Chapter Text
It seemed unfair to hate a place she’d never been before, but there Daenerys stood, staring up at the old ancestral mansion, and despising its very presence in her life. Sure, it was charming—in an ancient, mystic, possibly-haunted kind of way—but it had become a thorn in her side. No one wanted it, not even the distant money-grubbing relatives, so she was left to manage it.
If only Viserys had made good on his promises and sold the house years ago…
But unfortunately, like with many things, he’d left her to clean up the mess. That was her brother, always fleeing the scene before the consequences trickled in. In some ways, death was merely another one of his infamous disappearing acts.
After repeated phone calls from Mr. Selmy, the executor of the estate, she’d finally decided to put the old place up for sale, because, really, she wasn't emotionally attachment to it. Fine by her if it sold to another miserable family. Perhaps the next one would appreciate it more, maybe build some happy memories out of old ghosts.
But those were naïve thoughts, for although Mr. Selmy said the mansion would sell, no problem, Miss. Targaryen, it’d been months and there wasn’t a single potential buyer. Not a one. Daenerys should be angry with Mr. Selmy for filling her head with false hope, but she can’t summon the strength for it, not when the man’s been her only support for years, false hope or not. As the family lawyer, he’s seen her through it all—her father’s death, her brother’s arrests, and now this, the dusting off of old Targaryen relics.
A few more months passed before she'd resigned to visiting the manor herself, once and for all, in hopes that with a little tender love and care she could make it suitable for a sale.
And really, it wasn’t awful to look at, she decided, taking in the structure beyond the winding driveway. A bit weather-worn, with vines climbing the faded brick walls and slanted chimney, but there was beauty buried beneath the rough exterior. It just needed a little…dusting off.
Her gaze stretched across the multi-gabled roof and down the conical towers, to the decorative spawn brackets that lined the wrap-around porch. Although the masonry was a bit eroded, and the bricks covered with efflorescence, the mansion stood tall and proud. Built to withstand, Daenerys thought, her lips curving around the words with a soft smile.
On her way up the front steps, she brushed her hand across the lofty pillars, admiring the intricate details beneath her fingertips. Then, recalling Mr. Selmy’s instructions, she removed a wooden spindle from the top railing and found the house key nestled inside. It weighed heavy in her palm, forged in iron, and rusted near the handle. Although the key fit the lock, it took several attempts—and some colorful language—to get the tumblers to shift. Once the door was unlocked, she half-pried it open with her foot. Then shoved. Then used her full bodyweight. With a long groan, the door finally complied, swinging open on stuttering hinges.
As Daenerys stood framed in the entranceway, a cool breeze rushed by, tangling her long hair around her face, and billowing beneath the fabric of her clothes. Yet, in the next instant, it was gone, replaced by an eerie stillness that bordered on otherworldly. When she blinked again, and her eyes settled on the entrance hallway, a soft gasp escaped.
Although weather and nature had warped the exterior structure, the inside remained seemingly untouched, as if disconnected from the outside world entirely. There were no ugly marks on the floor or mildew stains on the walls—which were faded, yes, but in a natural wash of color. Even the dust seemed suspended in time, drifting between patches of light but never landing. Never stopping. Her hand lifted of its own accord, eager to shift the particles, if only to watch old memories escape. She could almost hear the caged bits of conversation, the loud laughter, the chiming music of parties held long ago…
It was enchanting in a way that went beyond sight alone. From within the mansion, the magic lived on, caught in a spell that had yet to be broken.
Suddenly, Daenerys felt like she was trespassing, intruding on some private moment…which was absurd, considering the room was empty, and had been for some time. The only sign of outside life filtered in as sunlight through the massive skylight overhead, escaping between the bars of steel outlining of her family’s sigil.
Another cool breeze blew in behind her, from where she had left the door open. This time it was accompanied by a voice.
“Excuse me—”
Daenerys whirled around, stumbling backwards at the sight of an unfamiliar figure in the doorway. The brightness outside outlined the person, making them impossible to identify. “Excuse me,” the voice repeated—a man’s voice. “This is private property. You shouldn’t be here.”
She blinked a few times, squinting at the man, who seemed as suspicious of her as she was of him. Eventually, she found her voice, “I’m Daenerys Targaryen…the inheritor of this estate.” Upon reciting her own title, she straightened a bit, defensive on instinct. If anyone was trespassing, it was him. This was her house, after all.
“Oh,” the man formed the word comically, eyes widening beneath her glare. He stepped forward and tilted his head. After a moment, he blinked in astonishment. “Forgive me, Miss. Targaryen, I didn’t recognize you.” His gaze softened. “It’s been a long time.” When he closed the door, the backdrop of light faded enough for her to see his face more clearly, away from the play of shadows.
He was a handsome man; it was evident even from afar. Although his features were sharp, they softened with the warmth of his eyes, which mirrored the color of a summer sea and seemed just as calming. There was an ease to him that contradicted the earlier sternness of his voice. More bark than bite, she thought, smothering a grin. Even his suit, albeit old and a bit out-of-fashion, was charming in its own way.
Yet, despite his first words hinting at crossed paths, she didn’t recognize him. Perhaps they’d met at her father’s funeral, or a family event at some point? Afraid of sounding rude, she asked the obvious question, “Do I know you?”
