Wild bear
Title: Wild bear
Author: vladnyrki
Fandom: A song of ice and fire
Characters & Pairings: Daenerys/Jorah
For mrstater birthday!
Meereenese, Iron Born, sell-swords, freedmen, all were gathered in the audience room of the Great Pyramid, arguing loudly, accusing each other, blaming one another for the debacle that had occurred three days ago.
All were there but one.
Daenerys had reclaimed her stone bench two days ago after her triumphant return at the head of her khalasar, proudly riding Drogon. Little did she know then what tragic news awaited her in the desolation that Meereen had become during her absence.
Gone were the Yunkai, shattered by the Iron Born attack.
Gone was a good quarter of the city, turned into ashes by her two abandoned dragons.
Gone were the freed slaves, her children, who were congregated under Meereen’s walls and who had left the area, declaring that this land was doomed.
Gone was Vyserion, drowned into the deep waters of the port.
Gone was Jorah Mormont who had given his life to protect the city she had left behind.
For months, Daenerys had wondered how she should have reacted if her bear had defied her orders and reappeared at her court. The young queen smiled sadly. This was a dilemma she would not have to confront anymore. Never. As long as Jorah had been alive, or simply absent, the possibility of a pardon, of reconciliation had existed. This possibility had disappeared with his body in the dark waters.
Ser Barristan had ordained the remaining Unsullied to drag the port and its area. Not an inch of the coast was to be left unsearched. The Iron Born had sheepishly joined the search, and Daenerys’ khalasar as well as soon the first knight of her Queensguard had told her about the absurd events of the latest days.
Apart from Vyserion’s cadaver and the heavy chain that had sealed the dragon’s fate, apart from the bodies left by the Iron Born attack, they found nothing.
Nobody.
Jorah Mormont was condemned to stay in exile in Essos even after his death.
For what seemed to be the hundredth time this day, Daenerys closed her eyes to fight against the forming tears, and swallowed to chase away to bitter taste of regret. She needed to hold court, to determine the responsibilities.
She had to be the queen her bear imagined her be.
-/-The royal audience was getting to an end.
Perched on the soft, colorful cushions placed on the stone bench, Daenerys Targaryen had listened to the different, and more often than not contradictory, versions of the recent events without even a hint of impatience. Two Iron Born had carried their captain Victarion Greyjoy, paralyzed from the waist down after his failed attempt at riding Vyserion, and the now broken man evoked his brother Euron’s mad plan. Two Unsullied had brought Daario in chains, and missing a hand courtesy of Ser Grandfather, and the fallen sell-sword recognized he had accepted the Yunkai’s money during his time as hostage.
Hizdhar zo Loraq, the ephemeral king of Meereen, the Shavepate and the Green Grace confessed that the Harpy had been their common creation. Daenerys’ invasion of Meereen and the political disorganization that had followed had given them the occasion they had waited for years to replace the old elites of the city at the head of its government.
Tyrion himself had been brought to court, in spite of his contribution to the defense of the city, and been given the occasion to explain himself, probably because of this contribution.
All had been asked about the last moments of Jorah Mormont.
How he had convinced Selmy and the Iron Born to follow his crazy plan to stop Vyserion to destroy everything: the magical horn that was supposed to control dragons had driven the beast completely mad, and uncontrollable.
How Tyrion and he had managed to trick the beast into destroying the horn with his own flames.
How Mormont and Selmy had played the bait to buy enough time for Victarion’s men to lay the fatal trap.
How the knight - or rather the hunter - had taken unthinkable risks to attach the rope to the dragon’s wings.
How the heavy chain attached to the rope had dragged Vyserion into the waters…
The dwarf scratched the scar that had replaced his nose since the battle of Blackwater and, unable to resist his natural curiosity, he observed the queen as she listened to his stories with an undecipherable, neutral expression. Clad in her Dothraki riding outfit and absently playing with an arakh, she contemplated the crowded room with cold, purple eyes, in a way that reminded Tyrion of his own father.
Tywin Lanister had been a lion in the middle of a flock of sheep.
Daenerys Targaryen was a dragon, and everyone was a mere sheep to her.
Betrayals were admitted. Lies were uncovered. Old enemies were produced in front of her, and she still listened. Gone was the prone to anger girl that Brown Bed had described to Tyrion, the girl who played at being a queen. To each and every witness or defendant, she answered the same sentence.
