come to the right place. You tell me what you want and I'll do the rest. Any colours in mind?"

He could choose all manner of colours—red and black for her Targaryen roots, blue and gold for the Qartheen dress that he remembers so fondly years later, pale yellow to compliment her silver hair, the rich, earthen tones of the Dothraki Sea…

"Purple," he decides. For her beautiful Valyrian eyes, the ones he could spend hours getting lost in, that go royal purple in her passion and lilac in her merriment.

"An excellent choice, my lord," the old woman trills. "Purple is often associated with magic and mystery, you know."

He hums noncommittally, and she shoos him out of her way, suddenly all business. Thinking it best not to make her wroth, he retreats to a corner and watches her work.

She's quick for an old woman riddled with ailments. In short order she has assembled a beautiful bouquet, the purple interspersed with whites and pale pinks to break up the monochromy. Jorah hasn't a clue what any of the flowers are, but he's more than pleased with the end result.

"Come back any time, ser!" the old woman chirps as he presses the silver stags into her dry palm.

With a nod, Jorah departs, clutching the flowers for his maiden fair tight in his hands.

He manages to slip back inside the Red Keep undetected, a blessing from the gods if ever there was one, for he would never have survived the scrutiny of Tyrion or Varys. The secret would have been out, and all of Daenerys' careful work would have been for nothing.

She would say that she didn't care, that it made no difference to her, but he will not allow her to sacrifice all of her good she's done. Not when she's struggled so long to get here. Not when she's worked so hard to make a difference.

Duty before love.

He stows the flowers in his quarters, where they will be safe until he gets the opportunity to be alone with Daenerys later.

Later arrives soon enough, when the council goes its own separate ways for the night and Daenerys has sent her Unsullied guard on a fictional mission to give him time to slip into her quarters undetected.

Daenerys makes to launch herself into his arms, but pauses when she realises that he has something behind his back.

"What is it?" she wants to know at once, as curious as any child when it comes to surprises, and he can't deny sating her thirst. Bowing gallantly, he presents the bouquet to her with a flourish.

"Flowers for a beautiful woman," he says.

At the sight of them, Daenerys gasps, hands coming up to cover her mouth in delight. "Jorah! They're beautiful!"

"I'm glad you think so," he says bashfully, beyond pleased that she likes them. A part of him had worried that she wouldn't like his choice or, worse, would think that flowers were a poor choice. Lynesse would not have been impressed; she would have wanted a token of affection worth its weight in gold.

He needs to stop comparing. Daenerys is nothing like Lynesse. She'd grown up with nothing; she might be a queen now, but she hasn't forgotten her roots or how to find the joy in the simplest of things.

"I shall put them pride of place," she decides. "I have a vase they would look excellent in."

"Won't that raise questions? People will want to know where they came from."

"None of my handmaidens will dare ask and if the whispers should reach Varys or Tyrion, I shall simply say that I picked them in the gardens."

"I think both of them lived here long enough to know that such blooms don't grow in the Red Keep's gardens."

"I don't think they'd dare accuse me of being a liar."

"Perhaps not, but it will make them more suspicious, more likely to be more watchful. We agreed to be careful—"

"Yes, and it was a good idea at the time. But we can't hide forever. That will only give the impression that we have something to be ashamed of, and we don't. Unless you're ashamed of me."

Jorah presses his fingers to his temples, trying to ward off the first stirrings of a headache. More and more frequently they find themselves having the same argument. "Daenerys, you know I don't. To think otherwise is an absurdity. I'm the one you should be ashamed of."

"But I'm not," Daenerys says. "I never have been. To be so is foolish, not to mention weak. How easily would we be torn apart if people thought that?"

Jorah makes his way over to a chair, sinking into it. "I don't wish to argue with you."

"No more than I you. So why don't you keep your counsel and allow me to arrange my flowers, hmm?"

He concedes, for now. It's only a matter of time before it rears its ugly head again, and soon they will no longer be able to stuff it back in and bury it out of sight. It must be confronted head-on, and, one way or another, a choice will be made.

But not tonight.

And so Jorah says no more, allowing Daenerys to finish arranging her flowers to her own standards.

In the morning, when he comes to collect her with Podrick, as if he hadn't just stolen from her bed mere hours before, he finds the flowers pride of place in her window.

The flowers seem to last for an age. He's seen a lot of magic in the past decade, but he isn't sure that he wants to admit that the magic extends to a gnarled old shopkeeper.

When they do eventually die, Daenerys immediately proposes a return to the shop so she can purchase some more.

"They brightened up my quarters," she says.

