Fic: A Year from Now (24/?)
Title: A Year from Now (24/?)
Author: MrsTater
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters & Pairings: Daenerys Targaryen/Jorah Mormont, Groleo, TYRION LANNISTER
Ratings & Warnings: R for references to sex and violence in this chapter
Format & Word Count: WIP, 5012 words in this chapter
Summary: "Save your tears, child. Weep for him tomorrow, or a year from now. We do not have time for grief. We must go, and quickly, before he dies.” Dany takes Ser Jorah's advice, setting her unborn child, her unhatched dragons, her quest for the Iron Throne, and her relationship with her faithful knight on a very different, but no less adventurous path.
Chapter Summary: Dany and Jorah find themselves apart, but unexpectedly, not alone.
Author's Note: I know a few of you have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of Tyrion in this fic…here he is! As always, thanks to just_a_dram for betaing, and for each one of you readers--and if you're reading, do let me know!
Previous Chapters |
24. Adrift
"'Tis a cold wind that blows, my queen."
The voice rumbled low behind Dany as she stood on the forecastle of The Bear and the Maiden Fair. It crept gently into her awareness like the roll of distant thunder in the iron grey sky, no more welcome than the herald of the approaching storm. Not least of all because, at first, she'd imagined the voice was his.
"Winter is coming," she replied, without turning around to address Captain Groleo. "Or so they say in the north of Westeros."
"And Your Grace has no cloak."
She did have--folded up at the bottom of a trunk in her cabin belowdecks. A very fine one, black and green velvet trimmed with bear fur, the bride's cloak Jorah had placed about her shoulders on their wedding day. The bi-colored field was emblazoned with a three-headed dragon with the body of a bear, the new sigil she had adopted to represent their joined Houses and because they had both seen the creature in dreams and visions. For the first time since Jorah left Pentos, it occurred to her she would have to go back to using the traditional sigil of House Targaryen now.
If ever she should need a sigil.
A heaviness pressed down on Dany's shoulders to which she'd grown so accustomed of late that she did not immediately recognize as being a physical weight; Groleo had draped his own oilskin sea cloak about her shoulders. She'd come up here to find respite from her cramped quarters, which she shared with Rhaego and his nurse, but she hadn't realized till the cloak enveloped her from chin to toe, completely shutting out the bite of the wind, that what she had truly sought was shelter. Feeling as if she had ducked beneath the flap of her old tent in the khalasar and nestled down into her comfortable sleeping silks and furs, she sighed.
"I was just below," Groleo said, shuffling to stand beside her. "Your cabin was blessedly silent, for once. Does that mean Prince Rhaego at last suckled?"
Dany was thankful to have the captain's cloak for more than protection against the cold when, as if in response to the question, her engorged breasts became painfully heavy. Beneath the oilskin, she discretely massaged them, but the stimulation was enough to make them leak. She gritted her teeth. They were not a week out of Pentos, and in all that time Rhaego had refused to give suck. Soon she would run out of fresh smallclothes to change into when the old became too sodden to continue wearing, the smell of her own soured milk on her clothing and bed linens took away her appetite, and, worst of all, Rhaego's cries no longer evoked her sympathy, but made her wish to silence him in whatever way was necessary, since he refused to satisfy himself at her breast. Which would have made her the worst sort of hypocrite, after she'd accused Jorah of being callus toward innocent babes.
"No," she said aloud; she would not think of Jorah. She'd come up here as much to avoid the reminder of him as the crying, which was responsible for the ache that raged behind her eyes. "Still the prince would not take my breast. He must have exhausted himself with his crying and thrashing."
"You look in need of a good long sleep yourself," said Groleo. "My bunk is yours, should you require it, my queen."
"Thank you, Captain. That is most chivalrous of you."
The milk in her shift had soaked through to the blouse she wore beneath her Westerosi-style kirtle, and the garment felt as heavy as it dwasid cold in the wind as she hunched further beneath Groleo's oilskin.
"Holding Rhaego is like wrestling a dragon," she said. "He's so strong. You wouldn't think it to look at those spindly arms and legs, but I can hardly free myself from his grasp. His fingers are like claws. And he bites." She sighed, and laid her head on her arms propped on the railing and overlooked the dark, churning waves. "But he will not suck. Stubborn, like his father Khal Drogo."
And his stepfather.
"And Dothraki are not known for their love of the sea, Your Grace. The child may only be greensick."
Groleo spoke with no conviction, only kindness. He knew as well as she that Rhaego had not been ill on any of their previous voyages, from Qarth to Valyria or from Valyria to Pentos, that he took after his mother, Daenerys Stormborn, and not Khal Drogo who feared the poison waters. All the same, she was grateful that Groleo had not pointed out to her, as the nurse had, that when Rhaego had become fractious before, he'd found comfort in Jorah's arms--even when they had held the child but loosely as he lay in the enchanted sleep brought on by the warlocks' magic in the House of the Undying.
"Prince Rhaego misses his father," the nurse had said, and Dany unleashed her rage like flame from a dragon's mouth.
"Ser Jorah Mormont was not the father of my son. Perhaps Rhaego does miss him, but he is young, and soon enough will forget he ever knew a knight of that name. And you had best do the same, for if you speak another word to me of the traitor, especially of his being Rhaego's father, I shall have your tongue."
The nurse had cringed before Dany and stammered that she would forget, and then became the victim of Rhaego's clawlike grasping hands flailing limbs when Dany handed him over to come above just now.
She rubbed her temples and raised her head, turning to look at Groleo. "How long till we reach Valyria?"
"A fortnight, at least. Perhaps three weeks. The wind may blow cold, Your Grace, but it does blow. For now."
"My milk may well have dried up by then," said Dany, "if he continues not to suck."
"But--the lad has teeth?"
"A few."
"He will take scraps of food?"
"He refuses everything. And even if he did not, he is yet too young to be weaned. He needs mother's milk for another year or more."
Her lips curled slightly at the irony; prior to leaving Valyria, she'd attempted to wean Rhaego so that she might conceive Jorah's child. But though Rhaego had shown interest in eating bits of meat and soft cheese and milk-soaked bread, he'd exhibited no less interest in her breast, and her womb had not opened to Jorah's seed.
