The Old Curiosity Shop - 4getfulimaginator (2024)

Chapter 1: A New Customer

Chapter Text

Three dragon heads,

Bound at the heart,

Three dragon eggs,

Now the circle starts.

The oldest antique shop in town was as far away as possible from the center of town, hidden in the outskirts at the uppermost northwest corner. Few ventured there, if ever.

Bad for business, good for hermits, his father always said.

It was almost as if the first Mormont ancestor had wanted his precious collection of antiques to stay hidden forever. And Jorah Mormont had inherited the full extent of his family's legacy.

One man's trash, another man's treasure. If the countless artifacts stacked and packed into the endless shelves didn't bury him alive, he would certainly suffocate from the sheer amount of dust. Daily dusting and wiping counters were the routine. He hated cleaning, but he had no choice. If not him, then who?

Luckily, customers did somehow find their way to the shop. Some of the purchases, however extraordinary, were enough to sustain Jorah's humble lifestyle for many months. At least he wouldn't starve.

But it was a lonely existence.

The soft tinkling of the brass bells, faithfully dangling from the door handle, never failed to make his heart pound. A new customer was both a delight and a terror, the difference between victory and defeat. He should convince whoever it was to buy something. No, he should encourage them to browse, not press them. But if they didn't buy anything, he would be scraping and salvaging from his savings. If they did, he was secure for the next few months. He prayed to every god in existence that he had the item a customer was looking for. Bills needed to be paid, life needed to go on — and then again.

That was all he had to look forward to, really.

Lynesse had forgotten him long ago, not content to settle for the small quarters above the shop that served as his home. She thought they could sell everything and become millionaires, become famous. She saw the shop. She was aware that the reality of riches and the dream of it did not coincide.

She said she loved him more than money. She married him. Then she fled the moment there was less money.

He rarely pictured her face. Or he desperately tried not to remember it. It hurt too much. He wasn't enough for her, and he had to live with his mistakes.

His father turned away next, outraged that Jorah had dared to sell some of the most priceless antiques in pawn shops to pay for his wife's debts. He had a family one minute, and the next, it was gone. They were not on speaking terms, and Jeor Mormont had the pride of a grizzled bear. He would never forgive his son for betraying the family trust.

It didn't matter if Jorah had done all this out of love. Sometimes, as he lay alone at night in his bed, listening to the silence, he wondered if it was selfishness, not affection. If he had really loved Lynesse, would he have let her walk all over him? She took whatever she wanted without a care for what he wanted. In his quest to make her happy, he sold his honor to buy her trinkets, outings at fancy restaurants, and a mountain of clothing that couldn't fit into his small closet. Her vain smiles were the price for his ruin.

Death would free him from all this, he knew. He did not like to think of that, either. No one would mourn him. The old chinaware and jewelry and records from days past would end up at an auction somewhere. His body would be lying in a ditch. And life would go on without him.

Another lonely thought.

The only consolation he had was the small but precious collection of books, volumes spread across a dozen bookshelves. He organized them alphabetically by title instead of author, not caring who wrote what. He knew what he liked, and books were the least popular item in the shop. He hardly ever sold any, but secretly, he was glad.

He would never tire of them. They were his friends, blood of his blood. Every written page spoke to him with more than mere words. The mingling of souls, a connection deep and true. He read histories and fairytales, the tragedies of war and the struggles of mankind, the lives of incredible individuals. This eased his melancholy a bit, seeing others suffer far greater miseries than he could ever imagine; it gave him perspective on his own life. If a line of dialogue from a novel made him laugh, he would hold on to it as he took inventory, washed the windows, fixed his supper. Secret smiles were rare in his world.

He wished he could help others, but his army days were over. Now, the extent of his reach was the shop door. He did his time and tried to make the world a safer place — and his pension was the only source of income Lynesse couldn't touch. Once she had found herself a husband with more money than Jorah could ever dream of, he never had to pay her another cent of alimony.

And so he spent his days quietly, a mixture of reading until his vision blurred and watching the front door. Seasons passed, and his habits didn't change. The trickle of sporadic sales continued.

If it wasn't for the light streaming in, he wouldn't even see the difference between day and night. He couldn't afford an assistant, so he did everything himself. He kept busy, and if he ran out of chores, he would find some task to occupy his hands until he was due for a reading break.

On and on. He didn't keep track of time.

Today was no different from any other. The morning was dead, with no customers in sight.

With a sigh, he settled into his favorite seat, a comfortable leather armchair with great back support and soft cushions. He wasn't getting any younger, after all. His measly veteran's health insurance would cover an ambulance ride if he collapsed, but it wouldn't cover a prolonged stay in the hospital. Leg cramps and stabbing pain at the base of his spine were an unwanted risk.

He rubbed at his chin, realizing that soon, he'd need a shave. Oh well, he could let it grow out a few more days, couldn't he? The only person who really saw him was his reflection in the mirror. His customers saw what he could give them, not the storekeeper hungry for conversation. If he dared to extend the small talk beyond the price and how "everything was going," they ignored him.

Better than Lynesse's screeching, he supposed.

Ready for an afternoon of solitude, he lifted "The Count of Monte Cristo" from the counter, eager to cover the next hundred pages before closing time.

But the door creaked. Swung slowly backward. Then hit the wall outside with a bang louder than a gunshot. The bells jingled like a bloody alarm.What the hell—

He jumped out of his seat, ready for anything. The person responsible for all the ruckus rushed inside as if the door were about to attack. Then she unfolded, looking around and realizing where she was.

His jaw dropped.

The loveliest girl he had ever seen was gazing at every wall, crook, and cranny. The curiosity and eagerness in her face made every feature glow. He couldn't stop staring. Either he truly was starstruck, or he hadn't had any female customers for so long that he forgot what women looked like.

When she finally noticed him, gaping by the counter, she gave a shy, small wave.

"Hello." She tucked white-gold strands of wayward hair behind her ears, an angel's halo around her head. "Are you the shopkeeper, Mr. Jorah Mormont?"

How and why she knew his name were distant, unimportant questions.

Blood rushed to his head. He blinked and tried to recover his senses. "Aye, that's me. How can I help you?"

"Oh, I hope you can help me," she said, sounding so earnest that he didn't want to disappoint her. "I've heard that you can identify antiques. Where they're from, how old they are. Is this true?"

Within the limit of time and reason. If he knew much more about all this junk, he could start a career in archaeology. Referrals from other customers were always welcome, though. Nice to know he had a reputation other than being the most gullible cuckold.

"It depends on the item." He gestured to the shelves around them. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Oh. No, I don't want to buy anything from here."

His heart thudded to a halt.

"I need your help with one of mine. It's been in my family for generations and has my family crest. That is what my brother said. Not that he cared."

He waited patiently as she dug it out from her purse. When she handed whatever it was to him, their fingertips met briefly. That slight touch was a spark of fire, spreading through his hand and then his arm. He could feel his cheeks burning. Hopefully, she wouldn't notice, her stunning eyes fixed on what he now held up for inspection.

At first glance, the pocket watch was not special. The dull bronze and worn-out ribbon appeared worn and used. When he opened the clasp, the clock inside had stopped, probably years ago by the look of it. Yet, the engraving of a dragon with three heads was unusual. His thumb brushed over the tarnished metal. He had seen plenty of engraved watches in his time, but a three-headed dragon? It was a bit of an oddity.

"Can you tell me anything about it?" With no visible markings, this particular watch was a mystery. "It might help if I knew more about its history. How long has it been in your family, you say?"

"Centuries?"

He scrutinized it again. "It is not like any I've ever seen. And in rather good condition for being so old."

"Then it is valuable?"

"I don't know." He put it down on the counter in front of her. "If it's a family heirloom, maybe its worth is tied to your family name."

She seemed crestfallen. "Does it really matter?"

"Well, it's not made of gold and has no artist's initials. There isn't much to go on, I'm afraid. I can't identify it if I don't know where it came from."

"But I thought…" She bit her lower lip and then said, rather breathlessly, "Look, if it's worthless, just say it. I'm sorry I came here, wasted your time–"

"Wait a moment, lass, just a moment." He was starting to feel flustered himself. Did sharing her last name bother her that much? "I didn't say I couldn't help you. I do need some more information. If you're willing to share it with me."

Still, she hesitated.

He could say that the watch had sentimental value. He could give up and let their paths part ways.

But he didn't want her to leave. Not like this. Not yet.

"You did say you came all this way." His tone was measured, soft, and calm. He spoke slowly and carefully, not wanting to sound insistent at any point. "I'm happy to help in any way I can. It sounds like you believed I could."

Her eyes flickered from him to the door and back.

"And if you want to leave, you are welcome to do so. You're not a prisoner here. You are a valued customer."

And a beautiful one, his traitorous brain added. For heavens' sake, he was twice her age. And she looked like she was about to run out and never come back.

Then she stared right into his eyes. Blue and violet and green all swirling together like the Mediterranean Sea, transfixing him in place. If his heart was pounding before, it was hammering now. He could hardly hear anything else.

"The Count of Monte Cristo."

She pointed at the discarded book lying by his hand.

"I love it. Edmond Dantes is one of my favorite characters."

He couldn't have looked more surprised. None of his other customers ever mentioned his books.

"That's wonderful." He smiled warmly. "I must confess it's my first time reading it."

"Oh, I can't recommend it enough! I'm sure you'll love it." Her bright returning smile was the sun shining down on a summer day, melting him.

He had to look away, scrutinizing the watch again.

"If you leave this here with me, I can do some research and find out its origins. It will take some time." He dared to try again. "A name would be helpful, though. Any name."

"Leave it here?"

"Or I could try to memorize the way it looks." He shrugged. "It's your choice. Common objects are easy enough to appraise, but handcrafted or rare ones… Much more difficult. Then again, I'm sure this is not the only opportunity you'll ever have—"

"But I wanted it to be you!" Realizing how that must have sounded, she bit her bottom lip again and peered down at her shoes. "I meant that I read about your shop and I wantedyourhelp. There are other shops, of course, but yours seems to be the best."

"Read about it?" At first flattered by the compliment, now he was intrigued. He never advertised, so this was news. It was wise if he didn't mention it, or she really would take off running. "Well, I am glad you did stop by."

She was lost in thought. Reaching for the watch, she examined it in the palm of her hand. Turned it over several times. Then, quite unexpectedly, offered it to him.

"And it looks like I'll have to come back."

He tried to remain calm and not show how pleased he was. When she slipped it into his hand, he sighed in relief, hoping she wouldn't notice.

"I'll do my best, Miss…?"

"Daenerys." A second passed before she added, "Targaryen. Daenerys Targaryen."

"Miss Daenerys." The name rolled on his tongue like a sung note. "Miss Targaryen."

She crooked an eyebrow. "How do I know you won't keep the watch and not give it back?"

He decided to play along. After all, he wanted her to return. "Fair enough. I'll give you a hostage."

The bookshelves beckoned as he searched for something she would be interested in.

But she had already found it. She waved his current book at him. "I'd like this one."

"But you said you've read it."

"True – but I don't have a copy at home, and I haven't read it in a while." Her grin was almost impish. "Besides, you will be so busy researching my watch that you won't have time for it. Right?"

He smirked. "Well played, Miss Targaryen. I should have information for you in about a week or two if you'd like to return then?"

"Wonderful! In two weeks, I might be able to get halfway through the book."

It sounded like a challenge. He also could have sworn she winked at him as she pushed against the door. A breeze slipped in, and the room smelled like roses. Her perfume, perhaps?

All he managed to say was, "I look forward to it."

When she was out of sight, he collapsed into his chair.

His hands were sweaty, and his mouth was dry. The watch and absent book were undeniable proof that Daenerys Targaryen was here. That she wanted his help. That she trusted him. That shesawhim.

All he could think, amid the fading smell of rose petals, was that the chains of monotony in his life were finally broken.

And he couldn't wait to see her again.

Two weeks.

Two damn weeks.

The time wouldn't go by fast enough.

Chapter 2: Heart of a Dragon

Chapter Text

A princess by birth,

A queen by design,

What you stole from me,

One day will be mine.

The day Daenerys turned 18 years old, Viserys left.

He packed his bags, took whatever remaining valuables he hadn't sold, and set off for an unknown destination. He didn't even say goodbye. And he made sure she was penniless.

Her brother, who always reminded her that they were all each other had. That their family history depended on them and only them. That the Targaryens were destined for a glorious future.

It was all horsesh*t. All of it.

She had to beg their landlord for a studio flat, carry the few possessions she owned, and enter a new era of independence. Alone.

If she had believed in any destiny before, everything died the day her only family abandoned her.

At first, she didn't cry any tears for Viserys. She worked 2 minimum-wage jobs – one as a cleaning lady, the other as a waitress at a bar – and that kept her busy. She rose with the sun and went to bed at midnight every day. To say she was bone tired, too exhausted to think of anything but sleep, was an understatement.

Then her 19th birthday rolled around. Some of the employees at the bar said she was standoffish – "wild" in the words of a jerk waiter named Daario – so she didn't have any friends from that job. And cleaning businesses after hours meant working by herself. There was no one to share the sad, single-candle birthday cake she saved up a month's wages for.

She remembered first how much she hated what Viserys told her: that she was worthless, that she was a burden, that if she couldn't help him, she was hurting his chances to move forward. But she also recalled he was her only flesh and blood, that no one else knew she existed. That he raised her when their parents died. She could have ended up in foster care or worse. He had spared her that.

There were good times. He made her laugh sometimes, called her "moon of my heart" and teased her about her hair. Said that workers at his factory job called them the Targaryen twins. Bought her a beautiful ring with two entwining pearls for her 15th birthday.

Why did it all have to end like this?

She had loved him. She was his sister. Didn't that count for anything?

Instead of blowing out the lit candle, she was sobbing so hard that she forgot she even had a birthday. All she saw was every part of her life until now, faint memories of her parents and glaring memories of how Viserys had betrayed her with each step he took away from their flat. Leaving her to fend for herself.

What did he think would happen? That she would become homeless and wander the city until she would die from hunger or perish from the cold?

She let herself imagine that outcome on the first day without him. Just for a second, she wanted to give up. To let whatever would happen, happen.

Then she saw it.

He had dropped one of their parents' old trinkets on the ground. Her father's pocket watch. It didn't work, and she couldn't afford to have it fixed. Even in the dim lamplight, the three-headed dragon seemed to come alive, ready to breathe fire. The symbol of their family line.

She had to be brave. She had to at leastpretendto be brave. She was a Targaryen, a dragon at heart. If she surrendered, her life would be over. And what would be the triumph in that? None of her past would count for anything. She would sink to the ground, forgotten, and the world would keep spinning.

Or she could keep fighting. Fight to live another day, and never let life defeat you.

So she dragged her ass out of bed each morning, and she ignored every bastard who mocked her or taunted her. When the bartenders laughed behind her back and said she had "huge tit* and a large arse," she acted like she didn't hear them. When one of the cleaning supervisors yelled at her for being 5 minutes late, she didn't talk back.

If she ever needed a reminder why, she would look at the watch. It was the only heirloom Viserys hadn't stolen. Someday, she would find out more about her family history. Someday, she would win the real war – to be free of this miserable existence and out living the life she deserved – but until then, the dragon must keep one eye open and not breathe fire.

Dragons guarded treasure, after all. And she would build it, stone by stone, paycheck to paycheck. Then she would show the world what Daenerys Targaryen was truly made of.

Fire and blood.

A living, breathing dragon.

She held on to those dreams so tightly that no insult could be too great, no bad day could spoil it. And so it continued for the next 5 years.

But all the hard labor work and long days were taking their toll. When she saw herself in the mirror and looked – really looked – she saw a woman aging faster than her years. As if she had fought a thousand battles in one blow.

If she continued to work herself to death, she would become a corpse soon enough.

She thought about enrolling in the nearest college, but what would she do? She graduated from secondary school like the rest but with no friends or prospects. She had never had the chance to discover what she was good at or had the talent for. She could go to vocational school, perhaps, but like everything else, education costs money. It would mean giving up one of her jobs, and she wasn't sure if she could do that.

Waitressing and cleaning would only get her so far. Maybe if she had some sort of office job, like a receptionist or a secretary? Did they even still hire secretaries?

She barely convinced herself to buy the Sunday edition of the newspaper and see the listings. If that didn't work out, she would set aside time to go to the library on the weekend and search on the computer.

She could try bartending. That didn't sound appealing, and it was already hard to be a waitress at the bar she worked at. And those horrible bartenders…

Wrinkling her nose, she thumbed through the job ads, hoping against hope that a good opportunity was available.

"A teacher's aide? I don't have a degree, though." Her excitement peaked when she saw the receptionist ad at the very bottom.

"Must have great conversation skills."

She could talk. She was a great talker!

"Telephone experience."

Well, she wasn't exactly on the phone all the time, but she had a flip phone and could speak easily. How much experience could they want?

"Type 50 words per minute."

Her head hit the table.

That was it. That was the problem. She could never possibly afford a computer or Internet access at home, and her current typing skills were searching with one finger for each letter on the keyboard – very slowly.

But that would not stop her. No, she would do what it took to be better prepared for the next job like that.

She set aside two hours every week at the nearest library, making sure she would have undivided computer time to practice her typing skills. The nice librarian, a girl named Missandei, showed her how to use the free program they had, and off she went! She struggled at first, but who doesn't? When she practiced at home, she drew the computer keyboard on a piece of paper and pretended to type out words and sentences. She surprised herself by finishing the course with flying colors, sooner than she expected.

Missandei congratulated her. "You did wonderfully, Daenerys. What will you try next?"

She beamed. "I am going to get that receptionist job I wanted."

Except for a tiny, tiny problem.

There were no receptionist jobs left.

The newspaper ads either wanted construction workers or some spam about working from home. It was depressing. She had been working at this for over 3 months, and now the ads were a ghost town of disappointment. The Internet searches she did were just as empty.

Ever the optimist, Missandei guided her to the ad board they had in the library. "Maybe you'll find something here. People ask for help, too."

The board took up half of the wall and was twice as high. She had to stand up on her tiptoes to see some of the ads.

Which were years old. Illegible. Or plain ridiculous.

"What about babysitting?"

She covered her face with her hands. "I know nothing about children."

"Dog sitting?"

She wouldn't even honor that with a response.

"I wish I could be of more help," Missandei said gently. "If there was an opening here, you'd hear about it in a heartbeat. I promise. Unfortunately, we mostly need volunteers. And it sounds like you need paid work."

"So I can go to school. Find one decent, well-paying job that doesn't treat me like crap. And move out of this city," she muttered through closed fingers.

That night, before she went to bed, she took out the watch. She kept it secure at all times inside the second-hand dresser she found at a thrift shop, but she rarely looked at it unless she needed motivation.

Which she did right now. Badly.

If her parents were still alive…

When she opened the case, her own eyes stared back at her. As Viserys would say, her mother's eyes.

She would not cry. She wouldnotcry.

This was the only memento she had left of them and their world. What would they say about her life? What even was her life right now?

The palms of her hands were so red and callused that she could hardly brush her hair. Her face was so, so tired, as if she were one foot in the grave already.

So much for dreams. Maybe all she ever would be was a cleaning lady or a waitress. Maybe that was her destiny.

The watch felt warm to the touch, like molten gold. It shone like a star.

Perhaps.

Perhaps there was another way.

A simpler way.

All she needed was enough money set aside so she could begin classes. Just a little money.

Or a lot.

"Here is a list of all the antique shops in the city. And here is another list of all the pawn shops." Missandei handed Daenerys a stack of paper. When she held it in her arms, it reached her forehead.

"Are there really that many shops?" She cursed as the top papers slid off and floated to the paper, as if in cheeky defiance. "How am I supposed to choose?"

"You could start by location."

"I need whatever is within walking distance first."

Missandei shook her head. "Most of the antique shops are at the north end of the city. You'll only get sleazy pawn shops around here."

"Great." She scowled. "Any recommendations?"

"The Lannisters seem to have a lot of boutiques. You might try them?"

It would be all too easy for one of them to lie to her about how much the watch was worth – and then sell it for ten times as much themselves. Besides, corporation-run antique shops? That didn't sound right.

"What about family-owned ones?"

"They are family." Checking to see if no one was listening, she added in a whisper, "And from what I've read, the siblings in this family are just a little too close, if you get my meaning."

"Ugh." She dropped the stack on a nearby table like a sack of potatoes. "Anyone normal, by chance?"

"I'm no expert, but you really would have to visit them, one by one. Unless…" She squinted at the board in the distance. "I could swear I saw a new notice yesterday. It wasn't big, but it stood out. The name, I think."

She came back with what appeared to be a note. Daenerys laughed out loud.

"That's the notice? It's tiny."

"Well, maybe the person who posted it couldn't afford to print bigger ones. At least the name is striking." She cleared her throat before continuing, "'The Dragonstone Antiquary,' where history never dies. Find rare collectibles, antiques, and memorabilia. Run by Jorah Mormont. Free appraisals upon request."

Dragonstone. Three dragons. It had to be a sign, not just a coincidence. Or was it? Maybe she was overthinking dragons lately.

"'History never dies'?" She rolled her eyes. "We are creating history. Right now. Unless all the people on the planet die at the same time, there always will be history."

"It's a cheap line, but it's not family-owned or a corporate boutique."

"Oh, that's a mark in its favor."

Missandei examined the notice. "Daenerys, this shop is the oldest in the city."

"So it is family owned."

"No, it doesn't say that. It might be," she amended. "But you can't deny it owns up to its claim. It was established when this city was just beginning to rise from the surface. Ithaslived through history."

Daenerys gave her a sideways look. "Free appraisals? No conditions?"

She handed her the notice. "Look for yourself."

A dragon figure curled around the corner of the left-hand edge, the only drawing beside crisp, black font. Otherwise, the ad was plain and straightforward, exactly what Missandei had read aloud.

She could feel her resolve crumble. The store tagline was selling itself well.

"How far away is it?" she asked timidly, already knowing the answer.

"It's 6 hours away by foot, 3 by bike, and 90 minutes by bus. It's at the north tip of the city, on the west side."

"Might as well be 24 hours," Daenerys grumbled. "A 90-minute commute, back and forth? That's 3 hours just for bus time, and I bet there isn't a bus stop that close to the shop. What if it's closed? I work from morning to night on weekdays. When am I going to find time to go all the way over there?"

"You finished your typing program. Maybe over the weekend? It says it's open from 10 am to 2 pm, Saturday and Sunday."

She pouted. Buses ran every 30 minutes to an hour on Saturdays and Sundays. No matter which day she picked, she would have to leave early in the morning and pray that some accident didn't happen so she could make it within that time frame.

"I suppose I could plan it out," she said hesitantly.

"Then it's a plan!" she said brightly. "I'll get you the bus schedules."

"Thank you." Daenerys sighed. If this didn't work, she was going to lose her mind. Weekends were reserved for sleep and sleep and more sleep. Whoever this Jorah Mormont was, his appraisal better be worth its weight ingold.

Something Missandei just said resonated with her. "Schedules? Notaschedule?"

She shook her head sadly, handing her the brochures. "You'll have 3 transfers each way."

It was a wonder her brain didn't implode then and there.

As she predicted, the bus commute was a dreadful mess.

Everything seemed to go wrong, right from the first bus. It was late. So she missed her first transfer and had to wait 30 minutes for the next bus. Then she almost lost the second transfer, where she had to go running like a track athlete, waving her arms in the air frantically to get the driver's attention. The last transfer went smoothly enough, but she was worn out by then. Bus rides were crowded and nerve-wracking. It was why she normally stuck to her neighborhood, as unappealing as it was, and walked everywhere. Bus rides were for rainy days or emergencies.

Her anticipation and worry were another story. She didn't know what to expect of Jorah Mormont and his free appraisal of her watch. Would he even do it, or was it a ploy to get people into the shop? She would know soon enough. Before she had left the library the day she saw his notice, she looked up what an antiquary was.

Suddenly, she realized that she absolutely had to make this work. Even if it ended up being a paid appraisal, she was more than willing to pay. She even took some money with her, and she guarded her purse like it was a sword. If someone only tried to rob her, she would whack them so hard they would seetheirancestors.

It wasn't even about the value of the watch. It was history. Her family history. And before any other tragedy happened in her life – before she reached for her future – she needed to know more about her past and where she came from. If the watch turned out to be a priceless artifact, that would be wonderful. But it was a mystery, safely kept in the drawer of her dresser, and whatever secrets it held would be revealed now. She couldn't wait any longer. Viserys was long gone and no one was left to tell her anything.

But this man could help her. He was a living expert on antiques. In the oldest antique shop in the entire city. That counted a great deal.

She did have a failsafe in case she suspected he was trying to cheat on her. She had already decided to do it if she went to any antique shop. No one was going to take advantage of her and her ignorance, not even an old man nestled in a tiny shop at the edge of town. In case the watch was even more valuable because of her family name, she just wouldn't tell him what her name was. He would have to figure it out from the crest and so forth. Then she would see how knowledgeable he was about antiques.

It was with this thought in mind that she descended from the last bus and trudged toward Bear Lane, three blocks away from the bus stop. Just as she suspected.

The weather was nice, sunny and cloudless, and gave her some courage. The shop she had come this far to visit was two stories high, a mixture of bricks and cedar wood, as if it were a sturdy house growing out of a tree. It looked so inviting. A residence, not a shop, for all of the treasures within its doors. This strengthened each footstep she took even more.

She thought it would be worse. But it wasn't. It was–

But the door. The door wouldn't budge. She started to panic, pushing harder. It was still open, wasn't it? It couldn't be 2 pm already. No, she did not come all this way just to find it closed. This door was going to open, whether it liked it or not!

Then she noticed the faded print label that said "Pull."

Now she was an idiot who apparently couldn't read.

Still, it was quite a heavy door. And it wasn't even glass so that she could have some reassurance of what was awaiting her inside.

It was solid oak. She yanked on it with all her might.

As luck would have it, a gust of wind came at just that moment and blew the door back hard. It hit the wall like a shot of cannon fire, standing wide open. Well, that's one way to open a heavy door.

Then it started to move back, and she could feel wind coming from theotherdirection.

Oh, no.

Ducking her head and clutching at her arms, she raced inside as the door quickly shut with a resounding crash – and chime – behind her.

Catching her breath, she drank in the panorama before her. "The Dragonstone Antiquary" seemed exactly like an antiquary should be. Shelves and wooden cases and glass cases everywhere. So many old ceramics and furniture and who knew what. And were those books in the corner over there? Her heart slowed in time with her scrutiny of her surroundings. The familiarity and warmth of the interior soothed her doubts and made them go away.

And the shopkeeper. Jorah Mormont. Looking at her like she had dropped out of the sky.

That seemed fair, she told herself a bit shakily. Any expectations she had had abouthimhad just flown out the window, never to be heard from again.

This was not part of her plan.

Going home without her watch.

Bringing back a book, however dear to her heart, instead.

Jorah Mormont was an enigma. Charming but reserved. Assertive but unsure. Looking into his kind eyes, she felt she could tell him anything at all and he would listen to every word. He exuded so much warmth that she couldn't help but believe his offer of help was completely sincere. She told him her full name. Wrecked her glorious plan. And she didn't regret it one bit.

