Chapter Text
By the time he finally sees her again, it is too late.
Everyone - Ser Barristan, the Dothraki, Missandei, everyone - tells him not to go to her; her bloodriders say she is more volatile than her brother ever was, that she sees conspiracies in every direction, that the last person who can survive her wrath is the man she named “traitor” while her mind was still fresh.
But Jorah no longer cares for survival, or for the opinions of men. He must see it himself, and if she is as they say then it is best to die, for he cannot live and not serve her, and he cannot serve a madwoman.
“Jorah?”
She remembers his name, at least.
Daenerys uncurls and rises from the stone floor. There is a bed, albeit a thin one, in the corner of the dungeon cell, but she seems to have chosen not to use it. He bites back his fury that they would leave her in a place like this, and remembers Barristan Selmy’s words.
The dragons were out of control, burning both armies, slaves and slavers alike, without discretion. She tried to tame them, I think - I think she tried, but only Greyjoy’s horn could stop them, and when the sound brought them crashing down to earth it warped her mind as well. She has attacked everyone who comes near, she screams of fire and blood and cries for her children, and will hear no one who tells her they are gone. She is not Daenerys. Not any longer.
But she knows him. How can she not be Daenerys, if she knows his face?
“My bear,” she smiles - how can she be dangerous? - as she approaches him. “I have missed you so. Have you come to rescue me?”
Jorah knows for certain, then, that it isn’t her. She would never speak him sweetly like this if she remembered what he’d done; all that her affection means is that the Queen he fought and bled for is no more than an addled girl now.
And yet he hears himself say “yes”, and folds her in his arms, and promises to take her far, far away from this place.