song_of_ice | Duplicity Inbox

His mind is stuck somewhere between dizziness and pain, it doesn't even register in his head that she is trying to remove his shirt until she has already abandoned the idea. He pressed his palm against his chest, staunching the blood as much as possible. His chest and shirt become damp instantly, sticking against his skin with a sickly copper scent.

"It isn't going to kill me." There was that, at least. He hadn't taken the time to inspect the wound, but he suffered far worse and survived. He was too much of a warrior to fret over a cut on his hand, preferring to continue and get back upstairs.

It would likely need stitches though. Just the feel of it made it clear. "Have you ever sewn a wound shut before?" If she didn't, he would. He knew enough to at least close it.

He follows her up the stairs, staggering a little from the blood loss.

It could, if Mirri Maz Duur were still alive. No telling if any other witch or warlock in this realm would think to cause him harm in the same way. Clenching her jaw at the thought, she ducks beneath his good arm and loops hers around his waist. Already, his shirt looks wet.

"I've learned that and more." The door is easy to shove open, with hand and foot. The stairs... well, there's a few floors, still, and it seems ages, each step a precarious one. "An infected wound is part of what killed my husband."

He threatens to wobble, so her arm tightens, the other looping around his front. She fists his shirt, nails scraping against his back.

"One of his men spoke against me. He walked straight into the arakh, which cut his chest." If she speaks, perhaps he'll focus on her story. Or, he's too far gone to remember a sliver of it. "I'd asked a witch in the village our khalasar sacked to heal him."

He doesn't object to her presence or help. His legs felt heavy against the stairs and he's exhausted, both by the earlier exertion and from the loss of blood. He wasn't about to perish from this, as he asserted, but she wasn't wrong to worry. He wouldn't object to her help here or later, his pride didn't bruise at her caring.

"I'm sorry." A standard response, but he didn't know what else to offer. Saying the wound wouldn't get infected between here and her apartment would dismiss what she suffered and he was too tired to tease her with his safety. And honestly, he had no desire to risk fate. He did that every day and there was no Red Woman here to help him.

It was almost as though she were practically carrying him. When finally they reached her floor, he wanted to simply slide to the floor and rest.

"Why did he walk into the arakh?" He was listening enough to catch that, though he isn't sure he heard right. "She didn't heal him?"

"It's been years." Comes her response. She doesn't tell him to seek his pity, or to hear apologies in things he had no part in. "My point is I've learned."

How to stitch. Perhaps no to heal as well as someone with years of practice, but enough to make a difference with this. It was just like stitching a dress, in any case. Just the medium was skin.

She's most his weight on her, and he's far heavier than he looks. There comes no complaint, though the more steps they climb, the more strained her voice becomes. Adrenaline's not worn off completely, so whilst this is tiring, she's still able to pull him to her door.

"Pride, maybe? Like I said, the Dothrak spoke out against me, and in turn, him. I was his khaleesi, and I carried his son." Her hand is tinged crimson as she pushes her apartment door open, a smear on the handle. "She played her part in murdering my family. His wound became infected, and she promised to return him to me. I believed her. It cost him his life and the life of our son, because she used blood magic.

"Come and sit."

He collapsed against the couch, giving a soft, inaudible groan. Only when he was finally sitting down did he pull back his hand, letting him get a better look. His skin was a mixture of brown and crimson, stained by his blood. The gash along his palm was deep and every move and flex made it sing in agony. With a bandage and stitches, it should recover, but it wasn't pretty to look at and would be enough to cause more alarm than it should.

It was a sad tale and he only had a glimpse of it before when they met at Dragonstone. Losing her son, he couldn't imagine that the pain was so easy to stomach after it happened. The way she spoke of it now, it left him wondering how much she masked behind her steely facade.

"I never faced a Dothrahki blade, but I was shot with arrows when I was fleeing back to the Wall after staying with the Freefolk." That compared to this seemed far greater, but it was from hindsight.

"It will need to be cleaned first so we can see how deep it goes."

