𝒦𝐻𝒜𝐿𝒜𝒦𝒦𝐼

[khalsiya]

☽  𝒦𝐻𝒜𝐿𝒮𝐼𝒴𝒜  ⊱  Indie  portrayal  of  Irri  from  GRRM's  A  Song  of  Ice  &  Fire,  rewritten  as  an  original  character.  Entirely headcanon  Based.  Low  activity.  Private.  Multifandom & Multiverse & Multiship.  Loved  by  Mari  (she/her,  21+).  This  blog  contains  heavily  mature  and  potentially  triggering  content,  so  please  explore  at  your  own  discretion.  Read  the  rules  before  interacting!   personals  &  minors  dni.

▿  𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐃 ▿ 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 ▿ 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 ▿ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 ▿ 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋 ▿

heavily  affiliated  with  ⊱  wintearys  &  d0reah  &  vis3rys  &  all  of  cali's  blogs

graphics by calirph

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐒 .    (  a collection of  action prompts.   feel free to reverse roles as desired. this prompt will be updated.  )

[ REDWOOD ] sender lashes out at receiver when it isn't their fault.

[ WILLOW ] sender embraces receiver in a moment of extreme distress.

[ PINE ] sender fervently resists receiver's attempts to comfort / care for them.

[ BIRCH ] sender finally ends a tense argument by reaching out to apologize.

[ POPLAR ] sender mentors receiver through learning a new skill.

[ PALM ] sender and receiver avoid / ignore the stresses of real life together.

[ ELM ] sender lends receiver aid in a time of urgent need.

[ MAGNOLIA ] sender, believed to be dead, arrives at receiver's door.

[ DOGWOOD ] sender gifts receiver a token of good luck / protection.

[ MULBERRY ] sender and receiver take a long walk through nature together.

[ HAZELNUT ] sender begrudgingly patches up receiver's wounds.

[ CAMPHOR ] sender suddenly pushes receiver out of danger's path.

[ CASHEW ] when they're finally alone, sender invites receiver to dance.

[ LAVENDER ] sender lays their head in receiver's lap and closes their eyes.

[ BEECH ] it comes to light that sender has betrayed receiver.

[ HIBISCUS ] sender invites receiver to go traveling with them.

[ HICKORY ] sender pushes receiver to admit that they need them.

[ MAPLE ] sender shakes receiver's shoulders, begging them to wake up.

[ CHERRY BLOSSOM ] sender revels in receiver's beauty, stunned.

[ JOSHUA ] sender offers receiver a safe place to hide / crash .

[ ASH ] sender and receiver become reacquainted after many years.

[ FIG ] sender, knowing receiver is hungry, pressures them to eat.

[ YEW ] sender beckons for receiver to join them in the water.

[ CYPRESS ] sender shamelessly flirts with receiver.

[ LINDEN ] sender cares for receiver, who took a hit to protect them.

[gloomglimmer]

›       TENSION   LINER   PROMPTS     

"I   dare   you   to   try."

"Do   you   always   get   close?"

"You’re   pushing   my   limits."

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that."

"I’m   losing   control   here."

"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"

"I   can’t   resist   you   anymore."

"Stay   back,   or   don’t."

"I   know   what   you   want."

"This   is   getting   dangerous   now."

"You’re   too   tempting   for   me."

"I   shouldn’t   want   this,   but…"

"I   don’t   play   fair,   remember?"

"Careful,   you’re   testing   me."

"You’re   just   making   it   worse."

"You’re   too   close   for   comfort."

"Do   you   always   push   buttons?"

"Stop   before   I   kiss   you."

"You’re   making   it   too   hard."

"I   can’t   stop   thinking   about   you."

"I   want   you   too   much."

"You   know   exactly   what   you’re   doing."

"I’m   not   playing   games   here."

"You’ve   crossed   the   line   now."

"Keep   pushing,   and   you’ll   regret   it."

"This   is   dangerous,   isn’t   it?"

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"Don’t   make   me   regret   this."

"You’re   playing   with   fire."

"You   don’t   know   what’s   coming."

"I   shouldn’t   be   this   close."

"We’re   getting   dangerously   close   now."

"I   can   feel   the   heat."

"Don’t   test   me   right   now."

"I   want   you   too   badly."

"Don’t   make   me   chase   you."

"You’re   distracting   me,   you   know."

"I   won’t   fall   for   this."

"I   want   you,   but…"

"What   do   you   want   from   me?"

"I’ll   never   give   in."

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"You’re   playing   with   my   patience."

"Don’t   make   this   harder,   please."

"I   can’t   stop   this   feeling."

"I’m   already   in   too   deep."

"You   won’t   walk   away   unscathed."

"You’re   walking   a   fine   line."

"I’m   trying   to   stay   calm."

"What   are   you   doing   to   me?"

[vis3rys]

Viserys   watched   as   Irri,   his   eyes   locked   on   hers.   Her   body   language   spoke   volumes,   and   he   could   see   the   desire   in   her   eyes,   mirroring   his   own.   She   was   willing,   eager   even,   and   it   filled   him   with   a   sense   of   power   he   hadn't   felt   in   a   long   time.   After   all,   he   was   the   Prince   of   Dragons,   and   she   was   about   to   feel   the   full   force   of   his   passion.

Irri's   lips   parted   slightly   as   he   stared   down   at   her,   and   Viserys   couldn't   resist   any   longer.   He   lowered   his   head   and   claimed   her   mouth   once   more,   his   tongue   dancing   with   hers   in   a   sensual   tango   that   left   them   both   breathless.   The   heat   between   them   intensified,   and   he   could   feel   it   coursing   through   his   veins   like   liquid   fire.   As   their   kiss   deepened,   he   shifted   his   hips,   positioning   himself   at   her   side,   where   his   hard   cock   could   grind   against   her   thigh.

He   knelt   between   her   legs,   his   eyes   never   leaving   hers,   and   leaned   forward,   taking   her   folds   into   his   mouth.   Viserys   lapped   at   her   entrance,   tasting   her   sweetness,   and   then   started   to   work   his   tongue   in   circles   around   her   sensitive   spots.   He   pushed   two   fingers   inside   her,   feeling   her   walls   clench   around   them,   and   started   a   rhythm   that   had   her   moaning   his   name.

Viserys's   other   hand   found   its   way   to   her   clit,   teasing   it   gently   at   first,   then   more   forcefully   as   she   grew   more   aroused.   He   increased   the   pace,   driving   his   fingers   deeper   and   sucking   harder   on   her   clit.   Finally,   he   pulled   away,   his   cock   aching   for   release.   "Beg   for   it,"   he   growled,   his   voice   rough   with   desire.   "Beg   for   my   cock   and   my   seed,   ñuha   byka   riña."  

[khalsiya]

▐║  ☽  ┊  𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃  𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄  𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅  𝐈𝐍  𝐇𝐈𝐌,  how  he  matches  every  escalation  with  all  the  heat  of  a  dragon's  fire,  the  way  her  eyes  recognize  what  they  see  in  his  own  and  find  it  reflected  in  herself.  What  a  dangerous  tease  he  has  proven  to  be,  but  one  that  keeps  his  word  nonetheless.  His  cock  throbs  against  the  fuller  flesh  of  her  thigh,  and  she  knows  that  is  a  promise,  too.  That  he  wants  her.  That  he  will  take  her.  Irri  moans  softly  against  Viserys's  lips,  approving,  her  digits  brushing  through  the  silver  strands  of  hair  that  fall  around  his  features  as  she  savors  this  kiss.

But  his  mouth  is  not  sweet  to  her  lips  alone,  for  as  he  kneels  between  her  legs,  he  proves  to  be  just  as  deft  below.  It's  what  he  had  asked  for  ──  a  taste  ──  yet  Irri's  anticipation  cannot  match  how  pleasant  it  feels  once  his  mouth  is  at  last  upon  her.  Maybe  she had  forgotten  how  good  this  could  feel,  too,  as  it  seems  she  has  for  many  things.  Or  maybe  she  had  underestimated  how  attentive  Viserys  could  be.  He  looks  even  more  dangerous  there,  she  thinks,  peering  up  at  her  from  between  her  thighs  with  all  the  hunger  in  his  eyes  of  an  unfed  dragon.  She's  not  sure  which  is  more  devastating,  his  tongue  or  his  fingers.  They  work  together  so  deliciously,  leaving  the  last  bits  of  her  usual  composure  as  nothing  but  tatters,  stripped  away  piece  by  piece  to  reveal  a  woman  in  desperate  need,  writhing  upon  the  furs  as  her  moans  fill  the  tent.

