Chapter Text
January 15th , 1941
The house at the top of the hill, every old town had one.
It stood alone, perched high above the masses, as intriguing and distant as the family legacy clinging fiercely to its walls. Trees grew along the perimeter, shielding the home from unwanted passerby; allowing its elegant terraces to bathe in sunlight, while simultaneously shrouding the imperfections of its structure in deep shadows.
But Westeros was different from other old towns. It boasted more than one house, more than one hill, and more than one ruthless family. In fact, there were five – the Lannisters, Tyrells, Starks, Baratheons, and Targaryens – all powerful, all wealthy, and all towering well above the societal horizon.
Jorah didn't care much for political power or wealth and yet, there he stood, waiting outside the ebony gates of Dragon Manor. He was there on business – grave business. The kind of work that involved a grand number of schemes leading back to the premature demise of Viserys Targaryen, the heir to the Targaryen fortune.
It had been a week since the news of Viserys' death struck the town, skirting across the desks of governors and rattling the gilded cages of socialites. It was the most scandal anyone had seen since the war, and they were desperate to sink their pearly teeth into the local gossip.
As a former police detective, Jorah understood the kind of attention a high-profile case attracted. The newspapers were already criticizing the Westeros Police Department's handling of the investigation, calling for more resources and quicker resolution. One particularly scathing article referred to the WPD's chief of police as "Barristan the Buffoon."
It was exactly the sort of situation Jorah would do almost anything to avoid, especially given his history.
But then she stopped by his office, radiant and earnest, pleading with him to investigate the case alongside the police.
"He was my brother, Jorah. I need closure."
Jorah hadn't been able to refuse her, but then again, who could refuse Daenerys Targaryen?
Six months earlier...
Welcome to the dog and pony show, Jorah thought, as he stepped through the arched entryway of Highgarden – the crown jewel of the mayoral estate. Pausing beneath the first string of golden beads and woven roses hanging high from the ceiling, Jorah took a moment to observe the room.
Far too many people, he grimaced.
The party had started not long ago and already the main ballroom was packed with laughing nobles and stiff-dressed politicians, all wearing smiles sharper than their dress. Nothing was out of place. But Jorah expected nothing less from Olenna Tyrell, their beloved mayor. She ran a tight ship in both political and personal matters, collecting fear and admiration through steadfast leadership. It was wise to err on the side of caution when battling the older woman's quick wit. Thankfully he was in her good graces after debunking an embezzlement charge against her son, Mace.
And Jorah wanted things to stay that way. There was certainly no need to cut his palms on thorns.
His eyes continued to roam the hall, blinded by the metallic reflections of teal and gold off of pale, marble flooring. Tables lined the side corridors; each lit by a small lamp and draped in shimmering cloth. But few people were sitting – sharp, jazzy cords flew from center stage, luring guests from their tables and onto the dance floor.
Jorah's hand brushed along the front of his three-piece, wool suit anxiously. He felt a bit under-dressed beside men in double-breasted pin stripes and homburg hats. At the same time, he was grateful to be a decade behind in fashion; most of the men looked foolish with their over-sized jackets and padded shoulders.
Perhaps that's where they stash their money.
Besides, it would take more than a fancy suit to make him feel like less of a pariah. Why hadn't he just turned down the invitation to the event?
"At least show your face, Jorah. We need the publicity...it'll good for business."
Jorah shook his head, cursing his business partner's earlier advice. Davos should've attended in his stead; he was much more adept at schmoozing. Jorah simply lacked the skill and desire for mundane conversation.
Definitely need a drink.
Jorah heaved a sigh and headed for the open bar situated in the far corner of the room. Catching the bartender's attention, he ordered a whiskey and positioned himself against the back wall. From there, he was able to watch the center floor and entrance carefully.
There were many familiar faces. Most were government employees or prominent politicians, but a few budding actresses and artists were thrown into the mix. Although most seemed to be delightfully engaged in conversation, Jorah could tell by their glazed-over expressions that it was a facade. They appeared either too bored or too lost in ego to engage in anything other than obligatory niceties.
The entire night was a grand act worthy of theater.
"Sometimes it's the quiet observer who sees the most," a soft feminine voice pulled him from his thoughts.
Jorah jumped slightly, turning to face the owner of the voice. Startling violet eyes smiled up at him from beneath a halo of silver. He blinked hard, surprised.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Not a soul in the room would fail to recognize the silver-haired beauty. Even if he hadn't noticed her distinct hair color, the large dragon brooch pinned to her dress instantly gave her away. Jorah glanced down at the dark, gem-studded eyes of the mythical beast and swallowed.