"Collecting flowers from a flower shop is hardly the queenly thing to do. Send one of your handmaidens."

"I don't want to. I want to go myself. There's nothing wrong with that."

"It's not wise to leave the Red Keep too often."

She rolls her eyes. "You're starting to sound as paranoid as my father. And I heartily disagree. How can my people be confident of my intentions of they never see me?"

"They see you plenty in an official capacity. But I don't think it wise if they see you galivanting round like a commoner."

"I should think that makes it better. It makes me someone they can relate to in some capacity. But, if you insist, then fine. We'll go at night."

"Daenerys, that's even worse and you know it. All of the drunks and thieves come out to terrorise the streets at night. Imagine what some vagabond might attempt with a bellyful of ale for courage."

"You can't have it both ways. That's my job."

Jorah glowers at her, but she remains unfortunately unmoved. It's useless. He knows better than anyone that it's pointless to try and change her mind when she has her heart set on something.

After all, it's benefitted him a great deal. She is stubborn in her declarations of love for him. It might be painful in the long-term, but it's a gift he'll treasure for as long as he is able.

It's that which makes him soften now. "Fine. But you should cover your hair at least, and wear less distinctive clothes. The less people who know who you are, the better."

Daenerys rolls her eyes, but seems to know not to push her luck. "Good. Meet me tonight, outside my quarters. There's a secret passage to the city from my chambers. I made Varys show me every secret that the Red Keep possesses."

"How did you manage that?" Jorah can't suppress a grin at that despite his exasperation. "I can't see him acquiescing readily."

"Oh, he didn't," Daenerys says airily. "But I persuaded him by threatening that I'd just wander around by myself searching if he didn't."

That thought horrifies him likely as much as it had Varys. "Daenerys! You can't do such things!"

"I didn't have to, did I?" she reminds him. "He came around to my way of thinking. Now, I've work to do. I'll see you tonight. Don't be late."

As if he dares. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he gives a short, sarcastic bow and makes his way to the door.

"Ser Jorah, I could have you head for such impertinence!" she calls, laughter colouring her tone.

"Aye, my queen," he acknowledges. "But who else would you have to serve you so?"

He expects her to continue the jape, perhaps even braces himself for it; joke answer or not. It's his defence every time now.

But, as usual, she surprises him. Softens her tone to a delicate yearning.

"No one," she says. "No one at all."

He has to shake off Podrick Payne to ensure he isn't late. The young lad seems to take his knightly duties very seriously indeed, and is sweet, if a little bumbling at times, eager to learn as much as he can, but he doesn't quite trust that Daenerys won't make good on her threat to venture into the bowels of the city by herself.

She's waiting impatiently when he does arrive, dressed not as a queen but as a common trader.

"Where were you?" she hisses as he begins hurriedly dismantling himself from his armour. "I thought you weren't coming!"

"I can't just shove people out of the door, it would be too suspicious," he grunts, laying his armour down. He can't deny that it's nice to be free of it—it's a heavy burden to bear sometimes. "Truly, dragons are impatient creatures."

"And bears are too prone to lumbering," she returns, but her mouth twitches treacherously.

Jorah rolls his eyes. "Let's just get this over with."

"Where's your sense of adventure," she scolds, moving to the back of the room. "Here, help me move the bed."

Jorah moves to assist, picking up her first line of question. "I think I've seen enough adventure to last me the rest of my life. Decades of running and fighting will do that to a man."

"I understand that when it comes to battles, but not when it comes to the wonders the world has to offer," Daenerys pouts, moving to wipe the sweat from her brow. "Look, the wall should be a secret panel that opens. Give it a push."

Jorah obeys, but his mind is on her words. Yes, it would be nice to think that the war against the Lannisters was the last one he'd ever fight, but he isn't confident. There's the very real possibility that the remaining united kingdoms could rebel against the crown if they discover that their queen is in love with her lord commander. As much as Daenerys might like to believe it, the Targaryen name doesn't hold the same weight that it used to, and she only has two dragons at her disposal. It's hardly the same impact that it would have been once when the Targaryens were at the height of their power and they could boast dozens of battle-hardened beasts. The novelty of seeing a huge, living dragon might be enough to make some men quail, but Jorah knows that there will always be some men who are brave—or foolish—enough to try their luck, drunk on the promise of the fame that would come with being a dragon slayer.

The blast of warm air from outside rouses him from his reverie, and he comes back to himself to find Daenerys staring at him quizzically. She's already out of the room, standing at the top of a huge flight of stairs that will no doubt eventually lead into the bowels of the city.