Years made it easier to speak of this. Her advisors know of her inability to have children--which causes far more pain than a distant memory ever could. More like a story dusted off from a terrible book. Not her reality anymore. Drogo wasn't her home, despite how she'd come to love him in time.

She's already fetching a towel and water before he tells her to clean it. A sink with a faucet is a convenience she doesn't take for granted as she fills a bowl, returning only when she's wrung out a soaked towel.

"There's nothing impressive about the blade itself--it's the handler who makes it far more dangerous." Ser Jorah and Barristan made their blades just as dangerous. Less fluidity to the way they handled it versus a Dothraki. More discipline. "Let me see."

Whether he cooperates or not, she's setting the bowl atop her coffee table and sitting beside him, a leg tucked under her bottom as she reaches for his hand.

"Aye, I suppose so." He hasn't thought very much of it. His skill with a sword was a necessity, not something he felt much pride for. He got better with each battle he was in, but even still, he didn't consider it. Ramsay Bolton had made a comment about how the North spoke of his skill, but was that real or simply another means to try and throw him off of his confidence? "We don't have much of a choice about what we need to learn to survive."

He doesn't hesitate to show her his hand. She wasn't the sort who would be squeamish and likely not by blood. He smirked, remembering the words of someone else. 'Girls see more blood than boys do.' "It's stopped bleeding unless I move it." He told her, careful to keep his palm still.

"Do queens make a habit of healing warriors?" It was an attempt to tease, something light to take their mind off of his injury and to try to push through the pain.

"No, we don't. That's the way of it." She wanted to change that. She would. No more wheel. No more trampling the smallfolk. "Dothraki are different. They enjoy their battles. On my wedding day, Drogo sat beside me and laughed as his men fought over a woman. To the death."

No less than three deaths is a boring affair. She shakes her head, dragging the towel up his wrist to clean away the rivulets trailing down it. Up to the heel of his palm, carefully around the wound. The towel is rinsed in the bowl of water each time it becomes saturated, until she's wringing it as dry as she can to wrap tightly around his palm.

"I wouldn't know what other queens occupy themselves with." She's lost enough people to battle to ignore some perceived notion of a queen's behavior. "I'll need to find some thread."

"Freefolk women never choose a man unless he steals them. They're fierce warriors and won't respect anyone beneath them." Though Ygritte had made an exception for him, he supposed. He hadn't stolen her, not really. Her choice of lover had been strange to the rest, but she had always chosen her own way, stubbornly refusing to heed any other advice. No different than Daenerys.

He watched as the water was tinged with pink and slowly turned to crimson. A bowl of blood, as red as Melisandre's hair. How many times was he going to come away with only a wound? He was running out of luck to test.

He nodded, pressing the towel against the wound. "It didn't reach the bone." There was that, at least. "Do you have thread here?" Maybe it was better they came to her apartment rather than his, he had nothing to prepare for this situation.

"I'm sure my khalasar would appreciate them." Power. That's what won Drogo to respect her... insofar as a man like him could respect his property. "Is that what you prefer?"

She doesn't know why she asks him that. He's gentle, so much so that she imagines he'd prefer a gentler lady to court and win over. Nothing like a fiercer thing to knock him over and claim him. It's why they'll likely never see eye to eye on most things; they clash every which way, bickering over stupid things, important things, everything.

She's up on her feet, mulling over that when he asks her about having some thread.

"I may have some to spare." Her tone's dry, an equally dry smile spared him over her shoulder. She's walking past a number of different outfits in different phases of creation. Flippantly, as she lifts open a box and rifles through her belongings, she says, "Perhaps I should charge you, seeing as I'm stitching you something."

He is a bit surprised to hear the question, as he never really thought of what he wanted, though he suspected the answer long before this moment. "Fire? A warrior princess, maybe? Not a lady that sits in her tower brushing her hair." Daintiness had its place, but he wanted a woman who could argue with him or felt she had enough strength that she could face whatever threats they might come across.

He didn't need to be knocked over the head and carried off, but he wanted someone that would argue with him and maybe get their opinion through his thick head. He didn't mind the bickering with Daenerys, only when it dissolved as it had on the cruise.

