TITLE: The Path Before Him

SPOILERS: Mild spoiler to the end of Season 2 and then it goes its own way after that.

DISCLAIMER: This world and characters are solely the property of HBO and G. R. R. Martin; no infringement intended nor profit derived. However, since they won't steer this ship where we'd like it to go, we fans are forced to take the rudder.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first GoT ficlet and actually the first fanfic I've attempted in many years; please be gentle with me! After writing it, I read some others posted here and discovered many of us seem to have some similar scenes dancing in our heads, but this poor offering is my own and not borrowed from any of my betters. A one-shot for now.

oooooooooo

Jorah nudged the fist-sized rock with the toe of his boot. One roll tumbled it over the edge and he watched as it thudded and ricocheted down the long drop of the cliff face beneath him towards the churning sea. No sound of its distant final splash reached his ears, drowned in the roar of endless battle between jagged stone and surging tide far below.

One step, and he could follow that rock.

A fleeting thought twitched a taut bitter smile onto his lips. My final fall from grace… From the only true grace he had ever known, had ever hoped to know.

Indeed, she was now "Her Grace" to all, seated on that hard black throne they had together won with dragon fear and dragons' fire but held with Daenerys Targaryen's own strength, determination and a wisdom that had ever taken him by surprise. Forgoing yet another battlefield, she had early called the scattered, seared contenders to the negotiating table. He remembered—with no small pulse of pride—his Queen's ringing reproach to the assembled nobles that day: "What glory is to be had, My Lords, in ruling over graveyards?" Her peace had held for a year now, and the granaries of all the Kingdoms were the better filled for it. Winter was coming; under her rule, her people stood a chance of making it to spring.

Jorah gazed down on the waves crashing against the base of the cliff while other memories rose to surge against the jagged shards of his heart….

oooooooooo

An awkward disquiet had settled between them since their sojourn in Qarth. Try as he might, Jorah could find no path back to the easy companionship he and Daenerys once shared. His own damn fault, of course: he had said too much, revealed too much.

It wasn't that she avoided him precisely, just took care to always be a pace beyond his reach. More and more of late though, when she thought him unaware, he had caught her watching him, a contemplating frown shadowing her eyes. If she noticed his interception of these appraisals, she'd start, and abruptly turn away. Jorah feared he was being weighed and found wanting. But today, while at the market in Myr…this time, the frown seemed absent and he could almost have sworn, as she turned, her cheeks had coloured in a blush. Likely it had merely been a trick of the morning light.

When she strode without warning into his quarters that evening, he allowed himself to think, for a brief moment, she had perhaps finally decided to forgive his forwardness in Qarth: it had been some weeks since she had sought him out on her own this way. But the stiffness of her demeanour quickly dashed the hope.

"I would know the truth of this, Ser Jorah" she demanded, imperious, then hesitated. Jorah inclined his head and arched his brow in patient invitation for Daenerys to go on. When she did, there was the slightest tremor in her voice. "Is it as I've been told? That you love me?"

"Khaleesi, I…" was all he could manage before the breath caught in his throat at the shock of the question. Struggling for a safe truth to give her, he finally replied, "A khaleesi ever has the love of her people, you know this…"

Undeterred, she stepped closer to him, so close he was sure she would hear the thudding of his heart as she stared up into his eyes, her expression unreadable. Softer now, but still intent, she pressed him again. "But I ask of yours, Ser…do I have yours?"

No escape. Locked into her gaze, all he had ever wished to tell her, had never told her, was not worthy to say to her, strangled his whispered plea, "Don't…don't make me confess this…" As a light sparked within those lavender depths, he realized he just had. Her knowing was more than he could bear. He stammered, "Khaleesi, trust that I would never presume…never offer you any disrespect…" Fingers soft against his lips silenced his desperate assurances.

"No…no, you would never presume, would you Ser Jorah?" in a tone now tender, almost…wistful. "So, it seems…that I must…." A shy smile flashed before her mouth met his, full, warm, inviting.

Jorah's world spun.

Hardly daring to believe she was really in his arms, even as they wrapped around her, he breathed against her lips "…yours to command, my lo…"

The effect of his words was far from their intent. Daenerys wrested away from his hold and sprang back, her cheeks flaming. "You think…I wasn't…I wouldn't…" She visibly gathered herself and continued, breathless, "It was no command, ser" as she fled for the door.

Fool.