❝ Viserys  ─  ❞  his  name  rolls  from  her  lips  like  confession,  a  prayer,  something  too  raw  to  play  into  the  fantasy  of  their  escapism.  Gone  are  any  preconceptions  that  this  is  a  mere  distraction,  and  no  longer  is  it  a  mere  fantasy.  No,  she  needs  him  now,  for  all  he  has  incited  within  her;  she  needs  him  badly,  so  much  so  that  she  does  not  have  to  think  twice  when  he  demands  that  she  beg.  ❝ Please,  ❞  Irri  whispers,  a  strained,  pitiful  word  that  cannot  decide  if  it  wishes  to  be  a  whimper  or  a  growl  as  it  leaves  her.  His  withdrawal  is  immediately  noticed,  and  she  finds  herself  following  him  as  he  pulls  away,  capturing  Viserys's  face  between  her  hands  to  bring  her  lips  to  his  own  once  more.

❝ You  can  feel  it,  can't  you?  How  much  I  need  you?  ❞  she  whines,  licking  the  taste  of  herself  from  his  lips  as  she  kisses  him  again,  then  presses  her  mouth  to  his  ear  to  whisper  darkly,  ❝ Fuck  me,  Viserys.  Qafi  shakfa.  Let  them  hear  us,  ❞  Irri  breaks  away  then,  looking  into  Viserys's  lilac  eyes  as  she  lays  back  upon  her  elbows,  one  hand  curving  over  her  own  breast  to  toy  with  its  golden  piercing,  the  other  arm  outstretched  as  if  to  beckon  him.  ❝ Like  this?  Or  .  .  .  ❞  Irri  turns  onto her stomach beneath  Viserys,  letting  her  hips  arch  upward  as  she  looks  back  at  him  from  over  her  shoulder,  her  reaching  arm  brushing  fingertips  over  his  torso.  ❝ .  .  .  like  this?  ❞

[khalsiya]

d.othraki language is missing words for so many basic things so I might just make up some on my own lmao

[khalsiya]

slowly rotating through the inbox calls on my blogs due to this damn ask limit 😔✌️

[khalsiya]

like this post for some IC memes 🧡

[khalsiya]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 ── like for a short starter. multis specify your muses or narrow it down to a few options pretty please.

[vis3rys]

Viserys   couldn't   help   but   feel   the   heat   building   within   him   as   Irri's   warm,   wet   mouth   engulfed   his   cock.   Her   eyes   met   his,   filled   with   a   mixture   of   desire   and   need   that   mirrored   his   own.   He   groaned,   his   hips   thrusting   forward   involuntarily   into   her   mouth.   The   sensation   was   intense,   more   so   than   anything   he'd   experienced   in   recent   memory.   It   was   as   if   she   were   drawing   out   every   last   bit   of   his   pent-up   frustration   and   anger,   replacing   it   with   a   burning   desire   that   consumed   him.

As   she   continued   to   work   him   with   her   tongue   and   nimble   fingers,   Viserys   reached   down   to   cup   her   face,   tracing   the   lines   of   her   cheeks   and   jaw   with   his   thumbs.   He'd   never   thought   he   would   find   pleasure   in   the   rough,   untamed   hands   of   a   Dothraki   handmaiden,   but   here   he   was,   losing   himself   in   her   touch.   He   could   feel   his   control   slipping   away,   his   mind   fogging   with   lust.   He   could   see   the   want   in   her   eyes,   the   same   want   he   felt   for   her,   and   it   only   fueled   his   passion   further.   "No   bloodrider   should   ever   touch   you   again   after   tonight."   He   announces,   plain   and   clear,   as   she   boost   on   his   ego,   his   cock   twitching   at   the   attention   delivered.

Viserys   couldn't   tear   his   eyes   away   from   her,   his   cock   twitching   in   anticipation.   With   a   growl,   he   lifted   her   up,   positioning   her   against   the   furs   of   the   makeshift   bed.   Viserys   gripped   her   hips,   pulling   her   closer.   He   wasn't   going   to   spend   himself   so   early,   or   in   her   mouth.   Letting   his   fingers   slip   again   into   her   mouth,   they   travel   down   the   shape   of   her   body   and   between   her   legs,   spreading   them   apart   and   sinking   into   the   heat   of   her   leg.   "iksā   sīr   lōz."   He   speaks   in   his   mother   tongue,   approving   growl   as   he   explores   her,   searching   in   her   features   the   moment   he   finds   the   perfect   little   spot   with   his   thumb.

"There   we   go."   And   as   he   leans   to   her   collarbone,   kissing   the   line   there,   his   tongue   toys   around   her   nipples,   sucking   gently,   and   then   a   little   harder,   letting   the   trail   of   his   tongue   soothe   the   quiet   pain.  

[khalsiya]

▐║  ☽  ┊  𝐇𝐄  𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌  𝐈𝐍  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇,  𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐎  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍  𝐀  𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐋  𝐌𝐀𝐍.  The  blood  of  the  dragon,  Irri  reminds  herself,  suddenly  seeing  there  must  be  some  truth  to  the  stories  about  these  Targaryens  and  their  sacred  blood.  She  had  felt  it  earlier  in  his  touches;  warm,  not  a  fever,  but  heat  beneath  the  skin  nonetheless.  And  she  welcomes  it  all,  the  way  his  hot  blood  simmers  for  her,  heating  her  mouth,  her  throat,  her  lips.  Irri  had  asked  to  taste  a  dragon,  and  now  she's  gotten  her  wish.  She  can  feel  Viserys  losing  himself  in  the  pleasure  of  her  mouth,  his  cock  responding  to  every  flick  of  her  tongue,  the  perfect  pressure  of  her  lips  wrapped  around  him.  The  cradle  of  his  hands  fits  so  wonderfully  around  her  cheeks,  her  jaw,  so  eager  to  touch  that  they  can  hardly  be  mistaken  for  anything  but  claiming.  Her  eyes  remain  upon  his  own,  unwilling  to  pull  away,  for  she  finds  her  own  pleasure  in  watching  this  prince  come  undone  at  her  will.  Slowly,  surely,  fully  intent  to  drive  him  mad  with  what  he  feels.  Irri  dares  not  stop  at  his  declaration.  No,  she  moans  in  answer,  letting  it  echo  through  her  mouth  and  surround  him  with  the  soft  vibrations  of  her  voice.

The  languid  blink  she  gives  is  deliberate,  delicate,  filling  her  eyes  with  a  thousand  unspoken  answers  in  approval.  She  wonders  if  Viserys  could  truly  keep  to  his  word,  but  she  knows  better  than  to  be  idealistic.  Maybe  Drogo  allow  it  for a while to  appease  his  khaleesi's  brother,  but  she  doubts  Qotho  and  the  others  would  let  it  last.  They  do  not  like  it  when  others  take  what  they  believe  to  be  theirs,  especially  not  this  silver-haired  outsider.  But  the  words  are  not  empty,  and  she  is  grateful  enough  that  they  have  been  said.  Finally,  she  finds  it  within  herself  to  release  him  from  her  mouth,  licking  away  the  fluids  left  upon  her  lips  as  she  stares  up  into  his  lilac  eyes.  ❝ Keep  me  with  you,  and  they  won't,  ❞  she  lies,  though  she  wishes  it  were  true.  But  tonight  they  are  pretending,  and  so,  Irri  pretends  that  he  can  keep  her  here  with  him  and  keep  her  safe  for  as  long  as  he  remains  with  the  khalasar.

The  handmaid  leans  forward,  resting  her  chin  against  the  bottom  of  his  torso,  her  eyes  still  locked  with  his.  ❝ They  are  foolish  men,  but  they  should  know  better  than  to  try  and  steal  from  a  dragon.  ❞  And  gods,  he  sets  her  entire  body  alight,  and  she  wants  to  bring  him  back  into  her  mouth  and  taste  him  once  again,  to  work  him  until  his  seed  floods  her  tongue  and  pours over her  lips,  but  then  he  does  something  she  had  not  anticipated.  How  easily  he  lifts  her,  pinning  her  to  the  furs  of  his  bed,  stealing  the  breath  from  her  when  he  pulls  her  hips  right  where  he  wants  them.  His  fingers  are  a  relief  to  her  empty  mouth,  taken  readily  to  wet  them  as  he  wishes.  Even  she  did  not  expect  the amount of  slickness  Viserys  finds  between  her  folds,  surprised  by  her  body's  own  ample  arousal.  Has  it  truly  been  so  long  since  she  has  wanted  someone  like  this,  that  she  has  forgotten  how  it  is  supposed  to  feel?