Would it have been better if she had become pregnant by him? Would he still have left her? Would she have despised having a traitor's child growing in her belly and drunk moon tea to rid herself of it?
Or would she still have wanted it? Wanted him? To put his hand upon her swollen belly and feel the stir of new life within he? To hold her as she brought forth the babe with blood and pain as he had when she delivered Rhaego?
She was grateful when Groleo interrupted this dangerous and maddening line of thought. "There are any number of islands between here and Valyria where we could make port, Your Grace, and find the prince a wet nurse."
"We may have to. I have not kept my son safe this long only to have him starve."
The wind kicked up, snapping the cloak. To Dany, the sound was like the crack of a hand across her cheek, which the wind had made as raw as a slap.
She had not always kept Rhaego safe. It had been her carelessness, her failure to heed Jorah's caution, that had provided Pyatt Pree the opportunity to kidnap her son.
And she had not paid the ransom, for she'd been unwilling to trade one of her dragon's eggs for the life of her living child.
But she had been willing enough to trade Jorah's. And how was that any different from him being willing to trade her life for his home?
No. Jorah had sworn to serve her, to obey her, to die for her, if she required it. She had not asked him to do anything a knight should not do. And if he had died in the House of the Undying, well, he should have been glad of an honorable death, instead of the traitor's execution he deserved.
She thought of the single dragon's egg that remained to her, tucked in its casket belowdecks, and wished for its comforting weight cradled in her arms like the rounded swell of her belly when she'd been pregnant with Rhaego.
"And who will keep you safe, my queen?" asked Groleo.
He spoke the question gently, like a father, like Jorah had spoken to her when she was a frightened new khaleesi, and she felt his fingers ruffle her hair. Or it might have been the wind. It was certainly the cut of the wind that made her eyes water.
Dany drew herself up to full height, letting the heavy oilskin cloak slide off her shoulders, and lifted her chin. "I am the blood of the dragon. A dragon is not safe, nor can it be kept so."
Groleo stepped back from her, looking at her a little askance, whether in awe of her queenliness or because he thought she was mad, Dany could not say.
"Ser Jorah must have agreed, or he would have accompanied you on pain of death." He knelt to pick up his cloak, but did not take his eyes off her face. "Feel free to take my tongue if it wags too freely, Your Grace, but your eyes are stormy as the sky. I have only seen you look this way once before, when your lord husband lay ill. I stood witness at your wedding, where the Seven Gods of Westeros bound you to him flesh, heart, and soul. Now you are like a half, rent asunder. Where is your other part? And who is to receive the curse for parting lovers in twain, as the Westerosi vows say?"
As he stood, the captain's dark eyes gleamed with the flash of a sheet of lightning across the sky behind Dany, followed closely by a long, slow roll of thunder.
"Jorah," she replied, hear heartbeat quickening. "Jorah himself has come between us."
She had intended for him to accompany her to Valyria--at least until she could decide what was to be done with him--but he had refused. He'd mounted the horse Khal Drogo had given him for stopping the wine merchant in the western market from poisoning he; she wondered how much longer Jorah would have lasted than the assassin, running naked and bound behind her silver had Drogo known that the attempt on her life had been possible because he had informed on her. His saddlebags had been packed with a few provisions for a journey, and he was well-weaponed, including the dragonglass knife she'd given him for their wedding, but clad in sturdy traveling clothes and none of his finery, looking very much as he had when he had ridden, a poor exile, with the khalasar. And he had gone.
"Though I know not whence." She turned again to look out over the railing, westward. " You know he is a wanted man in the Seven Kingdoms?"
"I had a little of his story from Xaro Xhoan Daxos, aye."
"Jorah's liege-lord is dead, and the country lies all confused by the war. It may be that he went back to test his fate there."
She thought of the vision he'd had in the House of the Undying, of an old great bear he thought must be his father, eaten by crows, and of the troubling news Illyrio had given them of the massacre of Robb Stark's bannermen. She hadn't thought of it since then, Jorah's betrayal and the possibility that Rhaegar's son lived to take her place in line for the throne having taken precedence in her thoughts--though it must have weighed heavily on Jorah. In spite of his treachery, she grieved his loss, and regretted not having she opened her arms to comfort him in his hour of need.
"All he ever wanted was home."
But no sooner had the words left her mouth, than her anger flared. Wherever she was, Jorah had said, he was home.
Another of his lies.
It was well that he had gone, so her child would not grow to remember a man like that.
If only she could forget, too.
~*~
"'nother pint, m'lord?"
"I'm no lord," Jorah muttered, not bothering to look up from the dregs of piss-poor beer and lemon pips at the bottom of his flagon. "Once I was, but no longer. I was a prince, too. Wed to a queen with no kingdom…"
His words trailed off into a heavy sigh.
"'nother pint?" came the question a second time, in almost an identical tone as before, but pitched slightly higher.
It caught Jorah's attention. He dragged his gaze upward and blinked back bleariness to note the swarthy barmaid gawking at him, her thick black eyebrows arched high on her forehead. The words had been heavily accented, he realized, belatedly; likely she had little more of the common tongue of Westeros than 'nother pint, and here he was, babbling to her about his joke of a love life.
And apparently someone else had heard it; as he nudged the flagon across the rough-hewn counter and reminded her in the Valyrian dialect spoken in Qohor to bring more lemon, he heard the rattle of laughter coming from somewhere behind--and below--his stool. He twisted round, not at first seeing the person who found him such a source of amusement.
"Well, well, well," came a smarmy voice just as Jorah's eyes locked on a boy pushing his way through the tavern crowd. "My dear Not-lord Jorah Mormont."
Even if Jorah had not sat on a high stool, he'd have been looking down into the ugliest face that had peered up into his. Which didn't belong to a boy, but to a bandy-legged half-grown man, a dwarf with a jutting forehead and misshapen pink flesh where a nose ought to have perched, and mismatched eyes, one of which was so green that, combined with his mop of pale golden hair, could only belong to--
"The little lordling of Lannister," Jorah said, his gaze leaving the dwarf to scan the tavern for the supposed Targaryen with whom Illyrio Mopatis claimed the Imp was traveling.
