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There’s excitement in the air; a distinct hum of happiness that drifts from gathering crowds to settle within the halls of the keep. All signs indicate a day of celebration not to be missed. The anticipation alone has brought guests from near and far, leaving little of King’s Landing unoccupied by either royalty or commoner. In every home, every hall, and every room, there are smiling faces readying themselves for the festivities ahead, dressing in bright-colored gowns and metallic cloaks to pay tribute to enduring peace.
Nearly everyone is busy in preparation for the day ahead…
All except two.
Outside the keep, father and son lay side-by-side in the lofty grass, far enough away from the hustle and bustle to enjoy the quiet morning. The father—a tall man built with a warrior’s strength—cradles his head in one palm and bends his knee to prop one leg up, leaving the other fully extended. The son—a small boy with his mother’s eyes—mimics the posture, settling his head below his father’s bent elbow. They both stare out at the massive creatures soaring overhead.
“They hatched from eggs!? But they’re so big!” the boy gasps, caught in awestruck disbelief.
“They weren’t always that way,” the man explains patiently. “There was a time when they could sit in the palm of a hand.”
Perhaps sensing the topic of conversation, the smaller of the three dragons, all cream and gold, swoops low to land solidly in front of them. The ground quakes and the boy giggles. The mirthful sound encourages the dragon, who proceeds to bound gracefully across the grass before taking flight in spectacular show. The majestic creature looks back mid-flight to ensure his audience is enthralled. The boy claps his hands and the man chuckles. Only when the dragon soars further out of sight, weaving along the rocky cliff to join its brothers, does the boy’s smile falter.
“I don’t understand it, Papa.”
The man raises his head to study his son. His blue eyes darken with concern.
“Understand what?”
The boy hesitates on something, holding tightly to questions that have bothered him for some time. Beneath his father’s encouraging nod, he finally lets his worries slip free.
“I heard Lord Foley’s son call them wild beasts. He said everyone fears them…that dragons are only meant to kill…but that’s not true, is it?” he glances back at the three dragons, watching as they fight playfully for control of the sky. His next words brim with somber uncertainty and although they’re not meant to form a question, they waver as one. “They wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
The man opens his mouth but shuts it quickly before words can escape. After a moment, he tries again. “Well…things aren’t always so simple.” He pulls himself into an upright position, allowing his eyes to follow his son’s worried gaze. “Sometimes people fear what they don’t understand.” His expression brightens as he observes the dragons. There’s a fond glimmer there that speaks of distant memories. “And for some, seeing is the first step to believing…”
Years ago in The Red Waste...
The journey ahead is long and dangerous. There is certainty in nothing but the ground beneath their feet and even that seems to waver with each passing moment, as grass becomes dirt and dirt becomes sand. They have only just begun their journey across the Red Waste and already exhaustion is high and spirits low. Their horses are few, so they take turns riding, careful to allow the animals time to rest.
Although his feet burn and his back aches, Jorah spends little time upon his steed. Rather than continuing to ride alongside Daenerys, he hands the reigns off to Irri. Perhaps it has something to do with the agony of direct sunlight, or more likely, he has taken pity on the young handmaiden’s weary posture.
“Ride with the khaleesi,” he says in Dothraki, nodding his head towards the vacated spot beside Daenerys. Irri looks uncertain of the offer. Her eyes flicker between Jorah and the dark horse behind him, clearly tempted by the idea, but also stubbornly prideful. “You’re less weight for him to carry,” he adds, waving the reigns closer.
True, her eyes seem to say, as they trek a long, slow path down Jorah’s body. “Poor thing,” she smirks, taking the horse’s reigns. The knight snorts in amusement before making his way to the front of the dwindling khalasar. Rakharo gives a nod as Jorah sets a pace beside him. Neither of them speaks, both too tired for anything beyond muffled grunts and grumbles.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for Jorah to acquire passengers of his own. Uneasy with the swaying motion of the horses, two of the three dragons perch themselves atop his shoulders instead. Although their weight isn’t cumbersome, their restless movements wear on him. Each time they shift, their thin claws scrape against his sunburnt skin, irritating already tender flesh.