He wouldn't lie to her. She somehow knew he wouldn't. He seemed as sturdy as the cedar that his shop was made of. And he loved books! Had no one ever discussed books with him before? He seemed surprised she even asked about his current read. His whole face lit up when she mentioned "The Count of Monte Cristo."

Which she was eager to re-read herself. She hadn't seen it since before Viserys left. And the library editions just weren't the same. Jorah had the full, unabridged version, and she could smell the pages, that enticing scent of quality paper, all the way from where the book now rested on her lap.

2 weeks. Just 2 weeks, and she would be going back.

He promised to find out about the origins of the watch.

She was going to keep her end of the bargain as well. 600 pages was a big goal, especially with her work schedule, but she would find a way. She wanted to see him smile again – such a lovely, friendly smile – when she told him where her bookmark was in the book.

Suddenly, the terrible ride home didn't seem bad at all.

Even when it began to rain.

Even when all her bus transfers were late.

She buried the book under her jacket, right by her heart, and kept it safe.

As she knew Jorah was doing with her watch.

Chapter 3: Reflections

Chapter Text

In a cold dark cave

The dragon slept

By the blue-white sea

Its secrets kept.

With his copy of "The Count of Monte Cristo" temporarily gone, Jorah had no choice but to devote his time to research. He could have picked up another book, but it felt like an interruption. His mind was in the world Alexandre Dumas created, and he couldn't simply jump into another one the next moment. It almost seemed disloyal.

Besides, he had gotten himself into this, so he only had himself to blame for it.

He wanted to impress Daenerys. That's what it was. Even now, as he pulled books from all four ends of the shop – history books, books about nobility from all corners of the earth, books about priceless and rare jewelry – he could imagine her face, smiling up at him. He couldn't escape it. And he grinned like a fool every time. An old fool who hasn't learned his lesson yet.

This was exactly how he had tumbled headfirst into his doomed romance with Lynesse. She was beautiful, younger than him. He hardly knew her, and what she had shared of herself didn't scare him away from her when he was courting her. Then, after a year of marriage, the truth came creeping in. She hated his shop and how limiting his life was for her. She wanted riches quickly, while he couldn't care less. Money had never meant much to him. He gave Lynesse all his love – the only real treasure he had – and she threw it back in his face.

If he had only realized how shallow she was from the beginning, he could have avoided all this pain. His father would still be speaking to him. He could be halfway across the world right now, seeing more than what was in the pages of his books.

He could be living his life, instead of condemning himself to an empty existence here.

And it was all because his heart wouldn't listen to him. It wanted something no one would ever give him, no matter how much he tried.

Daenerys, least of all. She was a young woman who could be with any man her age, and she most likely had someone already. She would never see him as anything but the middle-aged shopkeeper.

He should accept that. He should fight this sudden, ridiculous wish to bow at her feet and do anything in his power to please her. To prove to her that he was honorable, trustworthy, loyal. Instead, he yearned for her. Even if it was just for her to be here, standing in his shop, looking at all its contents like she had entered a palace of delights.

When she gazed into his eyes…

Swallowing hard, he rubbed at his temples. His newfound interest had become a distraction as well, hurting his work. When a meager number of customers came in this week, he leapt to his feet when the door chimes rang. And he knew his face fell, disappointed none of them were her. He could hear the dismay in his voice while he talked to them.

It was difficult to convince himself that this was a pointless, one-sided attraction.

Except that Daenerys Targaryen was unlike any woman he had ever met. Her enthusiasm had revived the shop and energized it. Every item he owned had seen the passage of time, with a cloud of death and lost memories hanging over it. Yet in her presence, everything seemed to come alive. The clouds parted. Light shone down from the heavens. The poets rejoiced.

And each time he examined her watch, comparing it to items in other famous collections, searching for clues… He counted the days, the hours, the minutes, thesecondsuntil she would open the door, bringing hope back into his life.

He finally let his lips form a wide grin that threatened to overrun his cheeks.

Ah, that annoying, persistent hope, rallying against reason and experience. Supporting his heart like a devoted friend.

Whatever would he do without it?

The moment Daenerys arrived home, she set out a reading schedule. 14 days meant she had to reach a goal of at least 40 pages per day. That sounded impossible unless she took the book with her to work. She had three 15-minute breaks across her hours waitressing, and a 30-minute lunch break during her cleaning job. If she woke up half an hour earlier in the morning and went to sleep half an hour later, she could squeeze in some reading then as well.

She found a paper bag and carefully made a makeshift cover for the book. Her primary school had made them cover all their textbooks so the next year's students could reuse them and the hardcovers wouldn't get soiled. Considering that Jorah wanted his property back in one piece, intact and undamaged, she needed to take precautions.

She also had to protect the book in an environment where drinks and food could spill on it. She did have a locker in the break room, but other employees liked to eat during their breaks. Some even smuggled in beer cans. So she would curl up in a chair at the farthest end of the room, hoping no one would go near her.

Tonight wasn't going to be easy.

For some unexplained reason, Daario, the waiter who thought she was "wild," had made it his mission to sit as close to her as possible. He had chips and soda, and he was making a point of crunching them and sipping as loudly as possible.

She turned another page, unamused, and continued to witness Dantes's tutelage under the wise Abbe Faria. But she couldn't deny that the noise was getting on her nerves.

Closing the book with an audible snap, she eyed him with as much coldness as she could muster. "Hello, Daario."

He wore an expression of complete innocence. "Oh – hi, Daenerys."

"Enjoying your break?"

He made a show of chewing the chips vigorously. "Very much."

She sighed. "Is there a reason you're disturbing mine?"

"Disturbing?"

She pointed at his chips. "You're being really loud, and you're sitting right next to me. Can you sit by someone else and ruin their break?"

"Oh, come on. You're not still sour about what I said before, about your being wild? What was that, months ago?"

"Years. But that's not it. I am trying to read, and you are being obnoxious." His remarks still stung after all this time, and she wouldn't let him forget it.

He crumpled up the chip bag, took a sip of soda, and then sat straight in his chair. Looking directly into her eyes, he said, "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be rude or ruin your break."

She hated apologies. It was difficult to tell right now if he was being genuine at all or playing at something. "Well, you did."

"And I apologize again. I was simply trying to get your attention."

"Oh?"

"Well, the truth is… Daenerys, you work really hard. You put up with all of our crap. I've watched you work here for a long time. You always work hard."

The repetitive reasoning was not helping her believe in his honesty. "Your point?"

He shrugged, staring down at his lap. Was Daario, the life of the party, actingshy?

"I think you're amazing. An amazing girl. No, woman. And I would like…to ask you out sometime."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Is this a joke? Did your friends bet you could make me go on a date with you?"

He had the gall to look shocked. "No, I would never do that. If I like a girl, I ask her out. If I don't, I leave her alone. Why would you think that?"

"Because no one around here, for the past 5 years, has ever spoken to me! Including you, with your comments," she snapped. "So understandably, I think that."

Whistling under his breath, he grimaced. "I'm sorry about that as well. You keep to yourself, and that's okay. We didn't mean any harm. I swear."

Daario, for all of his faults, was good-looking. She couldn't deny that. And he had a sense of humor. Some of his break room jokes, even the crude ones, had made her laugh in the past. When no one else was watching, of course.

Then, amid twisted feelings of delight and horror, was thecoup de grace. People liked to talk about their pasts on dates. They talked. One of the reasons she stayed by herself and didn't have any friends was that sharing her past was the last thing she wanted to do. In fact, it was terrifying.

Daario wasn't the person she wanted to talk to about her brother, her present situation, or any of it. What did they even have in common? What would they talk about? He probably could make her laugh – and she needed to laugh more – but she could sense what he was after. He was known for his womanizing ways. She would be just "another notch on his bedpost."

And she had her goals, her dreams. Romance and sex were at the rock bottom of the list.

She frowned. "Why do you want to date me? Every woman in this bar right now would go out with you if you asked."

It was too late when she realized what she had said. He grinned widely. "Would they? But you don't want to. That's interesting."

"Meaning you'll leave me alone now?" she said hopefully, wanting nothing more than to return to her book.

"Meaning that you want more, and I will need to step up to the challenge." He winked at her. "I'll see you around, Daenerys. Enjoy the rest of your reading break."

She was so baffled that she couldn't say anything. She could only watch as he got up, bowed his head awkwardly, and went back to work. Clearly, his break was over.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, she groaned. And now hers was over. No more pages.

But he kept his word for the rest of the week and left her in peace. That didn't stop him from leaving a bouquet of flowers in her locker. The card simply said, "To Daenerys, who deserves the best."

As much as she wanted to throw the bouquet in the wastebasket, she didn't. She took it home. The card went in her dresser's drawer, while the flowers stood tall in a plastic cup filled with water.

On Saturday, she went to the library, eager to tell Missandei what had happened during her trip. She took the book with her.

As she walked, she thought about how this kind librarian had somehow become an important part of her life. She knew nothing about Missandei or her habits outside of the library. Without needing to, she had supported Daenerys and offered her advice. She had acted as a friend would. She didn't need to do any of that for a stranger, an infrequent patron. But she did, because she was a good person.

There were too few good people in the world today. Daario was still under observation. And Jorah…

She hugged the book closer to her chest. Jorah was special. Her heart sang just thinking about him. She would like to have a person like him in her life.

It wasn't that she didn't want friends; she just didn't know how to keep them. They would see her, the real her, like Viserys had, and they would all leave her in the end – like he did. She wasn't worth staying for.

Flowers were sweet, but they couldn't change the truth.

For a Saturday afternoon, the library was rather empty. Yet there Missandei was, shelving books and keeping busy. She admired that.

"Oh, there you are!" She waved. "You're back. Did you go to that shop we found?"

Daenerys smiled. "I did."

"How was it?"

"It was as expected. They do free appraisals, and they promised to help."

Missandei's eyes narrowed. "They? But I thought the shop was run by one man. Jorah Mormont, correct?"

"Yes, he was there." She showed her the book. "Look what he gave me! And he promised to help – he knows what he is talking about."

"He gave you a book. What about whatever you needed to ask him about? Where's that?"

"Well, the book is a loan, and my item is with him while he's appraising it," she said brightly. "It was terrible getting there, but the trip was worth it. Thank you again, Missandei, for all your help."

"You're welcome, Daenerys – and I'm glad I could help – but," she paused before continuing, "why would you trust him to keep your item and come back with his book?"

"This book, which has beautiful illustrations, a leather cover, and was printed over a hundred years ago, yet is in pristine condition?" She smiled. "Why not? He was so nice. And kind. Very kind. I trust him."

"You trust a man you just met?" Her eyes twinkled as suspicion left them. "Do you trust every kind person you meet?"

"He's nothing like that. Jorah wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Jorah?" She pursed her lips, as if holding back a smile. "You call each other by your first names?"

"No." Now she felt confused. "He was a gentleman."

"Oh." She looked at the book. Daenerys offered it to her if she wanted to inspect it. She took it, gently and carefully, then scrutinized each page, from front to back. "And was this gentleman handsome?"

"I didn't notice."

That wasn't true at all. She had noticed. But saying it aloud sounded wrong, somehow. He was middle-aged or around there. And he probably saw her in a fatherly way. She barely remembered her own father, so she wasn't an expert on how fathers and daughters interacted. She didn't want to acknowledge his looks or those striking blue eyes that had a way of making her feel safe and secure.

That was trouble. Trouble she had avoided so far with men in general.

"He's older," she finally admitted.

"Ah, an older gentleman." Missandei had a mischievous look on her face. "My boyfriend is ten years older than me."

"Jorah is probably twenty."

She shrugged. "If the shoe fits."

Now it was Daenerys's turn to stare at her. "You said I shouldn't trust him."

"I asked why you trust him. I never said you shouldn't." She continued to peer at the book. "I think it's rather obvious why."

"No, it isn't. Jorah Mormont is a professional, Missandei. He would never, ever do anything that would make me uncomfortable." She really did believe that, as much as she still thought Daario only wanted to get into her bed. "I wouldn't mind being his friend, though. He seems really lonely."

"You feel sorry for him, then?"

"Yes. And no. He seems knowledgeable and interesting. I think I could learn so much from him in just one conversation."

"I'm sure you could."

Daenerys had just about enough of the teasing and prodding. She knew exactly what Missandei was suggesting. She could feel her whole face turning red.

"Men and women can be friends," she protested. "I probably look like a child to him, anyway."

Finished with her inspection, Missandei closed the book with care and reverence. She handed it back to her with a smile.

"I'm not saying anything one way or the other, Daenerys." Now she sounded serious. "But I don't think grown men entrust priceless editions of books to children. And I wouldn't take anything for granted if I were you. Just remember what I said. Please."

And she knew the girl in front of her meant well. She did. Romantic notions, on the other hand…

"I will." She didn't want to consider the way his fingers had grazed hers and the whole room suddenly seemed to be on fire, with no air to breathe. Determined, she stayed her original course. "But you're wrong about him and me. Really. He said I'm a valued customer, and that's all this is."

What she knew for certain, without a doubt, was that she still desperately wanted to be his friend.

But she kept both of these thoughts to herself.

One more week.

One more week, and she would find out then.

Chapter 4: The Power of Honesty

Chapter Text

The voiceless sky was red

The golden sun had fled

The stars refused to shine

They saw the moon was dead.

Boomboom.

Boom boom boom.

Jorah woke up with a start. The books on his lap fell to the floor in a heap.

He wondered for a moment where he was. Then he saw the counter. He must have fallen asleep in his armchair again. He had stayed awake late last night, researching Daenerys's watch.

His back ached, reminding him that this behavior was unhealthy for a man of his age. More than that, he felt exhausted. He had never taken so much time to research anyone's item before. Hours and hours of reading, comparing, examining. He had a slow, old computer in the back of the shop, with the crankiest Internet connection, but he made it cooperate.

Nothing. Every possibility was a dead end. If this continued, Daenerys would return this coming Saturday and he would have no information to give her except excuses.

She had such faith in his abilities, and he would let her down. He would have to see the disappointment and hurt in her eyes. And he knew what would happen afterwards. She would take her watch and never come back. He'd never see her again.

Because he had failed. She had one request, and he couldn't even do that.

Boom boom boom boom.

"I am coming!" he yelled, bending over to quickly pick up the fallen books and stack them neatly on the counter.

As he hurried to the door, he straightened his clothes so they wouldn't look wrinkled. Then he unlocked it and slowly pushed it open.

When he saw who it was, he groaned under his breath. "Good morning, Barristan."

The man who single-handedly commandeered the only fencing club in the entire city – conveniently located at the northern end – was smirking at him.

"Good morning, Jorah. Or should I say, are you having a good morning?" He chuckled. "How many pints did you have last night?"

He scowled. "You know I don't drink."

"Yet you look like you have." He looked around, trying to peer inside the shop. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"Why?"

"Isn't your shop open for business?" He pointed at his watch. "It's 11 in the morning."

Jorah swore. It wasn't like him to oversleep. And it also wasn't like him at all to forget to open his shop on time. "No, of course – please, come in."

He sidestepped as Barristan Selmy, fencing master and retired army captain, made his way into the shop. His agile movements and fit figure denied his age. He always was a good man to have in a fight, and by the looks of it, he still was.

"Well, Jorah, it looks like the rumors I have been hearing are true."

He rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"It's strange. Your shop has always had a reputation – at least on this side of town – for being orderly, punctual, straightforward. Right now, it looks like someone ransacked the place. And the other day, one of my student's parents told me he came here to buy an antique china set as a gift for his great-aunt. Imagine his surprise when he found the door locked. In the middle of the day."

"Maybe I was out to lunch."

He tsked. "You forget I know you, Jorah. You do not eat anywhere but here. Not for years, at least."

A sliver of anger sliced through the current haze in his head. "Maybe I am acting my age. At least one of us is."

Instead of being outraged, Barristan looked sympathetic. "So it still hurts, even now. Are you ever going to let go of what she did to your life?"

He ran a hand through his hair. Contempt, disgust, disdain – all of these were more tolerable than the pity being tossed at him in this moment. Pride and guilt warred within him like a disease.

"No," he finally said, feeling miserable.

To his credit, Barristan stared at the shop walls while Jorah recovered what was left of his dignity.

"Did you ever think of selling the shop?" he suddenly asked. "I could find you a generous buyer, if you were interested. Your collection is impeccable. It wouldn't be difficult. You could take it and–"

"And what?" He gestured at the trinkets scattered around. "I would wander across the face of the earth. No home, no family. That's no life."

"Better than what you have now. You have buried yourself here. And worst of all, you don't even want to try. I know many ladies who would gladly—"

"Don't." He clenched his jaw. "That part of my life is over. You know that."

"Only becauseyoudecided that. You used to be braver."

He thought of sweet Daenerys, who would run crying from his shop when she discovered how much of a failure he was. "Aye, I used to be many things. Younger, for one. Reckless. And an idiot."

Barristan smiled, shaking his head. "You're too hard on yourself, old friend. No matter our age, we can still make changes in our lives. Take chances. Youth has nothing to do with it."

"Tell my father that."

"Oh, Jeor Mormont, the Bear to Beware." He chuckled. "I wonder what he's up to these days."

"I wish I knew," he said bitterly. "I haven't heard from him in 10, maybe 15 years. I lost count long ago."

"Wherever he is, he is raising hell. He was a fearsome man, to be sure."

Now Barristan glanced at the stack of books on the counter. And the watch. It was lying right by them. It was too late for Jorah to hide it from sight. As soon as he saw it, he strode over and picked it up.

"How extraordinary. The Targaryen crest."

Jorah couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"How on earth do you know that?" All his efforts to find a symbol remotely similar had failed so far.

"The crest? Well, it's been decades, but the Targaryens were a powerful family once. Royal blood, supposedly. Went back generations upon generations. Steel tycoons, then they invested in gold and silver mines. But the story goes that one bad relative after another was too extravagant, spent outside their means, ran their business into the ground. The family line trickled into nothing eventually. By then, none of their fortune was left. Any memory of them is gone."

His throat was so dry he couldn't say anything.

"I knew the eldest son, Rhaegar, for a while, while I was deployed abroad. He was a lieutenant. Good soldier, well-liked by the men. We talked, played chess together. He told me about his family. His mother died giving birth to her third child. Said his father was a bit of a madman, always bragging he still had a fortune hidden somewhere but wallowing in debt." His voice thickened. "Rhaegar died in action not long after. Poor lad. So much promise. I went to the funeral, and his ashes were sent home in a box."

Barristan's sharp eyes never left his face as he dangled the watch. "How did you get this?"

Jorah swallowed hard. "A girl. She came here, to the shop. Asked me to figure out where it came from."

"What girl?"

He did not want to betray Daenerys's trust. But if Barristan knew anything, he had no choice but to tell him.

"She said her name is Daenerys Targaryen."

He nodded. "A sibling. Or distant relative."

Jorah steadied his voice as he asked, "Is it worth anything? The watch?"

Barristan shrugged. "Maybe to the right people. If there are any other Targaryens left, it would be a token of their past and their heritage. In the eyes of history, however, the Targaryens were nobles who went bankrupt and became nobodies. No doubt that's why you've found no trace of them. For a relic, the watch is in good condition, but that's all. It's not even made of gold."

His heart plummeted. This is what he had to tell Daenerys. Sad news – tales of ruin and tragedy, of how her family no longer existed. Not happy news.

How the watch was, one way or another, worthless. Certainly not what she was expecting, with that bright, excited smile of hers.

He must have seemed anxious, because Barristan gave him a searching look. "You've turned away customers before, Jorah. After all, you can't have everything they're looking for. And you can't tell them what they want to hear, either. Just tell this girl the truth and be done with it. You'll have other customers."

"It's not that." He sighed. "She really was counting on my help."

"And you're giving it. How fortunate I was here, though. Rhaegar must have carried this as one of his personal effects, and it was probably sent home when he died."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't have to tell her."

Barristan couldn't have looked more shocked. "So you want to lie to her?"

"Or you can tell her the truth. It sounds like you're more of an expert here, and you knew the owner."

"How convenient." He was gazing at him in utter disbelief. "You want me to do your job for you, do you? Tell me why."

He refused to say anything, glaring at the floor.

"Come on, man. What are you afraid of? She's one customer. You're giving her exactly what she asked for – where this watch is from and whom it belonged to. If you're protecting anyone, it's yourself. The truth, now. Why don't you want to tell her yourself?"

He clenched his jaw and stood tall, still not answering.

Barristan sighed. "Oh, that's what it is. You fancy this girl."

"Daenerys. And it's not that," he denied. His heart twisted accusingly. "You should have seen her. A ray of sunshine, and she was so hopeful. I gave her one of my books–"

"You did what?"

"And she's different. Barristan, she is like no one else I have ever met. If I tell her the truth, she will hate me for it."

He frowned. "She will hate you more if you lie to her and she finds out the truth later from someone else."

"What do you want me to tell her? That the watch is a dead relic and it doesn't mean anything now? It meant enough to her that she came all this way to ask me about it."

"Jorah." Barristan sounded exasperated now. "Jorah, don't you hear yourself? You met this girl once. She isn't your friend, and you aren't hers. She is your customer. You're the expert. You did your part. Now finish it. If you care about her feelings, do her the courtesy of being honest."

"But I will lose her," he whispered, breaking inside. "I will lose her, and she will not come back."

"A man of your age, spewing nonsense. Just how old is this Daenerys?"

His face was as hot as a furnace.

"I thought so. Otherwise, I'd expect a more reasonable response from her – and from you." Shaking his head, he rummaged inside his coat and pulled out a flask. Unstoppering it, he offered it to him.

Reluctantly, Jorah took it and had a long sip. Brandy scorched his throat and settled in his stomach.

"Since when does the best swordsman who ever lived keep alcohol on his person?"

"When his friends need it more than he does."

They shared a smile as he handed the flask back to him.

Finally, Barristan headed for the door, leaving the watch where it was on the counter.

"Listen, Jorah. As you pointed out, I'm an old man, and I'm no expert on matters of the heart. But," he turned to him, "I do hope you see sense. Daenerys will respect you more if you are honest. And if she doesn't, she isn't worth all this trouble. Don't sacrifice your integrity. That's my advice."

The last thing he said as he was leaving was, "And for gods' sakes, clean up your shop or I'm not recommending you anymore."

Chapter 5: No Returns

Chapter Text

Fire burns into ashes

Blood paves the road to death

Mercy dons its armor

While hatred still draws breath.

The entire Friday, from dawn to dusk, Daenerys was walking on air, as if she had learned how to fly. No chore was too tedious, no task impossible. The hours passed quickly the more she thought about her return visit to Jorah's shop.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow was the great and glorious day.

She couldn't wait.

When her shift at the bar finally ended, she practically ran to her locker, grabbed her belongings, and rushed out so she could be home early. She had 30 pages left to read to reach her goal.

Once she entered her flat, she took a shower, slipped into her nightgown, and nestled into the covers. The book was waiting for her, given a place of honor on her bedside dresser.

She had already witnessed Edmond Dantes recover the treasure of Monte Cristo. Now he was the dashing, mysterious Count, ready to unleash his revenge with a flourish. No mastermind could have planned it better. Not to mention that the beautiful Haydee – the Greek princess and his ward – was deeply in love with him and had just realized her feelings. Edmond tried to discourage her, stating their difference in age as the main reason. Yet she didn't care. After all, it was his soul she loved. And older or not, he was still quite handsome.

Daenerys preferred it that way, too. A meeting of souls and minds, not just bodies. What could be more romantic than that?

Missandei's words of warning came to the forefront of her mind. She had just met Jorah. They didn't really know each other. He wasn't her guardian, either. He was simply appraising her watch, at her request.

Her imagination pushed her a little harder to remember his face, golden, radiant. The way his lips moved when he talked. That voice and dazzling smile…

Her face flushed. She shouldn't get carried away. If she wasn't careful, she would become hopelessly infatuated with him, and that wouldn't be good. She shouldn't imagine him as the Count of Monte Cristo, speaking all those fine words to her, or herself as Haydee. It wasn't right.

How was she to know Jorah didn't have a wife or partner? She was assuming he didn't because secretly, she didn't want him to. That was unfair to him, and it was unrealistic for her. He wasn't a celebrity. He was a stranger who had his own life, and she needed to stop fantasizing. Besides, he wouldn't want someone like her, with her scars and problems. Friendship was safe. Friendship was desirable. Friendship was all she could ever hope for from anyone. It's why Daario and all the rest could go to hell and back. It wouldn't change who she was and what she wanted. Viserys hurt her badly – and he was her brother. How much more could the world hurt her, when it didn't care for her in the first place?

She hid her face in the book, inhaling that wonderful scent of paper one more time. Tomorrow was also a sad day. This lovely, cherished friend would return to its rightful place, and she would have to check out a library edition to finish the rest of the story. Careful not to wet her lips, she gently pressed a kiss to the pages in silent thanks.

If only she could afford to buy this edition and keep it forever. No one would love it more than she did. Except for Jorah, perhaps.

She could still see her teenage self in school all those years ago, not believing she could read a book like this, much less understand it. Under the spell of Dumas's words and characters, she fell in love. Viserys had teased her mercilessly, saying that she was waiting for a count to sweep her off her feet and take her away.

Oh, those younger days, when she was so naive.

Clutching the book in her arms, she padded over to the small cardboard box she had prepared and slipped it inside. It wouldn't do for Jorah to see the paper cover she had made, so she made sure the box would keep the book in place and protect it from any damage.

As she lay in bed restlessly, she wondered what was next. The treasure of Monte Cristo had changed Dantes's life forever. Its worth made it possible for him to achieve his revenge and live out the rest of his life in peace. If not for that, how would his story have continued? Would he have been in hiding for the rest of his days as a smuggler or a fisherman? He would dream forever of Mercedes, his lost love, and he would never know the love of another. What would happen then?

An image of Jorah appeared again, with those kind blue eyes. She smiled and let that thought lull her to sleep.

Tomorrow would be wonderful, and she wouldn't worry in advance. She had a plan, and she wouldn't let anything go wrong. Not this time.

The next day, she woke up really early to make sure she was on the first morning bus. Getting to her destination when the shop opened was critical. Instead of running in and out, she wanted to be able to spend as much time as she liked. Maybe there wouldn't be many other customers. This way, she could talk to Jorah about the book, among other things. Would he be surprised that she had fulfilled her end of the bargain? Would he be pleased? She also wanted to explore the shop. He could give her a tour, show her around. She would love to see his favorite items and hear him explain their history.

The sense of the unknown was gone this time. Unlike her first trip, this journey was confident and fearless. And hopeful.

The bus was giving her wings. She was soaring, right back to The Dragonstone Antiquary.

Now that she had time to appreciate her surroundings, she looked more carefully at this side of town. It was quiet and quaint, a picture right out of a travel guide. Every tree, shrub, and picket fence seemed to have its rightful place, as if by careful design, and traffic was almost nonexistent. Dozens of well-maintained houses, widely spaced, dotted the streets. Some had lush gardens. Others had evergreen trees so thick and intertwined that they formed an impenetrable barrier. Time could stand still here, and no one would notice.

She liked it. It was a fitting location for a shop that had withstood the passage of time. The glaring difference between here and her own side of town made her appreciate her plans for the future even more. One day, she would live in a neighborhood like this. One day, she would feel like she belonged, not like she was abandoned and alone.

