[ The surge of feeling she has for this information catches her off guard, mostly for the fact she could not, in fact, describe accurately its kind. Knowing what she knows of her journey.
And what she can only imagine of Jorah's.
It's a good thing they are texting, because being breathless with questions is easier to circumvent when you have to write it down. ]
Will you come out to my property? There we can speak.
[ She recalls, very distinctly, how ill at ease he had seemed in her own home. It's since been lived in, decorated to suit her tastes better, but the smooth white walls and soft carpets of modern living still seem too stifling even for her, at times. The forest is quiet.
[ She doesn't draw him too deeply into the woods. The turn off is a little rougher than the main roads, and it's possible that Jorah won't even need to text. Engine growl is easily picked up on by the dragon doing laps in the sky. Squint, and the semi-familiar sight of a silver-haired girl clinging to his back is just visible.
Drogon dives, and disappears behind tree-line.
Where she has landed is a broad, shallow stream, a puddle in motion. Drogon has shrunk down to the size of a horse, picking his way over rocks in search of fish, but he raises his blocky head at the sound -- or the smell -- of someone's approach. Identifying it as a friend and not foe sees him resume his hunt, and a lick of flame after movement in the shallow water sees vapor rising in a gust.
Daenerys is crossing it to meet on dry ground, barely getting her heels wet. She is dressed for her flying in leathers, more practical than pretty, hair bound back in braids and a crease in her forehead like it's not smoothed since Jorah first contacted her. ]
[ The putter and chop of the engine carries through the trees even as it’s cut -- an oily smudge on the sound of wind stirring crisp and clean among the leaves. Each of them captive to modern convenience in their own ways.
He peels off his helmet and breathes deep, glad for the cool air.
Glad, also, for the isolation -- though the forest cover makes it impossible to distinguish cardinal from jay, or robin from mockingbird. They’re all just wads of song and feather, rustling from brush to branch. Twittering back and forth.
He squints up to make the effort anyway. Wary.
Dragging his heels.
He’s fresh enough off the boat to bring salt and sea in with the earthier stink of Westeros, and Drogon will smell him long before he breaks the treeline. Fastened into boiled leather and dark steel, with a cloak turning black at his heels, he moves with a sureness of self he’s long been missing. The change is more striking for its suddenness, gnawing defeat wrung out of his bones.
He still has both arms, hale and whole beneath the long sleeves of his gambeson. He’s also kept a certain amount of reserve -- respect an invisible barrier between them, nearly physical. He stays himself well outside of arm’s reach. ]
Your Grace.
[ There’s wet ash in his voice, despite the way he smiles at the sight of her in her leathers, familiar in its own way.
[ She hadn't paid much thought to his mention of motorcycling to meet her, but after the fact, her mind questing ahead of her for possibilities and implications, all of which scatter like so many twittery forest birds when she sees him come through the trees. A pause, then more steps carry her onto dry land.
Stops again. The absence of the other formality, khaleesi, feels like a missed step in the dark, a cognitive lurch that she resists making into a puzzle piece to find its placement.
She goes by what she sees. Hears. ]
Ser Jorah, [ she echoes back. His tone is grim, but-- ] You look well. [ Cautious hope is present in her voice, like a struggling ray of light, indifferent to competing shadow. ]
[ Reassurance on that account comes easy, despite the burr of news not yet delivered in the pit of his throat. He doesn’t elaborate on the method, or the journey, but the grizzle in his whiskers has gained a stark foothold, and he’s worn as silver at the ruff as the bear he sometimes becomes.
A warding glance is all he needs to convey that she’d probably rather not know. ]
You accepted me back into your service at Dragonstone.
[ Him and his swank armor -- notches and dents ironed out, scuffs in the leather oiled black to match the plate. There’s pride in its care to match his poise, too controlled to be easily mistaken for arrogance.
[ She has competing instincts, and the urge to pummel Jorah with question after question is a stronger one than the milder one of letting him tell things his own way. How to choose her questions, which ones must take priority, is an equalising effect that prevents the former. Shapes of the future already loom as if behind a veil.
She'd smiled at his reassurance, at the implicit news that he cheated death, but remains where she stands. This reunion is not one, for all that is resembles it.
Dragonstone. If she'd taken Kingslanding by now, in his time, she imagines his choice of location and reference would have travelled inland. But she knows Dragonstone as their intended base of operations, and a necessary homecoming. ]
Then you bring me good tidings, [ she says. ] Yet you do not have the look of a man with only good tidings.