He saw no one near Dany's age but the barmaids, nor any young men silver of hair and violet of eye--though he supposed there was a chance Aegon--if he was, indeed, Prince Rhaegar's son--had taken after his Martell mother. However, the place seemed to be filled primarily with Qohorik locals or merchants on their way to and from the western market of Vaes Dothrak. Perhaps someone had news of the khalasars.
The Imp scowled as, whether from the slight or the effort of clambering up onto the stool beside Jorah, he didn't know.
"If you're going to use pejoratives," the Imp said, "I'd just as soon Imp, thank you. It at least sounds sinister instead of silly. Or feel free to call me by my right name. I do have one, you know. It's Tyrion."
Jorah knew. But he felt no need to call the Imp anything at all. "How do you know me?"
"I never forget the face of a man who comes to a draw against my brother in a tourney. There have been so few."
The barmaid returned with Jorah's beer and a small pewter dish containing wedges of lemon. He plucked one out and squeezed its juice into the tankard whose contents really were little darker than piss.
"I suppose that's likely enough," he said, "though you'd have been an even littler lordling then than you are now, ten years ago."
Tyrion stretched out an unexpectedly long finger and poked one of the bears embroidered in black on the sleeve of Jorah's green tunic. "Also, you bear a striking resemblance to your lord father." He smirked, briefly, at his own joke, but then said, "Who I saw, oh, a few months shy of…oh, two years ago, I think?"
Jorah sloshed beer over the counter as he slammed his flagon down. He grabbed Tyrion by the collar of his doublet, pulling him nearly off his stool as all his suspicions about the Imp and the possible Targaryen were pushed from his mind as his thoughts focused into one question: "What do you know of my father?"
"That he's Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, quite a big fellow, rather gruff--must be where you get your manners--affectionately termed the Old Bear, likes to break his fast with beer and lemon--" The insolently gleaming mismatched eyes darted sideways to the bar.
Jorah's fist tightened its hold on the Imp's collar, pulling them almost forehead to bulging forehead. "Does he live?"
Tyrion coughed. "Can't tell…if…choke me.."
Reluctantly, Jorah released Tyrion, who continued to cough until Jorah thrust his own beer at him. The Imp drained it, and only when he he'd signaled to the barmaid to bring another flagon for each of them, did he return to the conversation at hand, looking up at Jorah with eyes which, though unsettling, held not a trace of the earlier gleaming insolence expected from members of the house that shat gold.
"We've had little word down in King's Landing from the Wall, and that a lot of fantastical nonsense about wights and Others. Illyrio Mopatis says Stannis Baratheon's there with a Priestess of Asshai, which seems rather more unbelievable than wights and Others." His voice softened. "But I truly hope so, ser. The Lord Commander's a good man."
The mention of wights and Others wasn't terribly reassuring to Jorah; he'd seen them in the House of the Undying, too--though, ridden down by Rhaego on his fearsome mount, the three-headed dragon with a bear's body. Or perhaps that just made the rumors all the more absurd. At least Tyrion hadn't said anything about crows.
With a snort, Jorah took up his flagon. "What do you know of good men, kinslayer?"
That brought the Lannister insolence back into the Imp's eyes. "I know that if I'd had the fortune of being born Jeor Mormont's cub, he'd never have given me reason to dream of killing him."
Jorah's jaw tightened as he drove his fingernail into one of the lemon wedges to dig out a pip, doing his best to rein in his rising temper and avoid making a scene. There could be no dignity in hitting a dwarf, as he was sorely tempted to do.
"Obviously you didn't spend enough time with that bloody raven." What had the Imp been doing at the Wall, anyway?
"Or of dishonoring him," the Imp went on, as if Jorah had not interrupted him. "Was being a slaver not shame enough for Jeor? Did you think he'd be proud to know his son spied on the little Targaryen princess--?"
"Daenerys Targaryen is the queen, and she is my wife!" Jorah roared, driving his fist so hard into Tyrion's face that the Imp flew backward off his stool, cracking his head against the edge of the neighboring seat on his way to the floor.
No dignity in hitting a dwarf, perhaps, but at the moment Jorah valued satisfaction more. Not that it was quite as satisfying as it would have been to throw his fist into Illyrio's fat face, but nearly three weeks now had passed since Dany had the truth of him, and his fingers had been twitching to strike out at the first person who gave him reason.
Though Jorah had to give the Imp his due, Tyrion picked himself up quicker than many a bigger man who'd been dealt such a blow. Then again, if his tongue wagged like that all the time, he was probably accustomed to that method of being silenced.
So accustomed, apparently, that it didn't silence him for very long at all.
Tyrion rubbed his jaw and spat out a glob of blood--it might have been a tooth, as it skittered across the planks of the floor--and drawled, "Don't let my sweet sister hear the bit about there being another queen. She was quite the green-eyed monster when Joff made Margaery Tyrell his. Not that that marriage survived all seventy-seven course of the feast."
"Illyrio says you were the one we have to thank for that."
"I was tried, and found guilty, of the crime," Tyrion replied, fixing Jorah with his strange, mismatched stare. "Make of that what you will. But just before my face became very intimately acquainted with your fist, did you tell me you actually married Daenerys Targaryen? I overheard you say something of a sort to the wench there, but I assumed it was just drunken babble."
"Why, that depends, Imp."
"On?"
Jorah swigged his beer. "Whether you're in the company of a lad who styles himself Aegon Targaryen."
When Tyrion almost fell off his stool again, so taken aback he was by this revelation, Jorah smirked into his flagon. Briefly. Then he realized he shouldn't be quite so pleased to have the upper hand on the Imp. Or should he? He was starting to get the feeling that while the Imp was short on stature, he'd perhaps gotten the lion's share of Lord Tywin's brains.
"Did Illyrio send you after us?"
"Something like that. He's here, then?"
"Griff? No, he and Barristan Selmy--"
"Barristan the Bold? Of the Kingsguard?"
"Formerly of the Kingsguard."
Jorah nearly choked on his beer, and not because it was bad beer. "There's no such thing as a former Kingsguard. They take the White for life, just as the Night's Watch the Black."
"One of King Joff the First's many firsts," said Tyrion. "Anyway, they rode off to Vaes Dothrak--"
"To rescue Daenerys from the dosh khaleen." Jorah couldn't stop his lips quirking upward at that.
