Author's Note:

I posted this deleted scene from "Sunrise on the Jade Sea" on AO3 last week. But I've decided it really belongs in the fic itself (between the current chs. 2 and 3) so I'm going to try and insert it here. Wish me luck.

All thanks to salzrand for the sudden blast of inspiration. And for the stunning new artwork on this "lost" chapter - see AO3 for further details :)

ETA: Okay, I don't think I can physically move the chapter to its chronological place between chs. 2 and 3...but I'll leave it here at the end anyway. Because deleted scenes make me happy. Hopefully they make you all happy too. Xo

Jorah

When we returned from the market, Daenerys sat heavily on the bench outside the villa, taking her rest in the flickering shade of those lemon trees in the front garden.

The day had been long and we had walked up and down the bazaar in the village for hours, perusing the wares of cloth merchants, fur traders, armorists, florists, jewelers and a few more exotic stalls set up by merchants and traders from the harbor cities of Yi Ti and the shadowlands beyond Asshai.

Once every few months, the village played host to a market fit for a much larger city. We were a small harbor but our proximity to the Jade Gates made the village an attractive venue for those who didn't wish to travel all the way to Qarth or the markets in Vaes Dothrak. And here, there was no price of salt, silver or seed to be paid to the dosh khaleen.

Even some of the Qarthians came east for the market, with their fortune tellers, palm readers and street magicians claiming the attention of many with their clever tricks and minor sorceries.

As we walked out of the market, one of the fortune tellers, a young woman with gold bangles and white roses braided in her black hair, had whispered a few words in Daenerys's ear, bringing a grin to her lips. She didn't tell me what the woman had said but squeezed my arm lightly as we moved away from the fortune teller's stall, pressing her silver-blonde head against my shoulder affectionately.

The walk home had been long. And Daenerys was exhausted, though she didn't say anything while we were at the market. I wish she had. I would have insisted we come home sooner. The day was hot and the market dusty, with travelers coming in from the dry fringes of the Red Waste and the Bone Mountains.

But she would have insisted on staying, for there had been so much to see and she loved the market.

The hustling energy in the streets appealed to her, the scent of citrus fruits, roasted meats and spices from the southern islands, the animated shouts of children running up and down the midway, streaming ribbons and kites behind them. I remember how her eyes went wide and her expression sparkled in the western market outside Vaes Dothrak, having never seen anything like it in her life. That day, she was carrying a bouquet of mauve-colored wildflowers in her hands and Khal Drogo's child in her belly.

Today, she had no wildflowers. Her gardens were overflowing with flowers, of prettier varieties than even the florists from Qarth could manage. Instead, her hands held a ripe pear, her thumb running over its firm skin and waxy stem. And she carried a bolt of blue cloth over her arm that she said would make a fine tunic for the baby.

Our baby.

In the market, the flowing folds of her summer dress billowed out just slightly and not enough to draw the attention of anyone who didn't know. But as I slipped my arm around her, steering her through the more crowded sections of the bazaar, I found myself noting the changes in her body, the thickening curve of her waist, which grew daily, the child asserting its existence with vigor. It was a truth that my brain could scarcely accept.

Daenerys was carrying my child. I was to be a father. And likely before the market returned to the village again.

I worried over her, seeing the relief in her features when we returned home and she took a seat on that bench, finally getting off her feet for the first time in hours. I chided myself silently for letting her talk me into staying so long. But Gods, that woman could talk me into anything.

I went into the house and fetched a basin and pitcher, filling the pitcher with water from the pump outside, before returning to her. I brought a dry cloth with me, thrown over my forearm.

"What's this?" she wondered, narrowing her eyes slightly and smiling, guessing my purpose. She looked tired but she looked happy too, her skin healthily tanned, her braids softer and coming loose at the end of the day. She'd enjoyed herself. So did I, for what it was worth.

The last time we attended a market, in Vaes Dothrak, there were secrets between us. This time, there were none.

I didn't answer her question, though I answered her smile. I knelt on the grey stones before her, gently lifting one of her feet onto my bent knee. I undid the laces on her sandals, bringing the leather bindings down from where they climbed her dusty ankle, twisting up her calf. And then I slipped the sandal from her foot, setting it aside, before moving on to the second.