[ She doesn't press, but clearly, she expects him to report. She glances back, then, at where her dragon occupies himself, and then with a tip of her head, indicates for Jorah to walk with her, to wander and speak as they once did. ]
[ No, not a reunion, exactly. The break in time between them yawns like a fault line in his familiarity, world-weary complacency filed off, his address buffered by formality. In reconciling the last year with the last year, he’s out of step -- distance in the bones of his face betrayed by the warmer pry of his eyes.
He’ll find his way.
Until then, he draws in a slow breath, discomfort discreet in his armor, and reports. ]
Highgarden, the Dornish Army and the Greyjoy fleet were eliminated before I arrived. Lady Olenna is dead, the remaining Martells killed or captured.
[ Grim word, delivered bare bones at her side as they walk. ]
Lannister forces have prevailed against conventional strategy, but panic and rout before your dragons and your khalasar.
[ Better.
But there’s the distinct sense that he hasn’t actually delivered the bad news, yet. ]
You’d taken the King in the North as your prisoner.
But not good. Highgarden, the Dornish Army, and the Greyjoy fleet represent more than only their brute strength. Their banners gave her war the kind of legitimacy the lords who might otherwise see her as a foreign invader would need. Her hands form fists at her sides as they walk, keeping defeat down.
This last part gets an eyebrow raise, and all of it gets some silence. Birds twitter, the occasional splash of a horse-sized dragon hunting for fish, before she adds; ]
The King in the North who, in this world, assured his fealty in the next.
[ Dry, but not venomous. She always felt Jon was a little too hopeful, in this respect. ]
Fleeting regret tightens through crow’s feet as he looks over to her, grasping for delicacy. It’s really none of his business. Another slow breath decides as much. This isn’t the news he’d spent the ride up here drafting out in careful advance. ]
No.
[ Gently put, for a one word disappointment. One more syllable, and there might be enough space to read between the letters: you wanna fuuuuuuuu-- ]
He turned your attention to a greater and more terrible threat to the North, [ he says, with no trace of ire, and stops, truth dark as his armor. The better to square to her, bleak and black as any other fixture of Dragonstone in the dappled forest path. ]
[ The word no brings with it a small flicker of relief that Daenerys can't and doesn't conceal, and no further commentary. Her gaze turns forwards, intent to keep roaming, but Jorah says more and then he stops, and so does she as if he'd cast anchor.
The picture of her time in Westeros that he paints now is a more vivid rendering of the finer imaginative sketches she'd attempted to anticipate. There is no surprise or disbelief on her face when he says this last thing.
She nods, instead, a subtle gesture. ]
The wights, [ she volunteers. ] And their masters. They progress, then.
[ Jorah dips his head, mild in return for the knowledge she already has. It spares him the weight of trying to paint the picture. ]
A group of us journeyed north of the Wall in search of a wight to capture as proof, in the hope that Cersei might be swayed to parlay.
[ He presses on, watching her more closely in a still moment between bullet points He’s never had much of a poker face. Worry has already taken hold in the twist of his brows, and the blue of his eyes. A steady decay of pride and posture leads here, to guilt. ]
We were overtaken. Surrounded, until you came for us.
[ In the near distance, a furious squirrel scolds Drogon from the branches of its tree. ]
[ Her expression is painfully open, concerned and suspicious of whatever conclusion that Jorah is leading her towards. The catastrophic defeat of her forces feels abstracted, not quite real, something that will need time to integrate into her understanding of reality.
The death of a dragon takes no time at all.
In her expression, the shift from strength to fragility in the finer lines are subtle to see, but there. Likewise, Daenerys can read Jorah well, too, and finds no respite there.
She turns, focused pulled towards where Drogon is oblivious to the both of them, and the future, and showing off the inside of his mouth to chittering forest creatures. A step forward takes her to where the stream has left rocks shining, but no further. There's no racing across, or flying off to the sky, no physical thing she can do to leave knowledge of the future behind.
He can hear notched steel in her voice when she asks, without looking back; ] How?
One of the white walkers, [ says Jorah, stone to her steel, low and quiet against the burble of water and the stirring of trees. ] Their leader.
[ He hasn’t moved to follow, anchor sunk in deep. The forest entire is hers to stalk; he’s just visiting with bad news, rooted to an an invisible front stoop. ]
He struck Viserion out of the sky with a spear.
[ A magical spear made of ice. Ser Jorah keeps his teeth parted only to work them shut again without lending voice to elaboration. He looks away, and eventually, to the center of Daenerys' turned back. ]
[ At a remove, she thinks: that should sound strange. A spear, capable of such a thing, and while he was (will be) flying. In skies that belong to them alone. This world has taught her not to think so literally. There's a dream world that, also, describes a future in which warfare has felled one of her children. Metal pieces fired at rapid rate, fire and impact. Why not a spear, cast from something just as mythic?