"Sorry," he says, moving to join her. She takes his hand, her way of accepting his apology, he thinks, and begins to lead him down the stairs.

"I hope Varys isn't waiting at the end of this passage," he jokes as they go. "He has eyes and ears everywhere. If he knows what we're doing, there will be hell to pay."

"I don't think I can survive another lecture," Daenerys says with a shudder. "I feel like that's all I've heard from him since we arrived in Westeros."

"Feel sorry for me, then. If he knows that I'm abetting you, he'll be furious. Or perhaps he'll get one of his little birds to murder me in my sleep."

She shoots him an unamused look. "I know you're purposefully trying to irritate me now. I'd advise that you stop before you really do feel the wrath of the dragon. Now hurry up. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can return without anyone being any the wiser, sparing your head."

King's Landing is a hive of activity in the evening. Street performers juggle fire, mummer's put on shows, and vendors flag their wares. It's a huge improvement over the atmosphere when they'd first taken the city, when people were too afraid to leave the safety of their homes for fear of becoming dragon fodder.

Daenerys, too, seems to be enjoying the freedom offered by anonymity. She has ventured into King's Landing often since the start of her reign, seeking to reassure her people, but no doubt there is something thrilling about being just like everyone else as they push through the crowds. Still, that makes Jorah even more alert than usual. If these people don't know her identity, they might be more likely to attack, cutpurses and cutthroats.

But they traverse the city with no incidents, and before long they are outside the flower shop. Jorah enters first, keeping one arm back on Daenerys' forearm protectively.

"Hello?" he calls into the gloom.

"You've brought the queen with you," comes the crone's voice from the shadows.

Jorah and Daenerys glance at each other. How does she know? Then again, they ought not to be surprised. They've both witnessed more magic than they had ever thought they would—giants and white walkers and dragons. Why should this surprise them?

"I have," Jorah affirms after a moment's hesitation.

"You have a very nice shop, my lady," says Daenerys.

"Oh, child, I'm no lady."

Daenerys stiffens at that, and Jorah touches her wrist. He knows that she won't take too kindly to being called a child, but he doesn't think the old lady means anything by it. She looks as if she's lived several hundred years herself, though of course that's impossible.

Or he would have thought so before hearing about the Lady Melisandre.

"You liked the flowers your knight brought you," she says.

"Yes," Daenerys says after a moment's pause. "They were very beautiful."

"They were a token of his love."

Another pause, more uneasy this time. They haven't breathed a word of this outside the two of them—how could she know?

Then again, Jorah thinks, breathing a little more easily, that isn't necessarily witchcraft. He's never been very good at hiding his feelings for his queen. Rumours spread like greyscale. Even now there will be whispers all over Westeros—which is why it's been so important to him to keep their relationship under wraps, for fear of providing more unrest.

Apparently Daenerys thinks that sidestepping the issue entirely is the best way to handle it. He can't say he blames her. "I would like it if you showed me around your fine establishment, my lady."

"But of course, Your Grace," she says. "And you shall choose whichever flowers you desire. Come."

She swoops forward with more dexterity than she ought to possess at her age. Her spindly fingers clamp around Daenerys' wrist and drag her forward. Instinctively, Jorah's hand goes to the pommel of Dragonsong, hidden beneath the layers of his cloak. The old woman merely fixes her cloudy eyes upon him.

"You can stay here. I assure you, your queen is in no danger."

"I don't think—" Jorah begins, but Daenerys shoots him a reassuring look.

"No harm will come to me here, ser," she says. "Wait. I won't be long."

Jorah doesn't like it, not one bit. But he trusts Daenerys. If that is her wish, he will respect it. And he didn't detect any malevolent aura from the old woman the last time he was here. So, reluctantly, he nods, tightening his grip on Dragonsong's hilt anyway.

With one last reassuring smile, Daenerys follows the old woman out of sight. Jorah paces the length of the shop, doubts immediately creeping into his mind like shadowcats. Gods, if Tyrion or Varys knew that he'd let the queen walk away with a stranger, they'd wrench his Queensguard cloak from him.

But Daenerys is no fool. She wouldn't willingly put herself in danger. Although should her instincts be wrong, she is vulnerable. And she is not carrying Bear's Roar tonight—it would have been tempting fate to have them both carrying their infamous blades, and his height makes concealing the blade easier. Gods, he should have advised that she carry a small dagger instead…

His anxiety is for naught. Daenerys returns ten minutes later, clutching a fresh bouquet of flowers in her arms—and a disquieted look in her eye.

He takes a step towards her at once, reaching out to grasp her elbow. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she says faintly. "Now let's go."