“Your fate will be decided tomorrow, after I consulted my council.”
Her most loyal friend’s last moments were related, and she did not blink an eye. Gone was the emotional girl that the same sell-sword had presented to the dwarf, the girl who could not even mask her fateful attraction to Daario Naharis.
Mormont’s death had killed the girl in her, and now, she was truly a queen.
“So you’re telling me Ser Jorah died like a knight of the tales?”
Tyrion scratched his nose once more to hide his rueful smile, the same sad one Ser Barristan tried to conceal as well, tilting his head respectfully. The girl had not totally disappeared.
“I’d rather say he died like a northern lord, my Queen, fighting in the first line, protecting his people until his last breath.”
This was no exaggeration. The man who had died three days ago had nothing in common with the half-drunk and pitiful knight who had captured the dwarf back in Selhoris. On the contrary, during Mormont’s last hours, Tyrion had felt as if he had been fighting at the Old Bear’s side.
-/-His burnt left hand was killing him. Worse, he was not sure he could feel his middle and ring fingers anymore. If his fears were confirmed, he would need to have them cut, soon. What a sad irony. He had lived the first thirty-seven years of his life in northern confines of the North, he had known three terrible winters and some mild ones by northern standards, he had survived expeditions in the Frozen Shores against the wildlings that harassed the fishermen from Bear Island, and he had never suffered a single serious frostbite.
One confrontation with one dragon had been sufficient to jeopardize the use of his left hand.
The emaciated horse he had stolen from escaping slaves two days ago tripped once more. The beast was exhausted, and its rider as well. When the walls of Meereen appeared at last, he could barely stay in his saddle.
There he could lie down in a bed and rest.
There he could treat his hand and the burning marks scattered on his body.
Everything had gone according to plan, with the exception of the last flames Vyserion had managed to spit out before being engulfed into the waters, dragged down by the weight of the chain. The damn flames had taken him by surprise and the pain had been indescribable. Before losing consciousness, he had jumped instinctively into the port as well, hoping Selmy and the Imp would fish him out later.
Alas, the treacherous currents had carried him away from the port, into the sea. When he had woken up on a deserted coast, half burnt and half drowned, he was surrounded by a group of scared, hungry slaves who were fighting about his dagger and good belt. Grumbles of threat and a vicious hit to the nearest man’s thigh - effectively aimed at his artery - scattered the crows away. He took the remaining horse, gulped down the disgusting content of the flask attached to the saddle, and proceeded to find his way back to Meereen, hoping he would arrive in time to warn Selmy of the Volantese sails that were approaching dangerously from the west.
Hopefully, Daenerys would be back in her damn city, at last, along with a tamed dragon.
When the exhausted rider and his dying horse reached the gate of the city, the sun was low and was beginning to disappear behind the far away mountains. Like three days ago, the smell of ashes was almost unbearable.
However, something was different.
Very different.
The gate was opened.
And, above all, horse shit.
Not the smell produced by a simple army but the well-known smell of a khalasar.
Daenerys was back.
His horse finally collapsed two yards from the gate and the man rose to his feet, biting his lips to stifle a cry of pain. The unforgiving sun had burnt the inches of skin on his back the flames had not, and every movement of the muscles under the skin was agony.
He began to walk to the gate, ready to defend his case.
But the Unsullied at the gate did not move a finger, and let him step in the city, looking at the northern knight as if he was a ghost.
Well, he felt like a ghost, to be honest.
A few yards further into the city and he met a patrol of Second Sons who let him pass with incredulous expressions. Then he reached the Great Pyramid, and still not finding any opposition, he began to climb the endless stairs. The heat of the day still lingered in spite of the wind coming from the sea, but, fortunately, the sun had disappeared for the day.
When he reached the platform on trembling legs, he had to seek the support of a column to catch his breath, and gather his remaining forces. The last time he had walked into the audience room, it had been to find utter humiliation. Whatever would happen today, whatever Daenerys’ reaction would be, this would not be the case. Gods be good, he would not collapse in front of the whole damn court.
Once assured of his legs, he limped heavily to the double wood door. Jorah Mormont ignored the feeble guards’ protests - the queen is holding court, you can’t enter, or something similar - and pushed with all his might on both door leaves.