"Hmm. While I stayed behind to find out if Qohor's where the whores go. It does sound like it, doesn't it? But it's not." He sighed and stared for a moment into his flagon, but then turned to Jorah. "I thought it was a bloody stupid idea even if Daenerys had been there, but as your smirk clearly says she's not, I'm doubly glad I didn't go along to visit the city of the horselords. Though I'm sure it's quite a charming place. Smells nice?"
Jorah snorted and flagged the barmaid for more beer for both of them. It was the least he could do after costing the Imp a tooth.
He regretted it instantly when Tyrion goggled up at him with this unsettling eyes and said, "I must say I'm astonished."
"That a poor exile knight could win the love of a queen?" Jorah's fingers clenched again, hard, around the handle of his tankard.
Tyrion shook his head as he swallowed, wincing a little--no doubt from the acrid beer washing over the raw hole in his mouth where his tooth had been. "No, because I remember you convinced that sweet little Hightower thing to marry you, too. You do like them young, don't you, Ser Jorah?"
When Jorah glowered, the Imp raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"I have a lovely and quite young wife myself. Did you ever have occasion to meet Ned Stark's eldest daughter, Sansa?"
"When she was in swaddling clothes," Jorah heard himself say, not fully grasping the meaning of all this. Had Westeros gone utterly mad during his exile, that the daughters of high lords were married to the dwarf sons of their fathers' enemies? Or perhaps that was young Sansa's punishment for being the daughter of a traitor. He'd still not had the full story of that. If only the Imp's tongue would wag with useful information.
"No, Ser Bear," Tyrion was saying, "what astonishes me about you--and by astonished I of course mean mean impresses me greatly--is that a man who was stupid enough to sell a couple of poachers into slavery could possibly be clever enough to pull the wool over the Spider's eyes. Illyrio said there was a letter from Qarth or someplace? Must have been a damned good one."
"It was a simple enough matter to send a raven to Varys informing him Drogo's kos had killed Daenerys' babe and taken her to the dosh khaleen, as they do the wives of all dead khals. As far as he knew, I had nothing to gain by lying to him. I wanted my pardon and my lordship."
"Quite the change of heart, after it was you who informed Varys that Daenerys was with child in the first place." His eyes glinted shrewdly. "I assume she didn't know about that when you married her?"
Jorah hung his head. "She does now."
"Hence your being here, instead of…wherever she is?"
"She didn't banish me," Jorah sharply realizing, almost too late, that the Imp was fishing for information.
Not from her house, anyway--or rather, Drogo's house in Pentos. Only from her bed. And while he'd been relieved that she had not wanted to be entirely shot of him at once, he had not been content to play the role of a glorified nursemaid to his wife's son while his wife rejected him.
It had, perhaps, been a mistake to voice this thought aloud.
"If you are too angry at present to treat me as a husband," he had said, "then at least allow me to serve as your councilor, as I once did."
"And what would your advice be, ser?" she'd shot back, her eyes ablaze. "Not to put you aside and marry Aegon?"
That had singed. "Is that the course you have decided on, Daenerys?"
"Your Grace. And I have decided that we shall return to Valyria, for in this city I have neither friend nor ally."
"You have me."
He'd reached out for her, but she had stepped back from him, crossing her arms over her chest.
"As I have Illyrio Mopatis?"
And though her points had been fair, to be expected, even, considering her position, and his betrayal, her stubbornness and pride had tweaked his own, and before he had thought he'd declared, "I'll not go back to Valyria. When I sail again, it shall be for the Seven Kingdoms."
"If you go to the Seven Kingdoms without me, you will not live there long."
"Believe me, Your Grace," he'd said, through his teeth, "I haven't the least intention of going except at your side, as your consort."
Which, as the Imp had pointed out, brought him here, on this mad quest to find the Dothraki and win her an army. He tossed a few coppers on the counter to pay for their drinks, then got up from his stool and dragged Tyrion once more off his by the back of his cloak.
"You'll find out where the queen is, Imp, for I'll be taking you to her."
If Tyrion was nonplussed at being dragged through a tavern by a big northern knight, nothing in his demeanor showed it. "Was that your plan, then? Ride to Qohor and find a dwarf to win back your lady fair?"
"I'm sure she'll find a Lannister useful, indeed," Jorah replied, dragging the Imp through a mud puddle. Or it might have been horse piss and shit. So much the better.
When they reached the stable, Jorah spied a small horse saddled with a contraption that could only have been made for the Imp. He released Tyrion, and ordered him to mount up while he saw to his own horse.
"I can't see how Daenerys would find me useful," said the Imp as he clambered up onto a bale of hay and awkwardly swung his leg over his saddle. When he was situated, Jorah bound the Imp's hands to the pommel, Tyrion talking on all the while. "My sister's promised lands and a lordship to whomever brings her my head, so she might well grant you a pardon as well. Provided she's forgotten you once prevailed over sweet Jaime in a tourney."
He grinned, so Jorah supposed that he must be making a joke; he pulled the rope tighter around the Imp's wrists.
There was nothing joking in Tyrion's tone or expression as he said, "Do you think she'll extend that much generosity to Daenerys?"
This gave Jorah pause. The Imp spoke sense--or was this one of his tricks? But what did Jorah intend Dany to do with this particular Lannister?
Still, he couldn't lose face in front of the likes of the Imp. "I don't want any of Cersei's boons," he said. "I only want Daenerys. It might be your brother she'd rather have--"
"Doesn't every woman?"
"--but I'll wager she'll be nearly as happy to watch the Kingslayer's brother burn."
The threat didn't appear to have the intimidating effect on the Imp that Jorah hoped. "This seems rather a half-baked plan," he said as Jorah swung up into his own saddle and, taking the reins of both horses, guided them out into the innyard. "Perhaps you're not so clever after all. Perhaps it was only a stroke of luck that you mislead Varys--"
Jorah reined in and turned in his saddle, hand raised to cuff the Imp again. But no sooner had he urged the horses back into motion, than Tyrion's tongue started working again, too.
"Your romanticism should be in a song, ser. Or perhaps it already is."
He hummed a few lines of The Bear and the Maiden Fair, but the song died on his swollen lips when Jorah glowered at him.
"I take it you've heard that one? You know if you really want your maiden fair, you're going to have to win her a throne."
