The sea around Pyke Island is unlike any other Daenerys has ever seen.
It froths against the black, salt-streaked cliffs, always angry even when the sky is blue and cloudless. It smells bitter, but not in the same way the water reeked in Slaver’s Bay - of the blood and feces of the slaves. The salt here is sharper, but cleaner in a way: it scrapes her nostrils and leaves her throat raw.
The color of the sea is different, too - the deep green of the waves similar to the hue Missandei described when talking to her of Naath - but oddly deceiving. Even when the sea surface is barely ruffled by wind, which happens rarely, Yara tells her, the water remains threatening and mysterious. It is easy to imagine the Ironborns’ Drowned God lurk just below the surface, waiting to drag the unwary into His liquid embrace.
In foul weather, the sea does away with deception entirely. The waves are whipped into a frenzy by the howling gales that descend from the far North, and their almost constant roar against the castle’s sheer sides makes it hard to sleep, at least for her.
Today is one such, the sky so encumbered by storm clouds that calling it day is quite the stretch. A greenish, lambent light filters through the thick cover, but fails to dispel the swirling fog that hides Lordsport from view. The sea, several feet below her bedroom’s window, is a spectacle in and of itself. Jet-black waves capped in white pummel against the tower housing her rooms, and Dany is reminded of the dragonglass mines she discovered that she owns on Dragonstone, thanks to Jon Snow.
It’s as if the material had somehow turned into a liquid, and she cannot help but watch, entranced, as the water dances, crashing forward and retreating in endless motion. The way seawater sprays upward, aided by the violent winds, is like the powerful spreading of a dragon’s wings, and Dany’s eyes roam to the skies above, where she tries to catch a glimpse of her remaining sons.
She sees them, fleetingly, as they dart in and out of the clouds, apparently unbothered by the lightning that illuminates the sky around them. Every so often, they fold their wings and dive, disappearing below the water’s surface for a moment before they shoot toward the heavens, fish writhing in their maws. Each time, water surges upward in their wake, claws of foam trying to drag them under, and each time Daenerys holds her breath in trepidation, heart beating up another storm inside her chest. Until her sons pull free, scales streaked with brine and salt.
They are graceful creatures, as hungry as the sea itself, and Daenerys is happy to see how little the Ironborn fear them; but then again, the Ironborn fear very little.
It surprised her in the beginning, the lack of awe; irritated her even, especially after Ser Jorah’s stories about the Islands’ inhabitants. Superstitious folk he’d called them, with a not-so-subtle twist of his thin mouth, even more so than the Northmen . People who would offer their children to the waves and their wet god if they thought it’d bring them fair winds to help them raid the coast.
After the first few weeks on the islands, Dany has come to understand the Ironborn somewhat, and found they have more in common with the blood of the dragon than she had initially thought. It takes courage, and more than a pinch of madness, to brave waves so high they can blot out the light, and resilience to carve a living where other, softer people would have perished long ago.
She feels a kinship to them that she cannot quite explain, and she doubts her advisors would understand her if she tried. A kinship that turns to something different and twists her stomach into knots whenever she and Yara Greyjoy are in the same room - a thing which Dany isn’t sure she wants to understand.
As for Ser Jorah’s judgement, even though his heart is in the right place, his thoughts are still influenced by the wars he’s fought against the Ironborn - no matter how adamantly he swears that they are not. As the days pass, he grows restless. Sullen. And, sometimes, she can hear the gnashing of his teeth above the roaring sea.
There is not much to be done about it: she is Queen of the Six Kingdoms, but although her titles would lead some to believe otherwise, she has not yet learned to command storms. So they are stuck here until the weather changes, the tour of her newly founded dominion halted for the time being.
Daenerys hides it from her councilors, but she finds the place refreshing.
It’s cold and damp and drippy and, no matter how many braziers the servants stuffed inside her bedroom, a persistent chill fogs up her every breath, but she much prefers the smell of salt and seaweed to the copper tang that still pervades the blackened walls of the Red Keep.
Once it had been clear that she and the Northmen had Cersei cornered, the Lannister army had readily surrendered, one of Tyrion’s distant cousins opening the gates for her soldiers. But Cersei had refused Daenerys’s offer of exile beyond the sea, and stubbornly resisted inside the Keep, protected by a handful of her most loyal armsmen.
Tyrion suggested she lay siege, but Dany had refused, aware that it would mean starving the rest of the city out as well. Her army was simply too big and resources were limited by years of battle, King's Landing’s populace exhausted. No - the best course was to end the war swiftly, once and for all. And Cersei’s stubborn refusal to yield meant that Dany didn’t much care what happened to her.