One  might  think  it  has  been  an  eternity  for  her,  the  way  she  moans  at  the  first  touch  of  his  thumb  upon  that  sensitive  pearl  that  hides  atop  her  crest.  As  her  upper  body  finally  settles  beneath  her,  every  muscle  in  Irri's  lower  half  pulls  taut  with  the  tension  of  desire,  beckoned  by  every  deft  movement  of  Viserys's  digits.  Her  own  close  around  the  furs  beneath  her,  the  opposite  hand  grasping  at  the  back  of  his  neck  as  his  mouth  toys  with  her  nipples,  the  sensation  heightened  by  the  small,  golden  bars  that  pierce  through  them.  The  harder  he  sucks,  the  more  pain  mixes  with  the  pleasure,  but  she  does  not  shy  away  from  the  feeling,  her  chest  arching  against  his  mouth  as  if  asking  for  more.  Irri's  hips  grow  restless,  pushing  forth,  grinding  against  the  motion  of  his  fingers  from  below.  ❝ Gēlenka  dārys,  ❞  she  moans  in  approval  with  what  little  Valyrian  she  can  recall  in  her  present  state.  ❝ Your  mouth.  Have  the  taste  you  wished  for.  ❞

[wintearys-deactivated20250616]

Jhiqui   listens,   her   dark   eyes   flicking   from   Irri   to   the   Unsullied   below.   They   move   in   perfect   unison,   their   discipline   unwavering,   but   Irri   is   right—Meereen   is   not   a   battlefield,   not   anymore.   Nor   is   Westeros,   despite   the   mind   battle   and   games   they   seem   to   play.   The   enemy   here   does   not   wear   armor   or   march   in   lines.   It   whispers   through   alleyways,   poisons   water,   strikes   unseen.   These   warriors,   so   trained   in   war,   do   not   yet   understand   the   war   of   peace.

She   tucks   her   legs   beneath   her,   thoughtful.   ❝   They   can   hold   the   walls,   but   they   cannot   hear   the   city's   heartbeat,   ❞   she   murmurs.   ❝   That   is   left   to   those   who   know   how   to   listen.   ❞   Jhiqui   had   learned   long   ago   how   to   watch   without   being   seen,   how   to   slip   through   the   palace   unseen,   catching   murmurs   like   drifting   silk.   Still,   she   had   nor   the   grace   of   Doreah,   or   Irri's   past.   Jhiqui   still   felt   like   a   child   at   times,   just   wanting   to   live   in   ignorance's   bliss.   But   that   was   a   foolish   dream.

Her   lips   curve   in   a   small,   knowing   smile.   ❝   I   been   reading   on   the   culture   that   await   us   there,   in   Westeros.   They   speak   that   kings   have   Masters   of   Whispers.   Those   who   know   the   secrets   of   court   and   folk   alike.   One   of   them   was   from   Lys   too.   The   White   Worm.   ❞   A   pause,   then   she   glances   back   at   Irri.   A   Whisperer   to   a   Queen   too.   ❝   Our   khaleesi   has   warriors   to   guard   her   gates.   But   she   will   need   ghosts   to   guard   her   city.   ❞

[khalsiya]

▐║  ☽  ┊  𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐈'𝐒  𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄  𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒  𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐃  𝐈𝐍  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐘𝐀𝐑𝐃,  but  her  mind  turns  Jhiqui's  words  over  in  her  head,  like  a  cord  wrapping  around  a  spindle,  slowly  winding  into  more organized  thoughts.  Everyone  may  speak  of  these  matters  as  mere  games  played  upon  a  board,  but  those  who  play  well  know  just  how  quickly  the  tide  may  turn,  and  how  deadly  any  failure  may  be.  Their  khaleesi  is  a  new  queen,  young  and  surrounded  by  a  motley  of  people  from  various  backgrounds.  Dany  has  the  advantage  of  her  own wits,  but  she  is  only  a  woman  with  two  eyes,  and  there  is  only  so  much  she  can  do  if  half  of  the  goings-on  in  this  city  is  left  unknown  to  her.  The  Unsullied  can  only  do  so  much,  and  the  same  for  these  Brazen  Beasts  that  have  formed  a  militia  in  her  name.

But  there  are  those  who  could  reach  places  that  the  soldiers  cannot.  The  Dothraki's  eyes  abandon  the  Unsullied,  strafing  across  the  courtyard  to  take  note  of  those  whom  she  would  have  otherwise  never  noticed,  had  she  not  been  searching  for  them.  A  washerwoman  passing  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  wall  with  a  woven  basket  of  clothes  upon  her  back.  Serving  women  carrying  pitchers  of  water,  walking  freely  by  a  group  of  noblemen  without  attracting  attention.  Another  woman  tending  to  the  gardens,  ignored,  as  if  she  is  not  there  at  all.

❝  These  whisperers  only  serve well  because  they  have  woven  webs  in  every  place  that  matters.  We  need  ghosts  who  can  reach  everywhere  and  not  have  their  presence  questioned,  whether  they  are  in  the  marketplace,  a  washery,  or  a  noble's  bedroom.  ❞  And  who  is  more  easily  overlooked  than  these  women?  The  ones  who  scurry  about,  looked  down  upon  by  those  around  them  as  if  they  are  only  mice  in  a  field?  Irri  tilts  her  head,  at  last  meeting  Jhiqui's  gaze.  ❝ How  good  are  you  at  making  friends,  Jhiqui?  ❞

[wintearys-deactivated20250616]

@khalsiya asked: ❝ I fear if I let you touch me, I will fall apart. ❞ (lysandro)

Lysandro   watched   Irri   with   the   patience   of   a   man   who   knew   his   own   power   and   the   restraint   of   one   who   had   learned   when   to   wield   it.   The   Lyseni   prince   leaned   back,   dark   violet   eyes   tracing   the   curve   of   her   face,   the   sharp   edge   of   hesitation   in   her   voice.   Moonlight   slanted   through   the   silk-draped   windows,   catching   in   the   bronze   of   her   skin,   and   for   a   moment,   he   said   nothing.

Then,   softly,   as   if   offering   her   a   secret,   he   murmured,   “Would   that   be   such   a   terrible   thing?”   He   did   not   reach   for   her—not   yet.   He   let   his   words   settle,   let   them   slip   between   the   barriers   she   built   around   herself.   “To   fall   apart,   just   once?   To   have   someone   put   you   back   together?”

There   was   no   jest   in   his   tone,   no   careless   seduction.   Only   the   quiet   weight   of   understanding,   of   invitation.   The   choice,   as   ever,   was   hers.   "It   is   natural   to   fear   such   a   thing.   To   be   with   someone,   in   any   way   one   desires.   .   .it   is   to   trust.   To   let   them   see   one   part   of   yourself."   And   he   does   not   speak   of   bodies.   For   the   Lyseni,   bodies   were   just   that,   they   were   shown   with   clever   seduction   around   the   edges   of   the   city   and   in   his   own   House.

"If   you   fall   apart,   know   I   would   fall   apart   with   you."

[khalsiya]

▐║  ☽  ┊  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓'𝐒  𝐀𝐈𝐑  𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒  𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘  𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃  𝐇𝐄𝐑,  like  a  blanket  of  gentle  wind.  It's  quiet  here  in  the  prince's  chambers,  perhaps  the  calmest  she  has  seen  Lys  in  the  weeks  since  arriving.  There  are  faint  noises  beyond  the  closed  door,  the  raucous  sounds  from  downstairs  as  the  Lyseni  entreat  freely  with  their  guests,  hospitality  and  revelry  forever  intertwined  amongst  a  culture  that  prides  itself  on  enjoying  life  and  all  its  pleasures.  But  it  is  all  shut  away,  and  in  here,  there  is  only  them,  absent  of  the  chaos  below.  How  strange  it  is,  that  she  had  found  herself  wanting  his  attention,  yet  now  that  it  is  focused upon  her  and  her  alone,  she  cannot  help  but  feel  daunted  by  the  prospect.