Later that evening, when Jorah removes his shirt, he holds the fabric up to find it riddled with tiny holes and tears.
Days later, in an act of grand mercy, one of the handmaidens builds a basket for the dragons, relieving Jorah of his duty as dragon bearer. The sturdy structure fights off some of the horse’s natural sway and seems to satisfy its occupants…or most of them.
Instead of staying in the basket, the smallest of the dragons finds the knight at the front of the pack. It glides unsteadily from shoulder-to-shoulder in search of comfort. Jorah grumbles impatiently until the dragon settles behind his neck. After a while, its breathing evens out and its head settles in sign of sleep. For the sake of his already threadbare clothing, Jorah lets the dragon rest, convinced it will wake and flitter off to rejoin its brothers.
But it seems luck abandoned him long ago, because from then on, the road-weary naps become a tradition. Despite Jorah’s best efforts, the small dragon never stays in the basket long. When it grows weary of sharing space with its brothers, it finds his shoulder instead.
After many sighs and muffled curses, Jorah learns to appreciate his new companion. On days where the sky is cloudless and the sun unforgiving, the dragon’s cool underbelly soothes his aching skin and its scales provide protection from the harshest rays.
Daenerys is the first to notice this symbiotic relationship, as she catches sight of her knight leaning up against a thin tree to lounge in the shade. At first, she thinks him asleep, but then his hand rises to reach for a small stone in the sand. With as little effort as possible, he tosses the pebble across the desert floor. A small shadow darts out from beneath the tent as her smallest dragon scampers after the stone, snapping its jaws and biting at the rock. The little game continues until Jorah runs out of stones. At which point, the dragon snorts angrily, refusing to return the ones already thrown.
Daenerys watches her knight more closely after that, smiling to herself and forgetting their preordained roles, if only for a moment.
That night, as Jorah sits outside his tent, sinking his palms into the sand in search of cooler ground, she teases him about his newfound belief in things previously thought impossible.
“I believe what my eyes and ears can recall,” she says, lowering her voice to mimic his with words spoken long ago. His words. Her eyes dance with affection leftover from her distant studies…of him, of the gentle nature he has never been able to conceal, no matter the armor.
Daenerys sits down beside him, close enough for their thighs to touch. She tips her head to the side and nudges him lightly. “Do you believe now?”
Jorah smiles softly but doesn’t respond. She already knows the answer and he is not sure words would do it justice.
In his mind, they aren’t discussing dragons anymore.
I believed in you the moment I first set my eyes upon you…before I even heard your voice.
“You were born into a world where dragons exist. For centuries people thought them extinct. Before that, they were creatures used to conquer kingdoms. It’s difficult for people to look at them now and see something other than what they’ve read about in books.”
“Well, the books are wrong.” the boy declares.
“I thought you liked those books?”
“Not those ones.”
The man raises an eyebrow. “Just the ones filled with stories of honor and valor, then? We can’t pick and choose which truths to believe, no matter how unpleasant they are.”
“So, Lord Foley’s son was right?” The boy’s shoulders slouch in despair at the unspoken conclusion.
“No, not quite. The past is the past and for all its lessons, we can’t change it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t change...”
Blackwater Bay
The trip from the Citadel to Dragonstone feels like a trial of its own. Each step forward is more painful than the last, as fresh wounds have only just begun to heal, and dull aches warn of much needed rest. Still, Jorah trudges on, allowing each breath to strengthen his resolve. If the Gods wish to test his purpose with a second chance at life, so be it. He will not wander off course, nor will he squander the chance to return to his queen.
But even as he braces for a storm, his heart falters over choppy waters. An eerie fog drifts low over the bay, settling in layers thick enough to obscure his vision. In another life, in another land, Jorah would have hesitated at this obstacle, debating its worth as a test or warning. Although some of this wariness remains, it is for different reason. It’s not about a plunge into the unknown, or the stretch of blind faith on its own…if anything, it’s about too much faith, in one human soul.