-/-This audience had been a true nightmare, and more than once Daenerys had to bit the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from reacting to the different tales the witnesses fed her with.
The succession of betrayals left a foul taste in her mouth, and she wanted to scream herself hoarse in frustration, in anger at her innocence. How could have she believed the Meereenese would accept her as a queen? She had been nothing but a fool.
The absurdity of the events that had led to Jorah’s death was even worse. What those Greyjoys were thinking? Who sent one’s own brother to his death knowingly? Who followed such mad orders blindly? It was unbelievable.
The Iron Born would pay, for sure. They would pay the iron price as they liked to call it. Daenerys did not need any advice on that point, and she had already made up her mind: the Iron Fleet would be hers from now on.
Behind her, she could feel Ser Barristan’s reassuring and protecting presence. She had missed the old man, and she was glad he had made it through this debacle. The Queensguard was the only advisor she could trust, now, and maybe the Imp, if he proved loyal and useful.
But none would replace her bear.
A commotion at the door attracted her attention, and immediately, she saw Ser Barristan walking from his waiting position to stand in front of her.
When the double door opened, the knight pulled out his sword and waited. Daenerys could not see a thing and wondered what was happening. What kind of enemy could have fought his way through the Unsullied garrison?
“You look like a roasted bear,” the Imp greeted the unexpected visitor.
“The Volantese fleet will be here tomorrow.”
Daenerys knew that voice.
Ser Barristan stepped aside; pale as if he had seen a ghost.
Here I stand.
She remembered House Mormont’s motto, and never those words had been so adequate. Oblivious of the stunned silence around him, Ser Jorah limped across the audience room with slow, measured steps, his right hand cradling the burnt left one. His shirtless torso was covered in burn marks, and his right side was torn by a bad looking, darkening scratch.
A roasted bear indeed.
But a living bear, that was all that mattered.
Tears began to well up in her eyes.
Tomorrow she would be queen.
This night she would devise plans to defend the city against Volantis’ greed.
Now, for just one moment, she would be a girl.
Jorah was standing in front of her.
Alive.
“Welcome back, my bear. You’ve been missed,” she managed to speak her pardon.
And, as she had dreamt in the Dothraki Sea, she took comfort in his ugly face and sought refuge in his arms.
Author: vladnyrki
Fandom: A song of ice and fire
Characters & Pairings: Daenerys/Jorah
For mrstater birthday!
Meereenese, Iron Born, sell-swords, freedmen, all were gathered in the audience room of the Great Pyramid, arguing loudly, accusing each other, blaming one another for the debacle that had occurred three days ago.
All were there but one.
Daenerys had reclaimed her stone bench two days ago after her triumphant return at the head of her khalasar, proudly riding Drogon. Little did she know then what tragic news awaited her in the desolation that Meereen had become during her absence.
Gone were the Yunkai, shattered by the Iron Born attack.
Gone was a good quarter of the city, turned into ashes by her two abandoned dragons.
Gone were the freed slaves, her children, who were congregated under Meereen’s walls and who had left the area, declaring that this land was doomed.
Gone was Vyserion, drowned into the deep waters of the port.
Gone was Jorah Mormont who had given his life to protect the city she had left behind.
For months, Daenerys had wondered how she should have reacted if her bear had defied her orders and reappeared at her court. The young queen smiled sadly. This was a dilemma she would not have to confront anymore. Never. As long as Jorah had been alive, or simply absent, the possibility of a pardon, of reconciliation had existed. This possibility had disappeared with his body in the dark waters.
Ser Barristan had ordained the remaining Unsullied to drag the port and its area. Not an inch of the coast was to be left unsearched. The Iron Born had sheepishly joined the search, and Daenerys’ khalasar as well as soon the first knight of her Queensguard had told her about the absurd events of the latest days.
Apart from Vyserion’s cadaver and the heavy chain that had sealed the dragon’s fate, apart from the bodies left by the Iron Born attack, they found nothing.
Nobody.
Jorah Mormont was condemned to stay in exile in Essos even after his death.
For what seemed to be the hundredth time this day, Daenerys closed her eyes to fight against the forming tears, and swallowed to chase away to bitter taste of regret. She needed to hold court, to determine the responsibilities.
She had to be the queen her bear imagined her be.
-/-The royal audience was getting to an end.
