What Queens Do

Jorah’s heart flew faster than any creature living when she said that she would take him. His smile widened as he laughed quietly, almost like he was taken aback that she agreed to marry him. He swallowed thickly as he watched her before he knelt down and looked at the Weirwood tree. He thought about what he’d do for her. About how much he loved her. He thanked whatever Gods were listening to his prayers, who thought he was worthy enough to have her. His heart was hammering in his chest. After he stood and took off his cloak and draped it around her shoulders, helping her stand. 

He leaned down and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her back as he sighed into her mouth, smiling. He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against hers, his nose brushing against her own as he grinned. 

He followed Daenerys up to her chambers, which was also his, and the handful of them partook in drinks and food. His eyes barely strayed from his Queen the entire night, though he’d occasionally laugh at Tyrion making a joke. He watched as Dany drank probably a little too much, and leaned against him. He’d kiss her whenever she leaned into him. He was sitting next to her now, his hand in hers, fingers laces, when the musicians came in and she told him that she’d finally married by choice. It seemed to bring him up short that she’d chosen him. 

Him.

Of all people that she could have chosen. He met her kiss with passion, pressing his lips to hers as he parted them almost instantly and meeting her tongue. He pulled her closer, sucking at her lower lip as he smiled against her mouth. “I love you..” he murmured when he pulled back.

She could taste wine on his lips and it was a pleasant experience. Why become drunk on a bottle when she could become drunk on her husband’s lips instead? Her fingers brushed against his scruffy cheek, gentle in her affections. Once they parted, her eyes warmed at his affections. Her fingers swept against his cheek once more. 

“I love you.”

Then her eyes gleamed mischievously. 

“Although, now you shall have to prove it once more.”

Rising to her feet, she extended her hand to him.

“Dance with me, husband.”

Daenerys could not remember the last time she had danced. When she was small, perhaps, and heard a tune that was pleasing in the market square of some city that she and her brother were taking shelter in. She’d never been to any balls or celebrations that featured dancing in the styles that she had been taught by her brother and Illyrio Mopatis. 

Now? She wanted to dance at her wedding. Taking his hand, she led him where they had some space. The musicians played on. 

“I shall keep it simple for you, since I’m sure the dances in the North are quite different from those in the South.”

In fact, she wasn’t even sure if the court dances her brother had taught her were even in style anymore. Just another disconnection from her home that she had to face. But she smiled all the same and showed him the steps to the dance. It was quite simple. A step here, a step there, a twirl, a prance in a circle, and then the steps were repeated--albeit at increasing speed. 

Daenerys danced with her bear, feeling more alive and at peace than she had in a long time.

The last thing he had seen were her tears. She had been so sad, but for who? He was sure it could not be him. She was his strength. As you are mine. Her words echoed, and he remembered. And he was sad to die. Sad to leave her in this world along. But he knew he could not live forever. Nor would he want to. Too many burdens in that longevity.

And so he had prepared himself to die, said his own goodbye to Daenerys. The one woman—the one person he believed in more than anything in this whole world. A last breathed ‘I love you.” It had been his final gift. 

And when he finally died, eyes open and staring forever at his Khaleesi, he felt…nothing. It had been endless nothing. All that he could see. It was not the worst feeling he had ever experienced. Nor was it the greatest. It confused him. How many gods had he known in his life? How many great deities had been preached across Westeros? Essos? 

But it was gone in an instant, the nothingness fading into black (a strange sight that Jorah would not recommend), and the black fading into dim light. He was on fire. It was like flames bubbling beneath his skin. It bubbled…bubbled… until he could not take it anymore. He wanted to move, wanted to scream. 

But all he could do was take a gasp of air and sit up, choking on his own air as he came back to life. He looked at the lady of fire, the lady who had lit the Dothraki weapons by herself. Or no, the Lord of Light. She had been a priestess.

But he didn’t care about her. With a voice that was raspy and strained, he called out for her. “Khaleesi? Daenerys? Where are you?”

It had taken several hours. Melisandre had informed her time and again that she had no further power, but Daenerys insisted. Then she threatened. Perhaps it was wrong of her. Selfish. Jorah Mormont deserved peace far more than anyone else she knew. But she refused to let him go. He could scold her for it later. 

Her eyes were tired. It was nearly noon by now, and she hadn’t slept for some time. Just as her body started to fight against her, Melisandre’s prayers were cut-off at the sudden movement on the bed. Jorah was sitting up. More than that, he was breathing. He was alive. 

In seconds, her exhaustion was forgotten, and she rushed over to the confused knight. Hands gripped his grizzled face still covered in blood. 

