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QUICKER THAN REASON
“We are all human, and our senses are quicker to prompt us than our reason. Every man gives off a scent, and that scent tells you how to act before your head does.”
― Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The First Circle
***
Present Day
Daenerys Targaryen’s meteoric rise had not been achieved without making enemies: she had destroyed too many empires, too many interests; even some of her allies could barely be trusted, seeing Daenerys as a means to their own end. Those were more dangerous than actual enemies, Missandei thought, because their weapons tended to be lies and rumours - much harder to fight off than blade or fire, and they would seize upon any sign of weakness, perceived or otherwise, to bring her down. She had struggled to move past people’s memories of her father and the horrifying lunacy he had descended into, and it was still being used against her. And if these people could see Daenerys now, Missandei was in no doubt that they would call her mad.
Hard to blame them, for once , came the treacherous thought.
“No,” Daenerys said, disappointment written all over her face. “I really thought it might be the one, but no.” Missandei tried a consoling smile but Daenerys didn’t seem to register it, her eyes already roving upwards towards the top of the shelves. “What about this one? I don’t think I’ve tried this one yet.”
“I thought you were keeping a list?”
“I will now.” She stretched up on her toes, trying to reach for the top shelf. “Who would have thought there were so many different ones?”
Partly out of pity but mostly to try and salvage what was left of her evening, Missandei stepped forward and stretched up in turn. She wasn’t that much taller than Danerys but it was enough that she could close her fingers on the bottle.
“Spring Meadow -” Missandei started reading the label, but Daenerys practically snatched it from her hand. She was a lot more gentle opening the bottle, as though she might be holding some sacred relic and the same treacherous, unsympathetic thought came again, that she was going mad -
Daenerys inhaled deeply, eyes closed. For a moment, as her friend’s lips seemed to tug at the beginning of a smile, Missandei thought that was it, that they had found what she had been looking for all these last few months.
“Still not the one,” Dany said, thrusting the bottle of detergent at Missandei and only narrowly missing out on sloshing the contents out of the spout. “Whoever called that Spring Meadow should be dragged to an actual meadow in the spring and then shot once they’ve realised the error of their ways.”
Against her better judgment, Missandei took a sniff. There was something vaguely suggestive of lavender; mostly it was a cloying and clingy kind of smell, the kind that could stick at the back of your throat if you inhaled it for too long. Pretty much like every other detergent out there.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, anyway,” Daenerys carried on. “It’s not really a spring sort of smell. More like… winter.”
“Does Winter smell like anything? Apart from eggnog latte?”
Missandei had only ever known summer in Essos, until she had come to King’s Landing with Daenerys a few months ago. Since then her repertoire had extended to spring (sweet and crisp) and autumn (damp and musty currently; she wasn’t keen, except for the arrival of eggnog lattes, and she had gathered from the snowflakes on the cups that it was a winter thing). She was mildly curious about snow but suspicious of the cold that came with it. She wasn’t a stranger to cold: desert nights could be freezing. But the cold that had arrived in late September in King’s Landing was sneaky and sirupy and had a way of clinging to you that was almost malevolent. It’s the damp, Daenery had explained. The explanation didn’t help at all.
“That’s not even real eggnog in those lattes, you know.”
“Says who?”
“Says Jon. And he would know.”
Ah yes. Jon. Daenerys’ nephew, raised in the North by his Stark mother, who had only just recently visited. Missandei was glad Daenerys had been able to reconnect with the last part of her family but it had been a bittersweet reunion. Jon was undoubtedly kind and welcoming - he seemed to carry himself with the same fundamental sweetness that Daenerys had, but more openly - yet he was more Stark than Targaryen, and he had grown in a secure and loving home that he’d never had to leave. Daenerys had not been so fortunate, and that would always remain a gap between them that could not be bridged.
“So? If not eggnog lattes, what does winter smell like?”
“It’s…” Daenerys paused, grew wistful. “Clean. Peaceful.”
“Neither of those things are actual smells.”
“It’s sharp and sweet at the same time. It’s open streams and burning wood.”
Missandei was hungry and fast heading towards hangry , and only just managed to stop herself from pointing out that Daenerys had never known winter, either, so how would she know, and if she didn’t know, how would she ever find what she was looking for? She stopped herself, because this was all kind of her fault, and because Jon Targaryen wasn’t the only Northerner Daenerys knew. There was also Jorah Mormont, and Jorah Mormont was what this was all about.