If  it  was  only  physical,  it  would  be  much  easier.  She  is  well  acquainted  with  her  own  body,  and  holds  no  such  reservations  about  making  use  of  it  as  she  pleases.  But  it's  not  just  that,  is  it?  When  Lysandro's  eyes  look  at  her,  it  feels  different,  as  if  he  looks  deeper  than  the  boundary  of  her  skin,  past  her  flesh  and  features  and  any  pretty  thing  that  might  keep  anyone  else's  attention.  As  if  he  wishes  to  know  her  beyond  these  things.  And  gods,  what  a  terrifying  thing  it  is  to  be  known.  ❝ How  do  I  know  you  won't  leave  me  in  pieces  like  everyone  else?  ❞  Trust  does  not  come  easy  to  her,  not  after  having  it  shattered  so  many  times.  Lysandro  has  done  nothing  to  harm  her,  but  how  long  can  that  last?  What  a  cruel  path  for  her  mind  to  take,  but  it  is  one  taught  by  necessity.  Survival.

Yet  as  she  dares  to  peer  back  into  the  prince's  eyes,  she  cannot  help  but  feel  as  if  perhaps  she  is  tired  of  merely  surviving.  When  is  she  allowed  to  truly  live  again?  He  has  been  kind  to  her.  He  treats  her  as  a  princess,  not  a  handmaid  or  as  one  of  the  queen's  advisors  who  fades  so  easily  into  the  background,  but  as  a  woman  worthy  in  her  own  right.  Even  now  he  gives  her  the  dignity  she  has  so  often  been  denied,  and  by  her  own  choice,  she  at  last  steps  closer.  ❝ There  are  hundreds  who  would  die  to  be  in  this  room  with  you.  Old  lovers,  new  ones,  princes  and  ladies  and  royalty  from  other  lands,  you  could  have  anyone  you  wish.  ❞  A  hand  reaches  forth  to  brush  lightly  against  his  own.  An  acceptance,  posed  with  one  final  question.  ❝ Why  me?  ❞

[vis3rys]

Viserys   grip   tightened   just   enough   to   remind   her   who   held   the   reins   here,   before   fingertips   traced,   soft   like,   almost   gently,   over   the   gentle   mark   left   behind.   His   lips   parted,   a   quiet   breath   escaping   as   he   studied   the   girl   before   him—head   lifted   in   challenge,   gaze   dark   with   something   dangerously   close   to   hunger.   It   amused   him,   this   sudden   fire   in   her.   He   had   seen   her   as   one   of   Daenerys’s   silent   shadows,   always   at   her   queen’s   side,   an   extension   of   her   will.   And   yet   here   she   stood,   daring   to   want.   Daring   to   take.

A   slow   smirk   curled   his   mouth,   but   his   violet   eyes   remained   sharp,   calculating.   “Is   that   so?”   he   mused,   letting   his   fingers   trace   the   delicate   imprint   at   her   throat.   “We   shall   be   free   tonight   then.   And   in   here,   you   can   pretend   that   that   brute   is   dead   and   true   freedom   is   outside.   Daughter   of   a   Khal.”   Robbed   of   her   life   too.   He   seeks   comfort   as   much   as   she   does,   doesn't   she?

He   let   her   pull   him   closer,   let   her   hands   roam,   let   her   lips   find   his—eager,   almost   too   eager   that   he   breathes   through   his   nose   as   his   tongue   breaks   the   barrier   of   her   mouth,   hand   that   lingered   on   her   neck   moving   to   the   edge   of   her   jawline,   desperate   for   the   flame   she   claimed   to   crave.   He   allowed   it,   indulged   in   it,   but   never   surrendered   to   it.   Viserys   was   no   fool.   This   was   not   love,   not   devotion—it   was   hunger,   and   he   knew   the   taste   of   it   well.

His   hands   caught   hers   as   she   fumbled   at   his   belt,   halting   her.   “Careful,”   he   murmured,   tilting   her   chin   up   with   a   single   finger.   “A   dragon’s   fire   is   not   so   easily   tamed.   Play   with   it   too   eagerly,   and   you   may   find   yourself   burned.”   And   yet,   he   did   not   push   her   away.   No,   there   was   something   intoxicating   in   this—her   defiance,   her   boldness,   her   desire   to   feel   something   real.   Perhaps   he   would   grant   her   that,   for   a   time.   Perhaps   he   would   teach   her   what   it   meant   to   be   consumed.   His   hands   first   undid   the   intricate   Dothraki   garment   she   had   over   her   body   before   letting   her   continue   with   his   breeches.

His   fingers   slid   beneath   her   jaw,   tilting   her   head   just   so.   “If   you   wish   to   know   what   a   dragon   tastes   like,”   he   whispered   against   her   lips,   “then   prove   it.   On   your   knees.   I   shall   like   to   taste   you   after,   before   we   let   them   know   we   are   not   toys   to   be   played   with.”   And   he   caught   her   lips   again,   his   hand   moving   down   to   hers   to   let   her   feel   the   growing   hardness   under   the   breeches.

[khalsiya]

▐║  ☽  ┊  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊  𝐈𝐍  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒  𝐈𝐒  𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐏  𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇  𝐓𝐎  𝐂𝐔𝐓,  shearing  through  every  pretense  left  between  them,  leaving  only  something  raw  and  real.  Every  touch  of  his  is  commanding,  even  the  softest  traces  of  his  fingertips,  and  she  basks  in  it  all.  There  is  so  much  within  her  that  burns  wildly,  untamed,  yet  is  lost  within  its  own  inferno;  he  offers  her  direction,  a  use  for  all  of  this  starving  hunger,  and  she  welcomes  his  control,  even  as  she  enjoys  challenging  him.  Irri  cannot  help  but  pause  at  his  words,  her  eyes  resting  upon  his  own  wordlessly.  Daughter  of  a  Khal.  It  feels  so  strange  now  to  be  acknowledged  as  such  after  so  long  of  only  being  a  handmaid  at  best  and  a  slave  at  worst.  No  titles,  nothing  worthy  of  a  second  glance.  But  these  are  not  empty  words  to  her,  whether  he  truly  knows  or  not.  Perhaps  he  is  the  only  one  who  does  know,  who  understands  what  it  is  like  to  long  for  what  has  been  taken.

Irri  hadn't  realized  how  much  she'd  missed  something  as  simple  as  a  kiss  until  her  lips  met  his,  and  the  moment  they  break  apart,  she  longs  to  feel  it  again.  As  he  takes  her  hands  from  his  belt,  all  she  can  do  is  follow  the  demand  of  his  finger,  her  eyes  drawn  to  his  own  again.  He  warns  her,  and  warns  her,  yet  she  notices  how  he  still  keeps  her  close,  never  truly  denying  her.  And  so,  she  meets  his  eyes  with  a  certainty  in  her  own.  ❝ I  told  you,  did  I  not?  ❞  This  time,  she  does  not  push,  nor  does  she  pull  away;  she  merely  stays  as  she  is,  steady  in  his  grip  as  she  speaks,  ❝ I  want  to  burn.  ❞

She  finds  her  patience  as  Viserys  reaches  for  her  clothes.  The  layers  of  leather  and  woven  cloth  that  make  up  her  vest  and  skirt  fall  away  piece  by  piece,  revealing  the  golden  jewelry  that  adorns  her  nipples  and  her  navel  and  a  few  old  bruises  along  her  frame.  She  doesn't  care  to  bring  any  attention  to  the  latter,  and  hopes  that  his  eyes  will  be  drawn  elsewhere  instead.  She  follows  every  moment,  every  demanding  guidance  of  his  hand,  waiting  to  hear  him  relent  and  grant  her  what  she  has  asked  for,  her  grin  curving  devilishly  once  he  does.  When  his  lips  meet  hers  once  more,  Irri  moans  softly,  the  sound  leaving  her  before  she  can  quell  it.  No,  this  is  not  love,  and  she  is  not  foolish  enough  to  deceive  herself  into  believing  it  is  anything  other  than  what  it  is.  But  the  contact  alone  feels  too  damn  good  to  suppress  what  he  stirs  inside.

