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Daenerys watched Yara Greyjoy, a glass of wine hiding her half-smile, and wondered idly if she had lied.
The faint odor of smoke and the stain of soot still lingered over the city of Meereen, even here atop the pyramid. But along with one hundred ships, a possible alliance, and something of a puzzle, Yara Greyjoy also seemed to have brought with her a fair wind that cut through the stale smolder of the city with purpose. Still in her leather armor despite the heat, Lady Greyjoy reclined at apparent ease on the couch across the low table between them, a perspiring clay goblet cradled in her fingers, sweat dampening the dark hair framing her face. Her posture was deceptively boneless, her legs and arms splayed without a hint of self-consciousness or concern, a booted foot slung casually over the couch’s silken arm. Yara Greyjoy should have looked out of place here, but instead she looked entirely at home.
Dany found herself intrigued, and not a little amused by the other woman’s manner. But still she wondered what truths and falsehoods lay between them, along with the wine pitcher and the remains of a light meal, of which they had both eaten little. Yara’s brother, quiet and watchful, had retired from their presence hours ago. Some silent communication had passed between the Greyjoy siblings first, all in a lingering look (his), a twitch of lips (hers), and the most subtle of nods (theirs, together). There had been an echo of lost grace in the bow the quiet man performed, offering his courtesies before leaving, a faint tremor shuddering through his long limbs as he straightened and withdrew. He was broken, mostly, but perhaps not entirely. Dany marked how his sister looked on him with softness in her eyes, and could not help but wonder.
She wished her advisor would take a similarly subtle hint and leave them, but Tyrion was either too drunk or too clever to meet Dany’s eyes. As she strongly suspected the latter, despite the considerable evidence of his advanced state of inebriation and seemingly unending stream-of-consciousness observations about nothing of particular importance, she settled her wineglass on the table and cut him off mid-anecdote.
“The hour grows late,” Daenerys observed with careful mildness in her tone. Something moved faintly in Yara’s expression, but she made no move to rise from the couch. Tyrion blinked, downed the last of the wine in his glass, and cleared his throat.
“That it has, Your Grace. It has been quite the day. Ought we leave you to your rest?” he asked, his gaze sliding sideways to Yara. Yara, for her part, only closed her eyes and smiled, drawing a deep and contented sigh, the very picture of restful repose. Dany swallowed the urge to laugh at the other woman’s performance, and raised her brows as she fixed Tyrion with a steady gaze.
“You may leave us. I will send for you and my councilors tomorrow to discuss the state of the Masters’ fleet.” To his credit, Tyrion did not object, though by the mutinous curl of his mouth Dany was certain he wished he could.
“Your Grace,” he said, making a formal bow. Yara received a nod, if a grudging one.
“Lady Yara.” She smiled at him, a flash of teeth below half-lidded eyes.
“Lord Lannister,” she said, her voice low and rich, granting him the title he denied her without hesitation, her smile taking on a sharper edge. With a final severe look, Tyrion retired, taking a pitcher and a fresh glass from a sideboard with a mutinous grumble as he left the room atop the pyramid, leaving the two women to observe one another in silence.
“I don’t think he wanted to leave you alone with me, Your Grace,” Yara observed, sipping her wine. Dany reclined further into her couch cushions, brushing her hair back from her face, waiting for the next breath of cool breeze to blow through the room before making her response.
“I believe you are right. You put him in a bind, you see. He cannot easily object to your presence in our alliance without making arguments against his own inclusion in my councils,” Dany said, a rippling shrug stirring the folds of her blue dress.
“And so he cannot gainsay my professed loyalty without impugning his own,” Yara nodded agreement with a low chuckle, slowly stretching, her limbs sliding easily against silken cushions before she sat up, cradling her glass between calloused fingers as she settled a direct gaze on Dany.
“I cannot blame him,” she continued. “The Ironborn and the Westermen have battled for generations. My uncles burned his grandfather’s fleet in Lannisport harbor. We reaved, and raped, and slew all up and down the coast. Only the Rivermen fear us more.” Yara’s deep-set eyes were no longer soft, as they had been earlier in the evening, but they were watchful. Dany met her gaze directly, her face still.
“And then your uncles – only some of them, more’s the pity – were killed, and your brother taken hostage, and your father turned bitter and foolish, so it is said,” Dany replied softly. Oh, there was that sharp smile again, Yara’s teeth white between her full lips.