A sudden wave of anxiety washed over her as she stepped down from the bus, at the same bus stop as last time. She could see Jorah's shop in the distance. Her stomach flipped, and her heart joined it.

She wasn't supposed to feel so nervous. This was not a date or anything close to it. She was retrieving her own item and returning his. An even exchange.

Before she took another step forward, she glanced again at her attire. She had chosen her favorite dress, elegant and deep blue, with a skirt that fell well below her knees. Her best shoes, which she didn't want to get muddy or dirty. And her favorite ring, pearls entwined, on her finger.

She was going to look her best, not like she had taken four buses to get here.

Her heart fluttered as she walked toward the shop. She had asked the bus driver for the time before she got off, so it was just a little after 10 am.

The closer she was, the faster her feet moved, matching her frantic heartbeat step for step. Then, as if hearing her unspoken wish, the door opened, and the man himself appeared in the doorway.

Jorah stood straight and tall – a soldier's unmistakable posture – his gaze set on some distant horizon. Then he saw her approach.

"Miss Targaryen." His smile was all she had dreamed about. Yet somehow, it seemed sad, resigned. "How lovely to see you again."

Was he having a bad day? Had she done something wrong? A slight feeling of dread sprang up. She chose to ignore it, waving the box triumphantly.

"Mr. Mormont. It's wonderful to be back! I brought your book. And I did my part. 600 pages, and well on our way to see the Count exact his revenge."

He chuckled and gestured inside, holding the door open for her. "Please, come in."

As she passed by him, she recognized warm sandalwood, a favorite scent and an instant balm for her worries. She followed its trail into the shop.

Streaks of light, bending through the glass windows, illuminated certain sections like spotlights. One of them landed on the area where the rest of the books were.

Daenerys could barely contain her excitement. She hurried over, looking closely at the spines. Some had titles she had never heard of. Others were famous – Charles Dickens, Victor Hugo, Tolstoy, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, Jane Austen. They all looked like they were well cared for. Like they were loved. She didn't dare to touch them.

Reluctantly, she opened the box in her arms. The book inside belonged here, with its companions. But it was hard to say good-bye. Caressing the cover, she held it out to Jorah. He had entered the shop and was watching, his face solemn and unreadable. She had no idea what he was thinking.

His eyes fixed on the book, he took it from her hands and set it on the counter.

Inwardly, she felt a bit relieved. He had what was his back, and now it was time for her watch. But the silence was unnerving. He clearly was brooding about something, and she wanted to know what it was. If he told her about her watch now and they said their farewells, she wouldn't have a chance to find out. It was as if a dark cloud was hanging over his head, and he wouldn't even look at her.

The best strategy was to delay. And she was good at getting lost in shops. Especially a fascinating, hundreds-of-years-old shop.

What should she ask about? More books? No, probably not. Furniture? No, that didn't even make sense. What about jewelry? She glanced at her ring. This could be a silly idea, but–

"I was wondering," she blurted out, "if, before we talk about the watch, I could look around for a bit. I am interested in finding…a necklace that will match my ring."

"A necklace?" He sounded confused.

Somehow, she had imagined this conversation proceeding much better than it was. He clearly wasn't paying attention.

"Yes, a necklace. To match my ring." She held her hand up, pointing at the pearls.

Finally, he left his post by the counter, coming close enough to peer at her finger. At this range, she could see his profile, the curve of his neck, the marbled buttons lining his white shirt.

"I don't think I have anything like that. Sorry about that," he muttered, pulling away.

She had been drifting on a breeze of happiness these past 2 weeks, eager to return. And now that she was finally back, it was as if he didn't want her here. Hurt tightened her chest. Now he didn't want to talk to her? Last time, he seemed to like her, at least. What had she done? What had she said?

"Oh. I see." She hated how small and disappointed her voice sounded. He didn't want to talk to her.

And they continued to stand there awkwardly, with him refusing to say more or even look at her. She desperately wanted to fix whatever this tension was. It was ruining everything.

Finally, she mustered up the courage to say, "Well, I suppose we can just discuss the watch."

He nodded. "Aye, the watch. Let me find it."

After rummaging somewhere in the back of the shop, he came back. The watch was in his hands, and he set it down on the counter. The scene from her last visit replayed in her mind's eye, but the levity and friendliness were gone. He was cold, distant. She was afraid to ask what was wrong, mainly because she thought he wouldn't answer at all.

"My research led me to its history." He cleared his throat. "The Targaryens were an ancient royal line, going back centuries. They invested heavily in steel, gold, and silver mines, building their fortunes."

So far, so good. She listened intently, leaning forward against the counter.

"However, extravagance and poor investments led to their ruin. Then the family line eventually died out. The last owner of the watch was Rhaegar Targaryen."

"My brother."

He glanced up at her.

"He was much, much older than me. Viserys – my other brother – never liked to talk about him. Sometimes I wasn't even sure he existed. Viserys always said the watch belonged to our father." She touched the ribbon. "I don't know what happened to Rhaegar."

He grimaced. "As it happens, I know someone who knew him."

"You do?" Sudden images of being reunited with her eldest brother, to have family again at last – it was a dream come true. "Does he – or she – know where he is right now?"

Jorah turned from her, swallowing hard. "He does know."

"That's amazing! Oh, thank you, Mr. Mormont. Did he say where Rhaegar is or how I can contact him? I can't wait to meet him. I wonder if we have the same hair, the same eyes–"

"You can't meet him, Daenerys."

For the first time since she had set foot in the shop, he said her name. Her first name. Well, she didn't care. "What do you mean, I can't meet him? I am his sister."

He shook his head. "Rhaegar was in the army. He fought bravely and nobly, but then…"

"Then what?"

When he looked down at the floor, she knew the answer. But she didn't believe it. It couldn't be true.

"He was killed in action. All his personal effects and his ashes were sent home."

She didn't know what to do with her hands. They were shaking so badly that she had to hide them from sight, in the folds of her dress. "Rhaegar is dead?"

He didn't deny it. That was confirmation enough.

She bit down hard on her lower lip. It was all she could do to hold back the tears forming behind her eyes.

"And…the watch?" Her voice broke.

"The watch is old, but it has no value. If your family wants it, it may be worth something. For memory's sake."

The world had stopped spinning, delivering blow after blow like a whipmaster. First, the dream of Rhaegar, a kind brother unlike Viserys, a final tie to her family. Then, the reality of the watch, the reason she was here, the foundation for her plan to escape her unhappy life.

The cacophony of these thoughts overwhelmed her until all she could hear was Viserys's mocking laugh.You're nothing. You're a burden. You'll never be anyone or anything.

"I have no family." She stared at the three-headed dragon. It was becoming blurry. "I have nothing."

"Miss Targaryen, I'm so sorry."

She scoffed, tucking the watch into her purse. "I'm sure you are."

He had the grace to look offended. "Iamsorry. Of all the people in the world to tell you about your brother, it shouldn't have been me."

"That's what's bothering you? Nevermind the person who actually lost someone," she said sharply. "I suppose you have a right to be upset, though, since you spent all this time for nothing, researching a piece of junk."

"It wasn't for nothing," he protested.

"Wasn't it? The book is probably worth twenty times as much."

"I can give you the book–"

"No," she said icily, her temper rising. "No, I don't want your pity, Mr. Mormont. I may have taken 4 buses to get here and back, I may work 2 terrible jobs that wear me down to the bone and will someday kill me. But I have not reached that point yet. I don't know what is worse: that you are clearly angry you had to tell me at all, or that I wasted my time and the little money I have, coming all the way out here to this forsaken place."

"I didn't want to tell you," he admitted. "But you deserved the truth."

She raised her head high. "Then you did your duty. Well done."

Taking one long, last look at the shop, she prayed she could hold herself together until she made it back to the bus stop. How far this moment was from when she arrived, thrilled and ecstatic. In an instant, all her hopes were crushed into the dust, gone forever.

The watch was no longer a reminder to keep going, to stay strong. Now it was an emblem of death, of tragedy, of loss. It was a hateful, spiteful thing.

The Targaryens were failures, and she was the last one, destined to disappear like they had. No one would remember she ever existed.

She could feel tears running down her cheeks as she reached for the door, hands tightened into fists.

"Miss Targaryen – Daenerys," he pleaded. "Please forgive me. I never meant for–"

"Don't. Don't say my name. You don't know me." Each word was distinct, biting. She needed to lash out, or she would fall to the floor, unable to leave. "I appreciate the free appraisal, Mr. Mormont, and I'm sorry I wasted your time. You'll find the book is in perfect condition, just as it was when you lent it to me. Good day."

Pushing with all her remaining strength, she slammed the door behind her.

As soon as the shop was out of sight, she pulled out the watch. The dragon heads swirled together, indistinguishable. It was just a watch that would never work. It was worthless. Like her. She choked back a sob, covering her mouth with her hand.

Dead. Everything was dead. Her future was dead, her brother Rhaegar, her parents, Viserys. And Jorah Mormont. The man she had wanted as a friend. He was dead to her now, too.

The buses carried her away, back to the far end of the city. Hiding her face in her arms during the entire trip, she cried her heart out.

And no one cared.

Before, she was sure she wanted to be Jorah's friend.

Now she knew for certain that she was all alone, and that would never change.

Chapter 6: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Text

A golden throne
Cannot crown a king
A wish to fly
Does not give men wings.

The second Daenerys arrived home, she grabbed the watch from inside her purse. The dragon seemed to taunt her, and for a full minute, she was sorely tempted to smash it against the wall. She settled for throwing it into the dresser drawer. It hit the wood with a series of jarring – but satisfying – clanks. Then she shut the drawer so hard that the dresser tilted backward.

Falling onto the bed, she buried her face in her pillow.

She had put all her faith into a silly piece of metal. That was her first mistake. How could she have been so stupid? Would Viserys have “accidentally” forgotten a valuable item when he left? He wasn’t missing the watch. He didn’t come back for it, so he must have known better. And he clearly couldn’t care less about Rhaegar’s memory.

Rhaegar, the brother she should have had. But he was dead, and that was the end of it. She wanted to mourn him, but how could she? She had never known him. Yet another part of her life, stolen from her. She could mourn that, at least.

Her second mistake was acting like a spoiled child in front of Jorah Mormont. The more she thought about how she had acted, the more she regretted it. She always had a quick temper, even as a child, and she knew she was too impulsive. It was one of her greatest flaws.

She had really counted on the watch, but it was, after all, a gamble. It could have gone either way. If it was worth millions and Jorah was telling her what she wanted to hear, would she have fallen into his arms over it? If he had wanted to make her happy, he could have lied to her. That would have been the easiest, and anyone in his place would have done that. At the very least, it would have ensured her return visits to the shop and her patronage.

But he hadn’t. He had pushed her away, knowing the truth would hurt her. But he wasn’t being malicious.

He was honest.

“Still, he could have been less blunt,” she mumbled, hugging the pillow to her chest. Not that it would have hurt any less.

Staring up at the ceiling, she tried to focus on what she should do next. It was better than remembering how Jorah couldn’t even meet her eyes as he told her about Rhaegar, her family line, all of it.

For now, she would have to keep searching for a better job. Maybe a receptionist position, like she originally wanted. It was the only way she would be able to go to school and work at the same time. Her current schedule wouldn’t allow it.

Then she would look for a more permanent job, preferably somewhere else. She only had herself to rely on. No one was coming to save her. If she was miserable, she had to change that. Only her.

It was still early enough to walk down to the library and grab that copy of “The Count of Monte Cristo.” She took advantage of the windless, sunny day to reflect more on the morning’s events.

Jorah wasn’t to blame for what happened. She had asked, and he had answered. She had snapped back at him like he was responsible for everything she was going through, all her pain and loss. That wasn’t true at all.

She had chosen his shop. If she wanted a second opinion, she could go to the others Missandei printed for her on that gigantic stack of paper. But she didn’t feel like hearing the same information – or worse, a fabricated story about how the watch was priceless. There couldn’t be any worse truth than what she heard in “The Dragonstone Antiquary.” It was a prestigious shop. Could she expect more from a less reputable shop? She had to accept that her quest for the watch was over.

By extension, her association with Jorah Mormont as well.

If only he had been more open, like he was during her first visit. If only he had tried to explain–

What? What should he have done? He struggled to tell her, uncomfortable as the bearer of bad news. If she were him, she would feel the same.

Should he have softened his words, made the story sound like a false benefit instead of how wretched it was?

She shook her head, careful to push firmly against the glass door. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim lights and look around. Was Missandei even here?

Not seeing her, she went to the only person behind the usual desk, a man wearing glasses.

“Excuse me?” She waved to get his attention.

“Yes, can I help you?” the clerk said in a bored voice.

“The librarian who works here – Missandei – is she around?”

His expression was so sour it could compete with lemon juice. “She’s on vacation. She won’t be back until the end of this month.”

Her face fell. That was two weeks from now.

When she asked for the book, he rolled his eyes, as if he couldn’t be bothered to get up from his chair. But he did find a copy, soiled and uninspiring. She glared at it in distaste.

It was good that Missandei had been the one to help her get a library card. Otherwise, she would be walking out of this library right now without any book at all. Some people really did make it their goal in life to make others unhappy.

But what could she say, when she had done the same to Jorah? She had yelled and cried because she couldn’t have her way. He must have thought she was a silly little girl who knew nothing about real suffering. That she was immature.

She delved into the book, trying not to think of him.

The Count of Monte Cristo was only a fictional character, but his tale resonated with her for many reasons. One of them was that he could have lived his life and tried to forget those who had wronged him. Despite that, he wanted, more than anything, to see justice done. They had stolen years of his life, time that he could never recover. And he showed mercy, was forgiving. Forgiveness is not redemption, though. And he understood that better than most.

It was a lesson she had to learn for herself. Even if revenge was not part of her journey, she needed to move forward. She had to rise from the ashes of her past and find her future. She had to forgive herself.

Well, she would try.

Days passed – countless, meaningless – and she couldn’t shake the despair weighing on her shoulders.

Her cleaning job didn’t leave much time for reflection. She could lose herself in the brushing, sweeping, scrubbing, dusting, mopping, and vacuuming. The routine almost was a beat of music, with her dancing through each chore. That was an uplifting way to think about all that labor work.

No, the real problem was her breaks at her other job. The book had provided a much-needed distraction, a one-sided conversation where she listened and the author’s words spoke. She could have dragged her library copy. She tried once, but she couldn’t focus. It wasn’t the same as before.

Instead of reading, she’d find herself staring into space, revisiting her childhood, holidays with few warm memories. Jorah’s shop, mysterious yet filled with sunlight. The oddest thoughts. The timer on her cheap flip phone became useful as she began to time her breaks and immediately went back to work when the alarm went off.

Daario must have found her behavior strange. One night, he plopped down next to her, during her last break, and stared at her until she noticed him.

“Oh, Daario.” Startled, she looked down at her hands. They were chafed, so dry from all the water and soap and bleach. “How is it going?”

“Daenerys.” He wasn’t flirting this time. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been working here for years, and I’ve never seen you act like this.”

“Act like what?”

He scrutinized her. “Like all the fight has been drained out of you.”

“How poetic.”

“No, I mean it. You’re fierce. I see the way you don’t let anyone push you around.”

“That’s not true,” she murmured. “Plenty of people push me around. I just pick my battles.”

“Yes, but…” He was struggling to put what he was thinking into words. “You don’t do anything. You go on your breaks and stare at nothing. The last 2 weeks, it was you and the book, but now…”

“I’m done with that.”

“Okay. That still doesn’t explain why you look so sad.”

She stiffened, clasping her hands together so he wouldn’t see how red her palms were. Of course, she wore gloves when she was cleaning, but that wasn’t much protection when she had to work for hours and hours.

He sidled over, so his chair was next to hers. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head.

“I’m told I’m a good listener.”

She smiled a little at that. “You wouldn’t want to listen to my sob story. You’d run away, right back to the bar.”

“You’re kidding.” He pointed at the swinging doors. “Out there is a swarm of people who come here only because they don’t know what to do with their own sob stories. We’re paid to listen to them. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about my friends. Or that I don’t notice you can’t wait for your breaks to be over.”

“Recently, things have been…hard,” she admitted, not wanting to spill the whole truth. “But I’ll be all right. I always pull through.”

“I believe that.”

“You do?” She wished she did.

“Sure.” He smiled. It seemed like a genuine smile to her. “Do you need anything? I’d be happy to walk you home after work.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “How do you know I walk home?”

He chuckled. “Five years, remember? And I’ve never seen you park a car out back. Daenerys, it’s not the world’s best-kept secret. You walk. A lot.”

She didn’t want to, but she laughed. A small laugh, and it made her grin.

“Ah, there it is.” He nodded approvingly. “You look beautiful when you smile.”

“Then the rest of the time, I look ugly?”

“No, you always look beautiful. Your smile just shows it more.”

It was a clumsy attempt at a compliment, but she didn’t mind. It was pleasant to hear someone try to praise her. It wasn’t as if she was getting too much flattery in her life.

He glanced at the clock. “Well, now my break is over. But my offer’s always open. You keep that in mind.”

Her own break would be over in a few minutes. Back to the wall, it was.

“And Daenerys?”

She glanced at him as he stood up.

“Take care of yourself.” He sounded like he meant it.

“I’ll try.” Watching him leave, she remembered something. “Hey, Daario?”

About to pass through the door, he turned.

“Thank you for the flowers.” She smiled again. “They were lovely.”

He bowed. “My pleasure.”

She dragged herself back into the main room and grabbed a plastic tray. It was pick-up time, when she would go around and grab all the dirty glasses, dishes, and trash. She had her way of working through it, though.

First, glass, because it was the most dangerous. Next, plates, stacked as high as she dared. And last was picking up trash and carefully disposing it into the gigantic garbage bags behind the bar counter.

Tonight, it was really messy. She tried to ignore all the vomit, gum wrappers, and other assortment of human refuse scattered on the empty tables. She mechanically scoured each area, eyes downcast, hands firmly holding the tray handles. It was all she could do not to throw up herself.

She would survive this. Just as she had for years.

It was rather empty now, besides the few patrons sitting by the bar. She worked a little faster than usual, eager to be done with this part and on to wiping tables. Then she could clock out and go home. Back to her lonely studio flat.

Or Daario could walk her home. That would be a significant change in her routine.

Biting back a smile, she grabbed the broom and started to sweep.

Then, the voice she never expected to hear again spoke her name.

“Miss Targaryen.”

Jorah Mormont looked so out of place in this dingy bar. Groomed within an inch of his life. Overdressed, with his elegant dress pants and jacket. And staring at her as if she held the moon. In his hands was a box, wrapped in beautiful, colorful paper.

Her heart clenched uncontrollably. She didn’t know if she was conjuring him out of her imagination, or he was really, truly here.

Why was he here? And how on earth did he find her? The endless whys echoed in her ears. She couldn’t hear anything else.

“Mr. Mormont.” She realized she was still working and had to act like it. “How can I help you?”

He stared at her so intensely that she could feel herself blushing, not sure what to do.

“May I speak to you? In private.”

His voice, warm and melodious, drowned out the noise around them. Suddenly, there were no patrons chattering loudly, no tinkling of glasses, or loud country music in the background. Just them.

She glanced at the clock. 15 minutes until her shift ended.

“I’m almost finished here,” she said quietly, not wanting to attract unwanted attention. “Will you wait?”

Did she even need to ask? He seemed transfixed, unable to stop looking at her. Then he seemed to realize where they were, and what she was doing. His smile was understanding as he nodded.

As she walked away from him, she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

Then her lips formed a wide smile.

He was waiting. For her. He came all this way. For her.

If she was dreaming, she didn’t want to wake up.

If she wasn’t…

She looked back. He was still gazing at her, as if he couldn’t believe she was real, either.

Yet, somehow, they were both here, in this moment. Together. Standing in the same room, breathing the same air.

And it meant more to her than she could have ever imagined.

Chapter 7: You Came Back

Chapter Text

The wheel must turn

The past must die

When the moon sets

The sun will rise.

After Barristan left, Jorah thought about their conversation for a long time. Lying to Daenerys would be the ultimate betrayal of her trust, and it wouldn't do any good. He would have to fabricate the value of the watch and generate it somehow. And where would that lead?

The truth would inevitably come out. She would be heartbroken. And he would be responsible. It was better to let her go than be the one to hurt her. He kept telling himself that the rest of the week. It didn't ease that sense of dread and apprehension the closer Saturday came.

He didn't want to let her go. But it was for the best. Better for it to happen now, than after he was really lost in her.

Still, he thought it would be easier to tell her. She was her usual cheerful self when she entered the shop. And all he could do was stand there, like a piece of stone, and not say anything. He saw the confusion and pain in her eyes when he brushed her aside, almost ignoring her. But he didn't trust himself. She was a customer, he was the shopkeeper. That's who they were. That distance between them – it had to stay.

When she asked him to look at her ring, however, he had to stand right by her. The faint smell of roses overwhelmed him. She was so close that he could feel her warmth, see strands of gold in her hair. He almost gave up then. When she looked at him, hopeful, willing him to talk to her, to explain why he was acting so coldly – he ran. All the way to the back room, like a coward, and took much longer than necessary to grab her watch.

He didn't want to tell her that terrible truth. He should have convinced Barristan to do it for him, but that was impossible. The man had already laughed in his face. Oh, he knew all too well what the fencing master thought about his hesitation. If he had insisted, that would mean admitting his feelings, and in broad daylight, it sounded foolish. An old man, past his prime, wanting a much younger woman. Barristan had already guessed her age, and he clearly didn't approve. Jorah wasn't sure he approved himself. What was it about Daenerys Targaryen that made his heart ache so? Was it her beautiful face, her lithe form, or that winsome voice that called to him? The light in her eyes when she saw him? Her smile?

All it took was that harsh revelation to break her enchantment. He saw the tears in her eyes and wished he could take everything back. But it was no use. She turned her disappointment on him – just as he had expected – before taking her watch and leaving his shop in a fury. And he deserved it. He couldn't have been less considerate of her reaction, delivering each word without compassion or sympathy. He made it sound like he was only sorry he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. That her return was a problem he wanted to be resolved.

It was all badly done. He knew it. But it was over. He would never see her again.

You did your duty, her words taunted. That's all he still had, a sense of duty and honor. Nothing else.

A lesser man would go to the nearest liquor store and invest in a few bottles. Instead, he buried himself in his work, focusing on his actual customers.

He didn't even notice the book until much later, when days had passed and the memory of Daenerys was more of a dream than a reality. After all, he wasn't in the mood for reading. He would only think of how "The Count of Monte Cristo" was her favorite.

She had taken good care of it. One could hardly tell it had even been read. Impulsively, he flipped the pages and caught a hidden, makeshift bookmark, sitting proud and tall in the middle. It was simple, rudimentary – a thin piece of paper trying to be something it wasn't. Despite everything, the sight of it brought a smile to his face.

Then he read what was on the bookmark. A note – in Daenerys's handwriting, no doubt. He didn't leave notes in books, so it must be hers.

"Be at the Golden Company at 5, not 7, today! Early shift," he read.

What a puzzle. Then he remembered more of their conversation, parts he had forgotten under the shadow of her departure. She said she had 2 terrible jobs and took 4 buses to reach his shop. That must mean she was on the other side of the city.

And the Golden Company. That name did ring a bell. He must have heard of it before, from one of his customers or Barristan.

Quickly, he raced to his computer and typed in the name. For what seemed to be an eternity, it searched and searched until the results came up.

"The Golden Company. Bar and restaurant." Judging by the posted pictures, it didn't seem like the greatest establishment.

Did she work there? It made sense. Why would she write about an early shift if she was just going there to meet friends?

What was the use, though? So she worked there. What did that do?

Then he glanced at the page she had bookmarked.

"Do you remember your father, Haydée?" The young Greek smiled.

"He is here, and here," she said, touching her eyes and her heart.

"And where am I?" inquired Monte Cristo.

"You?" cried she, with tones of thrilling tenderness, "you are everywhere!"

His heart began to beat fast.

This was just a trick of the mind, a budding hope that he should squash.

Yet he couldn't help but wonder. Barristan's words echoed back to him, like an emissary.

You used to be braver.

He could be brave again. Or he could sit in this shop until he died, not believing in anything or anyone. Not wanting a second chance.

At the very least, he owed Daenerys an explanation.

Glancing at the open book, he smiled.

Maybe more than that.

This was how he found himself at the south end of the city, sitting in his car until the last possible moment. Praying that Daenerys was working today so that this trip wasn't in vain. If she wasn't there, he wouldn't work up the nerve to come again.

He scoffed. That was a bald lie and he knew it. He was here, and he had to make the most of it. No use in hiding or pretending.

Forcing himself out, he clung to the wrapped box as if it were a shield.

Inside, the bar was sordid and gloomy. Golden Company, indeed. He searched all corners of the room frantically. Was she here?

Then he saw her. Breathed a sigh of relief.

Of course, she was shocked. He didn't blame her in the least. That she was willing to talk to him at all was a blessing.

When their eyes met, it was as if the world had melted away, leaving only the two of them in it. He had never felt anything so magical, for lack of a better word, in his entire life.

But she was working, and she must have been near the end of her shift. The minutes trickled by like molasses through a sieve.

Finally, she came back, wearing a coat and carrying her purse. He rose to his feet immediately, careful not to rush to her side. His enthusiasm might frighten her at this point.

Just as he was about to open the door for her, a man appeared out of nowhere. And he did not look happy.

"Daenerys." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Who's this?"

She glanced at Jorah, crooking an eyebrow.

Oh, so that's how it was going to be.

"Jorah Mormont." He offered his hand. "I run an antique shop on the other side of town."

He shook it. "Daario Naharis. Waiter, bartender. And champion boxer, as needed."

Daenerys rolled her eyes. "Do we all know each other? Can I go home now?"

She lifted her hand to gesture at the door. That's when he saw it. Dozens of cuts, reddened skin. On her palm, her fingers.

And Daario saw it, too. He must not have been aware, because his nostrils flared and his expression darkened. Then he glared at him.

"Daenerys, do you mind if I talk to you for a second?" He took her by the arm, almost pushing Jorah to the side. "Excuse us."

He was tempted to follow them, but stood his ground. He didn't know who Daario was to her, so it was best he didn't assume.

That didn't stop him from hearing the man's frantic whispers and her responses. After all, he wasn't deaf.

She pushed him away. "What are you doing?"

"What is really going on? Who is this guy?" He pointed at her hands. "Did he do this to you? Should I be calling the cops right now?"

Her jaw dropped. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on. You've been moping around, your hands lookbeaten, and this ass shows up in a fricking suit with a gift. I'll admit I'm not the smartest guy, but I can put two and two together."

She shook her head. "You think what? That he–"

"Look, your life is your business. But if he has been hurting you, I swear–"

"Daario, stop." Her teeth were clenched. Now she looked angry. "I appreciate your concern, I do. But he's not anything like that. He's…a friend."

"A friend?" He snorted. "That's not the way he's looking at you."

Her face turned red. "He helped me out. Professional help. One time. That doesn't make him a–"

"Abusive boyfriend? A pimp? I don't want to know." He held his hands up in defense when Daenerys looked ready to slap him. "Look, I'm worried about you. You've never left with anyone from here before, so excuse me for being concerned."

