The ship moved again, drawn out of the bay by the soft lapping of the ocean. Night was falling and the mess buzzed with warmth and the thick aroma of wine. Dark plums, black pepper and something akin to autumn hung in the air as people sat apart talking in a low hum. Jon had tuned his company out on account of letter writing, but the words just wouldn’t come. “Writer’s block?” Smelling the Queen of Dragons before he saw her, everything about Daenerys was foreign and yet welcome to Jon. Her scent was something like fruit left to ripen on the branch, flowers which bloomed only across the Narrow Sea and earthy oils extracted from the roots of tall grass – a dark, but sweet and resinous tree sap. Since his death, Jon had stopped smelling of anything.
Chapter Five: A Lie Of Omission - Dead Men Sing No Songs by Birdie Lo Green
