snows-of-winterfell:

Uh, what?

Also, I guarantee you if Ser Jorah was younger and “hotter” (lol hotter than Iain Glen, yeah right), people would ‘ship the hell out of it.

This fandom, I swear.

Look, I’m not saying Ser Jorah’s PERFECT.  But I think he’s a better match for Dany than Drogo ever was, and I don’t think there’s anyone who cares about her more than Jorah does.

*shrugs*

Yes, this.

nightingalenoon:

against my better judgement…this dany/jorah drabble turned into 2, 000-something words and possibly a multiple chapter endeavor -_- ugh. idek what this is tbh.

Basically it’s one of those things where the characters have just been running amuck in my brain while I write other things and it’s annoying in a wonderful way. The only way to get them out of my head was to write them so here you have it: a Dany/Jorah fic about them in the red waste in which the scene with her tending to Jorah’s wound was not cut from the tv storyline! There was so much potential in that part of Dany’s story (the peach, the wound, the bonding moment!) hnng. Whatever. Anyway.

uh..warning for slight gore? more like blood.

DISCLAIMER: don’t own anything. Don’t sue me.

———————————————————————————

Fires dot the distance as the night begins to get unbearably cold. Dany finds that her handmaids must have set one between their shelter and her own because light floods in around her dragon’s cages. But she’s still swathed in darkness, a thing she’s thankful for. She’s  been prone to shadows now more than ever, especially to sleep. Too much sunlight has created a constant yearning inside her for the dark. She’s seen too many demons to be afraid, allowed too many ghosts to darken her path. 

Dany had marveled at the shift in temperature the first few nights. The sun brought them scorching heat and the moon brought a dry chill creeping into their bones. As her eyes wander away from Irri and Doreah, a rarer sight captivates her attention. At first, she doesn’t realize what it is she is staring at. The rhythm enchants her into a daze until she blinks.

Her bleary vision adjusts to the heavy rise and fall of Ser Jorah’s chest. Sleeping, she muses, a contented feeling spreading through her as she allows her eyes to trace each weathered line on his face. He is never asleep when she is awake. In fact, she can’t recall any other instance, save the one she woke to after losing her son, when his guard was down. And even then, his sword had been at the ready. The fire casts dramatic shadows onto his face, shadows that hollow his cheeks and stir a feeling of dread in her stomach. Her diligent bear looked utterly exhausted. None of them were faring well in this place. Death seemed a constant companion, but Jorah had been her strength through the trying times.

A part of her mind whispers of the hopelessness surrounding her as she watches him slumber fitfully, aching for him to startle awake, to sense her eyes on him, to speak so that his voice might calm her nerves. She should be taking this time to study him, to see the man behind the gentle looks and protectiveness during his waking hours, but she does not like the haggard shape he’s in just then. She doesn’t like how labored his breathing is, nor how drawn his face is.

Labored.

He shifts against the rock he’s leaning against and she thinks that he’ll wake. When his expression twists into a light grimace, Dany feels herself frowning. Everyone was aching from hunger, from walking, from riding but just as he had not complained, neither had she. Her mind flashes back to him kneeling carefully beside her Silver earlier in the day, then to the wound on his neck when he had objected to leaving her alone with the Mirri Maz Duur, the feel of it against her little finger when she had kissed him on the cheek the night of the pyre, and then brief flashes of him fighting Qotho when she had been crippled with pain.

Her anxiety mounts within seconds, jabbing at her stomach almost as painfully as the starvation had. A lump, angry and throbbing, forms in the back of her throat. She hadn’t felt this way since seeing the rotted wound on Khal Drogo’s chest. Fear, she realizes. But this fear is unlike the kind that makes her afraid for her life, for her safety. It’s a peculiar variant, the kind that neither fueled her determination or inspired her for words of triumph like the deaths of so many in her Khalasar. She had felt each demise as keenly as she had her brother’s but this fear pained her heart and stole her breath; helpless. It made her mind recall the jarring way in which Jorah had caught himself after setting up her little shelter. It highlighted every uneven step he’d tried to hide beside her as she tended her dragons, made her recall every wince he’d ever covered up as consternation or concern. He hid it from me. And worse, she didn’t know what it was that he was hiding.

Guilt and anger berates her at the thought of not noticing sooner. He was so constant, so reliable that she had never thought to watch her watcher. Their talk of strength earlier came back in full force. She had confessed his role in her life easily, grateful beyond measure. Her ever present source of comfort, encouragement, advice, and protection had never faltered. He was never more than a step behind her as they traveled unless it was to secure their position in the morning. At what price? She doesn’t want to think about it as her eyes attempt to search his body for what ails him. Frustrated, Dany realizes that he’s leaning just slightly towards her.