But a direct assault was madness. The inner towers of the Red Keep could be defended for months if need be, the handful of loyalists safe within the thick, red stone while Daenerys’s men threw themselves at the battlements and died there.
She would not have her soldiers die in vain, just as she would not have those that had surrendered suffer further. And thus, after one last Council which was more like a shouting match than a formal meeting, she had chosen the usurper’s fate.
True to her name and the blood in her veins, Daenerys had chosen fire.
She still remembers the smell that hung around the Keep for days after the attack. Even here, thousands of leagues to the North, it fills her nose and haunts her dreams. A whiff, like the whisper of a straight razor’s strop scraping the blade, and a smell of cooked blood that is all slaughterhouse and fear.
Maegor’s Holdfast is still smouldering, or so the Maester she appointed before embarking on her trip writes in his last missive, and its crenellations will never be red again.
Daenerys is glad to be away from it, and relieved that her trip will bring her further North to Winterfell before duty has her return. A smile graces her lips at the prospect of finally seeing the pups she is sort of an aunt to, but it is short lived. Fire and blood and death always find a way of darkening her moods.
But, perhaps, by the time she returns to the Red Keep, the stench will be all gone. Daenerys finds little solace in that thought, aware that the terror-filled screams of the men she ordered burnt alive await to welcome her home.
With a sigh, she pries herself away from the window and wraps her heaviest cloak around her shoulders, ready to head to the castle’s Great Hall and meet with the Lords of the Iron Islands. Bad weather hindered them as much as it did her, causing meetings that should have already been concluded to stretch further than anyone could have anticipated. But, according to Yara, the new Lord Blacktyde is on his way, braving the anger of the sea to convene with her.
He is the last one, and then they will be all accounted for.
Outside her spacious bedroom - a rarity in the castle, or so she understands - a steep staircase spirals downward to the tower’s bottom, the edges of each step smoothed to gentler curves by the passing of countless feet.
Pressing a hand against the damp, uneven stones of the wall for balance, Daenerys picks her way with care, bitter drafts buffeting her cheek whenever she comes abreast one of the arrowslits that overlook the moss-covered cliff on which the tower perches.
By the time she gets to the bottom landing and the tower’s entrance, her legs are burning, her knees screaming in agony. There, she pauses and spares a moment to catch her breath, as no part of the coastal fortress makes for easy going. When the castle was first built, perhaps things were different, but now each of its fearsome towers rests atop rocky land eroded by the sea, and is connected to the rest by fragile bridges of rope and rotting wood.
Dany has crossed them many times during her stay, but always, the traversal is a death-courting experience. There is a rhythm to it, similar to the gait of sailors atop a ship, yet despite Yara’s eagerness to give her lessons, she has failed to master it.
Never in her life did she think she’d be afraid of heights, but slick rope and creaking wood had done wonders to change her perspective on such things.
So, the moment she sets foot on the swaying bridge, Daenerys does the very thing Yara cautioned her against; she tries to reach the other side as quickly as she can.
Three strides later, she is drenched, wind-driven rain pelting her head and weighing down her cloak. The fur-lined wool is no protection against the howling gale, each gust picking its way through the layers of clothing with ease, until Daenerys thinks she may as well be naked for all the shelter the fabric is affording her.
Five more steps, and she has to stop again to blink water from her eyes. Her hair, which she had carefully braided before leaving her rooms, has tumbled loose, and rebellious strands are plastered to her cheek and brow by the downpour. She is halfway through the bridge, at the point where the going becomes most dangerous, and instead of subsiding as she’d hoped, the storm has picked up strength. The wind clutches at her cloak and tugs her sleeve, seemingly intent on throwing her over the rain-slicked rope railing. Daenerys grasps at the tarred rope hard enough that her hands bruise with the friction, the skin of her palms chafing until it bleeds, thus making her hold all the more precarious. Head lowered to shield her eyes from the rain, she risks another step, but the capricious winds have changed direction, and now blow directly against her, forcing her back.
Losing her footing, Daenerys stumbles, and watches, horror-stricken, as the rope slips from her hands. Sky and raging waves blur into a kaleidoscope of grey against which she shuts her eyes and she loses what little sense of direction she had left, her body stiffening at the thought of the unavoidable embrace that surely awaits her a hundred feet below.
I am the blood of the Dragon! I am Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, Queen of the Six Kingdoms!
You are nothing but a whore. Viserys emerges from the dark recesses of her mind, voice dripping venom. Come join me, dear sister.
But the stinging bite of Pyke’s cold waters never comes. Strong arms catch her instead, and she is pulled into a warm, lean body, Yara’s familiar scent reaching her nose a moment later.