“Aye. And I was left my father’s heir. As you said, Your Grace, we are all of us children of evil men. But those men, they are the dead and dying. Our fathers, and Tyrion Lannister's as well, yes, but also Robert Baratheon, who killed your brother, and Ned Stark, who first leashed mine, and Jon Arryn, who plotted with them. Old Lord Tully died in his sleep, they say. There are few of them left. And those that survive are too busy bickering to resist you…or serve you,” Yara said, leaning forward from the couch, her words coming quick and sharp.
“And how will the Ironborn serve me, now that you no longer reave? Or rape? Or slay?” Though her voice was soft and her speech slow, almost lazy, Dany’s voice enunciated each act like an accusation, tilting her chin up so that her steady gaze on the other woman was not unlike it had been from atop her throne in one of the rooms in the pyramid below.
“In trade, Your Grace. My people like to pretend the Iron Islands are named for the substance of our stiff necks, but in truth it is for the ore in the ground. Our ships are swift and they can connect the Seven Kingdoms as they have never been before. And of course, we can rule the waters – your waters. Surely your dragons will not bother to set fire to every filthy ship of corsairs?” Laughter was barely contained in Yara’s voice, and Dany smiled to hear it. To hear her children spoken of without fear was a rare thing, in these days. To hear herself spoken of without fear was a rare thing.
“Perhaps not,” Dany allowed. “You paint a pretty picture, Lady Greyjoy. But will the Ironborn agree?” She folded her hands and rested them atop her thigh, sitting as still as a statue, the breeze toying with wisps of her hair and the fringe on her dress. Across the table, Yara still leaned forward, her body equally still but coiled with both intensity and the possibility of sudden movement, and Dany felt a thrill of anticipation down her spine.
“If I ask it of them, they will,” Yara promised with all the seriousness of her earlier oath of fealty.
“Ah. You will not demand it, then?” Dany allowed a smile to slip across her face, but the question nonetheless fell with some weight from her lips, heavy with an additional unspoken question as she probed the truth of the other woman’s words earlier in the day. The silence in its wake lingered as Yara watched her, dark eyes opaque in the uneven torchlight.
“I told you, Your Grace. I never demand. I don’t need to demand,” Yara said with every confidence. No, more than confidence – she said it with pride and a small edge of challenge quirking the set of her lips. Only just holding back the smile that wanted to deepen across her face, Dany brushed her fingers delicately over the silver dragon’s head curled at her throat and let the other woman wait in silence for the space of a breath, and then another.
“You will ask,” Dany said softly, and it was not a question, but a command. With a steady hand, though without breaking her gaze from Dany’s, Yara raised her glass once more to her mouth and drank deep, draining the cup of wine slowly before setting the empty vessel down among the remains of their earlier meal. She placed her palms flat upon the table, fingers spread, the gesture very nearly one of supplication, but not quite. Despite the long drink of wine, there was too much thirst still clear in the set of her mouth for it to be begging. Despite her lowered shoulders, there was too much mirth in the tilt of her head for it to be a bow. And despite her stillness, there was too much controlled energy in the heat of her gaze and the restrained strength of her body for Yara to be a sworn vassal waiting on her lady’s word. And yet…
“If it please Your Grace?” Yara’s voice was pleasantly low and the hum of it soothing, but it somehow took on a deeper timbre in that moment. The words were diffident, familiar but correct. But the tone in which she spoke them was something else entirely, and still proud, still certain. Fire licking a thrill through her veins, Dany waited, outwardly impassive, her pale eyes studying Yara, waiting long moments to see how deep her confidence ran. And when something tightened around the other woman’s eyes, the smallest flicker of uncertainty passing over her face after a space of silence longer than she had expected, it was enough. Dany raised her hand, and beckoned Yara to her from across the table with a curl of her fingers. Swiftly, with only the softest creak of worn leather and the faint click of a booted heel, Yara was beside her, calloused fingers running under her own, across her palm and sliding along her wrist, her touch sure and steady.
“I will do as my queen bids me,” Yara said slowly, pausing to press her lips to the back of Dany’s hand, then another to the inside of her wrist, her breath hot even to Dany’s flushed skin. She looked up then, still holding Dany’s hand captured with her right hand, and bringing her left to rest lightly, but with measured pressure and the promise of more, on Dany’s thigh, thumb brushing across folds of blue silk with deliberate slowness.
