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In his dreams, she dies by fire.
Sometimes, he stands paralyzed, watching her vanish between the curtains of flames of Khal Drogo’s funeral pyre. Others, he lifts her up in his arms and carries her into them himself.
He chokes on his screams of her name and the gods’ (coupled with curses), gasps for air as ash fills his lungs instead.
"Breathe, Jorah," whispers her disembodied voice from somewhere in the burning white haze. "Breathe, my bear."
"You’re a ghost," he rasps.
”You’re having a nightmare.”
A hand, small and warm (fire made flesh), grasps his. He looks up at her. Hair burnt off, swathed in a white lion’s pelt to cover her burnt-off hair, bathing his fevered brow. He cannot believe that she is real, but she is.
And he breathes again.
when you get into a new thing and all you really care about is that thing and you’re destroying your blog spamming that thing so you have to start pretending to care about other things so there’s some variety