"Ygritte was a Free woman. She was good with a bow and was said to be kissed by fire because her hair was so red." Dany told him of Drogo, it seemed fair to give something back about the woman he had loved before. "She died when the Freefolk tried to breach the Wall."

The pain is less evident in his voice. Enough time had passed to let him digest the loss, but the traces were still buried deep in his heart. "I freed you from the elevator. I think I earned your stitching." He returned, just as dry and with just as dry a smile.

"Do warrior princesses even exist?" A woman with fire. She's not turning to look at him now, but there's no mistaking the way her heart seems to jump to her throat. "Perhaps you'd been born centuries too late. One of Aegon's sisterwives might've been more to your liking."

Thread retrieved, with a needle as well, she's across the room again. This reminds her of the last time he'd been here, when she'd fetched wine and rode him on her couch. She doesn't get him wine this time, but whiskey. Something she'd tried at the bar and hated, but others seemed to enjoy. He'll get a healthy dose of it in a glass. The last thing she does is light a candle, rolling the needle in the flame.

The skirts of her dress part, revealing dark grey pants as she settles beside him again, pushing the glass into his good hand. She's threading the needle next, holding it between her lips as she returns to his hand, pulling the towel away to clean it up again and wipe any new blood seeping from the wound.

And then it's to work, threading his hand with an intense concentration, as careful with her stitches as she might've been on an outfit she created.

"Seems you like the fire. When did you meet her?" More careful dabbing at blood. There's the hint of a smile dancing on her lips. "Just me? If I remember things correctly, you took that freedom for yourself, as well."

"Among the Freefolk and maybe across the Narrow Sea?" But no, he hadn't really met any women like Ygritte or Daenerys before, not until he came here. The different worlds allowed him to learn more than he might have if he had stayed in Westeros, not simply about women but himself and the way others lived. "I'm not Targaryen. I wouldn't have been enough for them." Dragons lay with dragons. He knew the stories well enough to know there was something mystical about it.

"What does a dragon queen prefer?" Her, Aegon's sister-wives, they likely needed more than a swordsman and obstinate Northern king. He was less concerned what Visenya and Rhaenys might have wanted, but Daenerys? It was difficult to predict her.

It is hard to forget his last visit to her apartment. He feels less out of place than before, but there is no removing his heightened senses at being close to her again, sitting in a place where they had ridden each other to the heights of pleasure. Even with the sting of his hand, he could still remember how the couch had scratched against his buttocks and the waist band of his pants cut into his waist.

She's beautiful, her style reminding him of what she wore when they met on Dragonstone. The red suited her, though he had always preferred the black tunics she had worn. He flinches at the taste of whiskey, giving an obvious look of distaste. It was worse than the ale at the Wall.

He watches her face rather than her work with the needle, letting his tired eyes scan over her features. She was softer, thoughtful. He liked her best this way, he thought. It was somewhere quiet to rest, something to help soothe away the sting on his palm.

"I went beyond the Wall with Lord Commander Mormont to learn what we could about the army of the dead. I joined a scouting team and we caught a few Wildlings, Ygritte was among them. I spared her life and when she later escaped, she and her men captured me in turn. I stayed in the Freefolk camp to gather information about their coming attack on the Wall." It was...complicated. "I did, but I don't need to repay myself for anything."

Edited 2018-11-02 05:49 (UTC)

"I'd not seen any." That wasn't to discount the women she did meet, though. Kinvara might've been warrior-like, were she not a priestess. Missandei is quiet,
and it was not to be confused with weakness as her Master once mistook it for. "Not outwardly, but many hold that strength within. I think that counts more."

Not for her, not a queen. She needed to be strong and loud when warranted--not necessarily verbally, but through her actions as well. It all banked on her peoples' survival.

She doesn't expect him to turn the question back on her. What does she prefer? Not something she's entertained. Not when she conquered the slaver cities, and certainly not when she'd struggled to rule. So what does she want? No man like Drogo, who believed another person was his property. No man like Daario either, who loved the idea of a lover with so much power. Drogo's strength and willingness to protect his family were traits she'd want--same as Daario's loyalty and playfulness.