Read Chapter 25
Author: MrsTater
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters & Pairings: Daenerys Targaryen/Jorah Mormont, Groleo, TYRION LANNISTER
Ratings & Warnings: R for references to sex and violence in this chapter
Format & Word Count: WIP, 5012 words in this chapter
Summary: "Save your tears, child. Weep for him tomorrow, or a year from now. We do not have time for grief. We must go, and quickly, before he dies.” Dany takes Ser Jorah's advice, setting her unborn child, her unhatched dragons, her quest for the Iron Throne, and her relationship with her faithful knight on a very different, but no less adventurous path.
Chapter Summary: Dany and Jorah find themselves apart, but unexpectedly, not alone.
Author's Note: I know a few of you have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of Tyrion in this fic…here he is! As always, thanks to just_a_dram for betaing, and for each one of you readers--and if you're reading, do let me know!
Previous Chapters |
24. Adrift
"'Tis a cold wind that blows, my queen."
The voice rumbled low behind Dany as she stood on the forecastle of The Bear and the Maiden Fair. It crept gently into her awareness like the roll of distant thunder in the iron grey sky, no more welcome than the herald of the approaching storm. Not least of all because, at first, she'd imagined the voice was his.
"Winter is coming," she replied, without turning around to address Captain Groleo. "Or so they say in the north of Westeros."
"And Your Grace has no cloak."
She did have--folded up at the bottom of a trunk in her cabin belowdecks. A very fine one, black and green velvet trimmed with bear fur, the bride's cloak Jorah had placed about her shoulders on their wedding day. The bi-colored field was emblazoned with a three-headed dragon with the body of a bear, the new sigil she had adopted to represent their joined Houses and because they had both seen the creature in dreams and visions. For the first time since Jorah left Pentos, it occurred to her she would have to go back to using the traditional sigil of House Targaryen now.
If ever she should need a sigil.
A heaviness pressed down on Dany's shoulders to which she'd grown so accustomed of late that she did not immediately recognize as being a physical weight; Groleo had draped his own oilskin sea cloak about her shoulders. She'd come up here to find respite from her cramped quarters, which she shared with Rhaego and his nurse, but she hadn't realized till the cloak enveloped her from chin to toe, completely shutting out the bite of the wind, that what she had truly sought was shelter. Feeling as if she had ducked beneath the flap of her old tent in the khalasar and nestled down into her comfortable sleeping silks and furs, she sighed.
"I was just below," Groleo said, shuffling to stand beside her. "Your cabin was blessedly silent, for once. Does that mean Prince Rhaego at last suckled?"
Dany was thankful to have the captain's cloak for more than protection against the cold when, as if in response to the question, her engorged breasts became painfully heavy. Beneath the oilskin, she discretely massaged them, but the stimulation was enough to make them leak. She gritted her teeth. They were not a week out of Pentos, and in all that time Rhaego had refused to give suck. Soon she would run out of fresh smallclothes to change into when the old became too sodden to continue wearing, the smell of her own soured milk on her clothing and bed linens took away her appetite, and, worst of all, Rhaego's cries no longer evoked her sympathy, but made her wish to silence him in whatever way was necessary, since he refused to satisfy himself at her breast. Which would have made her the worst sort of hypocrite, after she'd accused Jorah of being callus toward innocent babes.
"No," she said aloud; she would not think of Jorah. She'd come up here as much to avoid the reminder of him as the crying, which was responsible for the ache that raged behind her eyes. "Still the prince would not take my breast. He must have exhausted himself with his crying and thrashing."
"You look in need of a good long sleep yourself," said Groleo. "My bunk is yours, should you require it, my queen."
"Thank you, Captain. That is most chivalrous of you."
The milk in her shift had soaked through to the blouse she wore beneath her Westerosi-style kirtle, and the garment felt as heavy as it dwasid cold in the wind as she hunched further beneath Groleo's oilskin.
"Holding Rhaego is like wrestling a dragon," she said. "He's so strong. You wouldn't think it to look at those spindly arms and legs, but I can hardly free myself from his grasp. His fingers are like claws. And he bites." She sighed, and laid her head on her arms propped on the railing and overlooked the dark, churning waves. "But he will not suck. Stubborn, like his father Khal Drogo."
And his stepfather.
"And Dothraki are not known for their love of the sea, Your Grace. The child may only be greensick."
Groleo spoke with no conviction, only kindness. He knew as well as she that Rhaego had not been ill on any of their previous voyages, from Qarth to Valyria or from Valyria to Pentos, that he took after his mother, Daenerys Stormborn, and not Khal Drogo who feared the poison waters. All the same, she was grateful that Groleo had not pointed out to her, as the nurse had, that when Rhaego had become fractious before, he'd found comfort in Jorah's arms--even when they had held the child but loosely as he lay in the enchanted sleep brought on by the warlocks' magic in the House of the Undying.
"Prince Rhaego misses his father," the nurse had said, and Dany unleashed her rage like flame from a dragon's mouth.
"Ser Jorah Mormont was not the father of my son. Perhaps Rhaego does miss him, but he is young, and soon enough will forget he ever knew a knight of that name. And you had best do the same, for if you speak another word to me of the traitor, especially of his being Rhaego's father, I shall have your tongue."
The nurse had cringed before Dany and stammered that she would forget, and then became the victim of Rhaego's clawlike grasping hands flailing limbs when Dany handed him over to come above just now.
She rubbed her temples and raised her head, turning to look at Groleo. "How long till we reach Valyria?"
"A fortnight, at least. Perhaps three weeks. The wind may blow cold, Your Grace, but it does blow. For now."
"My milk may well have dried up by then," said Dany, "if he continues not to suck."
"But--the lad has teeth?"
"A few."
"He will take scraps of food?"
"He refuses everything. And even if he did not, he is yet too young to be weaned. He needs mother's milk for another year or more."
Her lips curled slightly at the irony; prior to leaving Valyria, she'd attempted to wean Rhaego so that she might conceive Jorah's child. But though Rhaego had shown interest in eating bits of meat and soft cheese and milk-soaked bread, he'd exhibited no less interest in her breast, and her womb had not opened to Jorah's seed.