“Shhh, gently. I am here.”

Tears already filled her gaze, and her heart ached with joy. Her palm lightly caresses the hollowed cheek, and she turns her gaze back to Melisandre. 

“You have my gratitude.” 

Melisandre only shakes her head and replies:

“Your gratitude is for R’hllor. He will remember you.” 

And then she was gone, left out of her chambers. Of her intentions and whereabouts, Daenerys could not guess. Nor did it matter. She had a far more pressing concern. Turning back to Jorah, she eased him back onto her bed. 

“Rest, Jorah. You live. Your Queen has need of you yet.” 

Some of the tears bubbled forth and managed to slip down her cheeks. The ache of relief is felt bone-deep. Where would she be without her fierce protector? Without her sweet bear to advise her? Thankfully, it was not something she would know. Not for some time, if she had anything to do with it. 

“You must never do that again.”

A scolding without heat. Despite the pain from her other losses--so many Dothraki and Unsullied had been lost--Daenerys feels mostly joy. The victory was actually worth something. Her family had survived. 

Resting the back of her hand against his forehead, she felt for a fever. Nothing. Then she lifted his shirt to inspect the ghastly wounds that had been the end of him. They were sealed now. Deep and fresh scars remained. 

“Do they hurt?” 

Her finger traced along one of the scars, mindful not to place too much pressure on the skin lest it did. 

Jorah’s heart was slamming against his ribs when he saw Daenerys walking toward him looking like a vision. One that would make any God jealous. He smiled, grinning from ear to ear as he listened to Tyrion as he begrudgingly started to officiate the marriage. He was so caught up in watching her that it took a hit to his arm from Tyrion to get him to realize where they were in the vows. He cleared his throat and shook his head a little, “My apologies,” he chuckled quietly.

“Ser Jorah of House Mormont, heir to Bear Island and first of her Grace’s Queen’s Guard. Who gives her?” he asked. He’d given up his claim to Bear Island, but that answer was how he knew the Old Gods wedding vows to work.

Missandei answered soon after, trying to hide the smile from earlier at how Jorah had almost missed his vows. “Missandei of Naath…who is her Grace’s friend, her handmaiden, and who chose to follow her after her Grace freed her from slavery.”

Tyrion turned and looked at Daenerys, “Your Grace, Daenerys Targaryen, do you take this man?”

The knight’s heart was in his throat now, waiting on her answer. What if she changed her mind? What if she came to her senses and realized that this was a terrible mistake? He was still sure that he’d died and gone to the afterlife.

A playful smile presses to her lips when Jorah forgets to pay attention to the ceremony itself. His eyes are for her, and the embarrassed smile which presses to his lips endears him to her all the more. Once he gives his vow, the ceremony continues until it comes to her final words. The question hangs heavily in the air. Even her betrothed seems anxious at her answer. 

“I will take this man.”

It is firmly spoken, loud enough to be heard by all those who had gathered for the historic, albeit simple, wedding. Silently, the couple kneel before the Weirwood tree. Dany removes her gaze from Jorah’s and stares into the face carved in the Heart Tree. It is the first that she has seen. It almost appears frightful. Yet as she inspects it further, she finds the knots and bark makes the face appear old and crinkled. It makes the tree look wise. 

Daenerys has not had the time to contemplate religion nor her feelings towards it. She isn’t even sure how she feels about destiny or fate. Though of all the times to be born, and of all the times for dragon eggs to hatch, it is now, when they were needed most to defeat the Night King . . . Perhaps there is a Celestial touch in the works. Though she cannot make out whether the touch comes from this tree or from the Seven who walk invisible along the world. 

Once enough time has passed, the couple stands once more. With her new cloak, the wedding is complete. Her eyes are bright as she leans up to accept him into her arms. Lips find his with ease, kissing him for the first time as husband and wife. Applause sounds, though it is muted in this holy place. Though she takes great pleasure in the scratchy sensation of his beard against her skin, Daenerys draws back slowly. 

Her hand lightly strokes against his scruffy cheek, and she gives a small giggle of satisfaction. Together, they walk out of the Godswood and back to Winterfell. The wedding is not followed by a feast. Daenerys has no interest in broadcasting her marriage when so many have lost their loved ones and still battle for their lives. Instead, a small dinner is hosted in her chambers--now Jorah’s chambers as well. 

It is filled with those she knows and loves best--Grey Worm, Missandei, her husband, and Tyrion. Together, they feast and drink wine. For the first time, Dany allows herself to drink more than she normally would. Her laughter is easy and free at the jokes that Tyrion tells, and she is open in her affection towards her husband, stealing quite a few kisses when the attention is placed on Missandei or Grey Worm. 