If his life was spared for a purpose other than that which places him at his queen’s side, he’s not sure he wants it.
But who is he to refuse the Gods?
Who is he to refuse Daenerys, should she turn him away? Jorah swallows heavily at the thought, pondering the depth of forgiveness he so craves. His chin tips upwards and his eyes set on the horizon. So be it.
Just then, as he’s ready to venture ahead—certainty be damned—a long shadow darkens the water and blocks out what’s left of fractured sunlight. It moves at a deliberate pace, slow enough to capture Jorah’s attention, and close enough to send a shiver up his spin. There’s no fear, though, for he recognizes the gentle hush of wings across the churning sea.
Jorah looks up, expecting to see flickers of bronze and green, even gold, between the layers of clouds. He is surprised by a shadow that never changes color.
Drogon.
As if summoned by name, the dragon dips low, slipping below the foggy haze to drift beside the boat. The air shifts, growing quieter beneath his massive frame. Drogon’s head curves at a strange angle to peer at a familiar face through a single crimson eye. Despite the piercing nature of the gaze, Jorah feels calmer than before, surer of the path ahead. Perhaps it’s the recognition in the creature’s eyes, or the understanding, if not forgiveness.
Of all the dragon’s, Drogon has always been the most distant, the most abrasive. Eager to please his mother and few others. Even Jorah, who once held the dragon in the palm of his hand, failed to bond in anything beyond mutual love for Daenerys Targaryen.
It’s a strange connection, the one between human and animal. One he has doubted many times, despite the creature comforts of his childhood.
“They are dragons, Khaleesi. They can never be tamed…”
And there is truth to those words, spoken so long ago. The dragons have never been tamed, nor will they ever be. But the same can be said of the human heart, which yearns without permission and rarely listens to reason—something Jorah understands all too well, having fought hard to control his for years.
Even in the beginning, when he didn’t believe in much of anything, let alone a few dragon eggs, it had been his heart that refused to let Viserys slither off with his sister’s cherished gifts. Perhaps in that action alone, he had tied his fate to the three dragons. And their mother.
A single decision that changed the course of his life.
For the better.
It’s impossible to determine what has brought Drogon out to the middle of the bay—although errant wandering isn’t beyond the realm of possibility—but if what they say about the relationship between a dragon and its rider is true, and emotions are paired, Jorah hopes the creature’s presence is a reflection of his queen’s forgiveness.
But any further ponderance of what lay ahead is interrupted as a single red-black wing grazes the water’s surface, spraying mist in every direction. The sudden movement sends the small boat swaying violently from side to side.
Jorah presses his lips together in search of patience. When he looks up again, Drogon has already moved ahead, flying east of his intended direction. The strong flap of the dragon’s wings clears away any lingering fog, making for an unburdened path forward.
The intent is clear.
Jorah follows.
Drogon glances back once more. As his eyes set on Jorah, he releases an uncharacteristically light chirp reminiscent of his earliest days.
Jorah smiles. It’s good to see you too, old friend.
The boy leans forward, confused. “Then why do we have the festival today, if people still hate dragons?”
“It’s not in our nature to hate, but war paves a rough road for love. Some things take time…and great patience. There’s beauty in dragons, beyond heat and flame, and showing that to the people may dampen their fears, but reputation carries almost as much influence as power…actions of the past, even when not our own, carve out parts of our future.”
“But what if they are different than the other dragons?”
“That may be. Perhaps one day character will prove more valuable than word. Until then—" The man starts, but his words are cut off by a familiar voice.
“We find strength in each other.”
Both the man and the boy glance backwards quickly, startled by the sudden appearance of a silver-haired woman.
“Mama!” the boy greets.
She returns his smile, bending at the waist to press a kiss to his golden locks. Then, with a wicked smile, she addresses the man, “There was a time when I couldn’t sneak up on you, ser.”
“The price of old age, I’m afraid,” he japes, offering up his hand for balance as she settles onto the grass beside him.