Perched on the soft, colorful cushions placed on the stone bench, Daenerys Targaryen had listened to the different, and more often than not contradictory, versions of the recent events without even a hint of impatience. Two Iron Born had carried their captain Victarion Greyjoy, paralyzed from the waist down after his failed attempt at riding Vyserion, and the now broken man evoked his brother Euron’s mad plan. Two Unsullied had brought Daario in chains, and missing a hand courtesy of Ser Grandfather, and the fallen sell-sword recognized he had accepted the Yunkai’s money during his time as hostage.
Hizdhar zo Loraq, the ephemeral king of Meereen, the Shavepate and the Green Grace confessed that the Harpy had been their common creation. Daenerys’ invasion of Meereen and the political disorganization that had followed had given them the occasion they had waited for years to replace the old elites of the city at the head of its government.
Tyrion himself had been brought to court, in spite of his contribution to the defense of the city, and been given the occasion to explain himself, probably because of this contribution.
All had been asked about the last moments of Jorah Mormont.
How he had convinced Selmy and the Iron Born to follow his crazy plan to stop Vyserion to destroy everything: the magical horn that was supposed to control dragons had driven the beast completely mad, and uncontrollable.
How Tyrion and he had managed to trick the beast into destroying the horn with his own flames.
How Mormont and Selmy had played the bait to buy enough time for Victarion’s men to lay the fatal trap.
How the knight - or rather the hunter - had taken unthinkable risks to attach the rope to the dragon’s wings.
How the heavy chain attached to the rope had dragged Vyserion into the waters…
The dwarf scratched the scar that had replaced his nose since the battle of Blackwater and, unable to resist his natural curiosity, he observed the queen as she listened to his stories with an undecipherable, neutral expression. Clad in her Dothraki riding outfit and absently playing with an arakh, she contemplated the crowded room with cold, purple eyes, in a way that reminded Tyrion of his own father.
Tywin Lanister had been a lion in the middle of a flock of sheep.
Daenerys Targaryen was a dragon, and everyone was a mere sheep to her.
Betrayals were admitted. Lies were uncovered. Old enemies were produced in front of her, and she still listened. Gone was the prone to anger girl that Brown Bed had described to Tyrion, the girl who played at being a queen. To each and every witness or defendant, she answered the same sentence.
“Your fate will be decided tomorrow, after I consulted my council.”
Her most loyal friend’s last moments were related, and she did not blink an eye. Gone was the emotional girl that the same sell-sword had presented to the dwarf, the girl who could not even mask her fateful attraction to Daario Naharis.
Mormont’s death had killed the girl in her, and now, she was truly a queen.
“So you’re telling me Ser Jorah died like a knight of the tales?”
Tyrion scratched his nose once more to hide his rueful smile, the same sad one Ser Barristan tried to conceal as well, tilting his head respectfully. The girl had not totally disappeared.
“I’d rather say he died like a northern lord, my Queen, fighting in the first line, protecting his people until his last breath.”
This was no exaggeration. The man who had died three days ago had nothing in common with the half-drunk and pitiful knight who had captured the dwarf back in Selhoris. On the contrary, during Mormont’s last hours, Tyrion had felt as if he had been fighting at the Old Bear’s side.
-/-His burnt left hand was killing him. Worse, he was not sure he could feel his middle and ring fingers anymore. If his fears were confirmed, he would need to have them cut, soon. What a sad irony. He had lived the first thirty-seven years of his life in northern confines of the North, he had known three terrible winters and some mild ones by northern standards, he had survived expeditions in the Frozen Shores against the wildlings that harassed the fishermen from Bear Island, and he had never suffered a single serious frostbite.
One confrontation with one dragon had been sufficient to jeopardize the use of his left hand.
The emaciated horse he had stolen from escaping slaves two days ago tripped once more. The beast was exhausted, and its rider as well. When the walls of Meereen appeared at last, he could barely stay in his saddle.
There he could lie down in a bed and rest.
There he could treat his hand and the burning marks scattered on his body.
Everything had gone according to plan, with the exception of the last flames Vyserion had managed to spit out before being engulfed into the waters, dragged down by the weight of the chain. The damn flames had taken him by surprise and the pain had been indescribable. Before losing consciousness, he had jumped instinctively into the port as well, hoping Selmy and the Imp would fish him out later.