***
Nine months ago
It was Tyrion who drew her attention to him, with repeated taps on her shoulder. Daenerys was so busy focusing on what the Khals’ lawyers were arguing in defence of their clients (all sitting smugly in a row to her right, some of them openly leering at her and mouthing obscenities behind their fists) that she hadn’t registered the sound of the courtroom doors opening and closing behind her. She stared at him as he stood by the door with a file in his hands. He looked tired, his face covered with a couple of days’ stubble. His blue tie was neatly tied, his shirt was tucked in, but it looked like both had not been changed in the same amount of time.
She turned her back on him: she had to. Her heart was racing with a hundred mixed-up emotions that felt like stampeding wild horses beneath her ribcage. She couldn’t afford to let any emotion show, not here, not in front of the world, which would like nothing better than to dismiss her as a stupid little girl. But she’d had to do this for days, for weeks even, ever since the trial started, and she was exhausted with it. Every part of her wanted to run to Jorah, because he’d never been anything but a safe haven to her, often literally (how many times had he saved her life by now?), and he would never find her weak for just… being herself.
Daenerys had known it for a while but hadn’t admitted it to herself… She did it now. She should never have banished him from her life. He had once made a mistake but it was a mistake that had ultimately never hurt her. Jorah had done nothing but protect and help her.
The file appeared in front of her. She looked up, her heart in her mouth, but it was not Jorah. At some point in the last few minutes, he had handed over the file to Daario, who was now presenting it to her as though he was the one who had put it together in the first place. Daenerys was fond of him, and believed that in his own way Daario cared about her, but she decided there and then that she would never sleep with him again.
She opened the file and this time did not hide the elation she felt. With this piece of evidence, she could finally set fire to the Khals’ criminal empire. She wished she could set a more literal kind of fire on them. Peering at the same documents she was, Tyrion grinned at her. Daenerys turned to find Jorah but he was gone. He had become like a ghost to her ever since she had sent him away, often haunting her thoughts, always returning when she least expected it but always when she needed him the most… As he had done just before the trial began, saving her life from a murder attempt. She’d been whisked away to a safe house without being able to say or get a word to him.
And yet here he stands , she thought.
Not a ghost, then. A guardian angel.
Something else, too… She didn’t like to think of what. It was distracting, confusing. It belonged to someone else, the person she was when her brother arranged her marriage into the Dothraki mafia, desperate to raise money by any means necessary to facilitate their family’s return to the political stage in Westeros. That girl had died on her husband’s funeral pyre so Daenerys the Dragon Queen could be born. The nickname given to her by opponents was meant to hurt her, to remind her of the fall of the Targaryen dynasty and its delusions of grandeur, to make the small young woman look just as deluded - but she loved it. She had taken on and defeated several criminal groups now, wielding the law, her cunning and her ability to win over people’s trust as if it were dragon fire.
Daenerys stood up as the Defense wrapped up their questioning. She called a Khal to the stand, enjoyed all the names he threw at her as he made his way past. She smiled as the Defense blustered and bleated, demanding to see this new evidence she had. Of course they had a right to see it. The judge looked it over it, handed it over to the Defense with a shrug. Within an hour, the Khals were finished and going to prison. Their reign had gone up in so much metaphorical flames.
Daenerys pushed herself through the obligatory press conference, ignored the questions about her likely move back to Westeros. The celebrations weren’t what they used to be, though - just her and her friends around a fire outside their dingy office - now it was in some kind of swanky hotel suite, and the furthest away she could get from people was the terrace; even then there were stragglers and security guards. No fire, though, and she was starting to get cold when Jorah finally appeared, flanked by Torgo Nudho and some other man in a suit who looks impatient and that she doesn’t recognise. Torgo had to make him stand further back into the room to give her and Jorah a modicum of privacy but it wasn’t much.
He’d changed clothes. He’d never been one for suits, although he wore one when he needed to, and he was back to his dark jeans and favourite (only?) beige ribbed sweater. Or was it dark yellow? Daenerys had teased him once that it changed colour according to his mood. V-neck, ribbed hems, especially where it sat on his hips, ribbed cuffs that were starting to get a little frayed. She’d never seen anyone else wear a sweater like this one and she couldn’t imagine it, either; the colour shouldn’t work but somehow it did. At least for Jorah. His hair looked a little damp, his face refreshed - he’d had a shower but not shaved. Daenerys had no idea why she spent so much time looking at him like that, except that she had too much to say and not enough words to say it, and there was something she couldn’t read in his eyes.
