Title: The Best Way to Forget
Rating: M for sexual content
Word Count: 1506
Summary: Jorah waits for the day Dany will find an excuse to send him away once more. PWP
Warning: Set in the future after ADWD, a little spoilerish.
"I've displeased you."
The flash of her violet eyes in the shifting candlelight confirms it, although she keeps resolutely silent, pouring over the yellowed coastline map that has been procured for her.
"Would you rather I didn't speak my mind? Perhaps you'd like it better if I bowed and scraped like a proper servant…like a slave."
Her head whips to the side, her pale braid swinging along her back in sharp contrast to the blue of her dress, as she breaks her silence, "You know I don't require that of you or anyone."
He has been a slave, and he still bears the mark that proclaimed him one, but her gaze does not seemingly drift to acknowledge that shame. He shifts on his feet, fingering the hilt of his sword, as they stare at each other tensely in the cabin. It's the largest on the ship, but still smaller than anything Daenerys has become accustomed to of late, and it feels too claustrophobic to contain the both of them and her Targaryen fury as well.
He tries a different approach, attempting to cool his own rage, when he speaks once more, "How can I keep silent when I believe you are at risk?" He should be alongside her tomorrow and not just because he would have her first steps upon her homeland—their homeland—be at his side.
"I am perfectly safe. Ser Barristan will see me safely ashore. He would never betray me."
He laughs darkly. "I see. That's how it is."
"You mistake me, ser."
He unbuckles the weathered belt that holds his scabbard and tosses it, sword and all, unceremoniously onto the table she sits behind, studying the topography of the land where she will make her return. "You choose the protection of a white haired, old man over me? I mistake very little, my queen. I can see that you will never truly forgive."
Her nostrils dilate and he can see the muscles in her delicate jaw tense. This is not the first time he has accused her of it, and he is not such a fool that he cannot see that her resentment grows apace with his accusations.
"Do you plan to keep me onboard until something else can be done with me? Is it the Wall for me?" Surely there are options aplenty now that she has come home to take her throne. Tyrion Lannister would call it poetic justice—being shunted off to the Wall. The thought makes him grimace, pulling the scar on his face, as he thinks that Tyrion also will be in the party that lands with his Daenerys. She would even include a Lannister amongst her party, when it was his brother, the Kingslayer, that killed her grandfather, and yet there is no place for him—the man who loves her best in the world.
She calmly moves the map before her, the shuffle of parchment the only noise within the cabin besides his heavy breathing and the lap of the water against the hull of the ship. When she looks up at him, she is composed once more. "I have promised you that your seat on Bear Island will be restored to you. I have no plans to send you to the Wall."
He leans over the table, gripping its sides, and if his physical presence frightens her, she does not show it. "You're looking for an excuse to send me away again." If for no other reason than it would be rather inconvenient to meet her proposed young, Targaryen husband with a branded lover at her side.
"Do you mean to say you intend to give me such an excuse?"
"You don't trust me."
"I trusted you to stay with the ship, so my troops did not sail back from whence they came as soon as my sandals touched sand, ser, but I can see now that I was truly mistaken in my judgment. Your pride insists that you must be first in everything. First to touch land, first to…"
He shoves the table away with a violent sweep of his hands that cuts off her assessment of him, her words drying up as her lips part in surprise. He knows he is a prideful man, but he has suffered endless degradations to be at her side. He will hear no more of it. Not tonight.
"Get up," he demands.
"No," she returns steely.
"Fine." She will always have it her way.
She may be a mighty queen, but she is still little more than a slip of a girl. He does not need her compliance. He bends over and scoops her out of her chair, her body bent over his shoulder, as he straightens up. In her shock, she makes no complaint for half a beat until he feels her fists make contact with his back and her thigh muscles tense in his grip. She does not have long to struggle: in a cabin this small, he is at the bed in a few short strides, and he dumps her in a heap amongst its rumpled sheets, still unmade from their last tryst.
He crawls atop her, caging her with his arms in case she has thoughts of escaping. He kisses her lips with the same purpose in case she has thoughts of giving him yet another order. He knows from experience that she will submit in bed in a way that she will never do out of it, giving up control to him most willingly if only for the moment.
He whispers her name, using the diminutive that she only allows when they are alone, and when he recaptures her lips, she bites his lower lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. Payment for his rough handling of her, no doubt, but as he bunches the skirt of her Westerosi style dress in one hand and drags it up so he can rub his hand across the smooth expanse of her thigh, she helpfully parts her legs for him. He groans into her neck when his hands find no smallclothes with which to wrestle, which means his laces are the only thing preventing him from ending this argument or at the very least forgetting it for the next hour.
There are benefits to not being a green young man. If he was as young as Dany, he would not have the patience for lovemaking half that long before he spilled inside her.
Indeed, she shows her youthful impatience now, murmuring his name and begging for something as she fumbles with his laces with one hand trapped between them and writhes beneath his touch. He worships what little skin is exposed to his eyes and work roughened hands, as he trails a hand down the length of one arm thrown above her head, down her neck and breast bone, skimming between her breasts, covered by finely woven linen of the highest quality that he curses nonetheless for hiding her from him, over her flat stomach and the mass of her skirts until he finds her wet and ready for him.
His memory is not so bad that he cannot remember a time when she did not want his kisses. That this—he and she together—would have been revolting to her. There may be a day when she finds her lack of trust in him outweighs her affection, and she will no longer want him to warm her bed or taste her mouth, her breasts, her…
He shuts his eyes to the thought as he hitches his breeches down over his hips. He slips into her as he wraps his arm underneath the small of her back, drawing her closer to him, and she moans her thanks even as the nails of her fingers press crescent moons into his back.
"Good gods," he utters at her ear, as he finds his satisfaction in reaching his limit within her.
This is a command he does not mind, he considers as he withdraws and pushes back into her once more.
She pulls her legs up, her slim thighs brushing his sides, until the angle is right. He knows it is, because she throws her head back, baring her neck to him as she grows tighter and slicker with each thrust. It is tempting, but he will not mark her alabaster skin with his teeth. She will walk upon the shore of Westeros with no outward sign of his claims. Instead, he presses a warm open mouthed kiss to her racing pulse.
Her hands scramble against his back for purchase, her body rising up to meet his, a whimper strangled in her throat, as he feels her begin to crumble in his arms.
"My queen," he whispers. A promise, a benediction, a caress.
Her hand reaches up tremulously, as her body shakes with pleasure, and cups his cheek. One day his branded face might disgust her or fill her with regret. That day could be fast approaching.
This is the best way to forget.