At  his  urging,  she  cups  her  hand  over  the  bulge  beneath  his  half-opened  trousers,  then  slips  inside,  wrapping  her  digits  around  his  cock  to  feel  him  stiffen.  ❝ Anha  frakholat  shafka,  ❞  Irri  purrs  against  his  lips,  her  voice  turned  coarse  by  desire.  Knowing  he  cannot  understand,  she  translates,  ❝ I  feel  you.  ❞  The  Dothraki  claims  one  more  kiss  from  his  lips,  then  turns  her  attention  below,  her  lips  kissing  a  trail  from  his  neck  down  his  chest  and  stomach  until  she  rests  upon  her  knees.  She  finishes  untying  the  last  few  laces  of  his  trousers,  pulling  the  fabric  down  his  legs  until  he  stands  bare  before  her,  all  of  him  on  display.  ❝ You  should  have  warned  me,  ❞  she  teases,  wrapping  her  hand  around  him  again.  ❝ You  certainly  put  Drogo's  bloodriders  to  shame.  ❞

But  he  told  her  to  prove  her  hunger,  and  that  she  will.  Plump  lips  capture  the  head  of  his  cock  between  them  as  her  hand  pumps  along  his  length,  coaxing  him  until  he  is  fully  erect.  Slowly,  she  take  more  of  him,  guiding  him  into  her  mouth  to  be  greeted  by  the  attentive  strokes  of  her  tongue.  And  gods,  she  loves  this ;  she  loves  the  salty  taste,  the  way  he  throbs  between  her  lips,  that  look  in  his  eye  every  time  hers  lift  to  watch  his  expression.  Knowing  she  holds  Viserys's  pleasure  in  her  hands  makes  Irri  feel  powerful  in  a  way  she  hasn't  in  a  long,  long  time.  And  so,  she  guides  him  deeper,  and  deeper,  her  head  bobbing,  moaning  as  she  takes  him  whole.

[vis3rys]

Viserys   watched   her,   the   flickering   lamplight   casting   shadows   across   his   sharp   features,   the   ghost   of   a   smirk   curling   at   his   lips.   Dangerous,   she   had   called   it.   Bold.   She   was   not   wrong.   And   yet,   Irri   still   spoke,   still   pushed,   as   if   daring   him   to   snap.   His   grip   on   her   wrist   tightened—just   enough   to   remind,   not   to   hurt.   He   traced   the   pulse   beneath   his   thumb,   slow,   deliberate,   eyes   never   leaving   hers.   There   was   heat   in   her   defiance,   a   kind   of   reckless   hunger   that   did   not   plead   but   demanded.   It   stirred   something   in   him.

"Love   is   not   meant   to   serve   or   shield,"   she   had   said.   What   nonsense.   Love   was   a   chain,   an   illusion   that   fools   clung   to   when   they   had   nothing   else.   It   did   not   build   thrones—it   shattered   them.   It   had   burned   his   house   to   ruin,   left   him   a   beggar   in   foreign   lands.   Yet   she   spoke   of   fire,   of   the   choice   to   burn   rather   than   feel   nothing   at   all.   And   he   could   not   help   but   wonder—had   he   ever   had   such   a   choice?

A   low   chuckle   escaped   him,   bitter   and   knowing.   His   free   hand   lifted,   fingers   brushing   against   the   impression   the   torque   had   left   on   her   skin.   A   collar,   even   when   removed,   still   leaves   its   mark.   "Is   that   what   you   seek,   then?"   His   voice   was   quiet,   coaxing,   the   serpent   poised   before   the   strike.   "Freedom?   And   you   think   to   find   it   here,   in   me?"

His   lips   curved,   though   it   did   not   reach   his   eyes.   "Dragons   take   what   they   want,   you   say."   His   fingers   slid   upward,   tipping   her   chin   up,   his   touch   light   but   possessive.   "But   you   are   not   a   dragon   and   yet   you   sitll   take   what   you   want."   For   all   her   defiance,   for   all   her   games,   he   saw   it—that   same   hunger,   that   same   need   to   reclaim   something   that   had   been   taken.   It   was   not   so   different   from   his   own.

His   thumb   traced   the   hollow   of   her   throat,   where   the   weight   of   her   collar   had   been   moments   before.   "Very   well,   Irri.   For   this   night,   let   us   both   pretend   we   are   free."   A   short   pause   as   he   guides   her   hands   to   the   Targaryen   sigil   upon   his   chest,   faded   and   thorn,   his   own   shackles   to   the   past   and   the   man   he   would   never   be.   "Undress   me."

[khalsiya]

▐║  ☽  ┊  𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒  𝐍𝐎𝐓  𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑  𝐈𝐍  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐄,  not  even  as  she  feels  his  grip  tighten  around  her  wrist  in  an  unsubtle  warning.  She'd  meant  what  she'd  said;  she'd  much  rather  burn  than  feel  nothing  at  all,  so  tired  of  the  endless  days  and  nights  of  being  invisible,  of  being  a  thing  to  those  around  her,  not  a  person.  There  is  a  deep  longing  within  her  just  to  feel  human  again.  She  takes  what  crumbs  she  may,  the  kindness  of  her  khaleesi  and  the  camaraderie  of  her  fellow  handmaids,  but  this  is  different.  More  than  anything,  she  wants  to  feel  something.  She  longs  to  be  touched  by  welcomed  hands,  to  be  kissed  as  a  woman  worth  kissing,  not  a  toy  to  be  used  and  discarded at will.  Maybe  he  cannot  give  her  that,  but  she  will  take  what  she  can.  She  does  not  need  him  to  be  gentle,  or  to  pretend  that  he  loves  her.  All  she  needs  is  something  real  to  cling  to.  All  she  needs  is  this  mutual  desire.

A  quiet  exhale  falls  through  her  parted  lips  as  Viserys's  fingers  brush  over  the  imprint  upon  her  neck,  a  warmth  so  foreign  to  her,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  how  any  touch  there  would  feel  altogether.  ❝ I  suppose  that  is  up  to  you,  isn't  it?  If  I  may  find  any  freedom,  ❞  her  chin  lefts  at  the  press  of  his  digits,  and  she  dares  to  answer  his  coaxing  with  her  own.  ❝ If  I  truly  took  what  I  wanted,  your  grace ──  ❞  Irri  lets  his  title  roll  sensuously  from  her  tongue,  leaning  close  enough  to  feel  their  breaths  mingle  as  she  whispers,  ❝  ── then  I  would  already  be  in  your  bed,  crying  your  name  to  the  stars  above.  ❞  The  corners  of  her  mouth  twist,  curving  into  a  faint  grin  when  he  brings  her  hands  to  his  clothes.  She  is  no  dragon,  but  she  is  a  fierce  creature  in  her  own  right,  looking  upon  him  with  all  of  the  dark  glee  of  a  tigress  freed  from  her  chains.

❝ As  you  wish,  ❞  Irri  purrs,  her  eyes  drifting  downward,  flickering  across  the  shape  of  his  form  before  turning  all  attention  to  the  fastenings  of  his  vestment.  She  is  hasty  in  removing  it,  but  careful,  knowing  that  there  is  some  sentimental  value  within  his  clothing,  or  so  her  khaleesi  had  said.  But  her  care  does  little  to  hide  her  eagerness  to  strip  it  from  his  frame,  freeing  him  from  the  sleeves  and  tossing  it  aside,  leaving  only  him  left  beneath.  Irri  presses  her  hands  to  his  torso,  feeling  every  lean  line  as  her  limbs  move  upwards,  palming  his  chest  as  her  bottom  lip  catches  between  her  teeth  in  anticipation.  ❝ Are  all  dragons  this  warm?  ❞  Irri  asks  once  her  eyes  find  his  again.  Her  palms  continue  their  ascent,  brushing  over  his  collarbone  and  finding  purchase  beneath  the  sides  of  his  jaw.