Jorah was too comfortable with silence. She was the one who had to break it.
“Twice I banished you. Twice you came back.” Regret. Definitely regret in his blue eyes. Not for coming back, though. His chin tilted upwards slightly. He was proud, too. Except that his pride was quieter, gentler than hers. Or maybe that was just when it came to her. “And you saved my life. And now - my case. How? How did you find that… tiny thing in that ocean of paperwork?” She might as well have dropped her ring in the middle of the Great Grass Sea: finding that last proof of offshore accounts and money laundering had been that much of a miracle.
“I’m a stubborn man.”
The man in the suit snorted loudly behind him. “That’s one way to put it.”
Torgo shot a look at Daenerys: it was not someone he could casually evict from the room. “And you are?” she demanded. He didn’t come forward, as courtesy would require. Instead he showed her an international law-enforcement badge.
“What would you call it, Special Agent?”
“Brave and stupid,” he replied ruefully.
Jorah looked down, ever so briefly, and now all of a sudden she was scared. He pulled back the sleeve of his sweater: there was a tattoo there that wasn’t before. It was like a sheet of grey over his arm grey, jagged lines across it, making his skin look like cracked rock. Her breath caught in her throat, her mind reeled.
“Mr Mormont infiltrated the Stone Men, as you can see from his mark, in order to get to the evidence you needed. Now of course it leaves him marked in a different way.”
Pride, regret, resentment - all left her instantly. “You are not going away -”
“I must,” Jorah cut her off. Firmly but gently. “They are after me now. You are in enough danger as it is. I won’t bring you more. And in my time with the Stone Men, I have learned of many other things that could help a lot of people.”
She had even more she wanted to say now but the words still eluded her. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I’m so, so sorry -” She stopped herself. She would cry if it wasn’t for all the people around her.
“Don’t be. All I’ve ever wanted was to serve you.”
Daenerys shivered - whether from the cold or grief (because it felt like a final goodbye), she didn’t know or care. Jorah stepped up to her, taking off his sweater as he did so. He put it carefully around her shoulders, like a cloak.
“We need to go, Mr Mormont,” his suited escort said.
“What about you?” Daenerys asked, indicating the blue short-sleeve t-shirt he was wearing.
“Worse winters on Bear Island,” he answered. She smiled, which seemed impossible a minute ago. An old joke of theirs, during their more trying times. No matter how bad their situation, it was always worse on Bear Island.
“Mr Mormont?” the man called again.
“Tyrion Lannister was right,” Jorah said suddenly, more seriously.
She didn’t have to ask about what. The first time Jorah had returned, it had been to bring her Tyrion Lannister, quasi-disgraced former federal prosecutor from Westeros, whose connections and cleverness had nevertheless been what had been missing from Daenerys’ team. He had risked arrest to do it. And Tyrion’s defense of Jorah had been unusual -
“I love you.” He was struggling to look at her. Her bear, who stood steadfast always, was teetering in front of her, for the briefest of moments. Saying it seemed to have brought him some relief. “I will always love you. Goodbye, Khaleesi.”
He turned, almost disappeared into the throng of people before she called him. “Don’t walk away from me, Jorah the Andal. You have not been dismissed.” Khaleesi. Queen . The titles had been exchanged as private jokes but she realised now she had used them to put distance between them. Maybe he had, too. “You promised once to do everything and anything I asked of you. Well, I’m asking you to come back. As soon as it is safe for you to do so. When I return to the Seven Kingdoms, I will need you by my side.”
Still not the words she wanted to say. But they were all she had right now, and she could tell from the look in his eyes and the way his shoulders dropped a little that he understood what she was saying to him. That she forgave him. That it no longer mattered. And that was all he needed to hear.
***
Present Day
Jorah Mormont . Missandei had only caught the back of him as he’d left the party. She’d been shocked to see him go, unable to believe that Daenerys would banish him again, and then she had found her friend on the terrace, wrapped up in his sweater, struggling not to cry, and she had explained everything - what Jorah had done, what he had sacrificed, and now the consequences. Well, that figures , Missandei had thought. It wasn’t belittling his actions to say that only from Jorah Mormont could they not surprise anyone.