"You want the truth? All of it?" Her voice was like the crack of a whip. Jorah winced. "I clean. I'm a cleaning lady. This place wasn't my first job. I work from eight to five every weekday and I clean houses, offices, bathrooms. I try to protect my hands, I do, but it's not enough. And then I come every night to this grungy wreck of a bar to do more cleaning. What do you think my hands would look like? A queen's?"

Daario frowned and took a step back. "Oh. Look, Daenerys, I'm sorry, I didn't know–"

"That's right. You didn't know. You've never cared to know. And now, suddenly, you want to be my knight in shining armor." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, you're not. And whom I spend my time with outside of work hours is my own damn business."

Jorah held back a smile. She was rather fierce. And he liked it. It reminded him of himself at her age, full of fire and determination.

She sighed, looking down at her shoes. "Are we done, then?"

Suddenly speechless, Daario nodded and quickly walked away. He glanced back at Jorah, shaking his head in disbelief, then exited through a pair of sliding doors. They slammed behind him.

With a huff, she stomped right back and didn't wait for Jorah to follow.

"I'm so sick of this place," she muttered, pushing the door hard enough that it bounced back on the outside wall.

The cool nighttime air kissed his face, and he shivered involuntarily. Daenerys seemed to be marching to a distant battle somewhere. He could hardly keep up with her.

"Miss Targaryen." He was soon out of breath. "About that private talk."

She stopped short and turned to face him. "What is it you want, Mr. Mormont?"

In the moonlight, the exhaustion on her face was plain to see. A pang of remorse focused his efforts. He was partly to blame for her distress.

But she had seemed so overjoyed to see him. He had hoped… That what? She would instantly forgive him?

The box corner poked his arm. Ah, that. The peace offering. He held it out to her.

"I came to bring you this."

She pursed her lips. "Why?"

"You left a note, in the book, and I thought…" He swallowed. "I wanted you to have this."

Looking puzzled, she slowly took the package from his hands. First, she gingerly unwrapped the box, as if she were afraid to spoil the paper, then opened it. And gasped.

Whether it was in delight or horror, he had yet to know.

"But–"

"It's yours. It was yours from the moment you saw it." He tried to keep his eyes lowered so she wouldn't misconstrue his meaning. "I wouldn't want anyone else to have it, in any case. Because I know you will love it."

She tried to hand it back to him. "I can't take this. It's worth–"

"The world to you. That's all that matters."

She pulled back, finally embracing the book in her arms. It was a beautiful sight. "Why, Jorah?"

Jorah. For the first time, she said his name. The strangest feeling came over him, a wave of joy that he couldn't place.

"I didn't know." He steadied his voice the best he could. "You placed so much faith in the watch. It was important to you. And I didn't know how to tell you. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, Daenerys."

She sniffled, shaking her head. "You were just trying to help, and I reacted…badly. Childishly. I shouldn't have. I'm the one who should be sorry."

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. It was rare for him to carry one, but he had decided to dress the part.Might as well, he had told himself. He offered it to her.

She hesitated.

"I promise it's clean."

One corner of her lips curled upward. She took the handkerchief and blew her nose.

"Now, the other reason I'm here. Forgive me if I've made some assumptions." He cleared his throat. "Was the watch mainly about money?"

"Money would have helped. But I wasn't eager to sell it. It's all I have left of my family, after all." She looked around. The street was littered with garbage, the buildings sprayed with graffiti. Not a pleasant sight. "I thought if I could quit my cleaning job, at least, I might save up from a better job. Put myself through school. Make something of myself. The watch was a way out."

The despair in her face mirrored his own.

"So you were looking for a new job?"

"Yes." She seemed uncomfortable with the admission. "A job where I don't have to kneel on floors or wash toilets. The Golden Company is gritty, but it's better than 9 hours of crap shoved in my face, 5 days a week."

An idea dawned on him. A glorious, unbidden idea. Was it fate, or his unspoken wish?

After all his resistance, he was stepping forward. He would make a change, whether it broke him or brought him to a new life, one where he would stop living in the past.

Licking his lips, he found the courage to speak. And he somehow knew that how she would reply would change everything he knew. Forever.

"As it so happens, I know about a job. I'm looking for a shop assistant. Someone to help me organize the shelves, help me market the shop better. Maybe do a bit of dusting." He took a deep breath. "Would you like to work for me?"

Chapter 8: Duty Calls

Chapter Text

To work is to climb

The stairs reach high

To climb is to build

Until roof meets sky.

When taking the main road, Barristan Selmy's fencing club was directly five miles east of Jorah's shop. The building looked old and austere from the distance. On closer view, however, two Ionian columns, carved from the finest white marble, framed the front door. A pair of roaring lions etched into the archway above it were its silent sentinels.

As Jorah trudged up the steps leading to the entrance, his eyes were fixed on those ferocious creatures, an omen of what awaited him inside. Gods help him if this all blew up in his face.

When he reached the waiting room and asked the receptionist for Barristan, she was suspicious. Still squinting at him, she reluctantly picked up the phone and made a call, telling him to have a seat.

He decided to walk around and peer at the photos hanging on the walls. Golden frames encircled past fencing teams, holding first and second-place trophies at different competitions. Some of the older students had even made it to the Olympics. Barristan was in all of them, his soldier's stance visible from afar.

As luck would have it, several parents were sitting and waiting, their children no doubt in the middle of lessons. More than a couple of the mothers were eyeing him a little too eagerly, smirking from behind their magazines and phone screens. He pretended he didn't notice.

"Mr. Mormont?" the receptionist called.

He turned.

"Mr. Selmy will see you now." She pointed at the door right by her window. "His office is straight at the end of this corridor."

The office door had a wooden plaque with "Selmy" written in bold, capital letters. He made sure to knock several times first until the occupant bid him enter.

The man in question was sitting behind his desk, writing quickly in a ledger. He peered up at Jorah as he came in.

"Jorah Mormont. What an unexpected surprise." He took off his glasses and put his pen aside. "I must say, you're the last person I ever thought would visit me."

He shifted from foot to foot. "Is it all right that I'm here?"

"Of course, of course! Just surprised to see you." He waved at the chair in front of him. "Please, have a seat."

After shutting the door behind him, he pulled out the chair and sat down, his clenching hands hidden in his lap.

"How's business?" His eyes twinkled. "All shipshape in the shop?"

"Aye, it's fine." He cleared his throat. "Everything is in order again."

"Splendid." He leaned back, appraising him. "It's been a long time since we've had a chat anywhere else. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"Well…" His shirt collar was suddenly too tight, and his palms felt sweaty. "How's everything here?"

"Oh, it's the usual day-to-day. Parents can be nitpicky at times, but they see their children making progress. The tournaments and all that follows make them loyal customers. We're keeping busy."

"And the instructors?"

"They have their share of challenges. Some of the students aren't in shape when they come in, but we get them there. It takes some time, though."

"That's good." If he waited any longer, he was going to suffocate in this room. "Any openings?"

"Not officially, but if the right person comes along… Well, I can always use another hand around here." He crossed his arms over his chest. "But I'm guessing you didn't drag yourself out of your haven for small talk with me."

He cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Aye, I didn't."

"Why did you come?" His lips twitched slightly upward.

"Well, I was wondering." His confidence was wavering. "I wondered if your offer is still on the table."

"What offer?"

That was Barristan's game, then. He was going to make him squirm first. Jorah groaned inwardly. "When you asked if I'd work here as a fencing instructor."

He acted if he had forgotten, then made a show of remembering. "Thatoffer. Yes, I suppose it is. Your form and technique need some work, but you are rather good. Nothing that some practice and training wouldn't fix. And your fighting experience is in your favor."

His nails dug so deeply into his palms that he winced. "Then I'd like to take you up on your offer."

Barristan seemed on the verge of bursting into laughter, barely able to restrain himself. "Really?"

"Aye." His anxiety transformed into crippling desperation. "I thought it out, and I need the job."

"You need the job," he repeated slowly, enunciating each word. "You said business was good."

"Aye."

"But you still want to work here. Work for me. As an instructor." He looked at him sharply. "You do realize you have to interact with many adultsandchildren. Daily."

"Aye, I do. And I do fine with people." Hell, if the man wanted to laugh at his expense, he might as well get it over with. "Is your offer still open?"

"Of course – anything for an old friend. But I am curious why you have decided to do this now. Has anything changed?"

He shrugged. "The additional income would be welcome."

"As it would have been all those months ago when I first suggested this." He folded his hands together and stared at him. "What is the real reason, though? Why do you suddenly want to work here?"

A trapped animal couldn't have felt more cornered than he did at that moment. All he could see in his mind's eye was Daenerys's face. That strengthened his resolve. "I've made some changes."

"To your boring lifestyle?"

He scowled.

"Not that, then. But to what?" He inspected his appearance. "You don't look like you've taken up any sordid new habits."

"Some changes for my business." Now he was irritated. Barristan could only toy with him for so long before he lost his patience. "I have some new expenses."

"Expenses? You have expenses?"

It was clear he wanted to press the truth out of him at any cost. Sighing, Jorah decided to let him have it. "I've hired someone."

"You hired someone? But you swore you'd never let anyone work for you. You were quite adamant about it, in fact." Barristan seemed more intrigued than ever. "Who is this lucky person that gets to touch all your precious antiques?"

He was unable to meet his gaze. "Does it matter?"

"Jorah, let me be frank with you. I know, and you know, that you can't afford to hire someone – not on your budget. If I understand you correctly, you want a job here so you can pay that person. Is this right?"

He nodded, not wanting to say more.

"And somehow you fail to see how such a plan is absolute madness?"

"No, it isn't. It's my choice," he insisted.

"Come on, man. It doesn't make any sense. Work to pay for help you don't need in the first place? Of all the absurd–"

"I do need her," he countered. Then he realized what he had said.

It was Barristan's turn to sigh heavily. He leaned back into his armchair, unamused. "Oh, so that's what this is about. Some girl. The one who came to your shop. It is, isn't it? Are you still mooning over her – Daenerys, was it? The one with the Targaryen watch?"

He looked away. "She's not just some girl. She's been working a long time, and I thought she could be a shop assistant."

"And you offered her the job, just like that? Jorah, this is ridiculous. You don't need an assistant. And it's clear what your intentions are."

"My intentions, Barristan," he said through gritted teeth, "are honorable."

"I don't doubt that. But the only reason you want her in your shop every day is to be near her. It's as plain as can be. You can't hide it." He scrutinized him. "I imagine you told her the truth about the watch?"

"Aye." He swallowed hard. It was better not to mention Rhaegar was her brother. Then Barristan would surely talk him out of this plan. "She took it badly, but we're past that. We've found common ground."

"Common ground? The only common ground you two have is that she wants the job and you're giving it to her. That's where it ends."

"There's no need to be cruel. I know what I'm doing. I know where I stand. And I understand the reality of all this. But I have to do this. She needs my help." He stared straight into his eyes. "Can I start working here as soon as possible?"

Barristan said nothing for a while, lost in thought. Then he opened a drawer and rummaged inside it, pulling a key out. He inspected it, then slid it carefully across the desk, until it was lying in front of him.

"This is the key to the back entrance. That's where the instructors come in. We start lessons at 4 pm, but you can come in after your shop closes. Then lessons continue until 9 pm. Saturdays are 9 am to 9 pm, but you can start in the afternoon. I don't do part-time work here. Every instructor is full-time, 6 days a week. Sundays and holidays are your days off. Benefits usually come after three months' probation, but I'll throw them in now, as a bonus."

Jorah picked the key up, rubbing the cool metal between his fingers. "When do I start?"

"I think Monday next week sounds good. We'll do a bit of trial and error for now – you'll sit in and watch the others at work, then step in when they think you're ready to lead."

"Sounds fair." He slipped the key into his pocket. "Paperwork?"

"I'll have a word with Kira – the receptionist out there – about getting you the forms when you leave. Welcome to the club."

He offered his hand. Jorah shook it firmly.

"Thank you, Barristan. I appreciate the chance, and I won't disappoint you." He stood up, checking his pocket again to make sure the key was still there.

"I know you won't." He rose to his feet as well, guiding him to the door. "And Jorah?"

Already in the corridor, he turned back to face him.

"Be careful. Feelings are dangerous enough outside of the workplace. Don't let her take advantage of yours."

For the thousandth time, had she really agreed to this?

Daenerys touched the book lovingly, pressing her nose to the cover. It was truly hers now. Jorah had given it to her. The first time, it had been out of pity, so she had refused. This time, it was a gift. The only real present she had received since she was a child.

And she would treasure it.

The job offer, on the other hand…

She had been speechless. Utterly speechless.

Then he had quickly explained that she was more than qualified, having worked in customer service for years. She could learn more as she went along. She liked the shop, after all – she was intelligent, confident, knowledgeable. A dozen compliments left his lips like darting arrows, seeking their target.

Her agreement.

When did the other shoe drop, though? It seemed too good to be true. He claimed she was a perfect fit and he'd be lucky to have her.

Daario's annoying voice entered her head then. He had certainly thought otherwise about Jorah and his reasons for coming. She had never been more furious than when he suggested the man was abusing her. Of all the horsesh*t claims.

He had no right. He had absolutely no right to make any assumptions about her life. After all, he wasn't even her friend. He was waiting for when she would finally go out with him. That was his motivation in all this. He didn't really have her best interests at heart.

Facing him at work now was agonizing. She didn't want to talk to him, so she ignored him, acted like he wasn't there. When she dared to peek at his face once afterwards, he had the nerve to lookhurt. Then she wanted to feel sorry about it, but she remembered everything he had said to her. And her rage started all over again. Oh, he was hurt? What did he know about her beyond her job at the bar? He didn't care about her. He didn't.

Swiftly, her thoughts returned to her conversation with Jorah. The commute was a problem and her first argument. The shop opened at 9 am on weekdays, closed at 5 pm. How was she supposed to race from one end of the city to the other that early in the morning, then make it back to her flat to eat, wash up, and head over to the Golden Company for her evening shift? It made no sense.

His offer to pick her up and drive her back made even less sense. He would be driving back and forth 4 times every day. That was hardly necessary and too much of a sacrifice on his end, if she was being honest. She didn't want to feel indebted to her employer. Or to Jorah, of all people, when he was giving her the job so readily.

In the end, they had compromised. She would commute via bus in the morning to the shop – he said he didn't care if she was a bit late – and he would drive her back in the evening. This way, she would have time to prepare for her shift at the bar.

As for weekends, he said she didn't have to come in. He was only open for 4 hours on either day, so it wouldn't do any good for her to be there.

That was a relief. She couldn't imagine shouldering a bus commute on the weekend as well.

Her pay was especially pertinent. He would have to at least match her hourly cleaning wage. When she told him what it was, he looked appalled – and promptly proposed twice that. She barely hid her satisfaction.

One step closer to making her dreams a reality. That's all it took, one step at a time.

After she recalled their entire interaction, back in the safety and emptiness of her flat, the prospect of giving up her cleaning job became alarming. Once she gave her notice, it was permanent. She would never be able to return and beg for it back, no matter how the shop turned out to be. It would be humiliating.

And she wanted the position to be exactly as she imagined it would be. Wonderful and exciting, just as being in the shop was when she was a customer, browsing there. She would have the chance to see every item, find out its history, and take care of it. Marketing wasn't something she was too familiar with, but she was a fast learner. And she could go to the library when Missandei came back and get resources, read about it.

This could work. This could work well enough that she would soon be in school and reaching for her ultimate job.

Then, freedom. A life away from this city and all her memories of it.

Somehow, an image of Jorah, dressed in his handsome suit and arguing with her over the commute arrangements, snuck in and refused to budge. There he was, doing his best to persuade her to accept the job. Golden, exhilarated, and so impassioned that she finally said yes despite all her reservations. It was hard not to when he seemed to believe so much in her success at the shop.

What would it be like, being with him for that many hours? Would he be as kind and nice as she originally thought he was? Or was there another motive for his help?

She shook her head at herself. Did she care at this point, though? He was offering to pay twice as much. It was a job where she didn't have to work like a slave. That's what she had wanted in the first place. It was what she was searching for.

Still, that didn't stop her from wondering if he was doing this because he felt guilty about the watch. Or if what Daario had said was true.

A friend? That's not the way he's looking at you.

Well, she would guard her heart if that was the case. But she wouldn't give up a golden opportunity because she was afraid.

Dragons were never afraid. They were bold and fearless, flying straight into the sun, spreading their wings so they could fly.

As she must do.

Today, the past. Tomorrow, the future.

Daenerys Targaryen, the shop assistant at "The Dragonstone Antiquary."

The sound of that rang true and made her smile.

Chapter 9: A New Beginning

Chapter Text

Peace will soothe

The weary soul that tries

Love will find

The brave heart that cries.

On Friday, Daenerys gave her notice to her cleaning boss. After promising that they would quickly find someone to replace her, they handed her the rest of her wages and dismissed her like the day's trash. They couldn't care less about her years as an employee or how hard she had worked since she was 18. All that mattered to them was profit. They didn't value her as an individual. All they saw was a dispensable tool.

She left with her head held high, triumphant, never looking back. She was going to work for Jorah Mormont at the oldest antique shop in town, and they could rot in that dismal, good-for-nothing dump they called an office. When she arrived home from the bar that evening, she put healing ointment on her hands and wrapped them in gauze. She would have to repeat that, morning and night, over the weekend so her skin could at least partially heal. After all, it wouldn't do for a new shop assistant to be unable to touch anything.

That brought a smile to her lips, more than her last, horrible cleaning paycheck.

She would never have to clean. Not like that. She would be surrounded by beautiful things, and Jorah respected her. He wouldn't treat her like that. Her hands would never hurt again.

On Saturday, she rested the whole day, dividing her time between sleep and reading "The Count of Monte Cristo." On Sunday, she started to prepare for her first day at her new job.

She wanted to look the part, but none of her clothes seemed to work. Among the pairs of pants, dresses, and blouses she owned, everything looked threadbare, worn out by years of washing and constant use. In the end, she chose a deep blue skirt that went below her knees, a brown vest, and a long-sleeved blouse she liked. No high-heeled shoes because that wouldn't be practical. Her small knapsack, that usually carried her lunch, water bottle, and hand wipes. And she braided her hair to keep the dust out.

Taking the book with her was debatable. Jorah had been reading it before. Wasn't he curious about the rest of the story? Shouldn't she share it with him?

It sounded silly, bringing back what he had given away. And yet… It was her choice. None but hers.

Perhaps they could read it together. In those 8 hours, some time could be set aside for that. In a way, a sign of her goodwill and her gratitude for the job.

He could even voice the Count – if she could convince him to read aloud. It was a selfish, reckless thought, but she couldn't make it go away.

After fighting every possible excuse, she found a soft towel and wrapped the book in it. Then she placed it inside her knapsack before she could change her mind.

Her monthly bus pass was ready to be activated. Her provisions were prepared. She wanted to dance, to jump up and down. The next step in her life was here, and she was ready. The future was so close, right around the corner.

She decided to set her alarm for 6 am, just to be safe, and went to bed early, falling into a dreamless sleep.

Her 7 am departure was fairly empty and monotonous. As she transferred from bus to bus, her stomach dropped lower and lower. What if this all went badly? Wasn't that what happened last time? What would she do? How could she have been so stupid?

Her job at the Golden Company wouldn't pay her rent or utilities. She would end up homeless. She would waste away, wandering from street to street, until she dropped dead.

A hundred terrible images filled her mind until she was squeezing her knapsack, willing herself to stay calm.

By the time she got off at the bus stop near the shop, she wanted to vomit into the nearest bush. Every part of her was tied into knots. She had planned for her first day to be great, but it was turning out to be a disaster.

Her phone said it was nearly 9 am. She wanted to run in the other direction, right back to the bus, and forget she ever agreed to this insane plan.

When she slipped her arms through the knapsack straps, the book gently patted her back. Suddenly, it was as if a dear friend had given her the reassurance she needed. Taking a deep, deep breath, she shakily stepped forward, in the direction of the shop.

No one said this would be easy, but she could do this. She could. Change was scary. Terrifying. But she needed to make a change in her life. Desperately. She had to do this. For herself, for her future.

As she drew closer, the door began to swing open, and Jorah himself appeared in the entrance. He saw her immediately and waved.

She waved back, hoping it didn't look awkward. The sight of him, dressed comfortably in jeans and a navy sweater, eased some of her stress. He wasn't expecting formality, then. That was a relief.

He was going to be nice and kind, just as she remembered. Hewasnice and kind. She ordered her frantic heart to stop attacking her ribcage.

"Good morning, Daenerys." He smiled at her, a wide grin that reached his eyes. "How are you?"

"Good morning!" she chirped, wanting to sound excited, not nervous. Should she call him Jorah now? Mr. Mormont? He was her boss now, not her friend. Not yet, anyway. "Better now that I'm here. Not too much traffic at this hour, so the ride wasn't as stressful."

He slipped his hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoes. "That's good."

"Yes, and I'm ready to work." She realized she hadn't asked him how he was doing. "How have you been?"

"Oh, I've been keeping busy."

"Good. Great. So have I." She couldn't be tongue-tied. She needed to pull herself together. "Any customers yet?"

He shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. Not looking at her.

She glanced around. The streets seemed quiet, and birds were singing in the distance. The shop was slow, wasn't it? Even when she came on the weekend, no one was there but her. That was the marketing bit he mentioned. How much business did he get every day?

Finally, he gestured inside. "Would you like to come in, then?"

The awkward silence did not improve indoors. If anything, it worsened.

Jorah was rustling behind the counter, moving about and shuffling. As if he didn't know what to do with his hands, where to stand, what to say, or if he should look at her. He seemed nervous. As unprepared as she felt for the reality of this moment, this new beginning.

Hiding a smile, Daenerys took a moment to savor how the shop looked with the early morning light streaming through the windows. The sun rose another day, shining on relics of the past, giving them a chance to live again. Dusty, musty, crusty. That is what people thought of antique shops. Yet in those rays of light, gleaming and sparkling, here was the past – breathing, carrying memories into eternity. All these items lived here, instead of merely existing.

And now she was partly responsible for taking care of them. This was her job now, to be here. She took a deep breath and recentered herself.

"What should I call you, as my boss?"

He seemed taken aback that she had said anything. "What?"

"Mr. Mormont, Jorah – what do you feel is appropriate?" Slowly, she took off her knapsack and placed it gently on the counter. "Of course, you can call me whatever you prefer."

"Oh. Well, Jorah is fine.'' He cleared his throat. "Daenerys."

Being on familiar terms was a good start. She continued, "Maybe now would be a good time for you to tell me your expectations. What the shop assistant's duties and responsibilities are."

This seemed to flummox him. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

"Well, you mentioned dusting, organizing, marketing. But it's a little vague. Are you taking inventory, or rearranging everything? Is there a ledger I should be looking at, a list of daily tasks I need to complete?"

Heblushed. Eloquent, elegant Jorah Mormont blushed as red as a beet. She couldn't help thinking it was the most adorable response.

"I guess I should just say it and be done with it," he muttered. "This is my first time having an assistant. I've never employed anyone before."

That explained some of his behavior. "Not for anything? What about repairs, maintenance?"

"No, those are contractors. They come out when I call, but they don't work for me. I pay for the job, and they leave. That's it."

He was looking at her as if he expected her to laugh. Did he think she didn't want to work? That she would try to cheat her way out of doing anything here?

Time to take charge and show him she was up to the challenge.

"That's all right. We can figure this out. Together." She hoped her voice sounded reassuring. "Let's talk about objectives. What would you like to see improve? With the shop?"

He shrugged. "Better sales?"

"The lofty goal of every business," she teased. "How many customers come through here every month?"

He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Ten?"

Her jaw dropped. "Only ten? How do you stay in business?"

That wasn't an employee-appropriate comment. But Jorah didn't seem to mind. He chuckled, and she saw some of his anxiety slip away.

"Perhaps a small introduction is in order. My family has owned this shop, and everything in it, for generations. When I inherited it, I did what I could to keep it afloat." He swallowed hard. "My military pension supports me, for the most part, and whatever sales I get support the running of the shop."

Ah, he was retired military. She had guessed as much, but she would have never asked. "Who ran the shop before you?"

"My father. Jeor Mormont."

"That means he is–"

"No, he's out there, somewhere. Living his life." He crossed his arms over his chest. "The shop is my responsibility now. He made sure of that."

The edge in his voice warned her from asking further questions. Saving that piece of information for a later time, she soldiered on.

"All these items are collected? You haven't bought anything recently?"

He shook his head. "I'd be lucky if I sell everything here during my lifetime. After all, I'm the last of my family. I have a younger cousin, but she wouldn't want to be left with this lot."

So Jorah wasn't married, and he clearly didn't have any children. That answeredthat. But did he really expect to sell this all by himself? Just by people coming to the shop randomly?

He was right. He did need marketing help. Badly. But would her efforts be enough? What could she even recommend at this point? She hardly knew anything about running a business – except that you couldn't leave its fate to chance encounters.

She gazed at the walls adorned with glass cases and wooden bookcases. How many nooks and alcoves were in this shop? At a closer glance, the shop floor seemed large, extending in every direction. How did people find anything without Jorah's help?

A map. She was going to need a map. And take inventory.

"What about accounting?" she finally said.

"I have a ledger. And we have a cash register."

"You only take cash?"

He nodded. "It seems to be the easiest."

Daenerys wanted to bury her face in her arms. He was using outdated technology, he didn't market the shop–

Wait. The ad. In the library. If he didn't do any advertising, who had? That was strange. Well, if the powers that be wanted to do free ads for the shop, the more, the merrier. It wasn't important at present, and she wasn't going to bring it up in this conversation.

What they needed to focus on now was getting this shop out of its dusty corner and into its rightful place in the antique market. It still had a reputation, its history, and Jorah was, frankly, neglecting that. It was obvious that he was content to leave the shop as is, and he was waiting for…nothing.

That was a lonely, daunting prospect. Nothing would come from doing nothing.

Fortunately for him, she cared enough that she wasn't going to settle for less. She would aim as high as needed. "Can I ask you something personal?"

He seemed genuinely intrigued. "Aye, ask away."

"Why not sell the shop? It belongs to you, and no one else. Then you'd be free of it."

She saw pain in his eyes before he quickly smoothed his expression. "I could sell it. But I feel I owe it to my family to stay. It's…complicated."

Not as complicated as keeping this shop in business. Or at least, out of bankruptcy.

"I see." She didn't. As far as she was concerned, he was only running the shop out of obligation to an absent father who had washed his hands of it.

Right now, Jorah was looking quite despondent. The light in his face was gone, replaced by something she recognized all too well.

Defeat.

This wasn't encouraging, but the shop's current state of affairs wasn't hopeless. Acknowledgment was the key to success, after all. He had admitted that he needed help. That's why he had hired her – to help.

It was going to be a great deal of work, no doubt about that.

"Well, I am here now, and everything is going to be all right. You'll see!" She wanted to lift his spirits, but she wasn't sure how. All she knew was from the books she had read. Viserys had never cheered her up when she was sad.

Jorah tried to smile. Impulsively, she wished she could embrace him. But she didn't want to upset him or make him uncomfortable. She was still a stranger.

Then she noticed her knapsack, sitting on the counter. The book! Of course. He would be happy to see it again. "As a matter of fact, I brought something with me. I was hoping…"

She unraveled the towel to reveal its hidden occupant. "I know you were reading it before we met. And I would like us to pick up where you left off. It could be our pastime, finishing the story together."