“But I rarely need to ask, either,” Yara said. Brow raised, Dany allowed her the smallest of nods, resting her fingers lightly along the other woman’s jaw, and waited, her breathing deep, but still even. She half expected Yara to press her back into the couch without hesitation, but it was with swift and unexpected strength that the other woman slid the hand on her leg below it and curved her other arm behind Dany’s back. Dany only had time to gasp a breath before she found herself lifted bodily into Yara’s lap, straddling her thigh. She swayed forward against Yara’s chest, and the leather of her armor pressed roughly at the bared flesh above the neckline of her dress. When she straightened her back, her core pressed more firmly against Yara’s solid thigh between her own, pulling a soft groan from her lips. A flush rose in her cheeks as she tried to steady herself by gripping Yara’s shoulder tightly, but the other woman only smirked and leaned forward to press her face to Dany’s chest, blowing gently against the sweat-dampened flesh between her breasts. At the sudden chill Dany shuddered, and Yara chuckled, her steady breath dissolving into staccato puffs of air before she leaned in to soothe the same spot with a kiss and a light touch of her tongue.
“I don’t need to ask,” Yara murmured into her skin as she nudged the dress aside with her nose to bare Dany’s breast to her gaze. “But you can answer, Your Grace.” Yara nuzzled the lower curve of her breast and then dragged the flat of her tongue slowly over Dany’s nipple. Hissing softly at the sensation, Dany straightened, leaning on one knee to lift herself from the other woman’s thigh and dragging her hand from Yara’s shoulder to her neck, burying her fingers in the other woman’s hair and gently tugging her head back so that she could look down into her eyes. She felt her resolve to win this battle of wills receding rapidly, but even now, in Yara’s lap with her breast bared and her breath fast, she pushed back.
“When my dragons were born, I suckled them at this breast, as mothers do.” Dany tightened her grip in Yara’s hair, and brought her free hand back to the other woman’s cheek, cupping it gently and waiting for the fear to grow in her gaze, searching for it intently. “Mother of Dragons, they call me. Mother to them all.”
Yara laughed, and stretched her neck up, pulling harder against Dany’s grip in her hair with a wicked grin.
“I suppose that means I can be a bit more firm at this, then,” Yara chuckled, tightening her grip on Dany’s hips and leaning in to settle her lips tightly around her bared nipple. As Dany shuddered and swayed into the heat of her mouth, Yara pulled her hips in a slow, deliberate drag over her thigh, Dany’s gasps turning to breathy moans as Yara traded the pressure of her lips for a careful scrape of her teeth. Yara slid her hand along Dany’s ribs, cupping her other breast firmly and circling her nipple with her thumb, squeezing it in counterpoint to the pressure of her teeth on Dany’s bared breast. Yara’s touch was intoxicating and she burned at the pressure of her hands, but it was the fearless look in her eyes that left Dany breathless and wanting.
When Dany stood to unfasten her belt and shrug out of her blue silk dress, letting it pool on the tile floor, Yara’s expression of fearlessness was subsumed by naked admiration. Dany held her breath as Yara licked across her lips hungrily and reached out to trace the curve of Dany’s hip, first with her fingertips, and then with the gently prickling drag of short fingernails against her skin. Her expression was reverent as she watched her hands move against Dany’s fair skin, but not the fearful reverence of those who worshiped or cowered before their queen. Yara simply wanted, and what Yara wanted, Yara generally seemed to take, and have, and appreciate fully. With the same practiced ease Dany used to mount her horse or climb atop Drogon’s back, she settled her naked form back across Yara’s lap, her thighs atop the other woman’s, and her knees pinning her hips, a breathless, high laugh escaping her throat as Yara’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise.
It took little time for her to recover, however, and she pulled Dany into her arms once again, and Yara tilted her head up to capture Dany's mouth in a kiss. It was slow, deep, and hot, her tongue pressing up, up into Dany’s mouth and exploring it thoroughly, swallowing her moans as Yara’s hands mapped every other part of her with equal dedication. And when Yara’s strong hand moving with practiced ease between her thighs brought her inexorably to a gasping shock of pleasure, the other woman only looked up, an utterly satisfied expression writ across her features as Dany shuddered, cried out wordlessly, and came apart under her touch.
“There you are,” Yara murmured softly, easing Dany down from her peak with slow, deliberate touches against her oversensitive flesh before reluctantly drawing her hand away from Dany’s body, licking her own fingers with a pleased sigh.
“Good answer, Your Grace.”