"Daenerys Targaryen," she introduced, holding out an elegant hand.
Regaining his composure, Jorah reached out and grasped her hand, shaking it tentatively.
"I'm well aware of who you are, Miss. Targaryen."
"And I, you...Mr. Mormont," her voice dipped around the prefix, teasing his formal use of her surname.
He frowned slightly, knocked off-kilter by her presence and baffled as to why of all people, it was him she had decided to approach. They did not exactly move in the same circles.
Fingers pressed against the back of his hand, alerting him to the fact that their palms were still clasped together.
As if burned by fire, he pulled away.
"I'm surprised to see a man of high caliber mingling among the Westerosi haut monde."
Jorah's brow creased further.
"A man of high caliber?"
"Yes, your name carries quite the reputation, Jorah Mormont."
He winced involuntarily, thinking of all of the headlines he had made while being forced out of the WPD two years prior.
A shameful reputation.
Jorah sincerely doubted her words were meant to cause insult, but there was no stopping the familiar wave of embarrassment that washed over him. Gauging her pleasant expression, it was much more likely that she was acknowledging his recent case success.
"Yes, well, you should tell that to my business partner," he cleared his throat, glancing away from her and towards the bartender – he was in dire need of that drink.
"Is that what you're here for? Business?" she asked, lifting one eyebrow delicately.
"Something like that, yes."
Daenerys nodded, freeing him from her scrupulous stare as she turned her eyes to the dance floor. He followed her gaze, determined not to become distracted by her beauty – which was becoming more and more difficult – there was no mistaking the caress of silk as the fabric of her dress brushed against his arm.
"Most men would be eager to mingle among the elite." her eyes snapped back to him, a familiar emotion dancing in the colorful hues around her pupils. She was teasing him, nudging him towards the easy line of "I'm not like most men."
She dangled the bait in front of him, but he didn't bite.
If it was charm or sophistication she was after, she would have to look elsewhere, he thought bitterly.
"As I said, Miss. Targaryen...just business," he maintained a neutral tone – not quite rude, but not welcoming either – hoping it would deter further conversation.
Much to Jorah's surprise, instead of fading, Daenerys' smile shifted into an outright grin.
"You keep going on about this alleged business, yet I don't see how you'll be able to accomplish much of anything while moping in the dark corners of the room," she stated, reaching around to intercept his drink just as the bartender set it down on the counter. Jorah opened his mouth to argue, but she had already taken a large swig of the whiskey, staining the rim of the glass crimson with lipstick.
"Since it seems highly unlikely that you will indulge me in a dance, why don't I take you around and introduce you to some proper customers?" she offered, pressing the now half-empty tumbler against his chest. He instinctively grabbed the glass before it could slip to the floor. In doing so, his fingers brushed against hers lightly. That intoxicating smile floated up to her eyes.
Jorah searched the depths of his mind for the words to refuse the offer, but came up empty.
Taking his silence as acceptance, Daenerys slid her hand through his already half-bent arm and secured her dainty fingers along his bicep. Jorah inhaled sharply and his shoulders stiffened, rebelling against her touch.
How had he gotten himself into this situation?
"Oh, don't look so terrified, Mr. Mormont...we're friends now," Daenerys patted his chest lightly, giving him just enough time to slap a few bills on the bar before leading him away.
Friends – Jorah mused, staring up at the black dragon gargoyles perched proudly atop Dragon Manor's cornices – what a strange way to describe his relationship with Daenerys.
Then again, strange was the most accurate word to describe their encounters, which seemed to increase in frequency over the past six months. He bumped into her everywhere – on the street, at his aunt's diner, at the post office.
Now that they had met, he couldn't get rid of her.
Not that you want to, a voice in the back of his mind reminded him.
Jorah closed his eyes, irritated by his own reckless emotions. He knew better and had vowed to do better. Romance was out of the question. No more falling heart first for charming women just because they devoted attention to him.
She's not Lynesse, the voice whispered.
Perhaps not, Jorah admitted, but regardless of his feelings, he had a job to do. Daenerys hadn't hired him to fawn over her or fall delusional to woes of the heart. He had to remain professional and focused.
Then, once the case was solved, they could return to their pleasant but distant acquaintanceship.
Jorah glanced up at the gargoyles again and grimaced.
But nothing in Westeros was ever that simple, was it?