"Someone who sees me." For all her faults and strengths, seeing beyond her status as a queen and the Mother of Dragons. A companion, her equal. Quietly, she snorts, lips twisting. It's not amusement, not bitterness either. There was simply no time for considering these things, let alone look for someone like that. "There are no more dragons in the world for them, were they still alive. Keep drinking that."

There's no need to see his expression to know he dislikes the whiskey. The smell of it's enough of a threat to make her eyes water in commiseration.

But what's this talk about the dead again? Before she's forced to comment, he continues on about Ygritte, his girl kissed by fire.

Kind of him to spare her. Not so kind to spy. Funny that he mentions spying and Mormont and spies... She looks up. Something flickers in her eyes; a moment of missing a man so familiar, so loyal. "Ser Jorah's father?"

"Neither have I." Not really. He liked the idea of women like Rhaenys or Visenya, but there were none left in the world, save for Daenerys. There weren't many women like her in Westeros. He knew that, even at her most infuriating. He didn't need to see her charge into battle or wield a sword, every time she faced a threat, she met it like it was a life or death battle...which sometimes it was.

Maybe that was why his heart had been so closed off for so long? He hadn't seen what he was looking for or bothered to look. Ygritte had been a rare glimpse of happiness that came unexpectedly into his life. There were not many chances for such things to happen again.

Someone who sees her. He could understand that, not simply because he wished to be seen as well, but with how she presented herself to others, it must be rare for others to see her beyond the title. He had hoped to offer her that, even if only as a friend, but it seemed like such a difficult wall to climb. "None have so far?" Not here either? Somehow it tightened his throat to think about others who might have fulfilled that wish.

He scrunches his nose at the whiskey again, but dutifully continues drinking it.

Jon glanced up at her as she approached again. He had heard of Jorah, first from Lord Stark and then from the Lord Commander. The sword that was meant for the son was resting in his room, set aside as a blade was not needed here. Jorah Mormont was a distant figure, but it seemed that he had found his way across the sea and into the Dragon Queen's court.

"Aye. He was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I was his steward before he died."

"That's a shame." They've wars aplenty in their world. Enough to raise women fierce and kind. Not like a lioness who would be so foolhardy to get each of her children killed. Three times separately. "Maybe she's hidden."

She's nearly finished with his hand, taking her time with it. It leaves his hand in hers as she works, and it's not a terrible thing.

"None have," she concedes, not looking up. It's easier to speak of this when she's not looking at him, because she feels his gaze lingering on her. And with his eyes on her, she feels... fidgety. Like he's looking for something, and she's not sure what. "Some have thought, but it's an idea they'd created."

Jorah and Daario both claimed they loved her, but it was the idea of a wife come back, and a conquering queen who would leave a trail of ash and bone in her wake. It wasn't fair to either of them; more importantly, it wasn't fair to her.

These people here continue to fall into line with their ideas of her. Imaginings of a queen who could do something for them. One who was as unbreakable as Valyrian steel.

"Tyrion told me," she murmurs. Now she glances up. Meets his gaze. "What was he like?"

He doesn't move as she holds his hand, his heart thundering in his ears. He struggled to keep his breath steady, even as her touch whispered over his palm. He couldn't pull his gaze away from her, enjoying the softness of her features and the comfort in her touch. He had been tended to before when he was injured, but that had been by maesters. This was the first time a woman, outside of Old Nan, cared for him in this way. There had been an ache in his heart for this, though he never had the words for it until now. A need that had been born along with him, manifesting more and more as his years became emptier.

"I understand." Perhaps not as exactly as Daenerys did, but there was something of himself that he had been shielding from the world. Even if he revealed it, he couldn't be certain that the weight and meaning would be seen. That he would be seen. He hesitated, thinking of what to offer her, some small thing to build on this connection. "I heard of you before I left the Night's Watch."

It seemed like she was always connected to his life, before he had even thought of her as a person rather than a mythical figure. Maybe it had always been leading them together? In thinking about the Others and leaving for the Night's Watch, that road had always been connected to her. The more he considered it, the more clear the world became.