“Well, I’ve been looking for you all morning. Imagine my surprise when I’m informed that instead of getting ready for the festival, the two of you are off frolicking with dragons—”
“Khaleesi…”
“—without me,” she finishes lightly. “An invitation would have been nice, considering I’ve spent the last half hour listening to Tyrion’s gropes and complaints about poor lightning and tiny goblets…” She trails off, glancing between her husband and son, trying to piece together the bits of conversation overheard on her stroll across the meadow. Deft eyes catch sight of smudged dirt. She swipes the pad of her thumb down her son’s cheek, wiping it away. Her expressions softens. “I wouldn’t worry too much about what others think, sweetheart. You love the dragons, don’t you?”
The boy nods vehemently.
“That matters more than anything else…sometimes all we need is for someone to see us as we are, not as we could be, and love without question.”
King's Landing
Daenerys inhales sharply on the end of a long exhale, soaking up the night air as it weaves its way up the stone walls of the keep. She’s been standing close to the open window long enough to feel a cold, dull ache in her fingers and toes. The small fire nearby calls to her, but still she hovers on the outskirts of warmth, lost in an eerie contemplation that borders on premonition.
She has felt it for weeks now…a strange hum drifting from distant lands, the ghost of a whisper warning of something intangible but very present. It’s more feeling than sound and despite hours of consideration, she can’t quite put words to it.
While she deliberates, time lures it closer, until it unfurls with the crashing of waves against the shore. This feeling, this doubt, becomes tangible as it shines back at her through the eyes of her people. It then turns to sound and she hears it at night when she is alone. It lingers in her dreams, taking the form of her brother’s voice, whispering to her…
They don't love you, Dany, they fear you.
Sooner or later they will see you for what you truly are: a dragon. They will worship you in fire and flame!
Not long now, sister…how long did father sit on the throne before he caved to madness?
Daenerys is half-tempted to call it paranoia—it certainly carries the same desperation for clarity—but she wants it to be more…if the feeling is nothing more than the frantic doubts of her own mind, she can’t free herself of it.
It’s this fear of irrationality that prevents her from speaking with her advisors. What would she tell them? That she fears being feared? That she is afraid of her own madness?
And there’s Jorah. She hasn’t discussed the matter with him yet either. Though, no doubt he senses this turn towards melancholy. He knows her as well as she knows herself, if not better—something that has always been a source of comfort in times of doubt.
Her worries so often revolve around her knight, and the possibility of losing their newfound bliss, that she wonders if this feeling is not somehow connected. Maybe she is mistaking fears of the heart for greater danger.
But is that not her greatest fear? To lose him? To lose it all to a false dream of power?
Daenerys will always fret over things she can’t control and problems out of reach. It seems the curse of victory to worry after things won. Why else does the rich king hoard his gold?
Why else does the lonely queen cling to love?
It’s not paranoia, she realizes, but rather an internal measure against the longevity of happiness.
It cannot possibly last forever.
The throne is where good men go to die.
With a frustrated huff, she moves away from the window and towards the fire. Somehow the heavy heat of the flames feels less suffocating than the fresh air outside. She holds her numb fingers over the hearth, close enough for red and orange wisps to lick at her wrists. The rings and bracelets adorning her hands glow red-hot, withstanding the heat just as she does.
The door creaks open behind her and a new warmth fills the air. She smiles and drops her hands.
“An open window? In the queen’s chambers? Impossible,” Jorah says, teasing her gently. His steady footsteps echo against the stone floor on a straight path to her side. He stops within arm’s reach. In an impulsive effort to draw him closer, she closes her fingers around his hand. Yet, instead of leaning closer, as he so often does, her knight inhales sharply and pulls free.
“Jorah?” she whirls around, startled by the sudden rejection.
He shakes his hand reflexively, unable to hide a wince of pain. Her eyes follow the movement and it’s then that she spots the angry red line near his wrist. Her heart plummets in realization. She has burned him. In her selfish desire to draw him closer, to feed off his comforting presence, she has hurt him. The seared imprint of her metal bracelet, which had burned red-hot only moment before, is now evident on Jorah’s skin.