“No, no, we’ve never met,” he said, and then, as if to explain his earlier statement, added, “It’s been a long time since a Targaryen has visited here.” After another pause, he smiled and gestured to himself. “Jorah Mormont. I’m the—uh, caretaker.”
Her eyebrows lifted at that. Caretaker? It didn’t look like much care was being taken, not with the property in the state that it was. But even as the thought formed, she regretted it. How rude of her to criticize the man’s work when she’d all but left the place to ruin. Besides, it was unlikely they were paying him much, if anything at all.
She sighed quietly, allowing a polite smile. “I didn’t realize—Mr. Selmy never mentioned a caretaker.”
The man, Mr. Mormont, huffed out a laugh. “I’m not surprised. Like I said, it’s been a long time.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted, feeling guilty that he’d been left to watch over the house on his own. But he waved away her concern, stepping around her towards the main hallway.
“Are you here to visit, or…”
“No—well, yes,” she laughed, embarrassed. “Yes and no, I suppose. I’m here to sell the property.”
He paused for a moment, then nodded, giving no indication of whether he was pleased or displeased by the news. In general, he seemed a difficult man to read, beyond the outward friendliness. There was something about him…perhaps his formal accent, or the way he carried himself. She couldn’t tell what it was, exactly, but it caught her interest in a way few things did.
Jorah Mormont, she tested the name in her mind, instantly liking the way it sounded.
“Well, I suppose you’ll want the grand tour, then?”
Daenerys jumped a bit as his voice pulled her attention again. She nodded her head with a smile. “That would be perfect.”
And so, Mr. Mormont, or rather, Jorah—as he insisted she call him—led the way through the long corridors of the manor, nodding to old artifacts, and sharing a vast knowledge of her family’s history, beyond anything she had heard previously. They moved methodically, from foyer to parlor; from parlor to dining room; from dining room to banquet hall, and so on.
Throughout the impromptu tour, Jorah glanced back periodically, as if checking to make sure she was still there. Each time he did so, she fought the urge to grin and instead found a new question to ask him, utterly charmed by his attention and intellect.
Slowly but surely, they made it out onto the back porch, where the entire property stretched before them in a scene of rolling hills and towering trees, all clustered together to form a blended painting of autumn colors. Not far from the main house, stood a small cabin. She eyed it curiously before pointing it out. “Is that part of the property?”
Jorah followed her outstretched hand. “Ah, yes, the guesthouse. That’s where I stay.”
“Oh, it looks…” She didn’t want to sound rude, but the rustic shelter looked to be in worse condition than the manor itself. Even from afar, she could tell the foundation was cracked and the roof sinking.
Lonely.
“Worn down?” Jorah finished for her, eyes glittering with enough amusement to alleviate any worry that she’d offended him. When his gaze shifted back to the cabin, there was a touch of weariness to his expression. “It’s been through the wringer, but somehow it still stands. No amount of rain, water, or fire has been able to tear it down.”
Daenerys frowned at his words, confused. “There was a fire?”
He nodded seriously. “Well over a century ago, now.” She waited for more, but he turned back to her with a forced smile. “A story for another time, I think. There’s plenty more of the house to see, and the next room is a personal favorite.”
And so, the rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the house, with Jorah leading the way. Daenerys discovered that his favorite room, the library, was also her favorite, as it boasted four full walls of hand-furnished bookshelves, each packed tightly with old leather-bound novels. The moment they entered the room, she had to crane her neck to admire all its features—the decorative chandelier, the rolling ladders, the spiral staircase leading up to a small walkway. Oh, and the smell…that earthy scent of broken-down glue brought an easy smile to her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jorah watching her with a soft look, evidently pleased by her reaction.
When night came, Jorah made a discreet exit, showing her to the empty bedroom closest to the main door. At first, he’d been surprised when she told him she planned to stay on site.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t?” she asked.
“No, of course not. You’re perfectly welcome to stay here,” he insisted, with that intense sincerity he seemed to radiate, “I just thought you might prefer one of the hotels in town.” His assumption wasn’t too far from the truth, given that initially, she had planned to rent a room as far away as possible, not wanting to spend any more time than necessary in the big mansion.
But that was before she met Jorah and discovered the unexpected appeal of the place.
“Remember, I’m just a holler away,” he said, nodding his head at the window, to where the cabin was visible between the trees.
“That’s a long holler.”
Jorah smiled. “I’m a light sleeper.” Then, with the promise that he’d be around in the morning, he disappeared down the hallway, taking the warmth of the evening with him.
Daenerys stood alone in the center of the room for a long moment, listening as the air grew quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made everything seem loud. It didn’t take long for the creaks and groans of the old house to fill the void. They echoed down the long corridor outside her room, startling her every few minutes. Each time she heard a new sound, she froze, waited, and then let out a breath when nothing came of it.
“It’s just the foundation settling,” she whispered, laying down on her side to gaze out the nearby window. Her eyes drifted to the small cabin across the way, watching for a dance of light to indicate Jorah was still awake. But there was nothing except for the shadows cast by swaying trees and moonlight.
Still, Daenerys stayed like that until exhaustion crept in and blurred her vision. As her eyes slowly drifted shut, Jorah’s words echoed in her ears, like a haze of fog set to carry her into the land of dreams.
“It’s been a long time.”