It was a morning with clouds and fog, a morning where the dragons were conspicuously absent, as though Daenerys had feared they would cause some kind of disruption in the moods of men who were already uneasy about their long travels. After time aboard the ship, they would have to march to The Wall and then still beyond it, into snow storms and bounds of ice, and Jorah feared that not all would return as bravely as they were to venture forward. Squinting up at the sky, he found that he would miss the slight chill to the air, the warm breeze of salt water off the ocean, and the feel of the sand hard beneath his boots. Most of all, he feared he would miss Daenerys--that he would be unable to think of much else on the long journey ahead of him.

She had her respects to pay to all of the men, of course, and he was both quiet and patient, a solid presence behind them all, until his turn came, and she approached him with a smile that spoke of the volumes she could not and would not say. Her eyes peered up at him as they always had, like the violet sheen of them saw through any sort of wall or blockade he would possibly put up, and when he smiled back, it was soft and quiet.

"I will think of nothing else, Khaleesi," he reassured her, "...but my promise to you."

He knew, somehow, that this would not be their last meeting. He was not meant to expire past the Wall; he would return to her, somehow, in some way. He would not let their last moments together be in the presence of other men milling about, orders being shouted and supplies prepared.

"And in return, perhaps you can think of me." He chuckled a little, before he turned to glance at the ships, heaving a deep breath. He should go, and yet he found himself waiting, as though there could possibly be something else for her to offer him.