Would it have been better if she had become pregnant by him? Would he still have left her? Would she have despised having a traitor's child growing in her belly and drunk moon tea to rid herself of it?
Or would she still have wanted it? Wanted him? To put his hand upon her swollen belly and feel the stir of new life within he? To hold her as she brought forth the babe with blood and pain as he had when she delivered Rhaego?
She was grateful when Groleo interrupted this dangerous and maddening line of thought. "There are any number of islands between here and Valyria where we could make port, Your Grace, and find the prince a wet nurse."
"We may have to. I have not kept my son safe this long only to have him starve."
The wind kicked up, snapping the cloak. To Dany, the sound was like the crack of a hand across her cheek, which the wind had made as raw as a slap.
She had not always kept Rhaego safe. It had been her carelessness, her failure to heed Jorah's caution, that had provided Pyatt Pree the opportunity to kidnap her son.
And she had not paid the ransom, for she'd been unwilling to trade one of her dragon's eggs for the life of her living child.
But she had been willing enough to trade Jorah's. And how was that any different from him being willing to trade her life for his home?
No. Jorah had sworn to serve her, to obey her, to die for her, if she required it. She had not asked him to do anything a knight should not do. And if he had died in the House of the Undying, well, he should have been glad of an honorable death, instead of the traitor's execution he deserved.
She thought of the single dragon's egg that remained to her, tucked in its casket belowdecks, and wished for its comforting weight cradled in her arms like the rounded swell of her belly when she'd been pregnant with Rhaego.
"And who will keep you safe, my queen?" asked Groleo.
He spoke the question gently, like a father, like Jorah had spoken to her when she was a frightened new khaleesi, and she felt his fingers ruffle her hair. Or it might have been the wind. It was certainly the cut of the wind that made her eyes water.
Dany drew herself up to full height, letting the heavy oilskin cloak slide off her shoulders, and lifted her chin. "I am the blood of the dragon. A dragon is not safe, nor can it be kept so."
Groleo stepped back from her, looking at her a little askance, whether in awe of her queenliness or because he thought she was mad, Dany could not say.
"Ser Jorah must have agreed, or he would have accompanied you on pain of death." He knelt to pick up his cloak, but did not take his eyes off her face. "Feel free to take my tongue if it wags too freely, Your Grace, but your eyes are stormy as the sky. I have only seen you look this way once before, when your lord husband lay ill. I stood witness at your wedding, where the Seven Gods of Westeros bound you to him flesh, heart, and soul. Now you are like a half, rent asunder. Where is your other part? And who is to receive the curse for parting lovers in twain, as the Westerosi vows say?"
As he stood, the captain's dark eyes gleamed with the flash of a sheet of lightning across the sky behind Dany, followed closely by a long, slow roll of thunder.
"Jorah," she replied, hear heartbeat quickening. "Jorah himself has come between us."
She had intended for him to accompany her to Valyria--at least until she could decide what was to be done with him--but he had refused. He'd mounted the horse Khal Drogo had given him for stopping the wine merchant in the western market from poisoning he; she wondered how much longer Jorah would have lasted than the assassin, running naked and bound behind her silver had Drogo known that the attempt on her life had been possible because he had informed on her. His saddlebags had been packed with a few provisions for a journey, and he was well-weaponed, including the dragonglass knife she'd given him for their wedding, but clad in sturdy traveling clothes and none of his finery, looking very much as he had when he had ridden, a poor exile, with the khalasar. And he had gone.
"Though I know not whence." She turned again to look out over the railing, westward. " You know he is a wanted man in the Seven Kingdoms?"
"I had a little of his story from Xaro Xhoan Daxos, aye."
"Jorah's liege-lord is dead, and the country lies all confused by the war. It may be that he went back to test his fate there."
She thought of the vision he'd had in the House of the Undying, of an old great bear he thought must be his father, eaten by crows, and of the troubling news Illyrio had given them of the massacre of Robb Stark's bannermen. She hadn't thought of it since then, Jorah's betrayal and the possibility that Rhaegar's son lived to take her place in line for the throne having taken precedence in her thoughts--though it must have weighed heavily on Jorah. In spite of his treachery, she grieved his loss, and regretted not having she opened her arms to comfort him in his hour of need.
"All he ever wanted was home."
But no sooner had the words left her mouth, than her anger flared. Wherever she was, Jorah had said, he was home.
Another of his lies.
It was well that he had gone, so her child would not grow to remember a man like that.
If only she could forget, too.
~*~
"'nother pint, m'lord?"
"I'm no lord," Jorah muttered, not bothering to look up from the dregs of piss-poor beer and lemon pips at the bottom of his flagon. "Once I was, but no longer. I was a prince, too. Wed to a queen with no kingdom…"
His words trailed off into a heavy sigh.
"'nother pint?" came the question a second time, in almost an identical tone as before, but pitched slightly higher.
It caught Jorah's attention. He dragged his gaze upward and blinked back bleariness to note the swarthy barmaid gawking at him, her thick black eyebrows arched high on her forehead. The words had been heavily accented, he realized, belatedly; likely she had little more of the common tongue of Westeros than 'nother pint, and here he was, babbling to her about his joke of a love life.
And apparently someone else had heard it; as he nudged the flagon across the rough-hewn counter and reminded her in the Valyrian dialect spoken in Qohor to bring more lemon, he heard the rattle of laughter coming from somewhere behind--and below--his stool. He twisted round, not at first seeing the person who found him such a source of amusement.
"Well, well, well," came a smarmy voice just as Jorah's eyes locked on a boy pushing his way through the tavern crowd. "My dear Not-lord Jorah Mormont."
Even if Jorah had not sat on a high stool, he'd have been looking down into the ugliest face that had peered up into his. Which didn't belong to a boy, but to a bandy-legged half-grown man, a dwarf with a jutting forehead and misshapen pink flesh where a nose ought to have perched, and mismatched eyes, one of which was so green that, combined with his mop of pale golden hair, could only belong to--
"The little lordling of Lannister," Jorah said, his gaze leaving the dwarf to scan the tavern for the supposed Targaryen with whom Illyrio Mopatis claimed the Imp was traveling.