That got his attention. His gaze softened, and she truly felt, in her innermost heart, that she had won a battle. "Our pastime?"

"Yes, when we're on break. Or the shop is slow. Whatever works best." She didn't want to add that hearing his voice read the words she loved would be unforgettable.

"Aye," he said quietly. "I'd like that."

She beamed at him. The absolute delight that filled her senses was beyond description.

There was a notepad lying on the counter, with a pen. She grabbed both and started to write out a list.

"Make a map with clear directions to every area of the shop. Object types and dating in each location must be marked."

She ripped that page off and handed it to him. He seemed puzzled.

"That's your to-do list. Now I need to make one for myself. Goals and objectives."

She scribbled out bullet points. The first was, "Take complete store inventory with quantity, brief description, and year of origin." The second was, "Organize items by area according to type and dating. Must be easy for customers to find." Last were short notes so she would remember to bring the topics up later: "Barcodes? Scanner? Better checkout system? An alarm system? Cashless payment?" At the very bottom, she wrote "marketing" in bold, capital letters.

She needed those library books as soon as possible. She'd leave "The Count of Monte Cristo" here in the shop, so she didn't have to drag it back and forth every day, and she would read marketing and advertising books at home. It was almost like an incentive for her to come to work – besides the fact that she wanted to get paid, of course.

Not to mention the way Jorah was staring at her at this moment – amused, curious, and slightly in awe.

She liked it. It gave her courage.

"You've given this some thought," he said hesitantly.

"Aye," she imitated, grinning. "And you haven't heard the last of it yet."

Waving the notepad, she tucked the pen behind her ear and turned around in a slow circle, scrutinizing her surroundings. Taking inventory here was a monumental task, and she would have to do it over a period of weeks, if not months. Then she would have to type everything up so he had an electronic copy. The next step would be transferring all of that into labels with barcodes so he could scan the items as he sold them and they would be marked in the system.

Rather, she could scan them. As his assistant, she would most likely be manning the register from now on and keeping track of sales.

If anyone found his shop today. Or tomorrow. Or the rest of the week.

She groaned. This was going to be atremendousamount of work. And they were at the very beginning of it – the tip of the iceberg, as they say.

When she faced him again, Jorah was smiling at her. It was lovely and warm – so warm, that her chest tightened and she wondered where all the air had gone.

Then he realized she had noticed and tried to brush it off by asking, "Can I, uh, get you anything?"

She gazed longingly at that large, comfortable leather armchair of his. "A chair. With a cushion, please."

"Certainly." He seemed to be holding back a laugh. If she had chased away that foreboding look on his face, that was an improvement. "Anything to drink or eat?"

"I brought my lunch." She pointed at her bag. "But maybe… A cup of tea?"

10 minutes later, he returned to the counter with a mug as blue as a robin's egg, filled with hot water. He also had a plain white mug for himself.

"You have choices." He held up tea bags. Jasmine, earl grey, orange spice, peach.

They all sounded wonderful, but she went with the peach tea because she could smell that heavenly flavor from where she was standing.

Then he dragged a tall wooden chair from gods only knew where – the back room, perhaps? – and set it next to the armchair. And proceeded to sit down on it.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Jorah, I know that armchair is yours. I'm perfectly fine using a normal chair."

He smirked. "You said cushions, fit for a queen."

"I did not," she protested. "I said a chairwitha cushion. You can't give up your chair for me. And I'm not a queen. I'm a shop assistant. Your shop assistant."

When he stood up, bowed, and presented the armchair to her with a flourish, as if it were a throne, she couldn't help it.

She laughed. A full laugh, rippling from her throat to her stomach. Jorah grinned, adding a few chuckles of his own.

The sound of their mutual laughter eased any remaining doubts or fears that she wasn't going to like her new job.

She wasn't just going to like it. She was going to thrive here, under his wonderful presence. And secretly, she hoped – dared to hope – that not only the store would benefit from her being here.

There might be few to no customers, and the future was uncertain.

But this was a start. Their start, hers and Jorah's. Working together.

Chapter 10: First Days

Chapter Text

The happy man is he

Who values quiet sights

Who treasures what is right

Who stands guard in the depths of night.

As Daenerys had predicted, not a single customer came to the shop that day. It was bad for business, but she got to spend all of those 8 hours with Jorah. She had his undivided attention, and he had hers.

For the first time, work was a pleasant interlude. No one was yelling or scolding her. She didn't have to look at all imaginable filth and clean it up. It was peaceful and fulfilling.

Jorah did create a map, with careful outlines and borders and headings so she could easily navigate her way through the shop. Sitting back in his armchair, she had watched as he stood by the counter and drew on a blank sheet of paper. Even with his shoulders bent, he was quite tall, and his perfect posture spoke of past discipline and training. His hands never shook or wavered as his pen moved across the page. In the end, the map was a work of art, with flowing, curved handwriting. She slipped it between the sheets of the notepad so it wouldn't get ruined or bent.

Then he gave her a tour, so she could become familiar with the corridors, twists, and turns. He showed her where the small restroom was, a single room that looked very clean, almost painstakingly so. It had plenty of toiletries stocked in the cupboard, along with soap and paper towels, and the pink rug was a nice touch. When she asked him if there was a key, he pointed at the lock on the inside. The restroom was for her now. Normally, he didn't agree for customers to use it, as it would get rather messy, unless it was an emergency.

"How on earth do you expect anyone to stay here more than 30 minutes if there's no restroom?" she asked.

"I don't." He chuckled at her scowl.

"Jorah, you need to take this more seriously. Women need restroom access."

"And they have it, in any of the stores down the street. As it is, this one is yours. I'll be using the one upstairs."

"Upstairs?"

"Where I live."

Oh, he lived above the shop. That's what the first floor was for. She felt embarrassed for not figuring that out herself. Now that she thought about it, it was obvious.

"And who is in charge of cleaning this restroom?"

"I am." When she started to protest, he cut her off, saying, "But I'll make you a bargain. If it ever gets dirty, you can clean it."

With a twinkle in his eyes, he stepped out and proceeded to the back room. That is where he said he kept his computer, printer, and telephone.

The telephone was an ancient landline with a winding cord. Thankfully, the computer was more modern, a flatscreen desktop that connected to a hefty external hard drive. It also was obvious he used this room more for storage than anything else. There was a mini-fridge in the corner, as well as a sink and faucet.

She smiled at the fact that for being a back room storing cleaning supplies, boxes, and the like, it looked exceptionally organized and clean, like the restroom. So the shop itself was the lone perpetrator of chaos. It wasn't hard to see why.

For a brief moment, she wondered if his living space was also tidy. What was it like?

Her cheeks grew heated at the thought. That was his private space, and she respected that. It was better if she concentrated on her tasks here, like bringing the shop into the current century, rather than how Jorah spent his leisure time.

He asked her to play a game of sorts, to help her memorize the map and make sure she remembered her way around. After going to a part of the shop designated on the map, he then told her to find him there. The one rule of this game was that she couldn't take the map with her. She could look at it before she left the counter, but that was it. It was easy to hear him call to her when no one was there but them. No noises echoed from outside, either, in stark contrast to her neighborhood.

Dead as a doornail. That's what this area was. People hardly passed through it because it was so peaceful. Everyone gravitated toward energy, after all. Life was energy.

She did well at first, but she got lost towards the end. She never was that good with directions and keeping track of her surroundings. When every corner seemed exactly the same, she started to panic and walked faster, looking around wildly.

And piled headfirst into Jorah.

"Daenerys! Are you all right?" He steadied her flailing arms so she wouldn't tip over and fall backwards from the impact.

Instinctively, his thumbs caressed both her wrists, the only part of her skin that her long sleeves left exposed. Her breath caught in her throat, and she glanced up at him.

He acted like he hadn't even noticed, letting go of her the moment she nodded.

"What happened? I was worried you found the exit and left the shop." His voice was teasing.

"I think I will be able to find my way around now." She sighed. "It will take some time, though. Getting used to it."

"Of course. But you've done very well so far," he said encouragingly.

"I try." She smiled, trying to hide her reaction to that brief touch.

This was silly. He had stopped her from losing her balance and landing on her behind like an idiot. That would have been infinitely more shameful. His hands had reflexively covered hers, saving her from sore muscles and wounded pride.

It didn't mean anything. It was harmless – no,chivalrous.

"Ready for a break?"

That cheered her up right away. "A reading break? The Count of Monte Cristo? Can we take turns reading aloud?"

"Oh, so that's your devious plan, is it?" He chuckled. "Aye, we can take turns. I'll read the male parts, you read the female parts."

"And you'll do the narration. That is very important."

"Aye, the narration as well." He gestured around them. "If you can lead the way back to the counter first."

She groaned and hung her head. This was going to be a long day.

They managed to get through 80 pages, only stopping for more tea, restroom breaks, and lunch. After all, she didn't want him to lose his voice from all that reading. Time went by quickly, until it was nearly five o'clock and he had to drive her across town.

All the way back home. To her other job.

"Jorah, are you sure I shouldn't take the bus? I feel like I'm being a burden."

He shook his head as he locked up the shop and guided her to his car. "Nonsense, lass. I made you a promise, and I'm glad to keep it."

His car was cozy – and just as clean as everything he had control over. She bit back a grin, thinking of how he was defying his ancestors in his own way. Messy shop, spotless personal space. As soon as they were strapped in, seatbelts buckled, he drove her across that restless sea of city traffic in less than 20 minutes. It was nothing compared to her 2-hour bus ride in the morning.

Of course, she had to tell him where she lived. He already needed that information, for her paperwork, and he would be commuting to her flat for a long time.

It would be easier if she lived closer. But she couldn't afford it. Not right now, anyway.

"This is me." She glared at the squalid complex with distaste. "Home sweet home."

He cleared his throat. "Would you like me to walk you to your door?"

"No, thank you. You've already sacrificed all this time and effort and gas money–"

"It's not a sacrifice, Daenerys." His eyes met hers through the open window. "It's a pleasure. Always."

She swallowed. Judging by the tone of his voice, he meant every word. The idea that someone cared, even a little, about her safety and comfort, was new to her. She didn't know how to respond to it.

He must have seen her confusion, because he smiled then and quietly said, "I'll see you tomorrow. Take care and good night."

"Good night, Jorah." A sudden, inexplicable desire for him to stay rose to the surface. She swiftly buried it. "See you tomorrow. You and the Count."

"Aye, the Count." He saluted her as he backed out, then drove away.

She stood for a long time by the entryway, wishing she never had to come back here. That she could stay at the shop forever. With him.

But there was the hope and dream of tomorrow. And she would have to live on that for now.

The trip from Daenerys's flat to the fencing club took Jorah about 15 minutes. He had timed it. Hopefully, he would have a moment to recover his senses before plunging into a lesson full of novices, all hoping to wave a sword around.

During the entire ride, he was unable to stop smiling. In one day, she was already taking the shop under her wing. Her to-do lists were a charming idea, and he was pleased that she cared. She could try any marketing, organizing, and redesigning she wanted. At first, he had been so worried that she would not show up – that she would change her mind about working for him. Then she sprung into the shop like a ray of sunshine, and his eyes couldn't stop following her. He even caught himself grinning like a lovesick fool and had to pretend he was thinking of something else.

Sharing "The Count of Monte Cristo" was another nail in his proverbial coffin. The scent of her shampoo and lotion reached him like an oncoming wave, no matter how he changed his position in that damn chair. When she glanced at him, reading each line of dialogue with such enthusiasm, he was mesmerized. Her profile, loose strands of hair framing her face, the shape of her lips. All of Daenerys was right beside him, inches away, for hours on end.

He wanted to run. To make up an excuse and disappear. It would be easier to hide in a corner somewhere than be so close to her and helpless to do anything about it.

Just now, she had seemed sad to see him leave. In a perfect world, she might have invited him inside her flat, for a cup of tea perhaps, and he would have accepted. And then… What? He would have admitted the truth? That he was waiting, heart in hand, for her to return to the shop? To him?

That would do no good. Of course, she had admirers; he had already seen Daario's jealousy. And she was so young and beautiful. Surely, he was deluding himself. It was best if he focused on doing what was necessary and enjoyed her company. If anything, he could support her and be the friend she needed. And she would be coming to the shop every day. He would see her often enough. Her friendship was all he wanted, if she would let him earn that privilege.

And he would keep telling himself that – and try to believe it – even if Barristan tried to murder him for being an embarrassment.

Could he even be a teacher? Instructing students in swordplay sounded like an impossible feat for a man like him. Did he have the patience for it? Decades had passed since he had done any fencing, even for pleasure. Perhaps Barristan was right. This plan to work here was nothing short of insane.

But he had to have money to pay Daenerys, and she was relying on him now. If he truly cared for her, he had to do this. He had no choice. In fact, he was lucky Barristan ultimately agreed to hire him. He was a fair and honest man, and he treated his employees with respect. It could be worse.

Using the given key, Jorah let himself into the back of the building, where the employee lounge was. It was empty. A group of lockers lined one wall, while an assortment of tables, chairs, and a marbled leather sofa filled the rest of the space. In one corner sat a refrigerator, a microwave, and a sink. No doubt the restroom was nearby.

An envelope with his name on it was lying on the table nearest the entry door. Inside was a new combination lock, a name tag, and a handwritten note from Barristan himself.

"Your locker is open and has your fencing gear. I hope everything is the right size. Please introduce yourself first to your co-workers so they don't think you are a burglar." He rolled his eyes on reading that. "Torgo Nudho has been assigned as your mentor to help you get settled. Good luck on your first day."

So Barristan wouldn't be here in person today to humiliate him. That was a blessing. But he would never leave anything to chance. This Torgo must be one of his most experienced instructors.

Which meant Jorah still had to be on his best behavior and at least act like he knew what he was doing.

He sighed heavily on seeing the familiar white fencing suit, gloves, and mask. At least he had thought to bring his best sports shoes. Dressing quickly, he hung the name tag around his neck and proceeded to the door marked "studio," clutching his helmet in the crook of his arm.

Gods help him if he ruined this.

He paused as he turned the doorknob. Thought of how excited Daenerys was when he said they would continue reading the book tomorrow.

And entered a different world, where his new duties were waiting for him.

The rest of the week, Daenerys felt like she was floating on a cloud. Slowly but surely, she was building a firm recollection of where everything was in the shop, and she had started making a meticulous list of all its inventory.

When Jorah provided a stack of notebooks, she labeled each one alphabetically. This way, it would be easier to type the lists later and enter them into a spreadsheet. He also gave her six packages of pens, claiming they were just taking space in his back room for years. Miraculously, none of them had dried out in all that time. When she asked, he just shrugged and walked away – not before she had caught a glimpse of his rather cheeky grin.

Two times, a customer came to the shop. Both were looking for a particular item, and Jorah knew exactly where it was. He did let her handle the transactions themselves – stating the price, handing back change, and grinning madly as she thanked them for coming in. The first person was constantly talking on his phone and didn't pay much attention to either of them. The second person, an elderly woman, did remark how she had never seen Daenerys in the shop before. When Jorah started to introduce her as his assistant, she interrupted him mid-sentence and said how nice it was, for him to let his daughter help him out. He looked like a fish out of water then.

Daenerys had a hard time keeping a straight face. The instant the woman left, doorbells tinkling behind her, she burst into peals of laughter. Aside from their hair, she and Jorah didn't even look alike. Where was this assumption coming from?

He didn't take it as well, biting down on his lower lip, refusing to look at her.

Perhaps this wasn't just about the comment.

"Jorah." She went right up to him and leaned against the opposite side of the counter. "She didn't mean any harm. But if it bothers you… Why did you let her talk over you like that?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Does it matter? They come for what they want. They never hear what I say. I can't make them care."

"Care? This isn't about that. This is business. You're the owner – so make them listen. If they talk over you, talk over them." She reached for his hand, lying limply on the glass, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "They're just customers. Don't let them get under your skin. I will listen to you all day if you want. I'm here, and I care. We're in this together now."

Gazing into his eyes, she wondered if any sea could be bluer, or if the sky filled them.

Then his fingers enfolded hers.

"Yes, we are." He finally smiled. "And I'm so glad you're here."

That was why the rain and wind, pounding her weak, trembling umbrella, didn't stop her from reaching the library that Saturday.

She squealed from happiness on seeing Missandei sitting in the clerk's chair, checking in books.

"Missandei! You're back!"

"Daenerys!" She set the books aside and rested her chin on clasped hands. "How lovely to see you again."

"How was your vacation?"

"Wonderful. But it's nice to be back." She glanced around. "I like working here. There's something about taking care of books that makes you feel…whole."

"I agree. Knowledge is power." She was practically dancing up and down on her tiptoes. She couldn't wait to tell her all her news.

"Indeed. So of course, in that line of thought, I am dying to know what happened with your item of interest."

Oh, that. She had forgotten she would need to talk about that part. She winced. "Well, it turned out to be worthless, I threw a tantrum, Jorah Mormont came to find me and apologize–"

"Wait, what happened?" Missandei lowered her voice when several library patrons turned to stare at them. "He said the item was worthless. And you left. But hefoundyou? How?"

It sounded bad when she worded it like that. Daenerys shook her head. "He showed me the note I left by accident in the book when I returned it. I wrote my workplace down."

"He actually went there? And apologized? For what?"

"For how he told me about the item. Then – and this is the best part – he offered me a job!"

"A job." She seemed incredulous. "How did he know you were looking for one?"

"I told him. He's very easy to talk to."

She raised her eyebrows. "Did he say he had a job available when you went to the shop?"

"No, but he said I was the perfect fit."

"Perfect. He used that word."

"Yes, and it is working out splendidly so far! He's going to pay me at the end of each week so I don't have to wait until the end of the month." She added in a whisper, "And he gave me the book! To keep. It's mine. We're reading it together."

Bewildered was not the best word to describe Missandei's expression right now. But it was the closest.

"Daenerys," she managed to say, "I am happy you found a job. I know you were looking for one before the…item. But what exactly does he expect you to do?"

Oh.Oh. She thought he was after something else entirely. No, that wouldn't do. He was the most honorable man Daenerys had ever met, and she wasn't going to let the conversation go down that route.

"I'm his assistant. I'm going to help him get sales up, organize the shop, and do some bookkeeping." She suddenly remembered why she had come, besides having a chat with her favorite librarian. "And speaking of that, I'm going to need the best books on advertising and marketing – for small businesses – that you have. I need to do some serious studying."

"Advertising? Marketing?" she stammered. "Yes – yes, I'll help you find those. But have you thought this through? He told you your item was worthless. Gave you a priceless edition of a book. And had a job opening you didn't hear about until after both these events happened."

"I did think it through. My cleaning job waskillingme, Missandei. I couldn't stand it a day longer. Mr. Mormont is not what you think, not at all. He's good, smart, and very,verykind."

She believed it with all her heart. He was her friend. She wanted to be his friend, too. Perhaps he would see her as one, someday.

"Ah, that again." She smiled, shaking her head. "A good, kind man, who offered you a job. And I suppose what he looks like doesn't matter."

"He looks fine!"

Daenerys wanted to clap her hand over her mouth. Missandei was smirking.

"He's fine," she repeated, crossing her arms over her chest. "And we get along very well."

"That's good. And I'm happy for you. Really. But will you promise me one thing?"

"Yes, anything."

With a sigh, she stood up and left the desk, heading straight to the self-improvement section. Daenerys followed her.

"If he ever touches you without your consent, let me know. My boyfriend is fully trained."

Chapter 11: The Fencing Arena

Chapter Text

Fight to win

Fight to live

The games don't end

What courage gives.

The contrast between the silence of the employee lounge and the cacophony inside the studio was a dreadful shock. Jorah couldn't hear anything but the chatter of what seemed to be 20 children, gathering in a corner, giggling and laughing and talking in loud whispers.

The room had a high, vaulted ceiling, reminding him of a cathedral dome. Each wall was solid wood except for the fourth. Two wide, tall panes of connected glass faced west, drawing in fading sunlight. On the floor by the glass, three long fencing strips stretched to the other side of the room. A stack of foils rested by the large, square exercise mat bordering with the opposite wall. Barristan had certainly spared no expense.

Memories of his boyhood fencing matches appeared like ghosts of the past. He was a gangly boy again, unsure of himself, wishing his father would stay during lessons and watch with the other parents. Instead, he had faced the wolves alone, with no one to cheer him on.

Soon enough, he spotted two men and two women, dressed in fencing suits like him. He quickly strode across the strips to reach them.

"Hello," he began, offering a half-bow, pulling at his name tag. "I'm Jorah Mormont. The new instructor."

One of the men crossed his arms over his chest right away. He had a stern, almost severe expression on his face. "You are Jorah Mormont."

Each slow, precise word seemed to echo from the ceiling. He could feel the weight of their combined judgment as all four of them stared him down. No one offered any introductions.

The man who had just spoken was inscrutable. Seeing how the others looked at him, he must be their leader. After what seemed to be hours, he finally said, "Master Selmy said you were a fencing champion once."

He tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. "Aye, that is true. Top of my team. A long time ago, I'm afraid."

His eyes narrowed. "If you are afraid, why are you here?"

The challenge was unmistakable. His temper flared, and he struggled to dampen it. "So I can teach others how to fence."

"Teaching is harder than fighting." He started to circle Jorah. "And a fencer must be twice as good as any fighter."

"Agreed." He locked his knees and lifted his chin. "Are you Torgo Nudho?"

"Yes." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I teach the beginner classes. I teach the intermediate classes. And I coach champions. I have been here for years. I am a master. You may call me Nudho."

Just in time, he remembered not to use Barristan's first name. Such informality would not be acceptable. "Mr. Selmy said you are my mentor this week. You will show me how it's done."

"This week." He seemed to smirk ever so slightly. "If you last that long, Mormont."

Jorah clenched his jaw but said nothing.

"These," he pointed at the children in the corner, "are here for the beginner class. It is the first of many. Today, you will watch and listen."

Still not bothering to state their names, the other instructors rose to action, greeting their new students and asking them to come forward. He felt awkward holding his helmet for no purpose, but he had no choice now. He would leave it in the locker tomorrow.

"Students." Torgo stood at attention as if he were addressing a squad of soldiers. Some of these children were as young as 6 or 7 years old. "Welcome to your first fencing class. I am Master Nudho."

They returned his greeting with excitement and more chatter. He signaled for them to quiet down.

"Who here can tell me what fencing is?"

An older boy raised his hand. "Fancy sword fighting."

Some of the children snickered. It died down when Torgo's head turned in their direction. "Anyone else?"

This time, a girl, about ten years old, timidly raised her hand. "Professional sword fighting?"

He nodded. "Both are good answers. But that is not all fencing is. For thousands of years, men and women have trained to fight. With fists, swords, guns – and with foils." He gestured towards the foils near the mat. "Fencing is discipline: to know your strengths and your weaknesses. It is control: to know when to strike and when not to strike. It is a skill: to watch your opponent, to use your hands, your feet, your body. And it is determination: you do everything to win, but with honor. Fencing has rules, and we follow them to the letter."

In an instant, the atmosphere in the room had shifted. They were listening to his every word, fascinated, spellbound. Jorah included.

"Each of you," he continued, "will need a fencing suit, gloves, and helmet. From now on, when you come to lessons, you will be dressed and ready."

"Can't we change here?" one student interrupted. The others immediately shushed him.

"No, we do not have a changing room. Tell me: when you go to a sports practice, do you come in your uniform or change in front of your coach?"

Total silence. Satisfied, he proceeded with the rest of his speech. "You will exercise outside of lessons to build your strength. Fencing is not for the weak of heart. Today, we will do these exercises together. And we will practice standingen garde. Your fighting position."

First, Torgo guided the students through a series of warm-up exercises, including sit-ups and crunches. When he tried push-ups, some of them collapsed on the mat and said they couldn't move. He ignored their pleas to rest and told them to run 50 times around the studio. Watching like a sentinel, he stood by the center of the glass wall so they had a clear finish line. Some of the children were faster than others, a whirlwind of energy. The younger ones started strong and tired out quickly, reduced to walking near the end of their laps.

When most of the class was bending over, exhausted, ready to fall on the exercise mat, he demonstrated how they needed to position their feet and arms. Singling out one student, he used her as an example of the correct fighting position and then showed incorrect variations of the position. The most important part, he said, was your footwork and your posture. You needed to hold your stance from the beginning of a match to its end. This was non-negotiable.

After they learned all the different moves and attacks, they would fight on the fencing strips, one to one. But it was a privilege for those who trained hard and proved themselves ready. Before that happened, he would be fighting each of them himself – their "trials," as he called them. If they passed, they would advance to individual duels and later on, personal coaching and training.

Jorah watched Torgo and the other instructors help each student respond to the command ofen garde. For all of his gravity and reserve, he was patient and firm. He critiqued them, he demanded respect. But he was never angry or aggressive. Some of the students already seemed eager to please him, and they couldn't hide their smiles when he approved of their form and told them to keep practicing.

He was a good teacher. Barristan had chosen well.

When the clock chimed 7 o'clock, the other instructors announced that lesson time was over. Filing into a line, everyone shuffled through the exit door, which led to the lobby. Jorah wondered what most of the children would tell their parents. How many of them would return to the studio for the next class? Fencing was a difficult sport, especially for the very young. It took so much dedication and self-control.

"Mormont." Torgo walked over to where he was. He scrutinized Jorah as if he were about to duel with him. "Ready for the next class?"

His answering grin was just as hard and humorless. "Aye, ready and waiting."

"Good." He sounded like he didn't mean that at all. "The next class is intermediate."

When Jorah did not reply, he added, "You heard what I said earlier, about exercise."

He nodded.

Torgo looked him up and down. And frowned. "It is not only for students. Teachers, too."

He could feel his face flushing and bit down hard on his tongue. If he said anything now, he would surely regret it.

"I recommend you follow my advice, Mormont, if you wish to stay."

Jorah wished there were chairs so he could sit down, at least for a moment. But the next group of students came in, dressed up and heading over to grab foils from the stack.

The rest of the evening, a multitude of fencing terms came to life in front of his eyes. He struggled to keep up with all the instructions, yelling, and quick movements. That was what he would have to do, eventually. Or he would only be able to help with the beginning classes. While he didn't mind, Torgo's remarks had awakened a spark of competition, a reminder of why fencing had been so alluring when he was a boy.

It was a gentleman's sport. It celebrated technique and ambition. And it had paved the way to enrollment at an esteemed military academy, his enlistment in the army, all of it. A cornerstone of his life.

He could be a master like Torgo. Even if he had never taught fencing before, he had twice as much experience, and he was a seasoned fighter. He wouldn't let age or being out of practice stand in his way and stop him.

If anything, he would excel. He would prove to Torgo and everyone else here that he was irreplaceable.

And now, it all begins.

Taking Daenerys's to-do lists to heart, he created a daily regimen of exercise. He woke up early at dawn and did the same warm-ups Torgo suggested to the children. Then he went running and jogging around the block for an hour. Came back for a shower and breakfast. And readied himself for work.

Keeping this a secret from Daenerys was going to be difficult. For one, his body, sluggish and not used to such aerobics, was resisting this new routine. Then there were tournaments. If he advanced as an instructor, he would be expected to attend. How would he explain his absences to her if any of those events happened during the week?