Instinctively, Daenerys reaches for him again, an apology already spilling from her lips. Then, realizing what she is capable of, withdraws just as quickly.
“Jorah, I didn’t mean—"
But he shakes his head and steps towards her. “It was an accident. A small price to pay for my teasing.” He goes to grab her hand, but she pulls away, afraid to look at him. “Khaleesi…”
Although she knows him, truly knows him, the slightest chance of catching that look on his face forces her to turn away.
Not him.
It would destroy her to see doubt, or worse yet, fear in his eyes.
“Daenerys, look at me.” The demand is soft but sure. Jorah’s footsteps move closer, until she is forced to face him, if only to keep him away. But her worry is for nothing. When her eyes finally rise to meet his, she finds only love reflected back at her. “Everything is fine. It’s nothing more than a scratch.” To prove his point, he lifts his hand for her to see. He is right, of course—the burn is already fading…
“That is not the point.”
“What is this about, then? Something has been bothering you,” he says the last part with finality, knowing her too well to be fooled by false assurances.
“Jorah…”
“Let me help you.”
Something about his calm ability to question her troubles, when she is content to let them fester, raises her temper. She gestures to his injured hand. “Look at the pain I’m capable of inflicting! How can I protect an entire kingdom when I can’t even stop myself from hurting the people I love? Every move, every thought is a step towards the inevitable. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Daenerys, it was an accident.”
“The result is the same!”
“And what of intention? Does it mean so little?” Jorah’s voice rises alongside hers, in defense of her. “If life were only about the mistakes we’ve made and nothing of the efforts otherwise, we would all be condemned.”
But she is as stubborn as he is, so she adds, “What of power, then? Does it not taint the mind of even the strongest people?”
“The fact that you’re aware of it—the fact that you fear its influence, makes all the difference. You won’t be perfect, you can’t be. But the dreams you have for this world are enough.”
“Maybe that’s the problem…they are just dreams, Jorah, and like peace, they are fleeting,” Her voice dips with somber acceptance.
Jorah moves to stand directly in front of her. His hand bumps against her chin on a slow journey to her cheek. The pad of his thumb brushes her skin. “Not fleeting, just difficult."—he smiles softly—"and worth the effort.”
She holds his gaze, searching his eyes for clarity, wanting to believe every word. He would never lie. But how can he know what lies ahead? Alone with him, her unfailing strength, she lets her greatest fear escape in a tearful whisper, “Who I want to be may not always be who I am. What if I forget myself?”
“That won’t happen—”
She won’t leave room for doubt. “And if it does?”
His hands slide to her shoulders. Then her waist. Soon, she is enveloped by his embrace. “I’ll be there to remind you of who you are.”
They stand like that for some time, clinging tightly to the hope they find in each other. Jorah is the first to pull away, dropping his hands to claim hers. Before she can object, he slowly starts to remove the jewelry from her wrist and fingers.
“Just in case,” he murmurs beneath a smothered grin.
“Before she was queen, no one believed in the exiled princess or her mysterious dragons…no one except a brave knight,” the woman explains, smiling broadly at the man beside her. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, sharing a silent conversation and memories of a lifetime together. Their trance is broken only by the sound of cheers in the distance, signaling the start of the celebration. “Now—” the woman stands with a content sigh, hauling the boy to his feet. “No more worrying.”
“And no more listening to Lord Foley’s boy. You’d be better off taking advice from a pigeon,” the man adds, ducking low to hoist their son onto his shoulders.
The sound of laughter spreads across the meadow as the small family heads back to the keep. Before they disappear beneath the bannered gates, the man leans close to murmur a few, final words to his queen.
“Had I known you were interested in frolicking through the meadows, I would have extended an invitation long ago.”
“Jorah, you haven’t frolicked a day in your life.”
“For you, my queen, I’d make an exception.”