"Dany!" He'd never addressed her by her pet name before; the surprise of it halted her flight. He caught her arm and pulled her about to face him, tilting her head up to catch her eyes. "Dany, believe me, my humblest honour…my greatest joy…is being yours to command." The naked truth of it written in his face dispelled her doubts; with a relieved cry, she threw herself again into his embrace…this time, to stay.

oooooooooo

The scree of a passing gull briefly broke through his reverie. Never again would he see her smile, hear her sigh and moan in his arms, feel her touch…

One small step.

oooooooooo

Even viewed sidelong from his accustomed post a pace to the side and behind the throne, the tense set of her shoulders was obvious. The hollow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach Jorah had endured for weeks now twisted and roiled into a sharper ache. It took all of his strength not to bolt from what was coming, but he would stand fast this one last time. After today, it would no longer be his place.

"I accede to the advice of my esteemed Council." Daenerys nearly spat the words. "You have convinced me of the need of it so, yes, my good lords, I will marry."

Jorah could hardly bear to see the smug satisfaction of their victory lighting so many of the faces among the Small Council standing at the foot of the dais. They had forced her to this with their endless haranguing and lectures on her duty to secure the succession with heirs, to cement shaky alliances with the bonds of royal matrimony.

In the early days of the Council's crusade on the matter, Dany, vexed to exasperation by the nagging, had thrown up her hands and sputtered to her gathered advisors, "fine, I'll just marry Ser Jorah". The clucking and fussing that had met her outburst had been near comical: not of sufficiently noble birth in the learned assembly's opinion… no political advantage to be gained…and there's the delicate matter of his earlier, ah, indiscretions. None had had the temerity to actually speak the word "slaver" aloud to Daenerys' face. There was far less concern on their part with offending the subject of their discussion however—in fact, Jorah suspected those worthies had entirely forgotten he was in the room.

Which was just as well: he had no persuasive counter to their objections. In his heart of hearts he knew he deserved no Consort's coronet.

He knew too that, were she to ignore her advisors' entreaties, the intrigues, plots and petitioning by all the Great Houses would never end as long she was free to wed. Her reign could ill afford such turmoil and distraction; winter was near.

They had argued, he and Dany, over this, again and again. He had finally convinced her that the Iron Throne came with an iron duty: the needs of the realm outweighed the needs of the heart. To maintain political stability, she needed a proper consort and it couldn't be him.

"…But why not, Jorah? Rulers have kept both spouses and lovers before; it has ever been so! Why can't we…"

"If you commanded it of me, I would bear that role…you know this," he'd replied wearily as she had knelt before his chair the previous evening, pleading with him to take the only option that seemed left. Once, he had asked that she permit him to take his leave of her court after she was betrothed. Her terse reply, "so you would abandon me, then?" had cut him to the quick. He had not asked again.

Gods, he'd had more than his fill for one lifetime of standing stoically aside while another claimed all rights to her. Did she truly not realize what staying would cost him?

Sighing, he continued "…but, no, khaleesi, it wouldn't work." He squeezed her hands tighter in his and steeled himself to present his last, best argument. "Queens aren't yet the same as kings, Daenerys," cocking an eyebrow to forestall her forming protest, "not even you. Whoever you choose as consort will know I am…or was…your lover, if not already, then within hours of their arrival at King's Landing. Unlike dutiful wives, no man will permit a rival to remain under his roof. His first condition of marriage will be my banishment. Should you not acquiesce to that," he paused, and took her face in his hands to cushion the lesson to be delivered, "an assassin's blade would be in my back within a fortnight." He ignored the shock on her face to continue softly, "And if you do insist I stay, Dany, know this: I would count that blade, when it comes, to be a kindness."

Her sharp intake of breathe and the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes had told him she finally understood: be it by the mercy of her leave, by her reluctant command or by a knife in the night, she must lose him.

Below, amongst the crowd of retainers hovering at the base of the dais, Jorah noted Lord Varys seemed particularly smug at wearing her down; no doubt he thought his favourite had the strongest case. Jorah inwardly sighed, forced to admit the Spider had indeed presented a convincing one…but dammit, a Lannister? Now, more than ever, he bitterly regretted having persuaded Daenerys to keep the eunuch as one of her councilors.

Each of the council had campaigned tirelessly for their respective prospects; all that was left now was for the Mother of Dragons to pick among their candidates: for her to pick the fine lordling who would replace Jorah at her side.

"And your choice, Your Grace?" prompted Varys, careful courtesy thinly veiling his impatience.