Several times, he caught himself dozing off when she was reading to him. He was almost grateful when the week was over and he could take time on the weekend to recuperate. To his disappointment, Torgo did not let him participate in any of the lessons. Every day, Jorah was demoted to the sidelines, standing as a silent observer.

Oh, well. This, too, would pass. Hopefully, he would be able to start teaching the following week. He didn't know what the students thought he was doing there, but more than a few had glanced curiously at him several times.

It was all a test. Torgo wanted to know if he had the necessary patience to do this. Or if he would burst into anger because he felt insulted and ignored.

Jorah would not yield. He had been a champion, after all. And he would succeed at this, at all of it.

No matter the cost, no matter his pride.

Saturday was the worst. They had one beginner's class, then the remaining hours were for team matches and individual coaching. And Jorah had to stand in place, unmoving, for all 7 hours. During that entire time, Torgo completely ignored him and acted as if he were not there.

By the end, he was furious. And his feet were killing him.

The employee lounge was no different. He had learned by now that the two female instructors were Marcy and Anna, and they talked about their husbands, their children, and their home lives as often as they could. The other man was Tristan, a former football player who had taken fencing classes to regain his strength after a succession of concussions. Aside from answering the girls' occasional questions, he kept to himself.

Torgo was a mystery. He never talked. He used his breaks to have a cup of coffee, read a book, or meditate.

Today, Jorah stepped in front of him when he tried to go to the lockers. Tristan and the girls had already left.

"Do you have a problem with me, Nudho?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you have a problem with me, Mormont?"

"Look, I'll admit I'm out of shape and out of practice. But I'm working on that. I know all about fencing. It was the air I breathed for nearly 15 years of my life. And you seem to be interfering in me doing my job."

"Your job?" He leaned forward. "What job?"

Jorah's hands were clenched into fists. "I have been patient. I have been waiting for an opportunity to show what I can do. And you won't let me. So I ask you again: do you have a problem?"

He seemed to consider it. Then he replied, "My problem is that Mr. Selmy hired a man like you. You have not held a blade for years. You have no teaching experience. I earned my place here, Mormont. You know what my problem is."

"Selmy knows what he is doing," he snapped. "But do you? Are you brave enough to fight me, man to man? So you can see for yourself what I'm capable of?"

"A duel." He rolled the words over his teeth. "Dueling between instructors outside of class is forbidden."

"You can treat it like a class – where you show me you're the better fencer."

He scoffed at that. But after a moment of thought, he nodded at the studio door.

"One match. 3 points. Entire body. I win, you quit. You win, and I let you lead the next beginner class."

"No right of way."

Nudho looked surprised but agreed. "No right of way. It should not be easy."

"I have your word?"

"My word is good. Is yours?"

Yanking his locker door open, he grabbed his helmet and marched into the studio. "Aye – if not better."

Grabbing a foil from the stack, he went to the nearest strip and took his place at the starting line. Torgo stood across from him, helmet on, flicking his wrist and whipping his foil through the air.

"Let us see if an old man has what it takes to best a master."

Jorah had hardly readied his stance before Torgo advanced. When he attacked, Jorah parried, pushing back. Then he did the typical riposte, forcing Torgo to pull away and do a counter-riposte. One of Jorah's signature techniques was wide, sweeping strokes that landed in target areas more often than not. But that left his head and his sides open. As they continued to spar, Torgo must have noticed and lunged, the tip of his foil barely missing Jorah's hip. Recovering immediately, Torgo thrust his foil forward and engaged his blade.

In the same way, Jorah saw that Torgo favored speed above all, and it was clear he was trying to tire him out. His movements were the assault of a snake – subtle, rapid, fluid, sudden. All the while, Jorah was on the defensive, wondering how he would outmaneuver him.

Then Torgo scored a point, the foil pinching his leg. Jorah reprised, retreating to the starting line and resuming theen gardeposition. He did the same. This time, Torgo waited, beat his blade, and initiated a false attack. Jorah saw an opening and lunged, catching his upper arm.

Now they were even.

They reprised, and it began again, until they were 2 to 2. Jorah used a false attack to tap Torgo's chest. Later, Torgo struck the side of his head. He could feel the impact through his mask.

The final point. The moment of truth.

Their blades were metal lightning, flickering back and forth, striking hard and fast. Jorah was flustered. If he didn't win, everything would be over. He launched a desperate counter-attack.

For a moment, it seemed that Torgo had the upper hand. He did aflèche, the jump attack, aiming for Jorah's shoulder. Instinctively, he side-stepped, and Torgo missed. Then, in the blink of an eye, Jorah thrust forward and tapped his neck.

For a minute, time froze.

Torgo took off his helmet and dropped it on the floor. "Touché."

After pushing his helmet up, Jorah whipped his foil in salute, then tossed it down.

Sweat was dripping from his hair into his eyes, and every part of him was aching. He would have a hard time sitting down the next morning. If his feet were hurting before, now they were on fire. Blood rushed through his veins, straining to reach his pulsing heart, as he panted, chest heaving.

He had never felt more alive.

Suddenly, he was twenty again, ignorant of the world and its capricious tastes. His father still loved him. There was no Lynesse. He was resolute and determined. The shop was not his future.

Now he was older and wiser. And he had won a duel against a younger man after years of no fencing.

Either fate was kind, or it was cruel.

"You fought well." To his own ears, he still sounded winded. "Torgo Nudho."

"As did you." He bowed his head. "Jorah Mormont."

He had a choice. He could just take the spoils of victory and not look back. Or he could take charge and turn this unexpected outcome in a different direction.

Daenerys had forgiven him when he was unkind. Could he not do the same now? Or would he wallow in his pride?

Using his teeth, Jorah took off one glove.

And extended his freed hand to Torgo.

At first, the man seemed surprised. Then, quick as can be, he reached out and firmly shook it.

On Friday at closing time, Jorah handed Daenerys her first paycheck. On seeing the amount, she almost cried. She would be able to add a substantial portion to her savings account. This was real. It was happening.

Then, the immediate afterthought:of course, he would use actual checks instead of direct deposit. Another item to add to her to-do list.

The whole weekend was a blur of marketing and advertising terminology she didn't care to know. It was more or less a foreign language she had just begun studying. The only information that stayed in her mind was a website. Jorah needed a website, pictures of items, an online presence. Heaven forbid, social media. And some form of advertising – ads, flyers, a local event he could participate in.

She also had decided to start wearing headscarves. The amount of dust in the shop was atrocious, and she refused to carry it in her hair. So she went to the nearest shop to buy 4 scarves. The coming week's honorary scarf was a pattern of red and white roses on black fabric.

On Monday, she walked into the shop with a heavy headache, wondering how she was going to remember all of what she had read. Worse, how she was going to accomplish it. It seemed an "insurmountable feat."

The legendary armchair of comfort was tempting, but someone was already sitting in it. Jorah was deeply asleep, his head lolling to the side, breathing softly as he dreamed.

He looked so peaceful, as if years had fallen from his face. He must be tired. Or perhaps he had trouble sleeping at night.

In any event, she didn't want to disturb him. Tearing herself away, she retreated to the back room and left her knapsack there. Then she searched for a broom, dustpan, and duster.

On her way to the counter, she peeked into the restroom to check if she needed to scrub the toilet or wash the sink. It all looked as immaculate as ever. She already had a suspicion as to why that was the case.

And it was confirmed the moment she came back.

Jorah woke up with a start. Saw her holding all that cleaning equipment. And hastily grabbed the broom and dustpan from her before she could protest.

"What are you doing?"

He raised his brow. "What areyoudoing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" She waved the duster in front of his face, where a smile was forming. "I need to completely clean out one area. Then I have to find similar items and bring them there. It's our only hope if we are ever going to organize this place."

"Not on my watch."

"Jorah, this is my job. Are you going to let me do my job?"

He shook his head. "No cleaning."

"No cleaning? And who's going to do all of it? You?" Exasperated, she shook her head. "I'm not a fragile doll. I can clean a few shelves."

"And if those shelves have splinters and you get hurt?" He glanced at her hands. "Are they better? Since you've come?"

Oh, he rememberedthat. Slightly appeased, she showed him her outstretched palms. Nights of ointment and bandages had done the trick. "Much better. Hardly any cuts left. And my calluses have started to disappear. Thanks to you."

He noticed she was leaning towards the broom. "I still don't want you to clean here, Daenerys."

It was sweet of him to care. But she could be stubborn, too. "If you've forgotten, I clean at my other job. And I like sweeping. It's relaxing, in a way."

He still wouldn't give the broom and dustpan back to her.

When she crossed her arms over her chest, the end of the duster tickled her nose. Knowing she was about to sneeze, she dug in the pocket of her dress until she found her handkerchief.

The handkerchief that he had given her and insisted she keep.

When he recognized it, his firm stance wavered. Then, his voice so low that she could barely hear him, he murmured, "If it were up to me, you wouldn't have to work there, either. Just here."

Like a cresting wave, a surge of affection overwhelmed her. No one had ever cared about her like this. And here he was, caring. Dear,dearJorah.

Without thinking, she stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

But she had overestimated her reach. Her lips brushed over the corner of his mouth instead. Scratchy beard, soft and warm skin. Him.

All words left her at that moment. And Jorah, apparently, whose entire face turned red. He looked utterly speechless. Worry gripped her like an icy hand. Oh no, she had made everything awkward. And they were getting on so well! Why had she kissed him? He probably thought–

Quickly, she touched the broom handle. "Of course, I wouldn't mind some help. Will you please help me with the cleaning, Jorah?"

He was still in a daze. On hearing his name, he stepped out of it. "Aye, let me help you." He cleared his throat. "I mean – I'd be happy to help. In any way I can."

"Good. Then it's settled." She offered a smile and danced around him, waving the duster like a banner as she headed toward the area in question.

Only when there was enough distance between them, with him trailing behind her, did she let out the breath she had been holding.

She had promised to guard her own heart. But to do so, she could never be that reckless again. This job, and her dreams, meant everything to her. And she could not afford to lose them. Going forward, she must keep sight of that at all times. She must stay focused.

Even if a small, secret part of her wondered – just quietly, gently wondered – what it would feel like to kiss his lips, not his cheek.

Chapter 12: Bonding

Chapter Text

Love does not bend

It does not break

A heart it can mend

A soul it will take.

Daenerys stood proudly in front of the bare shelves, admiring the empty alcove. It had taken several hours for her and Jorah to transfer all the items to an adjacent area. And that same area now looked like a warzone. The fact that they were able to fit everything somewhere, whether stacked on shelves, inside corners of the glass cases – and near the end, on the floor – was nothing short of miraculous.

It had been slow, tedious work. She had sneezed so many times at one point that she had to race to the shop entrance and step outside, just to get a breath of fresh air. Jorah had more resistance. Then she saw him slip away and do the same when he thought she was busy organizing what they had carried.

Now came the hardest part: deciding what they should bring here. He wanted items from the same time period, while she wanted items of the same type. They tried to reason it out, but they couldn't agree on which option was more practical.

She didn't want to argue with him. After all, it was his shop, and she had just started working here. So she retreated to the back room, intent on eating her lunch.

Just as she was about to bite into her sandwich, he was there, standing in the doorway. He ducked his head, hands in his pockets.

"I'm sorry." His voice filled the room.

She put her sandwich down before turning towards him. "Don't be sorry. These are your items. You can do what you want with them."

"It was your idea to organize them."

"Yes, but I don't want to intrude, either. What you think counts. I'm only an assistant."

"Daenerys." He sighed. "You are free to do whatever you wish to make the shop better. I won't mind. I mean that."

She shrugged. "But I want us to make those decisions together. If I'm the only one who cares, we won't get far."

"Well." As if he didn't want to startle her, he walked slowly until he was right across from her, staring down. "I'm touched that you value my opinion. And I will do my best to help you – just as I promised."

She waved at the empty chair on the other side of the table. "Would you like to join me?"

Smiling, he pulled it out and sat down.

At this hour, light shone through the one window in the back room. Jorah's profile was glowing on one side, hidden in shadow on the other. She could see silver and gold in his hair. Did he see the same when he looked at her?

Then she realized he had no food. "You're not eating?"

He shook his head. "I normally eat after I close up the shop. I have little appetite these days."

"These days?"

"Years."

Years? She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Are you ill?"

"No. But I see no point in eating when I'm not hungry."

Worry bubbled in the pit of her stomach. She had been here a whole week, and she had missed that he never ate lunch. She had assumed he was eating it upstairs by himself. In the light of day, that made no sense. The back room had a mini-fridge, after all.

She continued, "You work from morning to evening, and you're not hungry. How is that possible?"

"It is what it is."

That did it. Between his reluctance to revive the shop and now this stupid fast of his, she had enough. She tore her sandwich in half and stuck it in front of him.

"Jorah Mormont, you are being foolish. And you are going to eat. Right now."

He seemed to be biting back a smile. "Is this a command?"

She huffed. "Only because your reasons are ridiculous."

He pondered that, examining what she had given him. "And you think I would eat your food – take your share."

"I willmakeyou lunch every day if I have to – just so you don't faint in front of me on the floor."

That made him grin in earnest. "You think I would faint?"

"Yes! A man like you."

"A man like me." He seemed to savor the words in his mouth, releasing them one at a time.

Frustrated, she started eating her half of the sandwich. After she swallowed, she said, "You need your strength. Everyone does. You shouldn't starve yourself."

"Oh, lass. That's not what I'm doing at all." Jorah's sudden discomfort was noticeable. After searching, he fixed his gaze on the surface of the table. "I have been alone here for a long time. I'm unused to having someone else around. Don't take it to heart."

"Have you always been alone here?" She hesitated before adding, "What about your father?"

"He left, not long after my divorce. I sold precious collectibles to pay my debts, and he couldn't forgive me." He had his sights trained on his hands, clasped in front of her. "It's just been me."

"No one else?" She had wondered why. Now she knew the truth.

"My marriage was a mistake. My greatest mistake." His voice grew huskier. "It changed my life for the worse. I wouldn't want to chance that a second time."

"You don't have to get married."

"I don't want to risk anything like that, ever again."

Daenerys frowned. It sounded like that was a nightmare for him. But he couldn't base his future on it. "Jorah… Do you honestly believe you're not worth loving?"

The moment she asked, she wanted to take it back. He would think she was impertinent and shut down.

To her surprise, he did the opposite. In that spray of flickering light, his eyes turned from blue to green and back again, peering into her own.

"Why shouldn't I?"

The raw pain in those three words stabbed at her own wounds. She shouldn't be asking what she didn't want to answer herself. But she found herself wanting to confide in him. She had never spoken to anyone about her past before.

"My brother, Viserys." She pushed the remnants of her lunch aside. "He never let me have friends. When I was little, I thought he was protecting me. But then things started to happen. He would get angry and break things. If I did something wrong, he would box my ears. Slap my face. Bruise my arms. He wanted me to do all the cooking and cleaning in our flat to earn my keep."

His mouth was silent, but his eyes, glistening, gleaming, spoke volumes.

She felt safe. Braver.

"It got to the point where I was afraid to speak. I didn't want to upset him. I thought if I did what he wanted me to do, it would make him happy. I wanted him to be happy."

She could still see his face the night before her 18th birthday. He had bought her a cake, with her name written in icing, and she was so thrilled she hadn't paid attention to his changing expression.

Relief.

Desperation.

He had planned to leave. It was no accident.

"But it didn't matter that I was his sister. It didn't matter that we were the last of our family, and everyone else is dead. He left. No note, no explanation. I woke up, and he was gone." Her voice shook, and she struggled to control it. "He never loved me. And that was all I wanted. I wanted my brother to love me."

Her chest shattered inside as she unlocked the memories she had stifled for years. Viserys was over. He was the past. And it still hurt so much.

Against her will, tears quietly rolled down her cheeks.

"When the people we love leave us," he finally said, a deep rumble, "it is like a dagger to the heart."

She couldn't bear to look at him. He would see she was crying. Viserys had always said crying is showing weakness.You're weak, Dany, his voice taunted.

"That's why you love 'The Count of Monte Cristo.' Because Edmond lost everyone, no one came for him, and he had to rebuild his life. Every piece of it."

She nodded, ready to speak again. "And even if he didn't have the treasure, he would have found a way. I know he would."

"Just as you will, Daenerys. Just as you are doing right now, in this very shop."

He smiled at her, encouraging, friendly. It was everything she needed in this moment. She hoped he could see the same reflected in her own smile.

"None of what happened to you was your fault. My ex-wife was my fault," he admitted. "My father said I was foolish. And he was right – though I didn't agree with him at the time. I didn't know her well. I was blinded by her beauty. And it cost me dearly. But she never loved me. She said it to my face before she left. Lynesse's one moment of honesty in our entire relationship."

"Where is she now?"

"In another place, with another man."

"Do you think she'll ever return here?"

He scoffed at that. "Only if she's flat broke. And I'd shut the door in her face."

She giggled. "I'd do the same to Viserys. But first, I would really want to punch him. Punch his face. Or his nose."

"Ah, but you should never aim for the nose. Always aim for the throat," he advised in a mocking whisper, gesturing at her own throat, as if he were sharing a great secret. "It leaves your enemies choking and winded."

"He will fall to his knees," she said excitedly.

"With one foot, you'll kick him out the door and flat on his back."

"He will wish he was never born."

"A throat punch does hurt rather badly."

Oh, she had forgotten he was a veteran. A trained, experienced soldier. "Did you do it to someone? When you were in the military?"

"Aye, in the army." His grin was teasing now. "But if I tell you all about my exploits, you'll be so shocked you'll never speak to me again."

She leaned forward, tilting her chin up, and stared straight into his eyes. "Try me."

In the end, they agreed to bring the same type of item – statues and figurines – to the alcove they had prepared. Meanwhile, Jorah regaled her with stories from his time in the army. Some of them were so funny she was wheezing and struggling to catch her breath. The best part was seeing him laugh. That buoyant, irresistible laugh of his made her heart flutter. She never wanted to stop hearing it.

The hours passed quickly. During their shared work, the serious conversation they had in the back room was laid to rest. And somehow, Daenerys was certain she would never waste another thought on her horrible brother again. Hearing Jorah say that he didn't think he was loveable pained her. That was not true. He was a wonderful man. How could his ex-wife have let go of him?

By the time they were finished and he wanted to read the book to her, it was time for her to head home. But, she reminded him, there was tomorrow. He said he was looking forward to it. And he promised her, at least ten times since they left the shop and before she walked away from his car, that he would make himself a proper lunch from now on. This way, they could always eat lunch together.

It was only then, when she was back in her flat, still smiling, light as a feather, that she remembered the kiss.

He hadn't even mentioned it. And she wasn't sure she wanted him to. Did she actually press her lips to the corner of his mouth, or was it some strange daydream?

If it had bothered him, he never said. She could be content with that.

Much later, she returned from her shift at the Golden Company. And when she closed her eyes to sleep that night, she thought of Jorah and his beautiful smile.

She had kissed him.

Herself.

Of her own free will.

Because she wanted to kiss him.

It was abona fidekiss.

Jorah was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his fingernails were sure to leave marks.

True, she had seemed embarrassed afterward. Unsure. Flushed. Glancing down, unwilling to meet his eyes.

After all, it wasn't like she had kissed his lips. She had clearly wanted to kiss his cheek but missed. Or had she?

He was making too much of this.

Yet, it had taken all his resolve in the following seconds to not kiss her back. He had to physically restrain himself from leaning forward and capturing those sweet lips with his own.

He had never wanted a kiss so badly in his life.

Then, when they were cleaning the alcove together, he was filled with shame. Daenerys was the kindest, most hard-working woman he had ever met, and he was being selfish. He needed to put her feelings first and not lose his head because he wanted her.

Aye, he could admit that, at least. He desired her. But it was impossible. And he had to make peace with it. Somehow.

In the back room, she seemed to care so much about his well-being – and it touched him more than words could say. He never thought he would ever talk about Lynesse, or his failures as a son, to anyone. But here was Daenerys, coaxing the past from him even as she divulged her own troubles. An abusive brother, no parents. The sadness of never being loved.

All the more reason that she needed his friendship and protection. He wouldn't let anything happen to her. He'd die first.

Later, when they were organizing and talking, he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed so hard. And her laughter shimmered with the strength of a thousand stars. Many times, he feared his heart would stop mid-beat, unable to believe such happiness was real.

When he wheeled into the fencing club parking lot, he stretched outside his car and took a series of deep breaths. His personal life was separate from his professional life, and he needed to control himself.

The memory of her kiss still burned his skin. He wanted to win battles for her, just to prove his worth. To earn another kiss from her.

He just told her he wanted nothing to do with romance. It was all a lie. He was lying to himself and to her. And it had to stay that way.

Groaning, he trudged toward the employee lounge.

This time when he entered, the other instructors greeted him by name. Thank the gods that the worst seemed to be over. And Torgo even nodded at him from where he was sitting, drinking a cup of coffee. Jorah could finally become part of the team.

The fencing duel, as grueling as it was, had motivated him to take his daily exercise routine even more seriously. He also practiced fencing moves before he opened the shop. Already, he knew he had lost weight and gained muscles. He was lighter, more energetic. More confident than ever that he could succeed at teaching.

Once he was in his fencing suit, ready for class, Torgo approached him. Not knowing what to expect, he stood his ground, at attention.

"You're up, Mormont." He crossed his arms over his chest. That was becoming a habit. "Today, you teach the beginner class."

He sighed in relief. "What are they learning?"

"Attack and parry. Start with how to attack, end with how to parry. Also, how to hold the foil correctly. They need to master that first."

"Aye, I can do that." He suddenly felt nervous. "Will you also be teaching, Nudho?"

"Of course. We all teach. If you lose your voice, I will have to take over."

Shaking his head, rolling his eyes, Jorah strode forward, eyes set on that studio door.

No more delays or trials. He was ready to begin. After all, Daenerys was depending on him. And he would do everything in his power to make her happy.

Chapter 13: Too Close

Chapter Text

Up we fly

Up we rise

Unfurling our mighty wings

And soaring into the skies.

The web browser on the screen was still loading. After 5 minutes of spinning and swirling.

True, she could try to be patient. Or she could be completely exasperated. The library computers never took this long!

Groaning, Daenerys pressed "Enter" again to reload the page. How was she ever going to build an online presence for the shop if this damn desktop wouldn't work? Jorah's budget wasn't ready for a new electronic system yet. And he needed to build his finances a bit before investing in expensive equipment.

Forced to wait again, she glanced at the items on her list. Jorah needed a website. He also needed to be included in all free local business listings. Then they needed to discuss a way to get the word out. Customer reviews were also important. Social media would be nice, but they could worry about it later. After all, they didn't have a camera to take pictures of items. And considering how valuable some of them were, that wouldn't even be wise.

Oh, this cranky old computer! What a nuisance. And an Internet connection crawling like molasses in January.

She was about to give up and rejoin him at the counter when the page loaded like a flash of lightning. Finally!

Everything was complicated. Jorah did have a business checking account at the bank, but he only used checks. He had no idea how direct deposit worked; he still received paychecks for his pension. So she convinced him, after a long, detailed discussion, to convert everything. He needed electronic payments. She wrote down all the questions he needed to ask when he visited the bank next time so they could take care of it. Since weekdays were out of the question – he said he didn't want to leave her all alone – she suggested he make that visit on Saturday:don't open the shop and just go.The bank is open then.

He looked horrified.

Then she reminded him that he would soon have no shop at all, if sales continued to carry on this way.

A website was a yearly cost. She would have to design it herself, too, because they couldn't hire a designer. If they needed more paid help, a marketing expert would be a better choice at that point. He also needed some form of advertising. A flyer, perhaps, though she wouldn't know where to post it. A decal or sticker he could put on the windshield of his car, perhaps.

So much to do. But she would not let hard work defeat her. She was stronger than that. And she knew she could help Jorah through this.

Today was set aside for free options. She claimed his business listings, so the shop would show up in search results as soon as possible. Remembering the mysterious library ad, she included "where history never dies" as the tagline. This cheap phrase might sell. Then she added the phone number, address, and business owner's name. She copied the same information to the other listing website. All Jorah would need to do now is receive postcards in the mail with codes to verify both listings. Then they would be live on site.

Buying the website domain would be easy enough since the shop's name was unique. Creating the site itself was another story. She would need to take photos, create text, and put it all together.

That sounded like a library book she didn't have. Jorah would go to the bank this Saturday, and she needed Missandei's help. They both certainly had their to-do lists set out for them.

Sighing, she tore herself away from the computer and trudged out of the back room. When she passed by another empty alcove, she paused to inspect it. This was where they would bring all the chinaware and fragile porcelain lying about. It had been so difficult to move all those delicate teacups and plates to a nearby area – and find safe places to put them – that the entire process took hours.

It was exhausting. And Jorah must have felt that as much as she did, because he was sitting in his armchair.

Reading "The Count of Monte Cristo."

"You can't read ahead!" She snatched the book right out of his hands. "We are supposed to read it together."

He tsked. "If you must know, lass, I was reading back. Parts we already read."

She glanced at the page number he was on. Sheepishly, she handed it back to him.

"Tired?"

Nodding, she plopped into the chair next to his. "Your computer is a pain."

"I did warn you."

She scowled at him. "You need a new one. And better Internet."

"Why?"

"You know why. We are transitioning to a new era, Jorah. We need to be able to get there. If nothing works…"

Now he sighed. "I know."

"Maybe we need a spending budget." As soon as she said those two words, she pictured the stacks of inventory notebooks. She was nowhere near finished with writing down all the items in the shop.

"First, a business credit card. Now a spending budget." He smiled. "If you're not careful, I'll have to promote you to shop manager."

She chuckled. "Managing all the dust."

"A necessary evil." He stretched out his legs – which she pretended to ignore – and then straightened in his chair. "Though I am curious what you recommend as part of our budget."

"Well, it's not my place to say," she hesitated. "But we do need a few things."

"As in?"

"For one, we need a new computer and better Internet." She wanted to laugh at how annoyed he looked. Of course, she wouldn't let that go. "We need a scanner for merchandise, a label printer, and security cameras. We have to buy a domain and a website. We need to advertise."

He turned, his hand propping his head. "And where is all the money for this coming from?"

"Your business credit card," she said cheerfully.

Groaning, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "You want me to be in debt?"

"No, consider it an investment. If you don't invest in this shop, you won't have it for much longer."

"Until now, things have been fine."

"Until now, you didn't have a shop assistant. And things are not fine. You have a few customers every week. Don't you want more profit?"

He was glowering at her. "What if this plan of yours does not work? What if we do all this and everything stays the same?"

"Plan ofours, Jorah. And you worry too much." She leaned in closer, gazing up at him. "I think you care more about the fate of this shop than you're willing to admit. Why are you resisting?"

She meant to ask why he was resistingchange. But the words came out wrong. That must be why his entire expression shifted, from solemn and disgruntled to the most peculiar spark of interest. His lips parted, and his breathing grew heavy.

Only his eyes stayed the same, piercing hers.

Then he cleared his throat, and she thought she must have imagined his reaction. She had embarrassed him. That was it.

Shame made her cheeks burn. She hadn't meant to do that at all. He gave her the power to transform the shop, and what was her response? She was bossy. She was bossing him around.

Daenerys was about to apologize when he said, "You're right. Change is difficult. And instead of complaining, I need to be listening to your advice. It's sound advice."