She  pulls  him  slightly,  bridging  the  distance  between  their  lips  to  claim  what  she  seeks.  Her  legs  do  the  most  work to  bring  them  together,  pushing  up on  her  toes  so  at  last  their  mouths  can  meet,  and  her  body  relies  upon  the  strength  of  his  own  to  keep  them  both  upright.  It  is  a  clumsy  kiss  at  first,  given  by  one  who  had  forgotten  how,  but  the  taste  of  his  lips  ignites  the  fire  she  had  prayed  to  feel,  setting  it  free  to  burn  them  both  as  her  mouth  claims  his  more  fervently.  When  next  her  feet  are  flat  upon  the  ground,  Irri  is  left  breathless.  Digits  fumble  as  they  next  reach  for  Viserys's  belt,  then  to  the  laces  of  his  trousers,  pulling  them  apart  until  the  last  of  his  clothes  hang  loose  around  his  hips,  and  she  declares,  almost  growling,  ❝ I  want  to  know  what  a  dragon  tastes  like.  ❞

[vis3rys]

Viserys   watches   her,   his   grip   tightening   around   the   cup   as   her   words   slither   between   them,   wrapping   around   his   thoughts   like   a   noose.   Irri   is   a   handmaid,   a   girl   meant   to   bow   and   pour   and   serve.   And   yet,   she   speaks   to   him   as   if   she   is   something   else   entirely.   As   if   she   understands   him.   As   if   she   dares   to.   And   maybe   she   was.   The   khalazar   is   made   of   more   prisoners   of   other   khals,   lost   in   the   long   braid   of   Drogo   than   anything   else.

His   mouth   twists,   the   ghost   of   a   smile   playing   at   the   edges,   but   there   is   no   humor   in   it.   Only   something   sharp   and   bitter,   laced   with   amusement   that   does   not   quite   reach   his   eyes.   He   sets   the   cup   aside   with   slow,   deliberate   movements,   as   though   testing   the   weight   of   the   moment   between   them.   His   fingers   brush   against   hers   again,   this   time   not   by   accident.   He   does   not   move   away.

"Love,"   he   echoes,   his   voice   low,   thoughtful.   "You   speak   of   love   as   though   it   is   some   great   gift,   as   though   it   has   ever   done   me   any   good."   His   gaze   flickers   over   her   face,   searching,   as   if   he   might   find   the   lie   in   her   features,   the   manipulation   in   her   soft   eyes.   "Love   drove   my   brother   to   turn   against   his   marriage   and   persue   a   wolf   girl.   Love   drove   me   for   so   long   you   see,   for   my   mother's   words.   She   proclaimed   me   King   with   Daenerys   as   a   babe   in   my   arms.   But   love   did   little   to   shield   us   from   the   world."   A   quiet   scoff   leaves   him,   but   it   lacks   conviction.   For   those   who   laughed   at   the   dragons   with   no   wings,   who   kicked   them   out   the   moment   coin   was   out.   

He   should   tell   her   she   is   wrong.   Should   sneer,   should   remind   her   who   she   is,   what   little   right   she   has   to   speak   to   him   in   such   a   way.   But   her   touch   lingers   at   his   lip,   feather-light   and   deliberate,   and   something   coils   in   his   chest,   dark   and   restless.   He   lets   her   press,   lets   her   step   further   into   his   space,   lets   the   firelight   dance   between   them.   There   is   a   challenge   in   her,   a   temptation,   something   that   stirs   an   ache   deep   in   his   bones—the   kind   that   does   not   easily   fade.

"You   think   yourself   clever,"   he   muses,   voice   dropping   into   something   quieter,   something   far   more   dangerous.   His   hand   comes   up   then,   catching   her   wrist,   not   roughly,   but   firm   enough   that   she   cannot   easily   pull   away.   He   turns   her   palm   over,   studying   it   as   though   it   holds   secrets   only   he   can   read.   "And   if   I   enjoy   it?"   The   words   slip   from   him   like   honey,   thick   and   sweet,   yet   laced   with   venom.   His   grip   does   not   loosen.   "If   I   were   to   keep   you   here,   keep   you   close,   would   you   still   speak   of   love?"

There   is   something   like   laughter   in   his   breath.   His   fingers   trace   the   delicate   lines   of   her   wrist,   his   touch   deceptively   gentle.   "Or   perhaps   you   desire   an   escape   for   the   night   as   I   do.   You   have   not   read   wrong.   I   run   warm   and   hot   and   I   like   my   bed   to   be   the   same."   A   short   pause   as   he   let   the   words   dangle   between   them.   "But   would   you   tell   your   khaleesi   of   this?   Or   share   the   secret?"

[khalsiya]

▐║  ☽  ┊  𝐈𝐓'𝐒  𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒  𝐓𝐎  𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊  𝐒𝐎  𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐋𝐘  𝐈𝐍  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄.  She's  seen  him  react  poorly  before  to  lesser  words  at  his  distaste,  but  there  has  been  too  much  honesty  between  them  tonight  for  her  to  suddenly  choose  to  placate  him  with  a  lie  instead.  And  so,  when  the  risk  taken  is  not  met  with  more  than  a  verbal  rebuke,  she  persists,  softly,  careful  in  her  choice  of  words.  ❝ Love  is  not  meant  to  serve  or  shield.  It  simply  is  what  it  is.  It  has  been  the  cause  of  great  travesties  in  this  world,  but  it  is  also  the  force  behind  much  of  the  goodness  within  it.  It  can  warm  you  or  burn  you  all  the  same,  but  what  is  life  without  it?  Only  cold  and  empty.  ❞  Sometimes  it  persists  only  in  memories,  in  grief  and  heartache  everlasting,  but  the  ache  is  proof  that  it  was  there,  that  it  was  real.  Her  brother  and  father  now  exist  only  in  the  love  she  still  bears  for  them  beyond  the  grave.  Without  that  persistent  love,  what  is  left  of  them?  The  rest  was  taken  from  her.  ❝ Everyone  makes  their  choices.  But  I  would  rather  burn  than  feel  nothing  at  all.  ❞

It  feels  as  if  she  is  dancing  with  a  serpent;  such  a  beautiful  creature,  but  oh so dangerous  should  it  choose  to  strike.  One  wrong  move,  and  it  could  all  be  ruined.  Viserys  bears  no  venomous  fangs,  but  he  has  a  snake's  poise,  always  a  sense  of  danger  about  his  person.  And  she  must  question  herself,  why  she  insists  on  playing  this  game,  this  push  and  pull  of  testing  each  other,  seeing  what  happens  when  they  both  inevitably  break.  Irri's  breath  catches  in  her  throat  when  he  seizes  her  wrist,  but  her  limb  holds  no  resistance,  her  eyes  still  following  his  as  he  turns  it  over.

❝ You  certainly  seemed  to  think  I  was  clever  when  I  told  you  how  I  would  kill  the  khal,  ❞  she  whispers  a  playful  taunt,  recalling  the  effect  that  seemed  to  have  on  him.  Her  other  hand  rises,  pressing  against  the  faded  emblem  of  the  three-headed  dragon  upon  his  vest.  ❝ If  you  enjoy  it,  then  I  wonder  what  keeps  you  restrained.  Dragons  take  what  they  want,  do  they  not?  ❞  And  there  is  a  freedom  in  this,  in  choosing  to  follow  him  into  his  tent  and  continue  this  odd  dance  of  theirs.  She  relishes  that,  knowing  that  she  is  here  by  her  own  decision,  her  own  interest,  and  just  as  he  seems  to  want  her,  she  wants  him  as  well.  It's  something  she  has  not  felt  in  the  longest  time,  not  since  before  she  was  taken  by  Drogo's  khalasar,  but  gods,  how  sweet  it  is  to  feel  desire  once  again.

His  grip  remains,  and  something  within  her  prays  that  it  stays,  that  she  needn't  be  deprived  of  those  touches  upon  her  wrist.  It's  in  that  moment  she  becomes  suddenly  too  aware  of  the  golden  collar  that  circles  around  her  neck,  a  reminder  of  what  has  been  made  of  her.  But  she  was  not  always  a  slave.  She  was  a  khalakka,  the  daughter  of  a  khal.  And  she'll  be  damned  if  she  lets  Drogo  and  his  men  control  her  like  cattle.  ❝ We  all  seek  an  escape  in  this  fucking  place,  do  we  not?  ❞  Her  spite  is  evident  as  she  speaks,  motivating  her  to  pull  herself  nearer,  letting  her  body  fully  press  into  his  own.  ❝ I  will  not  tell  her  if  she  does  not  ask.  There  is  no  need  for  her  to  know.  ❞  She  takes  hold  of  the  golden  torque,  pulling  until  the  shape  flexes  beneath  her  fingers,  loose  enough  to  slip  from  her  slender  neck  and  fall  to  the  floor  with  only  the  impression  of  it  left  behind  on  her  skin.  ❝ Let  me  be  free,  if  only  for  this  night.  ❞

[vis3rys]

Viserys   stiffened   at   her   words,   though   he   did   not   pull   away.   There   was   truth   in   them,   undeniable   and   bitter.   A   lie,   yes—Illyrio’s   words   had   been   honeyed   deception,   feeding   his   dreams   of   a   golden   crown   and   an   obedient   army.   He   had   clung   to   them   because   they   were   all   he   had.   But   now,   he   saw   the   truth   as   clear   as   a   polished   blade.   Drogo   was   no   mindless   brute   to   be   led;   he   was   a   warlord   who   took   what   he   pleased   and   cast   aside   what   he   did   not.   And   Viserys,   the   last   dragon,   had   been   discarded   like   an   empty   wineskin.