Daenerys had worn that sweater one way or another every day since, often changing straight into it when they came in from work. When she had first met both Daenerys and Jorah, it had taken no time at all for Missandei to work out that there was… something going on between her new boss and friend and her bodyguard slash personal private detective. Missandei and Daenerys had grown to become like sisters, and most people assumed that she was Daenerys’ best friend. But that wasn’t true. That honour belonged to Jorah Mormont.
Ser Friendzone , Tyrion liked to call him, and sometimes Missandei wished it was that simple and that Daenerys could have been spared this grief. For the longest time she had thought that Daenerys viewed Jorah as a brother or even father figure (there was never any doubting their closeness, their intimacy) - and then there was the sweater thing. She wanted to support her friend with what she was going through, but how could you support someone through something they hadn’t actually acknowledged was happening?
“You don’t know that’s what’s happening,” Torgo had said when she’d asked her boyfriend for advice. “Why don’t you just ask her?”
“I think I’ll ask Tyrion Lanniser for advice, after all. He can’t suggest anything worse than that.” Torgo had tried to protest. “Come on. Have you never met Daenerys Targaryen?”
That had shut him up.
And then… Their cleaner, a lovely and diligent middle-aged lady, had found the sweater tangled in Daenerys’ sheets, thought it looked like it needed a wash (it probably did), and had promptly added it to the laundry load she had on her list of tasks. The sweater had come out a slightly brighter shade of desert sand yellow but otherwise unchanged (the cleaner was very good)...except for the smell. It had taken a few days of Daenerys being in a spectacularly bad mood with absolutely everything and everyone before Missandei was able to coax from her why she was upset.
“But if the sweater is fine -”
“It’s not the sweater,” she had cut off Missandei. “It’s the smell. It smelled… really good.”
Now ninety-nine percent sure that Daenerys felt more deeply for Jorah than she seemed willing to admit to herself and even more desperate to alleviate some of her heartbreak, Missandei had suggested that they try to find the detergent that Jorah might have used, so that Daenerys could get back that smell she loved so much.
So here they were, months later. Missandei could swear they had tried all existing supermarkets, corner stores and other suppliers of laundry detergent both in Essos and now in King’s Landing. Well, she thought, at least it’s no longer ninety-nine percent sure. It wasn’t some random detergent smell that Daenerys was missing. It was Jorah’s own.
It was Jorah.
“Did you know,” Missandei said, “that it’s been shown that people can actually choose their partners by being attracted to the way they smell? Pheromones, apparently," she added.
“What are you talking about?”
"It’s why people love the way their lovers smell.” Daenerys stared at her. “I don’t think anyone has ever made a detergent that smells like winter, Daenerys,” she said more gently.
Countless emotions seemed to pass over her face in a matter of moments. Her eyes darkened, began to shimmer; her cheeks reddened.
“I’m sorry,” Daenerys said, turning away, heading purposefully for the spirits aisle - the reason they had stopped by this store in the first place. “I’ve been stupid, you’re right. I’ll never - “
The shrill of a ringtone interrupted her. Both women went for their phones, used to work calls butting into their lives all the time; it was Missandei’s this time.
“Yes, sweetie - we’re on our way - almost there. Yep. Yes, I’ll get some if I find any. Ok, see you soon. Love you.”
“Tyrion, was it?” Daenerys asked.
“Very funny. Torgo wants me to bring a few more snacks.”
For the first time since they had arrived in Westeros, they were going to have a gathering on the beach and spend time together the way they used to back in Essos - with food and drink and music around a campfire. People of Westeros called it the Long Night, an annual celebration this time of year as the cold really began to draw in and the nights came earlier and lasted longer: friends and families got together, people stayed up until dawn, bonfires were lit, fireworks set off - defiance against the growing darkness, “full of terrors”, that people once feared would one day stay forever. Winter is coming rang out from posters, greeting cards and everyone you met for weeks before the actual day.
Missandei let Daenerys choose the drinks while she checked the crisps aisle. It wasn’t the right time or place to discuss Jorah with her but she was determined to do so at the first opportunity. It wasn’t right for her to suffer in silence. In the end, however, she never needed to. With his usual uncanny sense of timing, Jorah returned to Daenerys that very night.