As a testament to his attentiveness, she barely begins shifting to his side when the sound of her moving makes his eyes snap open. His hand has already reached for the sword laid out to his left.

“Khaleesi?” The questioning tone dies on his lips when he notices her delicate hand has him firmly by the shoulder to keep him from getting up, while the other stays the hand on his weapon’s hilt. “What-“ He starts but her look silences him.

“You are not well.” She accuses quietly so she doesn’t wake the others and tries not to be distracted by the way his heart hammers against her fingers. For a moment he simply stares at her before his blue eyes blink away the sleepiness and glance to her hand which has fallen to rest on his chest. She promptly removes it and leans back to sit beside him. “Where?” But more importantly, she wonders. For how long? It had taken less than a week for her sun and stars to succumb to infection.

“It’s healing, Khaleesi.” He says, looking her in the eye with a reserved embarrassment. “Trust me.” The latter statement has become a favorite of his as of late. She does trust him, more than he may realize, but that didn’t mean she appreciated him gently brushing off her concern. “You don’t need to -“

“Do not tell me what to do.” She snaps, grabbing his arm as if to forcibly stop him from talking. No amount of determination to protect her on his part could contain her fire. He may be a bear, but I am a dragon. “I will see it tended myself, and you will not object.” This was not a debate. She had begun to learn that if she gave him any wiggle room in a discussion, that he would fight it. She was a Khaleesi, Daenerys Stormborn, Heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and rightful Queen of Westeros. The mother of dragons. She begins to think that he actually will refuse her help when he nods.

“Left hip.” Is all he says as he leans back and closes his eyes. Dany moves around to the other side of him and steels herself. That familiar fear begins to curdle in her stomach again but she can’t look back now. She begins to lift his shirt when her fingers brush against the cloth he’s placed on the laceration and he hisses in pain. Against the light of the fire, she can see an ugly tear in his side as she carefully lifts away the bandage to reveal it entirely. She gently traces the enflamed skin around it and he shivers against her touch. The wound was healing, but slowly and as she examines it further it begins to bleed.

“I need you to lie down.” She says after another moment. When he fails to move, she looks up to find he’s turned to frown at her. “Now, Jorah.” She indicates to her mat stretched out below her dragons and after a few protests about laying out his own mat so he doesn’t bleed on hers, she finally gets him to relax. If she didn’t think he would fight her on it, she would have woken Irri to fetch what was left of their fermented mare’s milk to make him sleepy. He was already telling her not to waste the water on cleaning the wound. But she bids him to turn over so it’s exposed to her. It needed to be cleaned properly, and since she doesn’t think he’d cleaned it in a while (as she cannot recall him leaving her alone to do so) she spends a good amount of time crouched beside him to make sure it’s free of dirt and debris. The darkness makes for slow going and now that she’s aggravated it, every time he moves it bleeds a little more. She places the cleanest strip of cloth she can find under her tent across the wound to serve as a bandage when she’s finished.

Dany tucks the edge of the cloth under the line of his pants to keep it in place and allows him to lay flat on his back once more. I’ll have to check it in the morning, she’s not satisfied with being unable to see it fully in the dark. By right, she isn’t the best choice to tend an injury. All I know is it must be clean. Wounds make her nervous and rightly so after what happened to Drogo. She doesn’t trust anyone else to care for those she loves. Her bear should know this. It seems she is unable to hide the worry from her eyes as she looks down at him. Sweat has beaded his brow, and his eyes fight to remain open. He’d been gravely still during her ministrations and now she’s afraid that she has caused him more pain that she intended. Taking the non-bloodied edge of the cloth she had been using to clean his wound with, she dabs the sweat from his forehead and stops when her eyes fall to the shadowed area of his neck where she knows the scar is.

“No more secrets, Jorah.” She whispers, brushing the back of her fingers against his cheek. As she withdraws her hand once more, he makes a tired sound that she takes for his quiet agreement. His eyes finally close and he falls asleep once more, leaving Dany to stare at her fearless knight as he rests. She knows she won’t sleep any more than she already has tonight. In the morning, she will tell her Bloodriders to scour the land for places that might receive them. Where we might grow strong again. No endeavor was worth the life of her friends. I will not lose anyone else to this waste, the silent vow fills her with renewed vigor as she casts her eye to the comet once more.

She was done being robbed of the things she loved. Home, husband, child…No more. Her eyes dart back to the still form of Jorah again and she lightly places her hand over his heart. A childish thing, perhaps, but the strong pulse under her hand reassures her, and she scoots back to lean against the rock she had been sleeping against earlier. It was time she took things back. This aimless wandering would not cost her her bear as well. He was more important to her than she had thought. They had relied on one another, suffered together, lived together…and as the sun begins to light the sky, the thought of life without him terrifies her.