She watched my hands work. Her smile deepened, becoming soft. And she offered no argument as I brought the basin closer, and poured the water from the full pitcher slowly over her skin, washing the dust from her feet.

Her breathing was steady and she relaxed into my caresses as I ran my hands over the bridge of her foot and then the ankle. Her feet were small things, like the rest of her, and were nearly swallowed up by my hands.

"If my hands are too rough, tell me," I stated, knowing that my work at the harbor did my touch no favors. My hands were callused and worn by saltwater, ship rigging and weather. My hands were not those of a lord in his castle.

"I like your hands on me, Ser," she answered sweetly, leaning forward to run her own hand though my hair, down to the curls at the nape of my neck, with her elbow resting on my shoulder lazily. She murmured, "I thought I told you that?"

She had. Many times. Since that night we first kissed in the front room, lingering up on the villa's balcony for hours. And then later, when she brought me into her bed and asked me to stay with her. All night. And the night after that. She had not let me leave since.

I bent and kissed her ankle, the cool dampness of fresh water coming away on my lips. With the dry cloth, I removed the lingering droplets of water from her feet. My fingers then moved to the arch of her foot, suddenly mischievous, brushing the underside in a feather-light manner, in spots that I knew were highly ticklish.

She snatched her foot away with a laugh, "Oh, don't you dare!"

I returned her laugh, raising my hands in protest, playing innocent, "What?"

"You know very well what," she replied, unable to force her grin away, despite the accusing tone. Her hands smoothed out the bodice of her dress, briefly running along the swell of our child, one eyebrow rising just slightly, teasing, "Or don't you remember how this happened?"

"I remember," I assured her, getting off my knees and stealing a fleeting kiss from her lips, before taking the seat on the bench beside her. I bade her bring her feet up to rest in my lap, and continue what we'd begun. With a chuckle, I promised, "My hands will behave, I swear it."

"I don't trust you," she said, but her tender expression said otherwise. It spoke of a deeper love and trust than I would ever deserve. And which caught me by surprise every time.

When she found out she was pregnant, I thought she might regret it. All of it. Running away with me, settling here at the edge of the Jade Sea. It had been one thing to escape the clutches of a Dothraki horde, out for blood and vengeance. It was another to bind herself to an entirely new life, with all the old dreams and desires thrown out for something…much different.

Lynesse certainly would have raged against it, going sullen and resentful at the very idea. She always feared having a child, worried it would wreck her figure and tie her down to a life of drudgery.

But Daenerys was not Lynesse. When she told me she was with child, the look in her violet eyes betrayed how well she liked the idea. How well she would love our child. And how much she loved me. Adored me, in a way that I would never have believed possible before coming here.

I would have been content to love her from the day I met her until the day I breathed my last. To protect her, to keep her safe. I would have been content, I swear it. But to have her love me back…

To have her seek out my touch…

And carry my child…

Daenerys gave me one more sideways glance, smirking in playfulness, but then relented. She turned on the bench, changing her position to drape her legs over my lap, giving up her bare feet to my continued ministrations. And I was true to my word, massaging the heel and arch slowly, up to the ankle and calf muscles, my fingers moving methodically, kneading the knots from her tired limbs with only soft caresses. She sighed on my familiar touch, closing her eyes under the orange shade of the evening, willing to dwell on this bench until the sun set in the western sky.

She looked peaceful but objectively, exhausted.

"You should have told me you were tired," I scolded her, though gently.

"If I told you I was tired, you would have forced me to come home," she answered smartly, not bothering to open her eyes. She knew me too well, even then. She argued, "And then I wouldn't have met that fortune teller."

"What did she tell you?" I asked, curious. Daenerys had obviously been happy with the fortune, whatever it was.

At my question, she opened her eyes once again, and that same smile from earlier returned to her lips, brimming with affection and a secret, which she divulged willingly.

"That my daughter will have blue eyes," she said, holding my gaze while reaching over to lay her hand over mine. I flipped my hand over, allowing her palm to slide into mine.

She interlaced our fingers, lovingly, pleased with her next words most of all, "Just like her father."