***
There were quite a few groups out on the beach already by the time they got there, but it was long and difficult enough to access that it still was far from crowded, even as it curved far out into the sea and offered a great view of the fireworks scheduled to go off from Blackwater Bay and the main harbour. It was very dark, in spite of clear skies and the sparkling of stars and human life from King’s Landing, and just a few steps out from where the sea came lapping softly at the shore, it became an inky, empty plain whose extent seemed endless. Daenerys had always been drawn to fire and heat, but it was never out of a fear of the dark. Nevertheless, as her eyes scanned the beach, taking in the other revellers and the glow of light from their campfires, she understood perfectly the point and power of this holiday. And it was a wonderful feeling - the cocoon of heat from the fire when the cold was nipping at the tips of your ears, the laughter of friends close by, the sweet spices from the mulled wine that left your tongue tingling…
It was almost too hard to bear. Daenerys stood up, gesturing to Missandei that she was going to get something from the car, but instead of trying to climb back through the rocks to do just that, she turned towards the sea and went to stand at the edge of the waves, to stare at nothing. So many of her nights were like this one now - hours of staring into darkness, of thinking about him, of wondering where he was. Still looking for him at every moment of triumph or disaster, when she was happy, when she was sad, but never asking herself why. Sitting with her friends by a fire, and feeling cold and alone. For the first time in her life, the dark called to her more than the light. She suddenly craved for ice more than fire.
She took a couple of steps forward; in a moment the freezing water had soaked through her shoes, cold biting through her skin like teeth -
“Khaleesi?”
Daenerys stopped so abruptly she almost stumbled and fell into the water. It couldn't be -
She turned around. Jorah was standing about twenty feet from her, close enough to another fire that its light cloaked him in a kind of halo. She looked beyond him, towards her friends, but they were already watching her. She couldn’t quite see the expression on Missandei’s face but there was something gleeful in the two thumbs up she was giving her. It wasn’t a dream.
“J- Jorah?” He walked towards her. “You’re here? Are you safe? Is it over?” She was struggling to speak, still in disbelief, and her own voice sounded like it barely rose above whisper. But he seemed to hear her just fine.
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’ve returned to your service, if you’ll have me.”
It would be my honour, she wanted to say, but it felt wholly inadequate. In a few steps she had bridged the gap between them - there was a slight hesitation in his shoulders that made her heart ache - and she flung her arms around his neck.
And there it was. The pine trees, the dying embers in a fireplace. Sticky amber sap, soft berries and leather. Something earthy and rich and sweet - almost too sweet if it wasn’t for the sharpness in the air. Ice-cold water flowing over rotting wood.
“Winter is here,” Daenerys murmured as she let him go.
Jorah looked at her, somewhat uncertain at first, then he seemed to grow more determined and took off his coat, something long and dark and wooly, and put it on Daenerys. She hadn't realised how cold she had been getting until she felt warm again.
“How..?” she asked him, although right now she cared very little.
“We set a trap for the Stone Men. They wouldn’t come peacefully. And now they’re dead.”
Daenerys had a feeling that it had been a lot more complicated and dangerous than Jorah made it sound. But there would be time for that later.
“I’ve missed you,” she said, and it felt so easy and so simple to say that she had no idea why she had refused to do it for so long. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Jorah stared at her, his whole body tensing. He had jammed his hands into his trouser pockets as though he was trying to stop himself from using them. “Aye. I’ve missed you, too, Daenerys.”
“Every damned day I missed you,” she continued. “Until I was standing right where you found me, thinking I couldn’t keep missing you and be able to breathe.”
There was a storm in the sea of his eyes. It was strange, because she felt quite calm, like she always did when she had decided what she was going to do.
She reached for his cheek and the feel of his light stubble and the warmth of his skin sent a jolt of electricity through her body. “That bloody yellow sweater of yours. I wore it every day. It was wonderful. But it wasn’t enough.”
Daenerys grabbed the rough flannel of his shirt and used it to pull herself up on her toes so she could kiss him.
He tasted even better than he smelled.
***
Twelve months later
“JORAH! OH GODS, JORAH! THE GARDEN IS ON FIRE -”
Jorah, who had come running back into the kitchen at full pelt at the first sound of distress he’d heard in Daenerys’ voice, burst into laughter.
“It’s not a fire, Khaleesi,” he said, gently guiding her closer to the large bay window that led to their garden. “It’s a campfire.”