Her chin tips down. A hand, to her face. Dampness gathered at the corners of her eyes, vinegar, bitter, slipping down past her nose, caught by her palm at her mouth. To be the Red Waste. Unfeeling, endless, arid.
There is no sound from her immediately. If there is more, she would hear it before she trusts herself to put thought and feeling to words. Whatever strange, ineffable link exists between herself and her dragons has Drogon steer his focus towards her, giving up on terrorising forest animals and small fish. Instead, he moves towards her at his cumbersome wyvern crawl, tail swishing to and fro. ]
[ That’s the only truly terrible word Jorah has for her, cut loose and let drop.
Given time and space and silence, he dares to take a step in at her back, only to stall out short of touch at the sound of Drogon slithering closer through the brush. He’s just a presence, after that, reserved in his cloak. Not yet dismissed, report set aside like a newspaper.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
What's happened?
no subject
no subject
And what she can only imagine of Jorah's.
It's a good thing they are texting, because being breathless with questions is easier to circumvent when you have to write it down. ]
Will you come out to my property? There we can speak.
[ She recalls, very distinctly, how ill at ease he had seemed in her own home. It's since been lived in, decorated to suit her tastes better, but the smooth white walls and soft carpets of modern living still seem too stifling even for her, at times. The forest is quiet.
She attaches a little screenshot of a map. ]
no subject
What else might be around. ]
Yes.
[ Text was a calculated choice. ]
I’ll need to fetch my motorcycle.
[ If he can remember where he left it. ]
no subject
[ She doesn't draw him too deeply into the woods. The turn off is a little rougher than the main roads, and it's possible that Jorah won't even need to text. Engine growl is easily picked up on by the dragon doing laps in the sky. Squint, and the semi-familiar sight of a silver-haired girl clinging to his back is just visible.
Drogon dives, and disappears behind tree-line.
Where she has landed is a broad, shallow stream, a puddle in motion. Drogon has shrunk down to the size of a horse, picking his way over rocks in search of fish, but he raises his blocky head at the sound -- or the smell -- of someone's approach. Identifying it as a friend and not foe sees him resume his hunt, and a lick of flame after movement in the shallow water sees vapor rising in a gust.
Daenerys is crossing it to meet on dry ground, barely getting her heels wet. She is dressed for her flying in leathers, more practical than pretty, hair bound back in braids and a crease in her forehead like it's not smoothed since Jorah first contacted her. ]
no subject
He peels off his helmet and breathes deep, glad for the cool air.
Glad, also, for the isolation -- though the forest cover makes it impossible to distinguish cardinal from jay, or robin from mockingbird. They’re all just wads of song and feather, rustling from brush to branch. Twittering back and forth.
He squints up to make the effort anyway. Wary.
Dragging his heels.
He’s fresh enough off the boat to bring salt and sea in with the earthier stink of Westeros, and Drogon will smell him long before he breaks the treeline. Fastened into boiled leather and dark steel, with a cloak turning black at his heels, he moves with a sureness of self he’s long been missing. The change is more striking for its suddenness, gnawing defeat wrung out of his bones.
He still has both arms, hale and whole beneath the long sleeves of his gambeson. He’s also kept a certain amount of reserve -- respect an invisible barrier between them, nearly physical. He stays himself well outside of arm’s reach. ]
Your Grace.
[ There’s wet ash in his voice, despite the way he smiles at the sight of her in her leathers, familiar in its own way.
It sounds like bad news. ]
no subject
Stops again. The absence of the other formality, khaleesi, feels like a missed step in the dark, a cognitive lurch that she resists making into a puzzle piece to find its placement.
She goes by what she sees. Hears. ]
Ser Jorah, [ she echoes back. His tone is grim, but-- ] You look well. [ Cautious hope is present in her voice, like a struggling ray of light, indifferent to competing shadow. ]
no subject
[ Reassurance on that account comes easy, despite the burr of news not yet delivered in the pit of his throat. He doesn’t elaborate on the method, or the journey, but the grizzle in his whiskers has gained a stark foothold, and he’s worn as silver at the ruff as the bear he sometimes becomes.
A warding glance is all he needs to convey that she’d probably rather not know. ]
You accepted me back into your service at Dragonstone.
[ Him and his swank armor -- notches and dents ironed out, scuffs in the leather oiled black to match the plate. There’s pride in its care to match his poise, too controlled to be easily mistaken for arrogance.
Not with her frame of reference. ]
no subject
She'd smiled at his reassurance, at the implicit news that he cheated death, but remains where she stands. This reunion is not one, for all that is resembles it.
Dragonstone. If she'd taken Kingslanding by now, in his time, she imagines his choice of location and reference would have travelled inland. But she knows Dragonstone as their intended base of operations, and a necessary homecoming. ]
Then you bring me good tidings, [ she says. ] Yet you do not have the look of a man with only good tidings.