He saw no one near Dany's age but the barmaids, nor any young men silver of hair and violet of eye--though he supposed there was a chance Aegon--if he was, indeed, Prince Rhaegar's son--had taken after his Martell mother. However, the place seemed to be filled primarily with Qohorik locals or merchants on their way to and from the western market of Vaes Dothrak. Perhaps someone had news of the khalasars.
The Imp scowled as, whether from the slight or the effort of clambering up onto the stool beside Jorah, he didn't know.
"If you're going to use pejoratives," the Imp said, "I'd just as soon Imp, thank you. It at least sounds sinister instead of silly. Or feel free to call me by my right name. I do have one, you know. It's Tyrion."
Jorah knew. But he felt no need to call the Imp anything at all. "How do you know me?"
"I never forget the face of a man who comes to a draw against my brother in a tourney. There have been so few."
The barmaid returned with Jorah's beer and a small pewter dish containing wedges of lemon. He plucked one out and squeezed its juice into the tankard whose contents really were little darker than piss.
"I suppose that's likely enough," he said, "though you'd have been an even littler lordling then than you are now, ten years ago."
Tyrion stretched out an unexpectedly long finger and poked one of the bears embroidered in black on the sleeve of Jorah's green tunic. "Also, you bear a striking resemblance to your lord father." He smirked, briefly, at his own joke, but then said, "Who I saw, oh, a few months shy of…oh, two years ago, I think?"
Jorah sloshed beer over the counter as he slammed his flagon down. He grabbed Tyrion by the collar of his doublet, pulling him nearly off his stool as all his suspicions about the Imp and the possible Targaryen were pushed from his mind as his thoughts focused into one question: "What do you know of my father?"
"That he's Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, quite a big fellow, rather gruff--must be where you get your manners--affectionately termed the Old Bear, likes to break his fast with beer and lemon--" The insolently gleaming mismatched eyes darted sideways to the bar.
Jorah's fist tightened its hold on the Imp's collar, pulling them almost forehead to bulging forehead. "Does he live?"
Tyrion coughed. "Can't tell…if…choke me.."
Reluctantly, Jorah released Tyrion, who continued to cough until Jorah thrust his own beer at him. The Imp drained it, and only when he he'd signaled to the barmaid to bring another flagon for each of them, did he return to the conversation at hand, looking up at Jorah with eyes which, though unsettling, held not a trace of the earlier gleaming insolence expected from members of the house that shat gold.
"We've had little word down in King's Landing from the Wall, and that a lot of fantastical nonsense about wights and Others. Illyrio Mopatis says Stannis Baratheon's there with a Priestess of Asshai, which seems rather more unbelievable than wights and Others." His voice softened. "But I truly hope so, ser. The Lord Commander's a good man."
The mention of wights and Others wasn't terribly reassuring to Jorah; he'd seen them in the House of the Undying, too--though, ridden down by Rhaego on his fearsome mount, the three-headed dragon with a bear's body. Or perhaps that just made the rumors all the more absurd. At least Tyrion hadn't said anything about crows.
With a snort, Jorah took up his flagon. "What do you know of good men, kinslayer?"
That brought the Lannister insolence back into the Imp's eyes. "I know that if I'd had the fortune of being born Jeor Mormont's cub, he'd never have given me reason to dream of killing him."
Jorah's jaw tightened as he drove his fingernail into one of the lemon wedges to dig out a pip, doing his best to rein in his rising temper and avoid making a scene. There could be no dignity in hitting a dwarf, as he was sorely tempted to do.
"Obviously you didn't spend enough time with that bloody raven." What had the Imp been doing at the Wall, anyway?
"Or of dishonoring him," the Imp went on, as if Jorah had not interrupted him. "Was being a slaver not shame enough for Jeor? Did you think he'd be proud to know his son spied on the little Targaryen princess--?"
"Daenerys Targaryen is the queen, and she is my wife!" Jorah roared, driving his fist so hard into Tyrion's face that the Imp flew backward off his stool, cracking his head against the edge of the neighboring seat on his way to the floor.
No dignity in hitting a dwarf, perhaps, but at the moment Jorah valued satisfaction more. Not that it was quite as satisfying as it would have been to throw his fist into Illyrio's fat face, but nearly three weeks now had passed since Dany had the truth of him, and his fingers had been twitching to strike out at the first person who gave him reason.
Though Jorah had to give the Imp his due, Tyrion picked himself up quicker than many a bigger man who'd been dealt such a blow. Then again, if his tongue wagged like that all the time, he was probably accustomed to that method of being silenced.
So accustomed, apparently, that it didn't silence him for very long at all.
Tyrion rubbed his jaw and spat out a glob of blood--it might have been a tooth, as it skittered across the planks of the floor--and drawled, "Don't let my sweet sister hear the bit about there being another queen. She was quite the green-eyed monster when Joff made Margaery Tyrell his. Not that that marriage survived all seventy-seven course of the feast."
"Illyrio says you were the one we have to thank for that."
"I was tried, and found guilty, of the crime," Tyrion replied, fixing Jorah with his strange, mismatched stare. "Make of that what you will. But just before my face became very intimately acquainted with your fist, did you tell me you actually married Daenerys Targaryen? I overheard you say something of a sort to the wench there, but I assumed it was just drunken babble."
"Why, that depends, Imp."
"On?"
Jorah swigged his beer. "Whether you're in the company of a lad who styles himself Aegon Targaryen."
When Tyrion almost fell off his stool again, so taken aback he was by this revelation, Jorah smirked into his flagon. Briefly. Then he realized he shouldn't be quite so pleased to have the upper hand on the Imp. Or should he? He was starting to get the feeling that while the Imp was short on stature, he'd perhaps gotten the lion's share of Lord Tywin's brains.
"Did Illyrio send you after us?"
"Something like that. He's here, then?"
"Griff? No, he and Barristan Selmy--"
"Barristan the Bold? Of the Kingsguard?"
"Formerly of the Kingsguard."
Jorah nearly choked on his beer, and not because it was bad beer. "There's no such thing as a former Kingsguard. They take the White for life, just as the Night's Watch the Black."
"One of King Joff the First's many firsts," said Tyrion. "Anyway, they rode off to Vaes Dothrak--"
"To rescue Daenerys from the dosh khaleen." Jorah couldn't stop his lips quirking upward at that.