Daenerys’ expression changed from worried to confused and then to wonder. “A campfire? How? Why? ”
This year, the weather in the week leading up to the Long Night had been miserable: wet and stormy, leaving carpets of soggy leaves over roads and pavements and beaches and parks miserable places to be. Thankfully, the storm had now passed King’s Landing and it was dry enough for fireworks and celebrations in town today - but Daenerys had looked forward to a party on the beach for weeks now: it’s our first anniversary , she had told him excitedly when he’d wondered why she was so keen on a tradition that she had only experienced for the first time so recently. You returned to me that night , she continued even though she didn’t have to explain further. For me it will always be a night of miracles and gratitude .
“How?” Jorah answered. “You don’t grow up on Bear Island without knowing a thing or two about campfires when it’s been raining. Why? Because you wanted one, and your wish is my command.”
Daenerys smiled up at him with a smile so bright that he felt his knees go weak. Jorah was usually the one who asked how and why when they were together. How had he managed to earn her love? And why did she seem to love him so?
“I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I was going to catch you at the front door and make it a surprise but you got home early.”
“That was meant to be my surprise but it kind of pales in comparison to yours,” she laughed. Grabbing his face in her hands, she planted a hungry kiss on his lips. “Let me get changed so we can get out there. Shall we order take-out?”
“I have something else in mind.”
Daenerys waggled her eyebrows at him. “Okay. But I already know what I want for dessert, and I doubt you’ll be able to change my mind.”
With one last suggestive look and quick step, she left the kitchen. It took all his Mormont resolve not to follow her, but he needed to get everything ready quickly now that she was actually home.
He had just put the last sausage over the fire when Daenerys joined him in the garden. She had discarded her dress suit, tights and heels for mud boots, leggings and yet another of his sweaters, a dark grey jersey thing with BEAR ISLAND in large green varsity letters all over the chest; she’d removed the little bit of make-up she wore and her braids were down. She was a beautiful young woman regardless of what she wore (or not), yet she looked more luminous and ravishing to him at that moment than at any other time before. Maybe it was because she looked so happy.
“Oh Jorah,” she murmured softly, looking around at what he had set up. The one good thing about the recent weather was that the earth had been soft and pliant, making it easy to dig a hole for the fire pit he had purchased. In front of it he had put down a large tarpaulin, whose edges were just peeking out from under the old sheep and bearskin rugs he had laid over it. For comfort he had also built them a little wall of cushions.
“Do you like it?”
“I love it. It’s WONDERFUL.” She looked at him with a shimmer of tears in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”
Jorah could never resist that kind of look on her face. This time he was the one to kiss her and it was only a moan escaping from her throat that made him release her.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked, as he realised he was probably crushing her. “I forgot -”
“I wasn’t complaining, Jorah,” she replied, equally breathlessly. They both looked down at the slight gap between them. Even in a shapeless sweater, they could see the outline of her bump, the hint of a child growing in her belly.
“Let’s sit down,” Jorah suggested. “You must have been on your feet all day.”
He sat down on the rugs, back to the cushions, and invited her to sit between his outstretched legs so she could lie back against his chest. Daenerys gave a happy sigh as she did so, and he poured her some hot apple cider from a Thermos. She seemed to take great pleasure in inhaling the smell wafting from her cup, and they both chuckled when a loud rumble came from her stomach.
“Those sausages smell amazing, as you can tell,” she said, bringing Jorah’s hand to rest on her swelling midriff.
“They’re probably ready now -”
“Let them cook a bit longer, please? You know how I like it at the moment.”
Weird cravings were common in pregnancy but Daenerys’ hunger for meat burnt almost to charcoal was sometimes disquieting. Maybe hormones explained her reaction to the fire, too. It was their anniversary, after all, and he had found some old first edition law books to give her as a present later, but what if it wasn’t enough? She had been born for so much more in this world, had grown up being told to expect it. He had so little to offer her. And Lynesse...
“I know this is not what you were hoping for, Daenerys,” he murmured in her ear, glad for once that he couldn’t see her face. “I’m sorry.”
She must have heard the unspoken question in his words, or, more likely, guessed it: are you truly happy with what I can give you? . She moved to sit across his lap so she could look at him.
“It is so much better than what I was hoping for,” she whispered back. “All of it. Every single moment we’ve had over the last year. There are times when I look at you, and I can’t believe you’re real.”
She wore two layers under the sweater and it made her skin hot to the touch when he slipped his hands under it, but then again, she always turned him to fire. They made more use of the rugs and cushions than he’d thought they would, and it was just as well she liked her food over-cooked - because in the end they had dessert first.