The old woman appears in the doorway, and though she can't see, Jorah has the distinct impression that she is staring straight through their souls.

"Remember what I said," she calls, as they head out of the door.

"What is she talking about?" he asks as soon as it closes behind them.

"Not here," Daenerys mutters, glancing around her. "When we get back to the Keep."

He has little option but to fall in line and follow her, elbowing the crowds out of the way as they push their way back home.

They sneak in the same way that they slipped out, and only when they're safely ensconced back inside Daenerys' chambers does Jorah heave a sigh of relief. He goes to unpin his cloak Daenerys unwinds the scarf from around her head, letting her silver-blonde hair cascade free. The troubled look, however, has only deepened.

"Well?" he says. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong now?"

She huffs, sitting down on the edge of the bed to begin undressing herself. She is so unselfconscious, so at ease. He marvels all over again at how he has the privilege to see her like this. The woman beneath the queen.

"It was just something the old woman said," she confesses.

Jorah lays Dragonsong across the table, moving to undress himself. He has not yet mastered the art of insouciance when it comes to undressing, and he doubts he ever will. Next to Daenerys he is old, broken, scarred. To distract her from looking at him, he prompts, "What did she say?"

He's alarmed to see her bottom lip trembling. "Something she ought to have no knowledge of."

"Which is?" he presses urgently. "Daenerys, you're scaring me."

She takes a shaky breath. "The witch. The one who tricked me into sacrificing Rhaego's life for the imitation of life for Drogo. She…she told me that I would never carry another child until the sun sets in the east and rises in the west, until the seas run dry and the mountains blow likes leaves in the wind."

Jorah knows this, of course. She'd shared it with him one night in the Red Waste, when they had been clustered together for warmth against the vengeful chill of the air that crept out of hibernation once the sun was chased away for the night. She had cried, and he had held her, unsure how else he could bring her comfort as she mourned for the husband and son that she had lost.

But the thought of someone who ought to have no knowledge of it was disturbing indeed. As far as he knew, Daenerys had never breathed a word of those details to anyone else. Only supernatural forces could count for the crone knowing such things.

Was it a warning? A threat?

"I should never have taken you there," he says. "I should have known better. If something happens now—"

"I don't have the feeling that there was any malice at play," says Daenerys. "It was just…disconcerting. And when I asked her what she meant, she only smiled at me."

That sounds ominous to me," Jorah mutters. "We must be more vigilant. If there's even the merest hint of treachery..."

But Daenerys shakes her head. "I was probably overreacting. There's nothing to worry about. Now come here. Help me undress."

Jorah feels the argument on the tip of his tongue. It feels unwise to turn a blind eye to such a strange occurrence. But Daenerys is arching an eyebrow at him. No-nonsense. Expectant. To argue would be futile. And he would rather not fall out with her now.

So her moves to obey her, fingers finding the fastenings on the back of her dress and unthreading them with a deftness borne from the muscle memory of years of rope weaving. Mormonts pitched in with the rest of the inhabitants of Bear Island to survive the bitter cold.

Once that is accomplished, he leaves her to pull on his own nightclothes, and by the time he's done, Daenerys is dressed for bed and busy fussing over the flowers in their vase.

Satisfied with their arrangement, she carries them carefully over to the window. Jorah moves towards the bed, pulling the sheets back.

"People are going to wonder where they've come from so soon after the first bunch," he comments.

Daenerys dismisses this with a wave of her hand. "And they will continue to wonder."

"I think you're underestimating Varys' little birds."

"If they haven't found out about me and you, they won't know a thing about the flowers. Missandei might be the only one who asks, but she would never pry. Trust me, Jorah. There's nothing to fear."

"Of course I trust you," he sighs. "It's everyone else I don't."

"Then it's a good job you're not king," she teases. "You'd not endear yourself to anyone if you were so mistrustful."

He smiles at that. "Perhaps I would have a good, clement queen who could do that for me."

"Oh, so you'd still want me, then?" she says, teasing.

He cups her cheek, caresses her bottom lip with his thumb. "Daenerys, I would want you in any lifetime. You are my everything."

"Good," she says simply. "Because I feel the same way. It might have taken me longer to reach the same conclusion, but it doesn't make it any less true." She tilts her chin up invitingly. "Now kiss me."

He is more than happy to oblige.

When he awakens the next morning, with Daenerys pressed to his chest, his eyes go to the vase of flowers on the windowsill.

An explosion of colour greets him. They have blossomed into life in the night hours, in spite of the absence of light, in spite of all the impossibility.

And Jorah can't help but smile.