Cities have proved easy to conquer. All one needs is a worthwhile cause, a loyal army… and three dragons. One after the other the cities of Slaver’s Bay have yielded to her, and now she is Queen. Men are easy to conquer, as well. Daenerys thinks of her husband, her owner — until she’d made him hers. Her gaze wanders to Daario, who had killed his fellow captains, just for her. She tries not to think of Jorah, who told her he loved her, and yet he’d betrayed her trust. At her side, Tyrion is regaling their guests with filthy jokes. Dany represses a smile. Tyrion is hers, too. Men are all the same.
I never demand, but I’m up for anything, really.
Her gaze flickers to Lady Yara too often, Daenerys is aware. Her voice, honey-dark and smooth, incessantly echoes in Dany’s mind, making it hard to concentrate on the fruits on her plate. This woman is unlike anyone she’s ever met. She’s wearing men’s clothes, her hair is shorter than any lady’s Dany has ever seen, even the way she sits more resembles a man than a woman. And yet she is unmistakably that: a woman. A queen. Daenerys has never met another queen before.
Of course there had been the Dosh Khaleen. They did have a sort of power over the superstitious Dothraki men, but while they were feared as well as respected, in the end they were nothing more than a bunch of confined and helpless women, wholly at the mercy of men. Lady Yara is at no one’s mercy. She exudes confidence with every gesture, every word she speaks.
For a moment Dany can almost feel Lady Yara’s touch at her arm where she’d clasped it. No bow, no curtsy. Not an oath of fealty, but an allegiance — as if they were equals. Perhaps they are. Mayhaps they do have more in common than evil fathers and murderers lusting for their blood.
“I’ve never seen this kind of fruit before.” Dany looks up at Lady Yara, following her gaze to the plate before her, to the orange fruit Daenerys always saves for last. “May I try it?”
“It’s a sweet persimmon,” Dany says. “Here, you cut it in slices… you can eat the skin.”
Yara takes a slice from Daenerys’ hand, fingertips grazing her palm as she does. It nearly makes Dany flinch, though she doesn’t know why.
“Thank you,” Yara says, and without turning her gaze away she digs her teeth into the ripe flesh, lips closing around it as she takes a bite. A droplet of juice is running down her chin and all of a sudden Daenerys feels hot, despite the sun having set hours ago.
She swallows, forcing her mouth to smile in its usual way to not betray this unfamiliar affection. It’s not easy, not with Lady Yara’s eyes growing darker by the moment, not with that confident little smirk on her lips...
Daenerys isn’t stupid. She knows what Yara wants, knows what she’s aiming at. There’s been that night, that one night not long after her sun-and-stars had left her, where she had felt so lonely, so tense… Irri had been there for her then, had helped her find some peace, if only for a moment, for a night. It had been good, comfortable. Not as intense as Drogo had been after she’d shown him how to touch her, but that may have been the nature of their relationship, Khaleesi and servant.
But Lady Yara is no servant. She wouldn’t taste of duty... Daenerys checks herself before her cheeks can heat up and give her thoughts away. Instead she lifts her chin, smiling at Lady Yara in that soft, detached way Dany had mastered when still a child, and Viserys an unavoidable bother that needed placating.
“Your rooms are satisfactory, I hope?” she asks, turning slightly to include both her guests, Lady Yara as well as her brother.
He’s a curious apparition, almost ghost-like in the way he holds himself and seems to melt with his surroundings the moment Yara isn’t addressing him. He keeps his head down, barely eating, barely drinking, barely reacting to any barb Tyrion throws his way. Daenerys has noticed how often Yara checks on him, giving him quick glances, as if to make sure he hasn’t vanished.
Now he just nods curtly, mumbling his thanks, and Lady Yara gives him another concerned look before she turns to Daenerys, smile firmly back in place. “I must say they’re the most regal chambers I’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping in,” she says. “If those are your guest chambers, I wonder how the Queen’s might look.”
There it is again, the smirk, the slightly raised eyebrow, and this time Dany anticipates the little waves of heat that run over her skin, down her spine, through her blood and pooling in her belly. There’s no doubt about it: this woman excites her, thrills her; this harsh, unladylike Lady Greyjoy.
And if she were to invite her, if she were to let her in — Daenerys can’t know, can’t anticipate taking such a woman in her bed, but one thing seems certain: this is no easy conquest, not a city, nor a man. This is a queen. Daenerys’ smile deepens, turns genuine. There’s only one way to find out.
“I do have a persimmon tree in the Queen’s apartments, if you’d like to see one for yourself,” she says. “I’m sure Daario will keep your brother out of harm’s — and Tyrion’s — way, if you were inclined to join me after dessert..?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Yara says, taking another slice from Daenerys’ plate. “I seem to be developing a taste for them.”
Her gaze is firm, hot, and Dany takes a persimmon slice for herself. “One should at least try every new taste,” she says before she bites into it, the mild sweetness flooding her mouth.
Not a conquest, no. An agreement between queens.