"I didn't mean to command you again," she replied, feeling terrible.

He grinned. "Nonsense. You can command me all you like. I was a soldier, remember? I know how to take orders."

"You don't order friends around." She stared at her clasped hands, settled on her lap. "That's not the kind of friend I want to be, either."

"Oh, it seems I have risen in rank. Do my ears deceive me, or does the lovely Miss Daenerys consider me her friend?"

He looked so charming in this moment. His soft, whimsical smile. The intensity of his voice.

"My dearest friend," she whispered, unable to look away.

That moment, with them gazing at each other, stretched into an eternity. She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. And didn't understand. All the while, her heart pounded steadily, encouraging the confusion.

Why did she bring friendship into this? She was working for him, not doing him a favor. This wasn't about her feelings. It was her job. And yet hadn't she bragged to Missandei about wanting to be his friend? For him to be hers? The more she tried to reason with herself, the less sense it made. She should focus on her work. On being a shop assistant. Not this connection between them, growing by the second.

When he looked from her lips to her eyes, she gasped softly.

Then, before he could say anything, the door bells rang.

The rest of the week, Daenerys concentrated on what she needed to get done. When she sat by Jorah, she measured the distance between them. She was careful not to touch him or do anything that would be considered inappropriate.

But it was all too easy to be herself with him.

He was an attentive listener, and she recalled some of their conversations in her mind for days afterward. And he never failed to make her smile when she came in, upset about angry customers at the bar or rude passengers on the bus. When they read the book together, she forgot all her problems, enjoying how he took Dumas's words and brought them to life. How bittersweet it would be when they finally finished it. Perhaps she could convince him to read another book to her.

That was the problem. She was comfortable in the shop, with him.

Too comfortable.

He acted like he hadn't noticed anything had changed. After all, their talks were the same, carefree and familiar and open. Was she unknowingly letting him be too familiar? They were nearing the end of her second week. She still barely knew him.

Yet it was as if she had known him her entire life. They had already formed a daily routine, where he would help her with emptying an alcove and bringing items to it. Then they would have lunch, with long discussions about literature and everything under the sun. He was intelligent and wise – and humble. He never made a show of what he knew, and he always admitted what he did not know. A customer might come in, and due to the state of the shop, he continued to show them items while she stood at the register, ready to complete the transaction. Then there was more book reading, followed by her scribbling out inventory and beginning to type it up on the computer.

It was lovely and simple. Even on the drive home, they talked. Sometimes, he turned on the radio and they would sing together. He was a natural. She wasn't sure if she was meant to be a singer at all. But he always encouraged her. To her ears, at least, their duets sounded wonderful.

On Saturday, now her unspoken library day, she found herself debating whether to ask the question burning in the forefront of her mind. Missandei was busy, checking in her previous books, including that ratty copy of "The Count of Monte Cristo."

She really shouldn't ask a stranger about this. But Missandei has been so helpful and supportive. Of all people, why couldn't she ask her?

"All done. Are you sure you don't want to check these out again?" She pointed at the marketing books. "Maybe you will need them."

"Thank you, but I need a website design book – or anything about building a professional website."

Missandei nodded her approval. "I can help you find one. Anything else?"

"What I really need is a computer and a camera. But I don't suppose the library loans those, does it?" she said jokingly.

"Actually, we do."

Her jaw dropped open.

"You can have a laptop on loan for 6 months. And we do have a camera you can check out for a week. I do have to tell you that patrons are responsible for any damages to loaned equipment."

Daenerys put her hand on her heart. "I would never."

She smiled. "Then let me add your name to the waiting list for both. I think you'll be able to have the camera sooner than the laptop, though."

"That's great!"

When she said nothing else, Daenerys added, "I already have inventory lists, and Mr. Mormont has been helping me clean and reorganize everything. We're on our way to success!"

"And that's why you need a camera?"

"Well, I need a camera to take pictures so we can post them online. I made business listings, and we need a website and–"

"We?"

She blushed. "He needs it. I am just helping."

"Sounds like you are making progress, then. I'm glad to hear it."

When she didn't offer any other comments, Daenerys decided to ask her the dreaded question. "Missandei, may I ask you something?"

"Sure, anything." She was currently searching the online library catalog for that website book.

"What is it like, to be in love?"

She had pushed the words out of her mouth in a rush, wanting to be rid of them. And she knew Missandei had heard them when she turned and gave her a look of complete shock.

So she tried again. "What does love feel like?"

"What does love feel like?" she repeated slowly, searching her face.

"Yes, romantic love." She shuffled her feet. "How do you know if your feelings for someone are real?"

Missandei was still staring at her as if she had grown wings.

The silence became stifling after a few minutes. Wishing she could just disappear, she mumbled, "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry–"

"Don't apologize." She cleared her throat. "Daenerys, I can try to answer that. But I am unsurehowyou want me to answer that."

"It's all right. I shouldn't have – it's not important."

"It sounds like it's important to you," she said gently. "But why ask me?"

She wrapped her arms around herself. "I didn't know who else to ask. I…don't have anyone to ask. And I trust you."

"Hmm." Missandei glanced at the clock on the wall. "Well, this isn't the time or the place."

"Oh. Of course, I understand." She squashed her disappointment and tried to smile. "Thank you, anyway."

"No, I meant," she chuckled, "we should talk about this elsewhere. Let me go find that book for you first. Then after we get you checked out, we can get some lunch."

The cafe around the corner was plain and quiet. The furniture was basic, and the walls were bare, undecorated, minimalist. A few customers sat by tables here and there, lost in their own conversations, oblivious to everything around them.

But not Daenerys and Missandei.

Daenerys stared at her cup of tea, watching wisps of steam billow upwards. It was the cheapest item on the menu. Missandei had purchased a sandwich wrap and sparkling water for herself.

"So tell me," she began, setting her glass to the side. "Where is this question coming from?"

She wanted to say it was complicated, but that sounded like an excuse. The real reason was sitting in the shop, tall and golden and radiant. The more she didn't want to imagine him, the clearer his image appeared, until she saw every contour of his face.

"Well, let's start with the facts. I've never dated anyone. And I don't know if what I feel is anything at all. Or a crush. Or the result of too much gratitude." She ran a hand through her hair. "And I'm scared of the answer. I know what I've read about love. But real love probably isn't like that."

"Like what?" she prodded.

"Consuming. Fiery. Caring so much that your heart will burst from it."

"It could be those things. Or it doesn't have to be." She tilted her head. "Is this about Jorah Mormont? Your employer?"

Her cheeks grew hot. "I want to keep everything professional. Then he smiles at me. And I think there's no one in the world as wonderful as him. Maybe it's not about him, really. Maybe it's how I see him. The idea of him. And I don't know anything about these things."

She shrugged. "Many people look for partners who are most like their parents. You could ask your parents."

Suddenly, the bottom of her teacup was extremely interesting. "They died when I was a baby."

"Oh, I'm so sorry–"

"It's all right." Except that it wasn't. But she couldn't think of her family right now. "I really don't have anyone to ask about this. If I did…"

"I understand. And I will try to help if I can." She sighed. "I haven't dated much myself. But my current boyfriend is my match. I'm so lucky I found him."

"Oh, please tell me about him!" She leaned forward. "What is he like?"

"He always buys me flowers on Sundays. So I can start the week knowing I'm special and he treasures me. He makes sure I'm safe. Asks me about my day, and we talk about his. We're learning a foreign language together. And when he kisses me, I can feel that he has a place for me in his heart."

She fingered the pendant around her neck. Had she been wearing it all this time, and Daenerys had never noticed it? "It really is the little things. That's how you know someone loves you."

Was it? Jorah had traveled all the way across town to find her and give her a book. Analyzing that right now was too overwhelming.

"Your boyfriend sounds wonderful." She meant every word. "How do you know you love him?"

"It's hard to explain. One day, we were getting to know each other, and the next, I realized I didn't want to live another day without him. He makes me smile, and he looks at me as if I were his queen. I adore him. He makes me happy."

Well, that was unhelpful. She couldn't be in love with Jorah. It was impossible. It was too soon, too quick. It was as if she had stepped into an invisible trap, and she was struggling to drag herself out of it.

"Daenerys, it's not that complicated. If you haven't dated anyone, you won't know what you are looking for in a relationship. Books are great examples, but you are a person living outside of those story worlds. What do you want?"

She shrugged, miserable in her ignorance. "I have no idea. I just want to understand what I'm feeling. I miss him when I'm not in the shop, and when I'm there, I feel…confused."

"Confused?" She tilted her chin. "Do you want to touch him? Kiss him?"

"I kissed his cheek." She could hardly say it, let alone think of it. "And these past several days, I've been pretending nothing is wrong, that everything is the same. But it isn't. I'm so busy making sure I don't cross any lines between employer and employee that sometimes, I can't breathe. It's exhausting. And what if it's just about the shop? And my job? I don't know what to do."

"Well, there is an easy solution." She sipped water from her glass.

"Yes?"

"You can go on a date. Find out if anything is real. Or it's all the shop's doing. Then you'll know."

An unbidden memory of Jorah's parted lips filled her mind. She shoved it away.

"A date. Me. Go on a date. Ask him out on a date?"

"So you can find out how you feel. And how he feels. That also counts."

Then Daenerys remembered someone else's voice. The voice of a man who had already asked her on a date. But she had refused.

That didn't mean he was no longer interested. She could find out. And Missandei was right. What harm could one innocent date do? It wasn't as if she would be engaged to marry the man afterwards. A first real date it was, then.

Her Monday evening shift. She could take care of this then.

"You're both adults, Daenerys. If your feelings are real, you still win." Missandei gently squeezed her hand. "Everyone has to start somewhere. Who knows? You may surprise yourself. And he may surprise you."

When they walked back to the library, they chatted about Missandei's life. Her boyfriend had a steady job, and she loved the library. They were moving in together next month. In the summer, their vacation destination was her home, an island flanked by the sea. She couldn't wait to show him all her favorite places.

After thanking her for a lovely time and all her help, Daenerys proceeded to use the library computers. Jorah was at the bank or finished with it by now, and she had to do her part. She still had to find a website host. This way, they could finish the sign-up process and start designing the shop's website this coming week. The postcards with the verification codes would arrive in the mail in the next few days. Next on her agenda was the live event, though she had no clue what would fit - or if Jorah would even agree to participate in something like that. After arguing with herself in vain, she set up 3 different social media accounts for the shop. They couldn't put all their eggs in one basket, right? That also meant designing flyers she could post in public places. Deciding to keep the flyer simple, she used the same tagline from before and added a dragon symbol.

"The Dragonstone Antiquary, under the management of Jorah Mormont. Find priceless antiques and collectibles where history never dies." She liked how short and to the point it was, with his phone number and address listed at the bottom in legible, fine print. Digging out enough money from her wallet, she printed 50 of them.

At the last minute, just as the library was closing up for the day, she went up to the huge board on the wall. She scanned high and low for the ad from all those weeks ago.

It was gone. Frankly, she wasn't that surprised.

After asking for permission, she found a good spot on the board and pinned up one of the flyers she had just printed. What Jorah didn't know couldn't hurt him.

She also might walk around this neighborhood – and as far as her feet would take her – to find more public places where she could post them. The coffee shop they had just visited was first, and she would head back there right now. Waving goodbye to Missandei, she set off for her destination. Her marketing and advertising plan was in action. That was good.

But outside of her friend's assurances, she still wasn't sure about this dating idea. It was a risk. And she couldn't talk to Jorah about any of it. After all, he was why she was going on a date in the first place.

If she couldn't unravel her own heart, she would undoubtedly slip at some point. If she did, she would either sail into the stars.

Or she would plunge into the depths of defeat. A broken, beaten heart would hurt.

Both possibilities were the great unknown. And they scared the hell out of her.

Chapter 14: The Date

Chapter Text

Beware the heart's path

A steep slope to climb

Winding and narrow

Its end undefined.

As soon as Jorah exited through the bank's front doors, he wanted to get down on his knees and kiss the ground.

He didn't. Instead, he drove as fast as he dared in the opposite direction, racing towards the fencing club. A hundred duels with Torgo sounded more bearable than those torturous 3 hours had been. He even would rather have been all alone in the shop, praying for Daenerys to somehow appear like an angel of mercy.

The entire visit was nothing short of a nightmare. Bank tellers asking him a thousand questions, countless documents to sign – so many voices telling him how to do this and how not to do that. His head was spinning by the end of it. The manila envelope he carried back to his car was heavy, filled with pamphlets about terms of service, copies of paperwork, and a temporary credit card until his actual one came in the mail. He almost wished he had insisted Daenerys come with him. But of course, he didn't want her to think he couldn't handle his own financial affairs.

Ah, sweet Daenerys. He smiled at the thought of her, encouraging him, willing him to invest in his shop's future. Her concern for him, warming his heart.

Then she called him her dearest friend. And the world stood still.

Her eyes held him in place. Her lower lip, trembling. He wasn't sure what she was feeling, but he couldn't help wishing, hoping…

His arms longed to reach for her. His hands ached to touch her. And when she looked down at his lips, he could hardly breathe.

When he was about to draw closer and kiss her, a grouchy old man entered the shop. Right away, he demanded a pair of golden cufflinks, engraved in the shape of eagles. The request sent Jorah scrambling for the right place to find something remotely similar. But when he returned with a silver pair of eagle cufflinks, the man didn't want to buy them, spitting out a litany of complaints.

Exasperated, Jorah was about to tell him off. Then Daenerys saved the day, pointing out that silver would highlight his fine hair and eyes. Gold was too gaudy. Their charming new customer agreed, pleased with the compliment – and promptly plunked down his credit card.

He had never felt so embarrassed. After giving him a very pointed look, she rescued him again by saying they were only able to take cash. Their credit card reader was, unfortunately, out of order. Grumbling, their reluctant customer fumbled with his wallet and gave them a large bill. As he stumbled out the door, he said to keep the change.

Jorah wanted to shout back that he should never return. But he couldn't do that to Daenerys. Thanks to her sharp wits, they had finished a transaction and made a profit.

Tsking and shaking her head, she reminded him once more about the bank on Saturday. He had to go, whether he liked it or not. They needed that "dysfunctional card reader." Then she went away to take inventory, dragging her notebooks along and leaving him behind.

He had wanted to follow her and help. But he didn't. Her smile was still friendly, the tone of her voice soft and pleasant. But he saw it. For a brief second, she had hesitated, as if she was considering what had just happened between them. Then that flicker of wariness was gone, more quickly than it had come.

For the rest of the afternoon, his mind tossed and turned like a ship at sea. Had he overstepped? Was she realizing he desperately yearned for her? Was she uncomfortable with that? Was she uncomfortable with him?

Oh gods, what had he done?

He was so restless that he scurried into the back room, just so he would have more room to pace back and forth, like a bear in a cage.

She was settling in here. She was happy and eager every morning she came to him, her bright smile chasing the shadows of his past away. She had called him her friend. Her dearest friend. And then he had to go and show too much of himself. He couldn't help it, could he? His desires were still his undoing, after all these years.

Their book reading was as amicable as ever, but it wasn't enough to soothe his doubts. Especially when he noticed how subtly she shifted away from him. How she was careful to keep her hands clasped in her lap. The same, precise distance between them whether they were sitting or standing or passing by each other.

The sudden rift was agony. He wanted the proximity of before, when she was near enough for him to see her eyelashes, the curve of her mouth when she laughed. But he respected her need to keep that space. Friends or not, they were not so familiar yet. The passage of time would heal her concerns. And it was a little over a month since they had first met. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her away because he couldn't be patient.

Or he couldn't keep his eyes and his thoughts to himself.

He would be more guarded from now on. It was the least he could do. She deserved everything he could give her, and she was already changing the shop in so many ways. Protecting her heart was more important than satisfying his own. After all, he had lived without it for over a decade. He could survive its absence.

His lonely, weary heart, seeking hers. Even as he pulled away, with every ounce of his remaining strength, he wanted her. That wouldn't ever change. He sensed in his bones how deeply he had become attached to her, in such a short period of time. Life without her presence was unbearable and inconceivable.

Losing Daenerys would shatter him.

As he parked his car by the club, he was suddenly grateful he had this other job, this hideaway where he could be more than Jorah Mormont the shopkeeper. It had become a relief and an outlet for his feelings of inadequacy. Here, he could prove his worth with one stroke of his blade or a well-executed attack.

Ever since Torgo let him lead his first class, the students called him "Master Mormont" as they learned the rules of engagement. They were practicing lunges and recovering, during which he corrected their footwork. Then he split them into pairs to practice assaults, where they used the moves they had learned so far to engage in attacks and counter-attacks. Frequently, he critiqued them and offered advice on how to improve.

Torgo was busy tutoring the more advanced students as they trickled in, ready to compete in actual matches. The other instructors had taken this weekend off, so Jorah was fully in charge of the beginner class.

And he had to admit it: teaching was not as bad as he thought.

The students who remained from that initial class with Torgo were eager and excited. He found he enjoyed telling them about his former matches, reveling in the minor details of every bout. In turn, they hung on his every word, full of questions and comments. He tried to respond to all of them.

The way their eyes lit up when he praised their progress reminded him of his boyhood, when a kind word from his father went a long way. He missed those innocent days. Even though he was still learning how to read, he had crafted small cards and books as gifts for the one person in his life whom he had loved and admired.

Those days were gone. And here he stood, instructing children younger than he had been all those years ago. Life really did turn in a full circle.

The highlight of the evening was when the class was ending. One of the advanced fencers accidentally entered their strip during an attack. Gregory, an eleven-year-old who was tall for his age, instinctively parried, then did a swift riposte – scoring a point.

The entire room vibrated as they all cheered and whooped, congratulating him. Out of the corner of his eye, Jorah watched as Torgo took his own student aside and reminded her that she could not get out of bounds during the upcoming competition. She had to focus on staying within the lines of the strip. He was as strict as always, but also quiet and firm. Never mean or spiteful.

Nothing made Jorah prouder than watching all his students line up to leave the studio, looking confident, chattering merrily. Many of them turned to wave goodbye or say they would see him on Monday, in a chorus of pleased voices.

"They like you." Torgo had come to stand beside him. He nodded at their retreating backs. "The students."

"For now." He wiped the sweat from his face with his uncovered hand. "When the moves get harder, they will not be so happy."

"Perhaps. But you will teach them, and they will learn. That is how it is. That is how everything is. We must start at the beginning to reach the end."

"Well now." He grinned. "I didn't know you were a philosopher, Nudho."

"I am not."

"Yet these are words of wisdom. Something you picked up from your stack of magazines, perhaps? Or your self-help books?"

He scoffed then, walking back to his post – but not before Jorah saw the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

Miracles could happen. He was finally a fencing instructor – and getting better at it every day. His students liked him. And he just might make a friend of Torgo Nudho yet.

Putting his helmet back on, Jorah joined him in supervising the advanced fencing teams. He had all Sunday to worry more. He wouldn't let it spoil the rest of today.

Monday was a wonderful day. A day for making changes. A day when anything could happen.

With a bounce in her step, Daenerys dusted the shelves in the alcoves they had organized. They were making steady progress. Another week or two, and they would be finished. Her inventory lists were growing longer and longer. Soon it would be time to type the rest into a spreadsheet, create a data system, and generate barcodes for everything.

She couldn't wait.

The good news today was that the postcards came in. As soon as Jorah looked through the day's mail, he found both and held them up gingerly, as if they were sordid rags. With a squeal, she ran to grab them from his hand and hurried to his computer so she could verify his business listings.

The minute each site said the shop was actively listed, she waved the postcards in the air. She felt triumphant, ecstatic. She was all set to purchase the shop's website domain and host subscription this week, then start designing it. It was all coming together. She had posted more than half of the flyers she had printed out, in every nearby restaurant, cafe, and shop in her neighborhood that would let her. Jorah's lovely shop would no longer be ignored. People from all over the city would come here, eager to see what secret treasures he offered.

Once the library camera was hers on loan, she would take photos and build the most beautiful website and social media presence for him. The rest of her tasks seemed simple: making sure he had the right equipment, setting up online accounting, and reaching more customers. She was slowly checking off items on her to-do lists. Their progress was remarkable.

She was worried about entering the shop this morning. But Jorah had smiled at her as usual, as if nothing had happened. And in a way, nothing had. The greatest sense of relief washed over her, and the tension from last week was gone. She could breathe freely again. No more tightness in her chest or watching her step so she didn't do or say anything wrong.All was right with the world.When she said her farewells to him later, she even dared to wave back as she left his car.

Besides, she had a plan.

The Golden Company was strangely chaotic that evening. A large group of men and women had taken up three of the tables, having some sort of celebration on a weekday. As the night went on, it got out of control, with most of them blind drunk, dancing around the room like monkeys. The entire area reeked of alcohol, and when one of the women vomited all over the floor, the party was over.

Kicking them out was satisfying, even if she didn't get the honors of doing it. However, the bar was now in complete shambles. And as luck would have it, it was up to her and Daario, out of everyone working there, to clean it up.

He still wasn't speaking to her. Or she wasn't speaking to him. The silent treatment had worn thin, and she was too disgusted right now to care about old grudges.

"What a mess." She wrinkled her nose at the vomit pooling around the table legs. "They could have at least done it on the table."

He grunted. "Or outside. This is going to take a long time to clean up."

She handed him a large black garbage bag, which he took and opened. Then he started piling trash into it.

"I wish we had a bouncer. Or at least a security guard." She curled her shoulders as she stacked the grimy dishes and cups on her tray. Some were cracking, ready to be disposed of. "They could have stopped them from doing all this."

"A bouncer? Here?" He chuckled. "The owners wouldn't put a dent in their budget for one. But they do invest in the best whiskey and rum."

As a bartender, he must know that. All she knew was that the kitchen was a dirty, vile room that didn't get cleaned often enough. She was lucky she was a waitress, serving drinks and taking orders and doing some cleaning. The level of filth in this room at the moment made her old cleaning job look like a vacation.

When she came back with plastic gloves and a large cloth to mop up the vomit, Daario stopped her, gesturing at them. "No, let me. You shouldn't have to do that."

"Are you sure?" She bit down on her lip. "I've cleaned worse."

"I'm sure you have. But this is…" He shook his head. "It's better if I do it."

Reluctantly, she handed over her tools. He slipped on the gloves and squatted, carefully soaking the fabric with as much liquid as he could manage.

"I'm sorry." She couldn't help saying it. He shouldn't have to do something like this either.

"You're sorry? What for?" He grimaced as he wrung the cloth inside the garbage bag. "You didn't make this crap. We just work here. It's our job to do the dirty work."

"But you tend the bar, wait on tables. Like I do."

"And we also clean after customers who have the manners of pigs."

She covered her mouth when the stench was too overwhelming. He coughed hard as he finished the terrible deed, took off the gloves, and finally sealed the bag.

"And now we can continue." Raising his brow, he gestured at the rest of the litter.

She nodded, opening another garbage bag. Silently, they gathered the cigarette butts, scattered pieces of food, dirty napkins, and everything else.

"So are you still cleaning?" he asked, breaking the growing, awkward silence.

"Cleaning? Oh no. I found another job," she admitted, unable to stop herself from smiling. And what a splendid job it was, with the loveliest employer. It was better not to tell Daario exactlywhomshe was working for, though – at least, not yet. "A much better job."

"Daenerys, that's great! I knew I saw a change in you these past weeks."

"A change?"

"Sure. You seem lighter. Happier." He shrugged.

"I am happier," she said softly, thinking about who had caused it. How grateful she was, that he had sought her out – and found her. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Well, you're the champion boxer." She still remembered his bravado in front of Jorah. "Any plans to explore that?"

"Uh, no. Boxing can be fun, but it is dangerous. I've had enough concussions to last a lifetime." He brushed away dark hair falling into his eyes. "I thought about different things. I tried entering the military, but they said I lacked discipline. Then I thought I could be a cop, but it would probably turn out the same way."

She waved at the bar. "Why not open your own tavern?"

"Tavern? What, in some pokey little village?" He grinned. "That's not ambitious enough for me. Maybe a stuntman or a bodyguard. Something where I can use my hands and my smarts. I'm good at fighting. Not to do it professionally, but I could put those skills to good use."

"And how's that going for you so far?"

"Oh, I do okay. I have another bartending job in a pub, in the middle of the city – that's when I'm not scheduled here – and that takes care of rent and bills. For the rest, I just live my life. I take it one day at a time."

She had collected all the silverware and dishes, and now she was scrubbing the table, trying to purge the food and liquid stains.

"I want to go to school. Make something of myself. And move out of this city," she said between gritted teeth.

"School is a noble goal. Again, no discipline, so you can see how that won't work out for me." He stood tall, stretching as he stared at her. "Are you going to quit working here?"

"I can't. I need this job. My other job is not enough to pay my bills." One crusty stain just did not want to come off. She gave up, throwing the sponge at it in defeat. "I'm saving up right now. Then – I'm hoping – I can quit here and do night school."

He smiled, nodding. "Sounds like a solid plan."

She didn't know whether she should look at him or not. In fact, she didn't know how to approach this at all. "Daario, I wanted to apologize. The last time we spoke, I was really mean to you. And you were only trying to look out for me. I'm sorry."

"No worries." He was scrutinizing his shoes. "I misread the situation. Didn't mean any harm."

"Well, I could have been a little nicer."

"Maybe. But I butted in and you had every right to push me out. Don't worry about it, Daenerys." With a small smile, he hauled their two trash bags away, leaving her to sweep the floor.

She thought he wouldn't come back, but he did. Carrying the mop and a bucket full of water.

"Do you have any plans this weekend?" she dared to ask. Her heart was gravitating towards the floor.

"Just me, myself and I," he muttered, cursing when some of the soapy water flicked upward into his eyes. "They could have bought a better mop, though. And a bucket? Why not a rolling cart so we don't have to drag it?"

She decided to continue. "Do you remember what you asked me once? Before we stopped talking?"

"Youstopped talking tome," he corrected, proving he was still listening to her. "And no, I haven't forgotten. Far from it."

She tilted her head. "Oh? What are you saying?"

Almost embracing the mop handle, he paused before saying, "Daenerys, I'm a simple guy. I don't like playing games, so I say what I want, when I want. It keeps things simple. And I think you're stunning, in every possible way. My offer for a date is always open. If you want it, it's yours."

She grinned. "What would you say if I agreed?"

He seemed surprised but recovered quickly. "I would say…great. Name a day and time."

Narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, she watched him. "This Saturday afternoon."

"Afternoon?"

"A day date. You, me, the sun shining down."

He chuckled. "No dinner and drippy candles?"

"A day date. During the daytime. When it's light. Plenty of people around."

"Oh, I see – you don't trust me. Well, well." He circled her, but his smile was teasing, mischievous. "A day date it is. Let's say noon? Where should I pick you up?"

"Is here okay?" She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "I can wait outside, by the entrance."

"Oh, suspicious, too." He smirked. "Yes, that's fine. All I need to do is look for the blonde beauty by the door, and I'll know it's you."

"Blonde?" She reached for strands of her hair. "My hair is silver blonde. And now I know you're lying. I'm not a beauty."

"You are to me. And for the record, I never lie."

He said it so sincerely that she actually believed him. And it made her blush. As they cleaned the floor, her sweeping and him mopping, they shared a smile.