Tyrion invites a few musicians into the room and as music and chatter fill the air, Dany turns to her husband, her hand within his. 

“It has occurred to me that this is the first time I have married by choice. I find the ceremony far more enjoyable when I do not dread the presence of my husband.”

Her hand squeezes his own, and she draws him toward her for another kiss, her tongue meeting his own with both tenderness and eagerness. 

Many believed that to be royalty was a gift. Dany could not argue that there were many benefits and privileges that her family name afforded her. Yet there were troubles she had to bear that those of common blood would never understand. For one, there was an expectation for perfection. To be beautiful, godly, kind, well-spoken, and obedient. Daenerys understood her station. She was a barter. Someone to be sold off to for this or that alliance. A pawn and nothing more. Such was the fate of women in this world. 

Fated to obey rather than discover. Fated to follow in all of the footsteps forged by women before her instead of have adventures of her own. It was suffocating. Daenerys Targaryen, who was born during a vicious storm, wanted to be so much more than someone’s prize. She wanted to see new places. Put the power of her name to use.

But this was not her destiny. Instead she, much like her elder brother, had to wait for the passing of their father. Though he declined, his mind was moving faster than his body. It had caused them some trouble in the past. She worried what he might do in the future. If only Rhaegar could take the throne. Daenerys was certain he could usher in a time of peace and bounty. 

Rhaegar. 

Despite she and Viserys being closer in age, it had been her elder brother that Daenerys had attached herself to. He had a skill with reading books to her that had filled their earlier years--and even now was part of some of their quieter evenings. Where Viserys was sometimes spoiled and temperamental, in Rhaegar she had found a gentle heart full of compassion and light. The way he treated the common people was inspiring. 

And at some point, her admiration for her brother had transitioned from innocent pride to a warmer passion. In a gilded cage like royalty, it was really quite easy to be pulled towards Rhaegar. He was handsome, intelligent, and far more caring towards her than any other man of position had been. How else could it have gone?

When she, at last, voices this observation of hers, he is quick to release her hand. Daenerys is displeased. Though his concern that he had made her uncomfortable was sweet. Raising her hand, her fingertips touched the sharp curve of his cheek. 

“I am always safe with you, Rhae. You don’t have it in you to make me uncomfortable.”

Those fingertips brushed down his cheek to take his hand in hers once more. It was quite a stretch to reach his face. He was so tall--though that wasn’t saying much considering her rather short stature. 

Violet eyes blink for a moment as she gazes up at him. Her heart beats at a quickened pace beneath her breast though she’s unsure what has caused its acceleration. Perhaps fear of her next question. 

“Would it be so awful . . . if father arranged for us to marry instead of you and Cersei?” 

Jorah woke up the next morning and took a hot bath, cleaning himself thoroughly before he got out and threw on his clothes. He then wandered the castle looking for anything that could resemble a tunic that reflected Bear island, or at least something that reflected her. Eventually he found a clean tunic in black with deep forest green tones at the arms and over the shoulders, tracing around the edge of his collar. He put that on and pulled his black cloak around his shoulders, making that would keep him warm, not that he wasn’t used to the cold. 

Afterward he wandered the grounds of Winterfell, trying to find something specific.

Some time later, he walked out of the Keep and made his way to the Weirwood tree, standing with his hands behind his back. 

‘You do realize how lucky you are, don’t you?’ 

The Bear turned his head when Tyrion spoke to him. He scowled, biting back an insult. Jorah was well aware. He knew exactly what she was giving up for him. He knew he didn’t deserve her, or anything she gave him. Instead of the insult he nodded and gave a simple, “Aye.”

‘Good,’ the Lannister nodded. ‘Because here she comes,’ he gestured in the direction with a nod of his head. 

Jorah’s gaze followed toward Daenerys and his breath hitched in his throat. He swallowed thickly as she came toward him in her white dress, looking like a silver angel. He quietly thanked the Gods, all of them, for her. His breath left him and he couldn’t seem to get it back after that. 

Well, he had certainly found himself a nice tunic. The greens and blacks suited him. Though she deigned to one day dress him in the colors of her own House to see how he appeared in red, she could not deny that he was striking. When his gaze met hers, a smile pressed to her lips, reaching her eyes. Missandei took her hand, and the two walked down to stand before the weirwood tree.

Tyrion cleared his throat. His expression made it clear that he wasn’t too pleased with the current predicament. Yet he performed his duty and asked the first question. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” 

Missandei answered him. 

