One by one, the room emptied, and one by one, Jorah felt his fingers curl in around his other hand, squeezing at it to keep himself quiet and patient. There was a chill to the room, something more than just the late night breeze coming in through the windows, bringing the scent of the ocean salt with it, and even with the heavy door closed, it felt stuffy, crowded with emotion and words left unspoken.

Of all things, he should have expected her anger. He should have expected frustration and disbelief, and perhaps even hurt, but somehow it still came as a surprise to him. Part of him had thought she might be pleased, as though his willingness to see it through to the end might be admirable. That she might take some pleasure in his loyalty to her. But Daenerys whirled on him with disapproval splashed across her features, and yet he stood tall, his jaw locked, listening silently to her sharp words.

"It would not do, my Queen. This is something we all must resolve. Together," he managed, in a soft, even tone. He couldn't tell what she was more upset about--that he had volunteered to go and help someone who still would not bend the knee, or that he had volunteered to leave so soon after returning.

"He needs the help. If it brings us one step closer to your Throne, is it not necessary that I help us take that step?"