Saturday at noon. And he hadn't even said where they were going.

She realized she was looking forward to finding out.

When Saturday came, bursting forth like a fresh spring day, she couldn't be more excited. Her first date, with a man who thought she was beautiful. The flattery could be getting to her head, but it was the first time someone had openly complimented her like this. She searched her small closet inside out for her best dress, sky blue with white polka dots. She decided wearing heels was unwise, since she didn't know where they were going, so she wore her most comfortable shoes. Her hair hung loose, flowing over her shoulders, pinned back by cheap hair clips covered in small gemstones. It was all she could afford.

When she peered into the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. She was glowing, smiling, with rosy cheeks and no dark circles under her eyes. Her hands were soft and supple, completely healed.

And Jorah was the reason. She needed to keep that in mind. This date was for that purpose. Forhim. To help her understand herself better. To figure out her feelings for him.

It didn't stop her from wishing, just for a minute, that Jorah was picking her up. Oh, if it were him…

She would be walking through clouds, dancing on stars.

But it wasn't. She couldn't risk her job, or the shop, or their friendship, over her heart's foolish fancies. If she hurt him – if he saw her as a friend and only that – she would destroy all they had created together. She would wreck her chances at escaping this hellhole. And she would lose Jorah. That was the worst, if she was being honest with herself.

Clutching her purse, she left her flat to seek the unknown. And it was waiting patiently for her, a small passenger car with no frills and Daario as its driver. When she commented on that, he laughed.

"You weren't expecting a fancy sports car, were you? Because I cannot buy one."

That settled her nerves a bit. He was still acting the same. He wasn't pretending to be something he wasn't.

Then she must have sat in the seat of that car for a full 5 minutes, staring with her mouth hanging open. Atheme parkwas the last thing she expected him to choose as the setting for their date. This small assortment of rides and venues didn't even qualify as a theme park, anyway. It was nestled in the middle of what seemed to be a forest, a spacious park filled with dozens of tall, sloping oak trees. The wide branches created a canopy of shade that dimmed the sun's heat and still let beams of light slip through. There seemed to be many people, but it wasn't overcrowded.

He just gave her a lopsided grin. Oh, he knew what he was doing.

"You said lots of people, light, daytime. There are bigger parks, but I really like the atmosphere of this one. Everyone has fun, no one is pushy. And the rides are safe."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Daario, you must be joking."

"No, I'm not. I loved it here as a kid. And I still do. Daenerys, you need to be more open-minded."

Hesitating, he slowly took her hand in his. And kissed the top of it.

An electric thrill streaked across her skin where he had pressed his lips. It was respectful and only lasted a few seconds. But when he looked right at her afterwards, his eyes playful and sparkling, her heart careened.

"Care to join me?"

She only managed a nod because she was struggling to breathe. He opened the door for her, offering a half-bow that made her chuckle, and off they went.

As he bought tickets from the seller, she took advantage of his temporary distraction to appraise him. He did cut a handsome figure in his white shirt and brown slacks. It made her wonder why he would be interested in her, when he could have any girl he wanted.

She hadn't wanted him. Was that her allure, like in all the stories? Or was he truly interested in getting to know her?

When he caught her staring, he winked at her, guiding her through the iron gates that swung open.

"So, what would you like to try first? We have the airplane ride over there – you can 'fly' the plane up and down, but it's a little difficult. Then the train that runs around the tracks and spans the whole park. We have a carousel, a roller coaster – small, but fun – and spinning teacups. Never liked those too much, though. The cars actually drive down a road. Then the pedal boat that goes across the pond."

She clasped her hands, unsure what to do. "You can pick something."

"Me? I've been here a thousand times. Of course, you should choose. Whatever you like."

"Daario…"

"It's only fair. We're here to have a good time, maybe talk. Dates aren't supposed to be stressful, right?"

"Well, that's just it." She wet her lips. "I've never been to a theme park before. No one ever took me. As a child or an adult. Never."

He shrugged. "There's a first time for everything."

"And here's the second thing." She sighed deeply. "I've never been on a date before, either. This is my first."

"Like I said, a first time for everything." His smile was encouraging.

"Aren't you upset I didn't tell you?"

"Should I be upset that you didn't tell me? Or that every man who saw you and didn't ask you out until now is a dumbass?"

She fiddled with the edge of her skirt. "Are you shocked, then?"

"Not for the reasons you're thinking." He smiled again. "It means I will have to try even harder to make this date as special for you as I can. You deserve that."

When she squinted at him, trying to find the trick, he asked, "What? What are you thinking?"

"I'm figuring it out. Why you're being so nice to me. Your agenda."

"I don't have agendas. I am a day-to-day man. It's why I've lasted so long in The Golden Company. If I believed my future was wiping tables and pouring drinks, I'd leave. Or drown myself in wine."

He reached for her hand again, enfolding it in his. She should have pulled away, but she didn't want to. It felt strange – in a good way. Reassuring. Calming. Comforting.

"As for being nice–" He leaned closer. "I know you're a good person, and I like you. But I always try to be nice to everyone. You need to relax. Is it that impossible, that someone can be nice to you and mean it?"

Her eyes stung. "It has been. Almost since I was born."

His reply was to gently squeeze her hand and not say anything. So they stood there for minutes on end, with her trying to gain control of herself and him supporting her. All around them, families with children and other couples flooded the park, each group headed in a different direction. What would it be like, to be any of them – lively, hopeful,together– instead of the broken, lonely person she was?

"Come on." He tugged her forward. Of her own will, she followed. "I've thought it out, and it seems obvious now. The carousel should be our first stop."

She was surrounded by dozens of giggling, screeching children. And the rides were childish, almost silly.

But it didn't matter. All her life, Viserys told her to grow up. To stop being a child. When she mounted the carousel horse, covered in layers of hot pink and purple, she clung to the golden pole for dear life. Wondering what it would have felt like, to ride such a horse as a girl, still believing in the fantastical.

As the creaky carousel music played and the horse went up and down – like a real horse, Daario said – she found herself enjoying it. She spun and spun, and when she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirrors, she was smiling. He was on the horse next to her, a noble black steed. When he pretended to be a jockey, leaning forward so comically he almost fell off, she laughed.

The airplanes were as hard to maneuver as he predicted. But they made a game of it, trying to outdo each other, see who could climb higher faster. It was the same with the cars, and even though they were on a guided track, she sped up behind him on purpose and pretended to bump him. He acted like he was a posh chauffeur and she had ruined his ride. When they left that and raced to make it for the next train, Daario was holding her hand.

Oddly, she didn't want him to let go.

As they turned and twisted around the pond, the train whistle trilling, she even leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. The wind ruffled her hair and tickled her nose, but she didn't care. For once, she didn't have to worry about work, or crossing lines, or her feelings. She was free of that, in this moment. With her date, who didn't seem to mind at all.

The spinning cups looked objectionable at best. He only agreed to go with her so she wouldn't fall out. They sat next to each other, and as the cups twisted in dizzying circles, the sharp turns pushed her into his arms. As Daenerys looked up at him, steadying her, he smiled and tucked a wayward curl of hair behind her ear. Then glanced at her lips. She stared at his in return.

Turn, turn, turn. When their cup missed another cup by a few inches, he scolded it in mock outrage. She giggled.

It seemed a theme park could bring out the child in anyone, under the right circ*mstances.

Last but not least, the rollercoaster. The front was the head of a dragon, crimson red, fierce, breathing fire. The coincidence was uncanny, and she shivered a little at the determination in its painted eyes.

They found a seat in the middle, just to be safe, and held on to the bars. The climb up was rather steep, but the fall was exhilarating. Her stomach dropped, her eyes watered, her palms burned. Grinning from ear to ear, she shrieked in delight during every drop.

It ran twice, then teetered to a complete stop. After she stepped out, she struggled to find her bearings.

"Here, let's go to the concession stands. We'll get food." Daario led the way, guiding her. She rather liked it, this firm but gentle grip.

He was centered. He was grounded. He knew what he was doing. And he always said what he was thinking. She didn't have to guess or wonder.

After some consideration, they ordered a pizza and shared it. She insisted on water, but he bought them lemonade. They didn't talk during their meal because they didn't need to. It was nice, this understanding that words weren't always needed. They could co-exist in silence, too, and still enjoy each other's company.

When he saw her looking at the churrosfor sale, he insisted on getting her one. The sweet treat was tantalizing, melting in her mouth. He watched her eat it at first, then cleared his throat and examined the table surface.

There was no energy left for the paddle boat. Their skin was hot from the sun, their limbs exhausted from the sudden movements in such forceful rides. Eventually, they walked back to his car, hand in hand. The ride back was a blur as she asked him about his other interests. He enjoyed dancing, rowing, and carnivals. In short, activities that he could do with another person, rather than by himself. He didn't like being alone.

She reconsidered her original idea, to have him drop her off by The Golden Company, and asked him instead to drive her home. But she wouldn't let him walk her to her door. Oh no, this was a first date and that would be an open invitation. She didn't want that.

"You're really something, Daenerys Targaryen." He took her hand in his and kissed it once more. "Thank you for today. I had a good time."

"You're not so bad yourself, Daario Naharis." She smiled, trying to hide her blush in the falling gleam of dusk. "I had a good time, too. Thank you."

His gaze became bolder. "Will you go out with me again?"

"Again?" She crooked an eyebrow, showing more confidence than she felt. "Don't you wait a few days to ask a girl on a second date?"

"Other guys may do that," he conceded, "but I don't. I already know if I want to see someone again or not. If I do, I ask. If I don't, I won't. Dating, relationships… It doesn't need to be complicated. As long as you can talk to each other – and listen to each other – that's all that matters."

Again, it sounded simple on the surface. But she realized what he was saying was quite profound. Her heart began to race. This wasnotpart of her plan.

Yet, what was her plan? She thought her feelings for Jorah would be clearer than ever. Now, they were muddled. Horribly. It was too soon to tell.

And she liked Daario. He made her laugh. She hadn't laughed so much in one day. Not even with Jorah. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. It was as if years of hardship had vanished, leaving her real self behind. She liked who she was with him. Young, carefree, daring, taking risks. Enjoying whatever experiences came her way. Wasn't that what life was about? Seizing the moment andliving?

She was almost 24 years old. It was high time she felt her age. And she should act her age. She should relish it. She should do something for herself, for a change.

No one was as surprised as she was when she said yes to him.

Chapter 15: Storms Ahead

Chapter Text

To sigh in the dark

To chase that lone spark

Do what you will

Find love's sweet thrill.

On Saturday night, Daenerys fell asleep with a smile on her face, reliving her wonderful, uplifting first date with Daario. It was so much more than she had hoped it would be. And the fact that he had already asked her on a second date the following Saturday –a proper dinner date this time, he said with a laugh – was a flattering and exciting prospect.

On Sunday morning, she woke up still smiling. Until she opened her closet and saw her clothes in a new, disenchanting light.

Every dress, skirt, blouse, and pair of leggings she owned was worn thin. Some even had holes and tears. It was embarrassing. She couldn't go to that dinner in the same dress. Even if she did her best to mix and match, the verdict was the same.

She needed to go shopping.

Of course, she still could only afford to go to the nearest thrift shop. She had been there before, but under much worse circ*mstances. It was right after Viserys fled. After she had received her first cleaning paycheck, she scraped together what she could from her monthly budget. That meant no dinner for 4 weeks, only breakfast and lunch. Then she bought the bare necessities. At least everything had lasted this long. Quality over quantity.

Now she had savings she could spend, and she was going to stay the entire Sunday there. Or as long as the shop was open.

When she arrived, it wasn't too busy inside. First, she looked around carefully, going through rack after rack after rack. The sheer number of options was overwhelming. Luckily, she had a shopping cart, and there was a fitting room available in the corner. She must have tried on over a hundred dresses, skirts, pants, and blouses before she settled on which ones she wanted. She even found shoes to match her outfits.

Right when she was checking out and the tally was rising high, she spotted it, hiding in the corner of the front display window. The most beautiful dress she had ever seen. Daringly off-shoulder but with the most darling cap sleeves. Crimson red as a rose and a blazing fire. Even for a second-hand item, it was quite expensive – a fourth of her weekly wages.

But it was magnificent. The color of the fabric alone called to her, beckoning. Didn't she deserve such finery, for once? Hadn't she earned it?

When she tried it on, she felt like a true queen. Satin and silk enveloped her skin like a ghostly caress, embracing her body as if it were reborn from their flames. The sleeves teased her arms. All reasons why such a purchase was vain were futile. Especially when she realized she was still buying a used dress. It wasn't new. Someone else had worn it before.

After debating with herself a while longer, she gave up and placed the dress on top of her pile. She paid more than what she had originally budgeted. But the sight of that bright garment, folded and placed inside the free paper shopping bag, made her smile.

How splendid she would be if she wore that for her second date. As she hefted the four bags back to her flat, she imagined herself, a vision in red and high heels. Her hair styled up, her makeup perfect.Irresistible. Then again, perhaps it would be too much, too soon? Daario might misread her intentions and speed them along. And she wanted to take everything slowly, carefully. Very slowly.

No, it was best to save that dress for another time. She would wear her newly acquired white knit sweater and long black pants instead.

Luckily, she made it home without dropping anything. Next was sorting all those clothes onto hangers and discarding old rags. The leggings and flowery sundress were for tomorrow in the shop. Wouldn't Jorah be surprised? He must have seen all her previous clothes by now.

Her heart twinged, the pang resonating in her head as well. If only it were as simple as Missandei had suggested. If only she could tell him the truth. But it was too complicated. If he was appalled, she would lose someone so valuable to her that life without him would hurt. Every breath she took would hurt.

She couldn't let that happen.

But what if he likes you back? What if it is mutual?

He would tell her himself. That was how Jorah was. He was her friend. He would never toy with her. And if he was afraid to say how he felt, it must be because he wanted to protect her feelings.

Better to leave all as it was, rather than poke the proverbial bear.

If this upcoming date with Daario went well again, perhaps she could put these complications behind her, once and for all. This way, she might keep Jorah's friendship without breaking either of their hearts.

Daenerys had gone to bed early, determined to get a good night's rest. Instead, dreams haunted her – of the past, the future. The images were hazy and dark, swallowing her whole, making no sense. She tossed and turned, bathed in sweat, clawing at the sheets. Grumbling and still half-asleep, she got out of bed and toddled toward her tiny bathroom to take a shower. She might as well, since she was completely awake now.

When she came out, searching for her clothes, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, a white flash illuminated the entire room. A groaning boom shook the walls. And the sound of drilling on the roof grew louder and more forceful.

She ran to the window and peered through it.

It was pouring outside. Rain attacked the street in front of her flat complex, flooding the gutters, sluicing the pavement, pounding ferociously. When thunder echoed again, the downpour seemed vengeful, dumping even more water everywhere. She could barely see the cars trying to pass through it as they struggled through what seemed to be a small sea. Adding to that were gusts of wind, so turbulent that waves violently splashed against car tires and doors.

This was not good. How was she going to walk through that, let alone get to the bus stop? And if it was raining like this all over the city…

Stupidly, she had forgotten to buy a poncho or rubber coat in that thrift shop. She had a gown to die for, but galoshes as old as the hills and a rain jacket that was hardly waterproof. Not to mention an umbrella that struggled when it was merely sprinkling.

After a hasty breakfast, she pulled on her clothes, her knapsack, and her rain gear. Whether she delayed or not, she still had to go to work. Jorah was waiting for her. Of course, she could call in, but she didn't want him to worry. He would certainly offer to come get her, but he couldn't drive through this. The buses had a better chance of depositing her at his doorstep than cars did at the moment. And if he were stranded somewhere…

Saying a prayer, tying her hood securely under her chin, she stuck her umbrella out the door like a vigilant sword. Locked her front door. And entered the fray, where wind and droplets as big as golf balls threatened to consume her.

If she was lucky, she would make it to the shop in one piece.

In retrospect, sheshouldhave stayed home. This was, without a doubt, the worst storm she had ever seen. And Viserys said so many times – often enough that she thought her ears would bleed – that she was born during the worst storm of the century. If that was bad, this was monstrous.

Seeing it from a window was nothing compared to sludging through a foot of water to get to every bus stop. Everything on her was soaking wet within minutes, and in her haste to leave home as early as possible, she hadn't thought to bring a change of clothes. Forced to wait, she clutched her umbrella handle so tightly that her knuckles turned white. It was all she could do to steady it as the wind whipped it back and forth. The rain lashed at her face so often that she could barely see anything in front of her.

During the second transfer, her umbrella was lost. A sudden blast tore it out of her hands, and as it flew into the air, she was instantly drenched. When a car passed the bus stop too quickly, gutter water towered upward and splashed her from head to toe, soaking her to the bone. It was no use yelling and cursing at the driver, long gone.

Miserable and cold, she found no comfort inside the incoming bus, which was late and crowded. All the passengers were cross and touchy, poking her with their elbows because there was hardly any room to move. She couldn't even sit down. So she held onto the dangling straps from the overhead bars, inches away from the next person, forced to inhale a mixture of stinky sweat and wet hair.

The last transfer was just as terrible, where she stood on top of the bus stop bench just to avoid being swept away by a current of running water. When the bus finally came, she narrowly avoided another splash of gutter water hitting her in the face.

Never, ever had there been a storm like this. Not in this city.

She should have stayed home.

When Jorah's shop came into view, she nearly fell facefirst into the street as she stumbled out, catching her balance at the last moment. The soles of her galoshes were slippery, and the watery inside of each boot sloshed noisily, numbing her toes with every step she took.

Strands of hair stuck to her face, and she blinked a thousand times just to see where she was going. It was as if chains of iron dragged her feet to the ground, pulling her backwards as she fought the wind's grip.

If she let herself feel anything, she would surely break down. She was a sailor shipwrecked at sea, wishing for respite. Hopeless. Desperate.

Then, as she tried to open the shop door, it refused to budge. No, not today - not after this entire trip. The frequent gusts hurled themselves at the wood, pushing it back. With every last bit of her strength, she wrenched it open, shrieking as sharp pain radiated through her fingers, her hands, her arms.

"Daenerys!" Jorah rushed toward her, drawing her inside and shutting the door with a snap. "What on earth?"

The pity and concern on his face was too much. Her lower lip trembled, so she bit down on it, almost drawing blood. She had to stand firm. But in the warmth of the shop, she couldn't remember how her arms or legs were supposed to move. And they hurt. She felt like an old woman, unable to walk. Water oozed out of her clothes and galoshes, creating a big puddle on the floor. She would have to clean that up. Her skin was icy to the touch, and she struggled to breathe.

After managing to restrain herself for a full minute, she burst into tears. Now he would see how weak she was.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

"Sorry? For what, getting wet?" he soothed. "I tried to call you, but you didn't answer your phone. I was going to come and pick you up, bring you here myself. Or tell you not to come in at all."

She shook her head frantically, continuing to cry.

"Oh, lass…"

Suddenly, complete warmth surrounded her, and the wonderful scent of sandalwood filled her nose.

"It's all right, dearest. You're safe now. You're all right. There, there."

As feeling slowly came back to her limbs, she realized Jorah was holding her. In his arms. She could hear his heartbeat. And if it wasn't for the layers between them, including her thick rain jacket, her breasts would be pressed into his shirt.

Her own heart fluttered. Then a sigh left her, and she sniffled, nestling her head against his chest.

"You'll be all right. I promise," he whispered, his hands cradling her back. "I won't let anything bad happen to you, Daenerys. I won't."

Her breathing relaxed as she matched his own. When was the last time anyone had held her or consoled her? She couldn't remember if Viserys had ever hugged her, even when she was a child, longing for closeness.

"You'll get all wet. I'm making you wet," she murmured, unwilling to leave the comfort of his arms.

"A little water never did me any harm." She could almost hear the smile in his voice, kind and understanding. "You can change into dry clothes in the restroom."

"But I forgot to bring any of my own."

"Oh. Well, in that case… I'll get you some of mine. A shirt and a pair of pants. You can drape your clothes on the chairs in the back room. They'll dry out there. Will that work?"

Reluctantly, she pulled back to look up at him. And hewassmiling. The heat of it was more powerful than the sun. His gaze was a bright sky of emotion, and she wished that they could stay like this forever.

"It sounds perfect," she whispered back, wishing she were braver. How easy would it be to lean up on her tiptoes and–

But she couldn't.She couldn't.

Desperate not to alarm him by jerking away, she eased out of his embrace. And reached for his hand, gently squeezing it. "Thank you, Jorah."

"You're most welcome, lass," he said, clearing his throat, his cheeks reddening.

Then he excused himself, leaving to fetch her those dry garments he had suggested.

Even now, she could hear the storm roaring outside. Lightning crackled, and thunder screamed. No one was going to visit the shop on a day like this. And she really didn't want to be left alone.

So she took off her jacket, hung it over the back of the wooden chair.

And decided to follow him, careful not to slide down as she marched up those narrow stairs.

She had imagined his living space differently. More luxurious, objects scattered about. Looking at the reality of it, she wondered why she had thought so in the first place.

The colorful rugs. The simple oak furniture. Tall bookshelves lining the walls. No family photos. Several windows let in light, though the gloom of the ongoing storm shrouded the sitting room in shadows. Her studio flat was small, but she had never expected a house – or half of one – to store so much loneliness and emptiness. Both engulfed the air.

Scarcely a minute had passed before he returned. He seemed surprised to see her, but he didn't look angry. The shirt and pants were in his hands.

"Do you really live here all by yourself?" she asked softly, already knowing the answer.

Shrugging, he offered her the clothes. She took them quickly, watching as he rubbed at the back of his neck. Great, she had embarrassed him again. Why couldn't she just stay quiet and not say anything?

About to turn and go back downstairs, she heard him say, "You're the first person up here since Lynesse."

His ex-wife. Whom he didn't remember fondly.

"She hated this. All of it." He clenched his jaw. The pain in his voice was chilling, raw. "And she knew about it before she married me."

She remembered how wet and cold she was. "I don't mean to pry. I came up because I didn't want to be alone down there."

He nodded, unwilling to say more. Not sure how to act, she retreated.

"Wait."

Turning, she glanced back.

"You can use my bathroom, if you'd like. To change. There's a bathtub and towels so you can dry off. It will make things easier."

He pointed her in the right direction. Flicking on the lights, she closed the door behind her. And leaned back on the wood, sighing deeply.

His bathroom was well organized and clean, just like his car, the back room, and the restroom. The sitting room. Everything that was his. She stripped down to her underwear in the tub, wincing at the angry marks on her skin from where the fabric had stretched and pulled. The pants he gave her were too big and too long for her, so she rolled the cuffs up so she wouldn't trip over them. Then she carefully buttoned the large navy blue shirt over her brassiere, tucking the ends into the pants.

A belt would be helpful, but there wasn't one. So she took her headscarf off and strung it through the belt loops instead. Otherwise, the pants would just fall off after one step forward.

Her socks couldn't be helped, so she went barefoot. Her galoshes would dry eventually, but it would be a while.

Tentatively taking one of his towels, she did her best to dry her hair, letting it hang loose down her back. Then she wrung as much water as she could out of her discarded clothes. The lovely sundress and leggings were first. So much for new attire.

When she found him again, his back was facing her. She had placed her wet clothes inside the towel so they wouldn't drip on the floor.

"I'm ready, Jorah."

There wasn't a right way to describe how he was staring at her. She just couldn't find any words. And whatever he was thinking, he had a hard time recovering from it. It was only her feet that caught his attention and interrupted his musings.

"Daenerys, your feet."

She curled her shoulders. "My socks were too wet."

"Well, you can't walk around here with bare feet. You'll get slivers." Holding up a finger, he went back – to his bedroom, she assumed – and brought a pair of red slippers. They almost looked like ballet shoes.

Amazingly, they fit her.

"Do I want to know why you conveniently have women's shoes on hand?"

"Just these." He bowed his head. "They were hers. She threw them at me the day she left."

The sheer agony in his voice now was unbearable. She was an intruder here, disturbing his haven. Dressed in his clothes, wearing his ex-wife's shoes.

Could this day get any worse?

"She hurt you. Badly." It sounded so silly to say. Of course, the woman had wounded him, inside and out. She was dumbly stating the obvious. "How many years has it been?"

"Too many to count. And at the same time, not nearly enough."

He looked so, so sad. He hid it well when they worked together, always trying to cheer her up and make her smile. Now his eyes darted back and forth, not meeting hers. He didn't want her to see this side of him.

He was ashamed. He was abandoned. He looked like he wanted to run from this scene and not relive one of the worst moments of his entire life.

She wanted to help. To do something to help take away his pain. Perhaps she dared too much. Perhaps this was a mistake.

But her hand would not obey her. It reached up, higher and higher, until his cheek was under her fingers, their tips touching his ear. Of its own accord, her thumb caressed his beard. It was soft and scratchy. The thrum of his pulse vibrated against her palm.

She wouldn't let him look anywhere else but at her. She held him and wouldn't let go.

"She never deserved you, Jorah. Never."

His lips parted, and his eyes shone like stars. His throat quivered. But he didn't move an inch. If anything, he leaned into her hand.

"And you deserve so much more. You do." She could hear her voice breaking as she pleaded with him. "Believe it. For me. Please."

She didn't understand why her fingers curled as she caressed the line of his jaw, his chin. It was unconscious on her part, a silent affirmation of what she had said. She wanted him to persuade him, to convince him of his worth. That was all she wanted. Nothing else.

He was still frozen in place when she withdrew her hand from his face.

She wanted to say more. To tell him that the day she met him was the happiest day of her life. That he was the greatest man in the world, the sweetest and the dearest. That she cherished his friendship. That she couldn't picture her life without him.

But she couldn't. She had already crossed a line by touching him so intimately. Any closer, and gods only knew what would happen next.

Forcing herself to turn away and leave him there was the hardest command she ever gave herself. More difficult than entering the storm today. A thousand swords cut at her as she walked down that staircase. Each breath was more difficult than the last.

She could have kissed him. He had watched her lips intently as she spoke. She could have told him, once and for all, what her heart wanted to say. Why was she so afraid? Why?

Because deep down, she knew the truth. She knew.

She wasn't worthy of his love, should he choose to give it to her. She never would be. He needed someone who would love him with her whole heart. And she didn't know if she could love anyone like that. If the stirring inside her, the fire that burned, was love or lust or something else.

It was why she was dating Daario. To understand the difference. To understand herself and what she felt.

Outside, the rain raged on, splattering across the windows. At this rate, the whole city would be flooded. The trip back to her flat would be fun.

She took her clothes to the back room, draped them over the chairs, and returned to the counter. There was a quilted blanket lying in the grand leather armchair. She snuggled under it and settled her tired, aching body on the soft cushions. The slippers remained on the floor while she tucked her freezing feet under the blanket.

Jorah had not come down yet. She already missed him, and he was only that many feet away. In the end, who was in more danger here?

Her heart refused to answer that, even as her mind winked knowingly.

She should be working. Storm or not, there was plenty of work to do. But a heavy weight had lodged itself on her chest, and she was so comfortable here…

Before she could ponder it further, exhaustion overwhelmed her. In the same way, sandalwood, intoxicating and right andJorah, calmed her senses and lulled her into a deep slumber.

Hopefully, her dreams would be of him, wrapped in her arms as she wanted – and banishing any nightmares of her being alone without him.