[ She doesn't press, but clearly, she expects him to report. She glances back, then, at where her dragon occupies himself, and then with a tip of her head, indicates for Jorah to walk with her, to wander and speak as they once did. ]
no subject
He’ll find his way.
Until then, he draws in a slow breath, discomfort discreet in his armor, and reports. ]
Highgarden, the Dornish Army and the Greyjoy fleet were eliminated before I arrived. Lady Olenna is dead, the remaining Martells killed or captured.
[ Grim word, delivered bare bones at her side as they walk. ]
Lannister forces have prevailed against conventional strategy, but panic and rout before your dragons and your khalasar.
[ Better.
But there’s the distinct sense that he hasn’t actually delivered the bad news, yet. ]
You’d taken the King in the North as your prisoner.
no subject
But not good. Highgarden, the Dornish Army, and the Greyjoy fleet represent more than only their brute strength. Their banners gave her war the kind of legitimacy the lords who might otherwise see her as a foreign invader would need. Her hands form fists at her sides as they walk, keeping defeat down.
This last part gets an eyebrow raise, and all of it gets some silence. Birds twitter, the occasional splash of a horse-sized dragon hunting for fish, before she adds; ]
The King in the North who, in this world, assured his fealty in the next.
[ Dry, but not venomous. She always felt Jon was a little too hopeful, in this respect. ]
Is he still, so, at the time of your coming here?
no subject
Fleeting regret tightens through crow’s feet as he looks over to her, grasping for delicacy. It’s really none of his business. Another slow breath decides as much. This isn’t the news he’d spent the ride up here drafting out in careful advance. ]
No.
[ Gently put, for a one word disappointment. One more syllable, and there might be enough space to read between the letters: you wanna fuuuuuuuu-- ]
He turned your attention to a greater and more terrible threat to the North, [ he says, with no trace of ire, and stops, truth dark as his armor. The better to square to her, bleak and black as any other fixture of Dragonstone in the dappled forest path. ]
An army of the dead.
no subject
The picture of her time in Westeros that he paints now is a more vivid rendering of the finer imaginative sketches she'd attempted to anticipate. There is no surprise or disbelief on her face when he says this last thing.
She nods, instead, a subtle gesture. ]
The wights, [ she volunteers. ] And their masters. They progress, then.
no subject
A group of us journeyed north of the Wall in search of a wight to capture as proof, in the hope that Cersei might be swayed to parlay.
[ He presses on, watching her more closely in a still moment between bullet points He’s never had much of a poker face. Worry has already taken hold in the twist of his brows, and the blue of his eyes. A steady decay of pride and posture leads here, to guilt. ]
We were overtaken. Surrounded, until you came for us.
[ In the near distance, a furious squirrel scolds Drogon from the branches of its tree. ]
Viserion was killed.
no subject
The death of a dragon takes no time at all.
In her expression, the shift from strength to fragility in the finer lines are subtle to see, but there. Likewise, Daenerys can read Jorah well, too, and finds no respite there.
She turns, focused pulled towards where Drogon is oblivious to the both of them, and the future, and showing off the inside of his mouth to chittering forest creatures. A step forward takes her to where the stream has left rocks shining, but no further. There's no racing across, or flying off to the sky, no physical thing she can do to leave knowledge of the future behind.
He can hear notched steel in her voice when she asks, without looking back; ] How?
no subject
[ He hasn’t moved to follow, anchor sunk in deep. The forest entire is hers to stalk; he’s just visiting with bad news, rooted to an an invisible front stoop. ]
He struck Viserion out of the sky with a spear.
[ A magical spear made of ice. Ser Jorah keeps his teeth parted only to work them shut again without lending voice to elaboration. He looks away, and eventually, to the center of Daenerys' turned back. ]
Drogon narrowly avoided the same fate.
no subject
Her chin tips down. A hand, to her face. Dampness gathered at the corners of her eyes, vinegar, bitter, slipping down past her nose, caught by her palm at her mouth. To be the Red Waste. Unfeeling, endless, arid.
There is no sound from her immediately. If there is more, she would hear it before she trusts herself to put thought and feeling to words. Whatever strange, ineffable link exists between herself and her dragons has Drogon steer his focus towards her, giving up on terrorising forest animals and small fish. Instead, he moves towards her at his cumbersome wyvern crawl, tail swishing to and fro. ]
no subject
Given time and space and silence, he dares to take a step in at her back, only to stall out short of touch at the sound of Drogon slithering closer through the brush. He’s just a presence, after that, reserved in his cloak. Not yet dismissed, report set aside like a newspaper.
Considerate. ]