“I’d come to escort you to the Great Hall, my Queen.” Thanks to the alpha’s help, Daenerys rights herself, but with the bridge bucking worse than an untamed stallion in the storm, she is in no hurry to release the death-grip she has achieved on Yara’s forearm. For her part, the woman doesn’t seem to mind, favoring her with that ever-present smirk which seems to tell the world she is privy to all of its secrets.
Daenerys’s stomach does several funny things then, and while she is hasty to attribute the rush of blood inside her ears to the danger she incurred, her body tells a different story.
A different kind of tension now pervades her limbs, and goosebumps travel along her arms, but – instead of chills - along with them comes warmth.
“Good thing you did.” Praying that her cheeks aren’t afire like the rest of her body, Dany inclines her head in gratitude. Yara shrugs like her act is of no consequence, then a heartbeat later, her hard eyes fill, quite unexpectedly, with genuine concern.
“You are soaked.”
The wind almost manages to snatch the words away before Daenerys hears them, but - somehow - they reach her ears. The tone – roughened by worry, yet as languid as a lover’s caress – coupled with a hint of double meaning, is enough to send heat shooting down between her legs. Dany swallows back a gasp, her entire body now on fire, and the chasm below their feet is completely forgotten.
Seconds later, she’s sucking in another breath, her lungs struggling to fill up. Yara has stepped closer, far closer than is proper, and is pushing wet hair away from her brow with calloused fingers.
Rooted to the spot by the gesture, Daenerys can only meet Yara’s stare with widened eyes. Softness is something she encountered so rarely in her young life that she doesn’t know how to react, but she glimpses it buried deep within the alpha’s eyes, hidden beneath a veneer of unbreakable blue steel. In a way, it makes her wary: people who had been kind to her often expected favors in return. First, it had been her brother and Illyrio, who had been gentle to her so that she’d follow without protest to the selling block. Her husband, Drogo, had been kind after a fashion, but kindness is not something she is sure Dothraki really understand, perhaps mistaking it for weakness. As for those who had acted hospitably when she had made her way to Slaver's Bay, kindness had only served to conceal the knives poised to strike her in the dark.
But, before she can even think of pulling back, Yara has shrugged out of her cloak and draped it over Dany’s sodden one. The alpha eschewed elegance for practicality, and thus, the garment is simple, unadorned oilcloth, which is far more effective at keeping the rain off.
Without speaking, Yara offers her arm, and she takes the support gladly, allowing the alpha to guide her the way she came, back toward her rooms. It goes without saying that she cannot face the Iron Lords like this, with water dripping down her cheeks and the reek of fear staining her clothes. Queen she may be, but the grip she has on the Iron Throne is anything but stable. While most of the Westerosi nobles had bent the knee quite willingly, Dany is aware that some judge her far too young to hold it. A savage, despite the ancient blood running through her veins. One who brought foreign people and weird customs to their lands. And, despite Yara’s assurance that they will fall in line, the Iron Lords are sharks circling the water, ready to close in at the first whiff of her blood.
The storm shrieks around them, a bank of fog momentarily shrouding the castle’s towers, making it appear they are walking on thin air. Only the bridge exists, and Yara’s solid presence at Dany’s side. She risks a downward glance, but the sea has vanished, too; a wall of unbroken grey hiding it from view. She can only hear it, the crashing of the waves somewhat dampened by the thick mist.
She’d faced an army of the dead, thrown herself atop Drogo’s pyre to be reborn in fire - yet, were she alone right now, she would be paralyzed by terror. There is something inevitable about this sea, each roaring wave telling of a reckoning that, eventually, will catch up to her. Daenerys can’t escape it, but with Yara’s scent enveloping her, she can push past her fears.
The alpha smells of salt and leather, wood smoke and tar – strong, honest scents that had once made Daenerys’s nose itch, but now strangely remind her of the house with the red door and the lemon tree growing right outside her window. For a time, in Pentos, she had briefly known peace; and now, pressed against Yara’s frame, she finds relief from the storm.
Yara’s other hand covers hers briefly, fingers slick with rain, and as a sudden weakness numbs her legs, Daenerys gasps again and hopes the peals of thunder crashing in the space between the fortress’s towers will wash away the sound. Fervent prayers crossing her thoughts, she thanks whatever Gods are listening that they are at the end of the bridge, because she doesn’t think she could survive another step on the ever-moving wood.
Yara’s touch is warm, but fleeting; so much so that Daenerys could believe to have imagined it. As they hurry back inside the tower, their eyes meet, however, and the hunger shadowing the alpha’s gaze is unmistakable.
Rainwater drenches her from head to toe, yet Dany’s throat feels like a desert when she swallows.
Re-entering the tower brings reprieve: in one, last-ditch effort to reach them, the wind almost rips the door from Yara’s grasp, but she leans her entire weight into the well-oiled hinges, and with finality, shuts the storm outside.