His   fingers   remained   light   against   Irri’s   skin,   tracing   the   curve   of   her   chin,   his   grip   absent   of   the   anger   she   might   have   expected.   A   dragon   had   no   place   seeking   comfort   in   a   slave’s   words,   but   he   did   not   flinch   from   the   way   she   looked   at   him,   as   if   she   saw   something   more   than   the   laughingstock   of   the   khalasar.   As   if   she   understood   what   it   meant   to   fall,   to   be   caged   by   fate   and   held   low   by   those   who   deemed   themselves   stronger.

“Lies,”   he   murmured,   though   whether   he   meant   Illyrio’s   promises   or   his   own   past   certainty,   he   did   not   know.   His   gaze   swept   over   her,   amber   and   lilac   locked   in   some   unspoken   reckoning.   “And   yet,   what   would   you   have   me   do?   Bow   before   him?   Accept   my   place   as   a   beggar   at   my   sister’s   feet?”   His   lips   curled,   bitter   with   the   taste   of   his   own   words.   “I   would   sooner   die.”

He   did   not   miss   the   way   her   lips   parted,   the   flicker   of   something   unreadable   in   her   expression.   Why   should   she   care?   Why   should   anyone?   And   yet,   she   did.   Not   with   empty   words   of   pity,   nor   with   the   thin   politeness   of   those   who   feared   his   temper,   but   with   something   else.   Recognition,   perhaps.   Kinship,   as   she   had   said.   Irri’s   next   words   came   softer,   a   whisper   of   something   dangerously   close   to   kindness.   Daenerys   still   loved   him.   A   truth   he   was   unwilling   to   accept,   and   yet,   how   it   stung.   “Love,”   he   echoed,   his   laugh   short   and   mirthless.   “She   would   trade   me   for   a   dragon’s   egg,   if   she   thought   it   would   hatch.”

And   yet,   he   did   not   let   go   of   her.   Perhaps   because   she   did   not   pull   away.   "Perhaps   I   would   too.   But   she   is   the   only   blood   that   remains."   The   last   reminder   of   his   mother.   In   certain   lights,   she   looks   like   her,   only   to   be   broken   illusion   when   he   sees   the   Dothraki   clothes.   When   she   jested   of   poison   and   bad   wine,   there   was   a   flicker   of   something   unexpected—a   smirk,   fleeting   and   sharp   like   the   glint   of   a   dagger.   “Then   let   us   hope   this   wine   is   not   so   unkind.”

Inside   his   tent,   the   shadows   flickered   with   the   dim   glow   of   lanterns,   casting   gold   and   ember   across   her   skin.   He   watched   as   she   sipped,   her   gaze   never   leaving   his.   A   game,   he   thought.   But   he   was   not   so   broken   that   he   could   not   play.   She   lifted   the   cup   to   his   lips,   her   fingers   steady.   He   did   not   break   her   gaze   as   he   leaned   in,   taking   the   smallest   sip,   letting   the   taste   settle   on   his   tongue.   Sweet,   with   a   bite   underneath.   His   hand   brushed   against   hers   as   he   took   the   cup   from   her   grasp,   his   voice   quiet   yet   edged   with   something   dangerous.   “You   should   be   careful,   Irri.”   He   traced   the   rim   of   the   cup   with   his   thumb,   thoughtful.   “It   is   not   wise   to   toy   with   dragons.”

[khalsiya]

▐║  ☽  ┊  ❝ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑  𝐀𝐋𝐋  𝐘𝐎𝐔  𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄  𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐃  𝐓𝐎  𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐄,  𝐃𝐎  𝐘𝐎𝐔  𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐘  𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐔𝐄  𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑  𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄  𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍  𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑  𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄?  ❞  Her  khaleesi's  stories  have  painted  enough  of  a  picture  to  know  that  it  has  not  been  an  easy  life  for  either  of  them,  regardless  of  the  titles  laid  upon  them.  There  was  a  time  when  she,  too,  thought  herself  above  certain  things,  but  she  learned  quickly  that  her  pride  would  get  her  killed  if  it  persisted.  That  pride  was  broken  from  the  moment  Drogo  placed  a  golden  collar  around  her  neck.  ❝ Bide  your  time.  Be  what  he  thinks  you  are,  and  he  will  leave  you  be.  It  will  earn  you  time  to  make  your  plans.  And  if  you  cannot  do  so,  then  flee,  and  live  to  see  another  day.  ❞  It's  what  she  has  done  for  years.  Waited  and  waited,  like  a  snake  in  the  grass.  One  day  her  time  will  come.  One  day  she  will  have  her  freedom  .  .  .  or  death  in  trying,  at  the  very  least.  But  she  will  try.

Irri's  chin  tilts,  her  voice  softening  as  she  retorts,  ❝ You  know  that  is  not  true.  Deep  in  your  heart,  you  must  know  how  your  sister  loves  you.  ❞  It  saddens  her  how  he  could  think  otherwise.  Daenerys  speaks  of  him  often,  and  all  of  her  words  bear  a  fondness  not  easily  erased.  A  little  sister  who  cares  for  her  older  brother, who becomes like a child again as she speaks of him.  She  thinks  of  her  own  brother  then,  how  young  he  was  when  he  was  slain,  and  how  she  would  do  anything  just  to  have  Jhasso  at  her  side  again,  playing  his  foolish  little  games  without  a  care  in  the  world.  Needless  to  say,  it's  the  last  thing  she  wants  to  think  about,  so  she  puts  the  matter  aside,  intent  instead  to  bury  it  all  beneath  the  flow  of  wine.

She  remains  close  to  the  prince,  or  king,  or  whatever  he  would  care  to  call  himself  this  eve,  watching  something  arise  in  Viserys'  gaze  that  she  had  not  seen  in  him  before  as  he  indulges  her.  Their  eyes  remain  locked,  a  dangerous  thrill  settling  deep  into  the  pit  of  Irri's  stomach  as  the  dragon  leans  forth,  drinking  from  the  cup  of  wine  in  her  hand.  Part  of  her  hadn't  expected  him  to  do  so,  thinking  he  might  refuse.  And  the  fact  that  he  doesn't  only  makes  her  all  the  more  intrigued.  It's  impossible  not  to  notice  how  his  hand  brushes  against  her  own,  his  skin  warmer  than  it  should  be,  and  his  voice  tainted  by  something  caught  between  threats  and  promises.

❝ I  never  claimed  to  be  wise,  ❞  she  shakes  her  head  lightly,  taking  another  step  closer,  ❝ And  you  asked  for  my  company.  Surely  you  did  not  invite  me  here  to  sit  in  the  corner  of  your  tent  and  sip  wine  in  silence  through  the  night.  ❞  In  the  candlelight  of  his  tent,  the  hues  in  her  eyes  shine,  shades  of  amber  and  gold  come  alive  like  a  flame  as  she  looks  up  into  his  eyes.  But  the  fire  is  not  a  trick  of  the  light  alone,  but  something  arising  within  her as  well.  Irri's  fingertips  press  to  the  top  of  the  cup  in  his  hand,  carefully  pushing  it  out  of  her  way  as  she  takes  yet  another  step  closer,  now  well  beyond  any  polite  boundaries  of  distance.  ❝ Would  you  prefer  me  to  pretend  as  if  I  hadn't  noticed  you  enjoying  the  touch  of  my  skin?  That  I  cannot  hear  what  belies  your  voice?  ❞  She  reaches  forth  then,  tracing  his  bottom  lip  with  her  index,  as  if  she  is  merely  wiping  away  wine.  The  handmaid  leans,  absently  drawing  nearer,  but  stops  right  as  their  bodies  become  too  close,  almost  touching.  ❝ Unless  I  am  mistaken,  of  course.  ❞

[khalsiya]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 ── like for a short starter. multis specify your muses or narrow it down to a few options pretty please.