Jorah froze. This was the moment, here, now, when he would hear who would legally share her bed, her life. The moment he'd been dreading since the Council began their incessant insistence she be married off. For the thousand thousandth time, the thought of another standing by her pierced through him, keener than any dagger could ever be.

Daenerys Stormborn rose to survey her Council and the lords and ladies of court arrayed beyond them, all eagerly jostling to hear which house would gain this advantage. Even through his heartache, Jorah still marveled at how such a small woman could so fill this vast room with her simple majesty, her innate grace. Then, in that determined gesture he knew so well, she raised her chin and pronounced his fate.

"I name as my Consort…Ser Jorah Mormont."

The storm of consternation and outcry that rose from her councilmen, the astonished babble from the crowd beyond, deafened Jorah near as much as the sudden roaring in his ears….which had deceived him, surely? She did not say…could not have said…

"SILENCE!" Instant and complete, the only sound left in the chamber was the contented warbling of the dragons drifting in from their perch on the nearby battlements.

"I would hear Ser Jorah's reply." She had half-turned toward him, her chin tucked down now, almost as though she was a child awaiting reprimand. But there was a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

A reply. What other reply could she expect from him? He was hers, heart, mind, body, soul, breathe, life, to death and beyond. All he had, all he was, ever and always hers.

"Yes, but may I have your hand as well, Ser Knight?" He looked up into her radiant face, bemused to find he'd fallen to bent knee before her. Gods—had he just said all that aloud?

In answer he took her small hand in his and pressed it to his lips.

oooooooooo

The wind cut colder now; it was nearing sunset. Jorah toed another pebble over the beckoning edge. Such a small step and it would be done.

oooooooooo

Not satisfied with thwarting her Council's stratagems the once, Daenerys had compounded her defiance by privately wedding him that very night, declaring the public pomp and pageantry could wait to a later day.

But that day was not to come. He'd misjudged how badly Varys wanted to install his pet Lannister in the Queen's bed.

Barely a week later, he had returned to their chambers from arms practice one morning to find visitors attending his queen. The tableau that greeted him as he strode through the entrance, was of Varys and the Hand seated at a parchment strewn table, and standing across from them, Dany …oh gods, Dany…

He had never seen her appear so fragile, so lost, hunched into herself as if to guard against a felling blow. The look she raised to him as he approached stole the breath from him; no queen now, no Mother of Dragons, but a child alone and bereft, pleading for comfort. The sight sent his hand to his sword, readying to protect her from whatever peril threatened.

"Jorah, I…I would know the truth of this," her voice trembling as she gestured to the table.

He looked down. His fingers slid limp from his useless weapon as he realized they faced a foe no blade could vanquish. There, the damning agreement he'd signed with the Spider to buy his pardon with secret surveillance of the Targaryen heirs; there, heaped rolls of his raven-sped reports; and there, closest to his bride…a small coil of paper. Within its twist he could just make out …nerys is with child…

In his hand. She would know his hand. She already knew the truth of this. Finally knew the truth of this, his long ago betrayal. Finally knew him for what he truly was—not worthy of her; never worthy of her.

That he had exposed the Baratheon assassin before it could strike had never expunged the acid shame he had lived with every day since he'd loosed the bird bearing the message now lying on the table. The message that had earned a death warrant for the woman he loved and the pardon that would have finally allowed his return home. It wasn't until the royal dispensation was within his hands that the realization had come too late: by then, the only home he craved was under whatever roof sheltered his princess. He had thrown the cursed reward into the fire that same day.

If she had ever wondered at his vigorous argument for Varys' retention on her Council, despite her wishes to wipe that slate clean, Daenerys must now realize the price of the eunuch's former silence had been yet another betrayal to conceal the larger.

As the world swayed and shattered around him, Jorah bowed his head, sagging in surrender to the weight of the tormenting guilt he'd held at bay for years.

"Jorah…?" Her shaking query came to his ears as if from across endless miles, imploring him for the solace of his denial. Denial was futile; confession, excuse, explanation, all tasted of bitter ash on his tongue. He spoke many languages; even had any held the words to make this right, he would not offend against her further with the insult of their offering.

The anguished look he lifted to her was empty of any solace.

Daenerys staggered back a step, lips parted in a stricken, silent wail, the realization of his duplicity bleak in her eyes. He near broke in that moment, nearly crashed to the ground to scream out his remorse at her feet but, after a cruel eternity, the moment passed. Her eyes dragged from his. She straightened.

