Her voice rose high and clear, drowning out the soft whisper of the sea breeze, the gentle rush of the waves onto the shore. Jorah could hear the horror in the tone--he could feel it sink into him, wash him over with something akin to guilt. Perhaps he should have thought better of it, then. But could he ever lie to her again? He didn't think he had it in him, even a lie by omission. Somewhere, out behind them, he could hear the roar of one of the dragons--even by closing his eyes, he couldn't tell which one of them it was. Daenerys would know, but he wasn't going to ask.

"I could never leave," he said softly, and he knew that they both knew that. After his confession--there was no other place for him, but at her side. Returning to Bear Island would no longer bring him peace.

Her eyes were glassy when they met his, and he wanted to embrace her, but he didn't know if he should. Instead, her expression melted, dropped out and then came back together, and he felt as though something different had come over her, then, something he was not supposed to see.

With another smile, he nodded, and stopped in his tracks. With his other hand, he gently pushed up the sleeve of the arm closest to her, offering her the sight of his palm, the inside of his wrist and the skin of his forearm. Though he had healed surprisingly well--surely due to Samwell's diligence--there was a bit of scarring here and there, as though he looked like a patchwork quilt, or some kind of ragged doll.

Laughing almost bashfully, he shook his head.

"I know it is not a pleasant sight. Surely not something that will win me any romantic attention, but. It is healed, at least."