[vis3rys]

Viserys   listened,   his   lilac   eyes   fixed   on   Irri   as   she   spoke.   She   was   afraid—of   Drogo,   of   Qotho,   of   the   fate   that   awaited   her   should   the   Dothraki   turn   against   them.   Yet   in   her   fear,   there   was   something   else,   something   sharper.   A   kind   of   rage   that   matched   his   own.   He   had   seen   it   before,   in   himself,   in   Daenerys   when   she   thought   no   one   was   looking,   when   he   had   raised   his   tone   and   hand   to   her,   and   she   gained   strength.   A   fire   that   fueled   the   young   King   once,   that   simmers   by   the   surface   now.   

His   lips   curled   into   a   thin   smile.   So,   even   his   sister’s   little   handmaid   had   thoughts   of   treachery.   That   was   interesting.   That   was   useful.   "You   think   I   have   not   considered   this?"   His   voice   was   smooth,   almost   amused.   "Drogo   is   a   savage.   He   was   never   meant   to   be   anything   more   than   a   tool,   a   means   to   an   end.   And   yet—"   He   exhaled   sharply,   his   fingers   twitching   at   his   sides.   "Here   I   am,   with   no   army,   no   crown,   and   no   throne,   while   my   sweet   sister   grows   fat   with   his   child   and   calls   him   my   sun   and   stars."   A   ruse,   surely.   Drogo   only   wants   his   sister   for   the   babe   she   carries.   A   prize   to   parade   around.   

Neither   he   or   Dany   herself   know   the   power   of   their   house's   words.      The   bitterness   in   his   voice   was   undeniable,   but   something   in   Irri's   words   had   settled   in   his   mind   like   a   whisper   of   prophecy.   She   understood—not   the   way   Daenerys   did,   with   her   soft   reassurances   and   empty   promises,   but   in   a   way   that   spoke   of   shared   fury.   "Illyrio   is   a   fat,   greedy   man   who   serves   his   own   interests.   I   have   no   doubt   he   would   sell   me   if   he   thought   it   convenient.   The   second   Viserys'   fate   was   as   such,   though   he   had   been   a   child.   Made   to   marry   a   Lyseni   woman   during   the   Dance   of   Dragons."      He   reached   out,   brushing   his   fingers   beneath   Irri’s   chin,   before   his   thumb   brush   against   her   lips,   considering   her,   forcing   her   gaze   up   to   his.   "And   yet,   you   seem   very   concerned   for   my   well-being.   Why   is   that?"

Viserys   laughed,   a   short,   humorless   sound.   "A   manticore’s   sting.   Poison."   He   considered   the   words   as   if   tasting   them   on   his   tongue.   She   has   thought   about   this   carefully.   He   reached   for   the   wineskin   at   his   belt,   lifting   it   between   them.   "Come,"   he   said,   stepping   toward   the   entrance   of   his   tent.   "Drink   with   me.   Since   the   little   dove   is   busy   tonight,   I   shall   have   your   company."   In   what   way,   he   does   not   know.   But   he   offers   a   cup   for   her   to   take.   "No   poison   here,   beside   the   one   that   warms   the   belly."      It   was   not   an   order,   not   quite.   But   his   smile   was   sharp,   and   his   grip   on   her   wrist   as   he   led   her   inside   was   gentle—almost   indulgent.

[khalsiya]

▐║  ☽  ┊  ❝ 𝐈𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐎  𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃  𝐘𝐎𝐔?  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐎  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘  𝐀  𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐆𝐄  𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐄  𝐖𝐇𝐎  𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃  𝐁𝐄  𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓  𝐓𝐎  𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐋?  ❞  Most  people  think  such  things  about  the  Dothraki,  that  they  are  all  mindless  savages  who  care  only  for  greed,  like  jealous  children  appeased  by  any  shiny  new  toy.  She  does  not  doubt  this  magister  has  filled  the  dragon's  head  with  the  same  tales,  giving  him  a  false  perception  to  begin  with.  And  it's  clear  by  his  unfortunate  fall  in  station  among  the  khalasar  that  he  has  come  to  realize  this  too  late.  ❝ Do  you  see  now  what  a  lie  that  was?  All  of  his  promises,  all  lies.  He  has  fattened  his  pockets  and  made  Drogo  his  own  ally instead of yours.  ❞  And  yet,  she  does  pity  him.  No,  perhaps  pity  is  not  the  right  word;  there  is  a  kinship  in  this  suffering.  He  is  a  prince,  a  would-be  king,  now  made  a  mockery  within  the  khalasar,  and  she,  once  the  daughter  of  a  khal,  is now  nothing  but  a  slave  to  be  used.  There  is  a  certain  anger  that  one  can  only  know  after  they  have  been  brought  so  low.  An  anger  that  they  share.

His  hand  upon  her  chin  is  not  the  furious  grip  she  otherwise  would  have  expected  from  him,  and  the  handmaid's  lips  part  as  his  thumb  strokes  across  them,  her  amber  eyes  looking  up  into  his  lilacs  with  intrigue.  Why  is  she  concerned?  What  should  it  matter  to  her  what  happens  to  him?  Perhaps  it's  merely  hatred  for  their  shared  enemy.  Perhaps  she  would  rather  see  him  live  and  triumph  over  Drogo  for  the  sake  of  her  own  vengeance.  But  no,  she  thinks,  it's  something  less  simple  than  that.  ❝ Because  your  sister  still  loves  you,  no  matter  what  you  have  done.  You  are  all  each  other  have  in  this  world;  it  would  not  suit  either  of  you  well  to  lose  one  another.  ❞  If  Daenerys  could  still  love  her  brother,  then  he  must  not  be  all  bad.  Irri  knows  well  enough  how  circumstances  can  twist  a  person  inside.  And  he  is  certainly  no  Qotho.  Some  men  were  born  to  be  cruel,  but  Viserys  is  not  one  of  them.  She  has  experienced  enough  of  it  in  her  life  to  know  when  cruelty  is  one's  nature,  and  when  it  is  a  learned  weapon.  She  sees  none  of  it  now,  save  for  the  words  they  share  of  Drogo.

His  demand  for  her  company  is  one  easily  accepted,  knowing  that  as  long  as  she  is  with  him,  none  of  Drogo's  men  can  take  her  away.  A  few  cups  of  shared  wine  are  far  preferable  to  the  horrors  that  usually  find  her  in  the  night.  ❝ I  did  not  think  you  would  find  a  horselord's  slave  to be suitable  company  for  a  Westerosi  king,  ❞  Irri  says,  but  it  is  merely  a  tease,  a  brow  quirking  as  the  ghost  of  a  grin  curls  upon  her  features.  The  handmaid  follows  him  into  his  tent  at  his  guidance,  noting  the  way  he  holds  her  wrist.  What  an  enigma  he  is,  as  cold  and  hard  as  stone  at  times,  then  a  simmering  fire  in  others.  But she's  always  found  fire  more  fun  to  play  with.  She  dares  do  so  now,  taking  advantage  of  his  gentle  grip  to  slip  loose,  instead  intwining  her  hand  with  his  own.  ❝ Bad  wine  can  be  worse  than  poison,  ❞  she  jests.  ❝  At  least  poison  has  the  mercy  to  kill  you  after  you've  drunk  it.  ❞

Once  inside,  Irri  takes  the  cup  he'd  offered  and  brings  it  to  her  mouth,  sipping  a  slow  drink  as  her  eyes  remain  upon  his.  For  that  quiet  moment  as  she  drinks,  she  merely  studies  Viserys,  searching  those  lilac  hues  as  deeply  as  she  can.  When  she  finishes,  she  draws  the  cup  away,  still  holding  his  gaze  as  she  licks  away  the  excess  that  remains  upon  her  lips.  ❝ This  is  good,  ❞  Irri  speaks  at  last,  and  she  steps closer, raising  her  cup  to  the  dragon's  lips.  ❝ Have  a  taste.  ❞