"My Lord Hand," said the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, "remove this man from my presence."

oooooooooo

One step.

oooooooooo

The next days were a blur as he waited on Her Grace's pleasure in the cells of the Red Keep. In the rare moments when he wasn't sunk within a despair beyond thought, Jorah absently mused on whether it would be the hangman's noose or the headsman's axe that would bring him peace. No matter really; either would be a fitting end for the man who had cost his beloved her most trusted advisor, her steadfast protector…her closest friend.

When he was finally summoned before her, were it not for the chains binding him, he would have outpaced his jailors, eager for the coming release from misery.

Their approach to the dais echoed through the cavernous throne room, empty now of courtiers and their glittering ladies. Only the inner circle was in attendance on their Queen this day. Jorah was glad of it: Dany would at least spare herself the humiliation of having to publicly repudiate the man she'd so recently betrothed within this same hall.

The guards roughly halted him at the base of the stairs before the throne, and the Hand began a recitation of his titles and crimes. The formal phrases faded in and out of Jorah's awareness as he stared at the floor at his feet. Gods, just be done with it.

"How plead you, Ser Jorah?"

"Guilty." It was almost a relief, a small penance, to finally admit aloud the inner accusation that had haunted him for so long. With his attention fixed on the ground, he heard a brief stir of reaction among those present; but, from the iron chair above, nothing. A statue could have been seated there.

When the murmuring subsided, the Hand continued, "The Knight Mormont is henceforth banished…from court, capital, and Crownlands."

What?! "NO!" The protest tore itself from Jorah's throat as he wrenched his gaze towards the Hand. "This was treason…the only sentence…"

"Ser Jorah," interrupted Varys with a bored sniff, "did you hear treason listed among the charges?" Jorah gaped at him mutely; he truly couldn't recall what he had heard. The eunuch continued, "It was the determination of the Queen and Council," something about the way he said it inferred the determination had been more Queen and less Council, "that, as your offenses against her person were committed before Her Grace ascended the throne, the charge of treason could not be applied." Beneath the feigned ennui, the set of Spider's mouth conveyed his seething dismay with the technicality, so inconvenient to his plans.

With a desperate upward glance to his Queen, Jorah made a final plea for mercy.

"Khaleesi, I have sworn to lay down my life for you…let me give it now to atone…" He choked down a sob. "Permit me this last service to you—it's the only honour I have left."

Above, Daenerys sat impassive on her throne, ice upon iron. Then slowly, slowly she stood and descended the dais stairs toward him, stopping a step short of the base. It took every shred of will Jorah had to meet her eyes, dreading to see what they held …but hers, cold, empty, red-rimmed, were fixed on the far shadows of the hall beyond him. "Dany, please, I beg of you…"

Her gaze never wavered as she spoke, hollow, pitched for his ears only. "As I must live with this…so must you."

She turned, swept back towards the throne. "Take him."

No mercy then.

His last sight as they dragged him from the room was of silver hair spilling over her rigid back, fists clenched at her sides.

The march to King's Road Gate passed as if in a fog.

"You've got 'til sundown to get beyond Crownlands" the guardsman informed Jorah as he struck off the shackles.

"Sundown?" Jorah snorted absently. "Then you'd best do us both a service, ser, and throw me back in the dungeons now—I can't make the border that soon on foot…"

"Won't be, so no excuse" was the gruff response. A soft whinny came from behind him. He turned to find the Hound approaching, leading Jorah's favourite mount.

His armor, packed on its haunches, his sword, hanging from the saddle.

He was stunned by the undeserved gift, then realized its import: Daenerys wished no mementos kept of her treacherous lover. His heart sunk further as he wondered if he would find the books he gave her at her first wedding in the saddle bags as well.

The Hound shoved the reins into Jorah's nerveless fingers and pushed him toward the open gate. But his grunted "leave" was not the city's only farewell to the departing knight.

In the distance, dragons shrieked.

oooooooooo

Jorah regarded the abyss at his feet with longing. Throwing back his head, he hissed in the cold night air, felt it mingle with the winter in his heart, exhaled it in a tortured prayer he knew would never be answered:

"Khaleesi..."

In leaden resignation to his fate, he took a step…

And then another. And another, back and back from the sweet oblivion tempting from beyond the brink, then turned toward his waiting horse and the long desolate road before him.

Whether at her side, at the furthest reaches of the world, or in the lowest depths of the Seven Hells, he was—ever and always—hers to command.

And she had commanded him to live.