Alas, the treacherous currents had carried him away from the port, into the sea. When he had woken up on a deserted coast, half burnt and half drowned, he was surrounded by a group of scared, hungry slaves who were fighting about his dagger and good belt. Grumbles of threat and a vicious hit to the nearest man’s thigh - effectively aimed at his artery - scattered the crows away. He took the remaining horse, gulped down the disgusting content of the flask attached to the saddle, and proceeded to find his way back to Meereen, hoping he would arrive in time to warn Selmy of the Volantese sails that were approaching dangerously from the west.
Hopefully, Daenerys would be back in her damn city, at last, along with a tamed dragon.
When the exhausted rider and his dying horse reached the gate of the city, the sun was low and was beginning to disappear behind the far away mountains. Like three days ago, the smell of ashes was almost unbearable.
However, something was different.
Very different.
The gate was opened.
And, above all, horse shit.
Not the smell produced by a simple army but the well-known smell of a khalasar.
Daenerys was back.
His horse finally collapsed two yards from the gate and the man rose to his feet, biting his lips to stifle a cry of pain. The unforgiving sun had burnt the inches of skin on his back the flames had not, and every movement of the muscles under the skin was agony.
He began to walk to the gate, ready to defend his case.
But the Unsullied at the gate did not move a finger, and let him step in the city, looking at the northern knight as if he was a ghost.
Well, he felt like a ghost, to be honest.
A few yards further into the city and he met a patrol of Second Sons who let him pass with incredulous expressions. Then he reached the Great Pyramid, and still not finding any opposition, he began to climb the endless stairs. The heat of the day still lingered in spite of the wind coming from the sea, but, fortunately, the sun had disappeared for the day.
When he reached the platform on trembling legs, he had to seek the support of a column to catch his breath, and gather his remaining forces. The last time he had walked into the audience room, it had been to find utter humiliation. Whatever would happen today, whatever Daenerys’ reaction would be, this would not be the case. Gods be good, he would not collapse in front of the whole damn court.
Once assured of his legs, he limped heavily to the double wood door. Jorah Mormont ignored the feeble guards’ protests - the queen is holding court, you can’t enter, or something similar - and pushed with all his might on both door leaves.
-/-This audience had been a true nightmare, and more than once Daenerys had to bit the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from reacting to the different tales the witnesses fed her with.
The succession of betrayals left a foul taste in her mouth, and she wanted to scream herself hoarse in frustration, in anger at her innocence. How could have she believed the Meereenese would accept her as a queen? She had been nothing but a fool.
The absurdity of the events that had led to Jorah’s death was even worse. What those Greyjoys were thinking? Who sent one’s own brother to his death knowingly? Who followed such mad orders blindly? It was unbelievable.
The Iron Born would pay, for sure. They would pay the iron price as they liked to call it. Daenerys did not need any advice on that point, and she had already made up her mind: the Iron Fleet would be hers from now on.
Behind her, she could feel Ser Barristan’s reassuring and protecting presence. She had missed the old man, and she was glad he had made it through this debacle. The Queensguard was the only advisor she could trust, now, and maybe the Imp, if he proved loyal and useful.
But none would replace her bear.
A commotion at the door attracted her attention, and immediately, she saw Ser Barristan walking from his waiting position to stand in front of her.
When the double door opened, the knight pulled out his sword and waited. Daenerys could not see a thing and wondered what was happening. What kind of enemy could have fought his way through the Unsullied garrison?
“You look like a roasted bear,” the Imp greeted the unexpected visitor.
“The Volantese fleet will be here tomorrow.”
Daenerys knew that voice.
Ser Barristan stepped aside; pale as if he had seen a ghost.
Here I stand.
She remembered House Mormont’s motto, and never those words had been so adequate. Oblivious of the stunned silence around him, Ser Jorah limped across the audience room with slow, measured steps, his right hand cradling the burnt left one. His shirtless torso was covered in burn marks, and his right side was torn by a bad looking, darkening scratch.
A roasted bear indeed.
But a living bear, that was all that mattered.
Tears began to well up in her eyes.
Tomorrow she would be queen.
This night she would devise plans to defend the city against Volantis’ greed.
Now, for just one moment, she would be a girl.
Jorah was standing in front of her.
Alive.
“Welcome back, my bear. You’ve been missed,” she managed to speak her pardon.
And, as she had dreamt in the Dothraki Sea, she took comfort in his ugly face and sought refuge in his arms.