He finally broke his gaze on Daenerys, looking down at the work she was doing on his hand. "He was a good man, honorable and proud. He didn't treat me like a bastard. He was grooming me for command. I think he saw something in me that others didn't." He cleared his throat, pushing back emotions. "I should have been with him when he died, but I was still a captive of the Freefolk."

Do you? Because so very few do understand these things. There's something near comical about Ned Stark's son understanding that struggle, especially when one considers the role the dead Stark played in wiping out her family.

He'd never been spoken of as a liar, though... and something in her believes him. Perhaps because he calls himself a bastard. It must be just as lonely a thing as being an orphan and exile. Perhaps even more, knowing one's family still lives. It was lonelier when Viserys was alive, sometimes.

"Did you?" she asks, instead. Perhaps it shouldn't be surprising that word would travel as far north as the Wall. "I wonder which rumor it was."

Jorah wasn't with her upon her learning of his father's death. He'd been banished a second time for another betrayal. One against his family, one against his queen. But her old bear wasn't disloyal, not when it counted.

"He raised a good man." She returns to the last of her stitches, leaning forward to break the thread with her teeth once she's done. "Keep it up," she tells him, dropping the needle on the table, fetching the empty glass from his hand, and dropping the towel in the bowl.

She's back across the room, dumping the water and rinsing the bowl, the towel, the glass. There's nothing to use save another towel to wrap his hand--she should purchase linen for injuries, especially if she's planning on rebellion--so she wrings out the old towel and returns back to him a moment later.

"In any case, we all should have been somewhere, at some time. Regretting not being there won't change that he's gone."

He did understand. Much of his life had been that of an outsider, surrounded by family but feeling separate from them. His life hadn't be uncomfortable in terms of living, as Melisandre had pointed out, but it was still void of complete acceptance, a home to call his. He was always on the outside, kept away from the table his siblings were allowed to sit at. These small details stayed with him, making him feel out of place no matter where he was.

Whether she believed or not, he still offered it to her. Two outsiders, lost and seeking a home. It wasn't a simple thing, but there was a chance that Daenerys would at least find it. He could only hope that the throne would bring her comfort. His hadn't, but it was never meant to be his to begin with.

"Only that you returned dragons to the world and were conquering cities across Essos. Maester Aemon received the raven." And Sam had told him what Aemon said later, briefly about the woman and the longing to see family again. "He hoped to meet you."

He couldn't answer that, uncertain about the man that Jorah had become. The way that Lord Commander Mormont had spoken of him, it was clear that his heart had been broken by his son's actions.

He lifted his arm, looking at the intricate stitching. "You did good work."

"That was early," she says with a quiet chuckle, feeling warmer towards him for the first time outside of lust. Maybe it was a touch of camaraderie. She doesn't fully know; he's not the same as her people: slaves, savages, and eunuchs. She doesn't view a bastard in the same way that Westeros clearly does. "I freed them. They were slaver cities."

But this maester--she's not heard of him. Why would he wish to meet her, lest it was to meet the Mother of Dragons? "Who is he?"

She takes his hand again and wipes it clean, dabbing at the newly stitched wound before she wraps the dry and clean towel around it. His compliment earns him a hum, distracted; her focus is on a bloody shirt, which she reaches out to pick at.

"You bled out a bit, didn't you? We should find you something clean."

"It was when I was named Lord Commander." It was strange to consider. When he was at the height of his triumphs, she was at the height of hers. She rose to become queen of cities and he was a leader of the Night's Watch. It was strange to step back and consider, how often their lives ran parallel to each other. Loneliness, wandering, lost loves. How deep did it run?

"Maester Aemon was Aemon Targaryen." Was. They were all different men when they joined the Night's Watch. He had tried to hold firm to that oath, but in the end, he couldn't be nothing or a simple brother. He was a man of the North and one of the last protectors of House Stark.

He flexed his hand, testing the strength of the thread, and seeking the excuse to curl his fingers around her hand. He glanced down at his shirt. Blood wasn't so easy to see on black, but it was obvious from how it was sticking to him that he had bled quite a bit.