"Hmm. While I stayed behind to find out if Qohor's where the whores go. It does sound like it, doesn't it? But it's not." He sighed and stared for a moment into his flagon, but then turned to Jorah. "I thought it was a bloody stupid idea even if Daenerys had been there, but as your smirk clearly says she's not, I'm doubly glad I didn't go along to visit the city of the horselords. Though I'm sure it's quite a charming place. Smells nice?"
Jorah snorted and flagged the barmaid for more beer for both of them. It was the least he could do after costing the Imp a tooth.
He regretted it instantly when Tyrion goggled up at him with this unsettling eyes and said, "I must say I'm astonished."
"That a poor exile knight could win the love of a queen?" Jorah's fingers clenched again, hard, around the handle of his tankard.
Tyrion shook his head as he swallowed, wincing a little--no doubt from the acrid beer washing over the raw hole in his mouth where his tooth had been. "No, because I remember you convinced that sweet little Hightower thing to marry you, too. You do like them young, don't you, Ser Jorah?"
When Jorah glowered, the Imp raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"I have a lovely and quite young wife myself. Did you ever have occasion to meet Ned Stark's eldest daughter, Sansa?"
"When she was in swaddling clothes," Jorah heard himself say, not fully grasping the meaning of all this. Had Westeros gone utterly mad during his exile, that the daughters of high lords were married to the dwarf sons of their fathers' enemies? Or perhaps that was young Sansa's punishment for being the daughter of a traitor. He'd still not had the full story of that. If only the Imp's tongue would wag with useful information.
"No, Ser Bear," Tyrion was saying, "what astonishes me about you--and by astonished I of course mean mean impresses me greatly--is that a man who was stupid enough to sell a couple of poachers into slavery could possibly be clever enough to pull the wool over the Spider's eyes. Illyrio said there was a letter from Qarth or someplace? Must have been a damned good one."
"It was a simple enough matter to send a raven to Varys informing him Drogo's kos had killed Daenerys' babe and taken her to the dosh khaleen, as they do the wives of all dead khals. As far as he knew, I had nothing to gain by lying to him. I wanted my pardon and my lordship."
"Quite the change of heart, after it was you who informed Varys that Daenerys was with child in the first place." His eyes glinted shrewdly. "I assume she didn't know about that when you married her?"
Jorah hung his head. "She does now."
"Hence your being here, instead of…wherever she is?"
"She didn't banish me," Jorah sharply realizing, almost too late, that the Imp was fishing for information.
Not from her house, anyway--or rather, Drogo's house in Pentos. Only from her bed. And while he'd been relieved that she had not wanted to be entirely shot of him at once, he had not been content to play the role of a glorified nursemaid to his wife's son while his wife rejected him.
It had, perhaps, been a mistake to voice this thought aloud.
"If you are too angry at present to treat me as a husband," he had said, "then at least allow me to serve as your councilor, as I once did."
"And what would your advice be, ser?" she'd shot back, her eyes ablaze. "Not to put you aside and marry Aegon?"
That had singed. "Is that the course you have decided on, Daenerys?"
"Your Grace. And I have decided that we shall return to Valyria, for in this city I have neither friend nor ally."
"You have me."
He'd reached out for her, but she had stepped back from him, crossing her arms over her chest.
"As I have Illyrio Mopatis?"
And though her points had been fair, to be expected, even, considering her position, and his betrayal, her stubbornness and pride had tweaked his own, and before he had thought he'd declared, "I'll not go back to Valyria. When I sail again, it shall be for the Seven Kingdoms."
"If you go to the Seven Kingdoms without me, you will not live there long."
"Believe me, Your Grace," he'd said, through his teeth, "I haven't the least intention of going except at your side, as your consort."
Which, as the Imp had pointed out, brought him here, on this mad quest to find the Dothraki and win her an army. He tossed a few coppers on the counter to pay for their drinks, then got up from his stool and dragged Tyrion once more off his by the back of his cloak.
"You'll find out where the queen is, Imp, for I'll be taking you to her."
If Tyrion was nonplussed at being dragged through a tavern by a big northern knight, nothing in his demeanor showed it. "Was that your plan, then? Ride to Qohor and find a dwarf to win back your lady fair?"
"I'm sure she'll find a Lannister useful, indeed," Jorah replied, dragging the Imp through a mud puddle. Or it might have been horse piss and shit. So much the better.
When they reached the stable, Jorah spied a small horse saddled with a contraption that could only have been made for the Imp. He released Tyrion, and ordered him to mount up while he saw to his own horse.
"I can't see how Daenerys would find me useful," said the Imp as he clambered up onto a bale of hay and awkwardly swung his leg over his saddle. When he was situated, Jorah bound the Imp's hands to the pommel, Tyrion talking on all the while. "My sister's promised lands and a lordship to whomever brings her my head, so she might well grant you a pardon as well. Provided she's forgotten you once prevailed over sweet Jaime in a tourney."
He grinned, so Jorah supposed that he must be making a joke; he pulled the rope tighter around the Imp's wrists.
There was nothing joking in Tyrion's tone or expression as he said, "Do you think she'll extend that much generosity to Daenerys?"
This gave Jorah pause. The Imp spoke sense--or was this one of his tricks? But what did Jorah intend Dany to do with this particular Lannister?
Still, he couldn't lose face in front of the likes of the Imp. "I don't want any of Cersei's boons," he said. "I only want Daenerys. It might be your brother she'd rather have--"
"Doesn't every woman?"
"--but I'll wager she'll be nearly as happy to watch the Kingslayer's brother burn."
The threat didn't appear to have the intimidating effect on the Imp that Jorah hoped. "This seems rather a half-baked plan," he said as Jorah swung up into his own saddle and, taking the reins of both horses, guided them out into the innyard. "Perhaps you're not so clever after all. Perhaps it was only a stroke of luck that you mislead Varys--"
Jorah reined in and turned in his saddle, hand raised to cuff the Imp again. But no sooner had he urged the horses back into motion, than Tyrion's tongue started working again, too.
"Your romanticism should be in a song, ser. Or perhaps it already is."
He hummed a few lines of The Bear and the Maiden Fair, but the song died on his swollen lips when Jorah glowered at him.
"I take it you've heard that one? You know if you really want your maiden fair, you're going to have to win her a throne."
Read Chapter 25