"I beg your pardon, Khaleesi," says Jorah as they dismount their horses and hand them off to her khals, "but may I ask what you so urgently seek that you delay your husband's march in order to pay a final visit the market? All the riches of Westeros shall soon be yours for the asking."
"Why, scents, Ser Jorah," Dany replies, glancing up at him with an arched eyebrow and a coy smile as they wend their way through the vendors' stalls.
"Scents?" Jorah repeats, more perplexed than he had been when she asked him to accompany her on this errand.
In truth, he was surprised she would desire to set foot in the market at all, when she nearly had not left it alive the last time--though Dany met his protests that she should send him for whatever it was she needed with all the ferocity of a true dragon, saying she was not afraid of the Usurper, and she hoped his spies and assassins would see her and send ravens bearing word of the rightful Targaryen queen's fearlessness.
Contrasting sharply with that earlier encounter, Dany's smile now softens to one that is part shy when she looks at him again. "You are a man, and a knight, Ser Jorah, but I am certain it has not escaped even your notice that a Dothraki horde is rather…pungent."
"Indeed it is, my princess."
He takes a mental inventory of all the odors he has encountered since he rode with Drogo's khalasar: sweaty, unwashed men and women--himself included--horse, always horse, and horse shit, and horse meat cooked over dozens of cooking fires, the acrid smoke of the fires themselves, mingling with the candles and incense burned in the tents and shelters to try to overcome it all, and the heavy perfumes and oils the people rub into their swarthy skin, which arguably carry a fouler stench than the odors the people try to hide.
"And you wish to add another to the catalog?" he teases her as they come to a perfumer's stall.
"Only one that won't turn my stomach. I had hoped to look when we came before, but then we were thwarted…" Dany sniffs a bottle and makes a face indicating it has had precisely the undesired effect on her stomach.
"Perhaps a sachet?" the woman working the stall suggests, directing Dany to a trunk full of what appear to be miniature linen pillows. "Stuffed with best herbs from Westeros. Subtle fragrance will make lady's clothes and bed smell sweet and will not sicken she who carries baby, hmm?"
Dany warily lifts one of the packets to her nose, and takes a sniff so minuscule that Jorah wonders how she could detect anything of the scent at all. But her face breaks out in a brilliant grin.
"Yes! This is just what I hoped to find. I'll take it. Jorah?"
He thinks she means for him to give the vendor payment, but as he reaches for his purse, Dany holds her sachet up to his nose. He doesn't have to inhale to be inundated with an aroma so powerful that he takes a step backward from the force of sensation--not only smell--it evokes: invigorating morning rides through snowy woods, crackling fires in stone hearths, frothy mugs of mulled beer, roaring laughter, rich timbered ceilings, furs and sheets and arms and legs and lips entangled on beds of down.
"Ser's eyes water," said the perfumer, with a husky chuckle. "Lady should not choose northern pines for clothes and sheets if husband does not approve."
"Northern pines?" Dany says, not bothering to correct the woman's incorrect assumption of their relationship. Her wide, violet eyes are fixed on Jorah as he vainly blinks back the tears she has already seen. "Like your pines on Bear Island?"
Jorah nods. "Exactly like, my princess."
She smiles gently at him, and presses his hand, before turning back to the perfumer. "In that case, I shall have two. One for myself, and one for my loyal and valiant knight, as a token of my good faith that I shall lead him home."
"Khaleesi, I…" The words stick in Jorah's constricted throat, less from the emotion than for want of what to say. "I am glad there is a word in the common tongue for thank you."
That pleases Dany, which pleases Jorah. And he is thankful, truly, that his princess understands his longing for home.
Even if she does not understand that smelling it on his clothes, in his bed…on her… is as unbearable to him as she finds the odors of the Dothraki horde.