"It should be fine." He wasn't eager to leave, but there was nothing else for him to wear.

Aemon Targaryen. Her smile slips away. "...What?"

There's a waiver to her voice. Not quite tumultuous emotion--not yet--but of something more disbelieving, incredulous. That he suggests there was one last living Targaryen still walking the lands of their world, on the opposite side of the sea... all whilst she and Viserys had suffered. If. If Aemon Targaryen lived, as Jon suggested, he'd allowed his blood to suffer. To be taken advantage of in Essos by lord after lord. Her great-uncle had left her to fend for herself, thinking she was the last of her line.

Her hand is slack in his as she stares at nothing, mind racing. But he speaks and it tugs her focus back to him, her eyes back to him.

"I can assure you I won't faint. I've seen many a bare chest in my life." Of course she would think that's the reason he hesitates; aren't they beyond hesitance to walk about naked? She'd been naked in this very spot, riding him. And yet he'd been so wary of removing his shirt, she recalls. "Take it off, there's clothing here you can wear in place of it."

He has an idea what she is thinking. It is what he feared Robb might have thought after their father died or how Sansa might have felt when she was alone with Ramsay Bolton. He had been so close to them, but remained at the Wall, rather than riding out to them when they needed him. It made him feel like a traitor to their bond.

But these things weren't so simple. "He made a vow." He told her gently, looking at her with a sad expression. "If he left the Wall, he would have been killed, but he suffered at not being able to be with you or with the rest of your family during the Rebellion. He told me when my father was imprisoned by the Lannisters. If he were younger, if he weren't blind..." but that was speculation and honestly he didn't know. The advice he had given Jon was to choose between love and duty. What could a man truly do? Any decision he made would have consequences he would carry for the rest of his days.

He blanches, looking away with dark expression.

"There's no need. It has already started to dry and I can clean it when I return." He told her, his hand squeezing hers as he tested his grip once again, already becoming an anxious habit.

"He suffered," she says, voice flat. Viserys hardly spoke of Aemon Targaryen, and while she didn't believe all he said when he did mention their great-uncle, there was perhaps some truth to his opinion. She didn't know him, though. How could she judge someone she'd only heard about? "When did he die?"

Did he hear of Viserys' death? What would he have advised her of, if he'd been there with her?

If he'd been there, though, she'd have no dragons. No armies. No wars to fight to make right by her family.

"All the more reason to remove it. I'll not have my guest sitting in dried blood." There's no attempt to force it off him, however strange he's being about removing a shirt. Why such a look? He's dodging in a strange way that makes her hackles rise and withdrawing from his hold on her hand.

She might not rip the shirt off, but she will, however, push up to her feet and venture into Clark's room, fetching another shirt.

"Quit clenching your hand, it's only just been stitched."

"Not long before I left the Watch." It had been a bitter loss, worse still as his enemies had begun gathering, becoming bolder. Had Aemon still lived, would they have tried to kill him? Or would they have continued their plan, killing the old man as well? From the sound of it, Edd and his friends had narrowly escaped, only through the aid of the Freefolk. But all of this was speculation and it didn't remove the loss of a friend and mentor.

He could understand her anger and frustration, but it was difficult for someone to understand unless they had given their life to the Night's Watch. Even with his Watch ended, he still knew that pull of loyalty and the struggle between family and duty.

It was becoming obvious that either he would have to be brutally honesty about why he didn't want to remove his shirt or simply do as she bid. Either way, he couldn't keep hiding from this from her. One way or another, she would find out. It was embarrassing and frustrating, all of it out of his control and happening before he was ready.

This wasn't a side of him he had wanted her to see.

He frowned as she brought out his shirt and shook his head. "Not his, your grace." It would be the equivalent of him offering one of Anya's dresses to Daenerys. He couldn't and wouldn't wear something belonging to her sub.

There was a deep sigh of defeat before he got up from the couch and pulled off the sticky shirt. His back was turned to her as he offered out the soiled clothing, waiting for her to take it.

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