“Daenerys, of the House Targaryen, comes here to be wed.  A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Eyes swept to Jorah for his answer. 

NONVERBAL STARTERS:

Smoke clung to her hair. Despite having sat among the burning logs for hours, a chill crept along her skin. No doubt because she was naked. Her body still ached from the forced birth that Mirri Maz Duur had forced her body into. Yet she stood with all the power and grace as though she was clothed in royal robes. The remainder of her Khalasar knelt before her--led by Ser Jorah.

With her dragons scurrying tighter to her body--they were clearly chilled, too--she passed through them. Briefly, she stopped at Jorah’s side and touched his shoulder. A signal to follow. Otherwise, she swept through the small crowd to the camp. The dragons, newly emerged, were soft and still wet from their eggs. They looked at their surroundings with a curious intelligence that fascinated her.

Though her heart ached for the passing of her husband, and of her beloved Rhaego, it filled now with a love for these three small and affectionate creatures. She knew nothing of dragons despite her family heritage. It was time she learned. Stepping into the large tent, she let the dragons rest in the crib that had been built for Rhaego. 

Dothraki leathers were pulled out of her trunk and slipped on. Exhaustion clung to her eyes but she only allowed herself to sit on the edge of the bed made of furs. Gesturing for Ser Jorah to sit as well, she noticed, perhaps for the first time, that his neck still bled. It was clear he had attempted to stitch it himself but it oozed. 

Qotho had given him that wound. That Ser Jorah had managed to defeat a Bloodrider was no small feat. 

“We must survive now. For them.”

A glance is given to her dragons. 

“And we cannot survive if you do not survive.”

With that, she rose from the bed and searched for the kit to mend wounds. Daenerys would not allow her knight to follow Drogo into death because of infection and poor care. Washing her hands in a basin, she took a needle to the fire and threaded it. Then took a fresh rag and moved to his side. 

“Remain still, Ser Jorah.”

Dabbing the slice across the side of his neck, she cleaned it, and then started to stitch the skin properly. Though she was a bit clumsy, her hands were steady. She had sewn up wounds smaller than this on herself before. Viserys had had a strong backhand at times. 

“You bled for me, Ser Knight. I will not forget it.”

Once the wound was properly stitched, she find the herbs for a poultice and began to mash them together. 

“Now we must discuss where to travel. I will not lose my dragons to a rival Khalasar. Nor will I join the doth khaleen.”

NONVERBAL STARTERS

With the Scorpions destroyed, Daenerys was able to hover in the air above King’s Landing with more ease. The power beneath her rippled. Drogon had a taste for destruction now. She placed a soothing hand against his neck, between the spikes, to soothe him. The fight was far from over but they needed to direct their anger and thirst for vengeance. 

Below her, lines of black filled the city block by block. Her Unsullied. Led both by Grey Worm and Ser Jorah--who had recently healed from his wounds taken in the battle against the Army of the Dead. Drogon trembled below her, and she allowed him to fly around the city once more. His roars shook the very earth below if the Lannister soldiers who collapsed were anything to go by. 

In her heart trembled rage and elation. Her hands shook against Drogon’s spikes. All too clear in her memory was Missandei’s execution. All too clear in her mind was the Iron Throne. Suddenly, below her, an explosion. Green fire erupted from the ground and cause a series of buildings to collapse. What was this? 

She sent Drogon back over the city, watching as more and more bursts of green flame emerged from the ground and took whole blocks with it. The men below became confused. It struck both Lannister and her own men. She saw Ser Jorah below once more . . . and noticed that a building next to him was bowing . . . shaking . . . 

“Jikagon!“

A cry that tore through the air and urged Drogon to sweep to the ground. As she slid down her dragon’s back with a grace borne only to a dragonrider, Drogon landed hard on the ground and reared up, catching the building with one wing while the other sheltered Ser Jorah and those men with him below. Daenerys landed on the ground beside him, her expression concerned and covered in soot.

“There’s something below the ground. It’s igniting. Tearing the city apart. It’s no longer safe. We have to retreat until it passes. Climb on him. All of you!”

Dany led by example, gripping Drogon’s spikes and climbing up his serpentine body until she resumed her position at the nape of his neck. Reaching down, she offered a hand to help those that she might. Drogon struggled with the building, his head pressing against it now to keep it from collapsing on them.

Aww! Thank you so much, Anon! Stalk away! As far as I’m concerned, the Bear and the Maiden Fair need a lot more love. Especially now. As for more? Stay tuned. >.> <.<