“There is no getting to the Great Hall until the storm abates now,” she comments, peering through a nearby arrowslit. “The bridges are too dangerous. It would not surprise me if the sea washed some of the oldest ones away.”
One glance outside tells Daenerys she’s right: the fog has been blown away, and the spectacle that greets her is blood-curdling. The highest waves she’s ever seen boil against the tower’s base, and what she can glimpse of the rope bridge they just recrossed seems to have come alive. If it felt like she was riding a wild horse when she was walking it, now it reminds her of a snake, writhing and coiling as the gale toys with it.
A few more moments, and the Drowned God would have claimed us both.
Dany shivers, causing Yara to shift close enough that they are brushing shoulders. Hands curling into shaky fists at her sides, it’s all Dany can do to stop herself from reaching for the woman’s hand. She aches to, but it would not do to appear weak, not even to one of those she trusts the most.
They climb back to Dany’s rooms in silence, the quiet broken only by the occasional drip-drip of water on the stone floor. She climbs much faster than she descended: what heat she felt at Yara’s nearness has dispersed, and shivers rake her spine, the wool of her clothes itching as it tries to dry on her.
Yara follows closely enough that Daenerys can feel the heat of her body against her back. She welcomes it, just as she welcomes the alpha’s help in rekindling every brazier in her room.
Even with the coal’s glow and that of a fire hissing away inside the bedroom’s narrow hearth, there’s scarcely light to see by. Sheets of rain all but obscure the outside view, raindrops as big as Daenerys’s thumb pelting the ill-fitting glass casings. The sky is midnight-black, white-green lightning occasionally slicing through the darkness.
Without waiting for Yara to turn away, Daenerys goes to stand in front of the hearth and begins to disrobe, eager to be out of clothes that rain has turned as heavy on her shoulders as a sack of stones.
Recalling the hunger that ruffled the deep blue-grey of the alpha’s eyes, Dany almost expects her to ogle, but when she shoots her a look - to catch her at fault - she finds Yara facing the other way. She almost wishes the woman was staring: tension, not unlike that gathered by the storm, has thickened the air between them, and it feels untenable to breathe.
It doesn’t escape her, however, how the salt in the Ironborn’s scent has sharpened. It excites her, almost violently so, and another kind of wetness starts to drip down the inside of her thighs.
In her haste to undress, Daenerys almost rips the buttons off of her bodice, the small, mother-of-pearl orbs so slicked by rain, she has a hard time working them loose. Finally she manages, and since they are stuck here for the time being, she recovers her nightgown, and pulling a fur from the stack piled on her bed, she drapes it around her shoulders for good measure.
“You should get out of those leathers and warm by the fire.” She is keenly aware of how her offers sounds, but sharing such close quarters with the alpha is somehow making her bolder. “You are as wet as I.”
“Not quite like that.”
Finally, Yara turns and, this time, her expression leaves no room for misinterpretation. Daenerys finds herself taking her in without restraint, and as her gaze comes to rest on the sizeable bulge tenting the front of the alpha’s breeches, heat suffuses every inch of her body.
But Yara doesn’t close in the way she did on the bridge. She waits, her lazy almost-smile firmly in place, for Dany to make the first move.
Surprising herself, she does.
She glides her way across the floor as if she were at court, the frazzled fur she picked up from the bed trailing behind her like the most precious silk. If the shock that streaks across Yara’s face is anything to go by, the alpha is as surprised as Dany feels. She never thought she’d want someone this ardently after Drogo, and she had taken plenty of lovers in her bed since. But, always, they turned out to want far more than she could - or would - give, some even going so far as to try and take her sons away from her.
Should he see her now, Jorah would clamor that the Greyjoy heir is no different, but Yara pledged her fleet and her allegiance when Dany had been at her weakest.
And, when she had offered her support and confirmed Yara’s right to the Salt Throne, the woman had bent the knee in front of her entire court, and sworn on salt and iron she would follow her to the edges of the sea and well beyond if need be.
Hunger for conquest had burned inside her then, and a similar appetite consumes her now as they lock stares. And, perhaps, that is why Dany trusts her most: Yara never made a mystery of the appetites that drive her.
She walks the remainder of the distance almost hurriedly, afraid that her newfound courage will desert her if she hesitates. She keeps on walking, and Yara has no choice but to stumble back in a dance that ends with her back pressed to the stone wall. There, fingers grasping fistfuls of the alpha’s tangled hair to guide her face down, full of demand, Daenerys kisses her.
She may have caught the alpha by surprise, but it lasts only for a moment.
Thunder roars right outside the bedroom’s window, a rumble so deep that the entire tower shakes under her feet, and the sound is enough to rouse Yara from her stupor.
Her hands are cold against Daenerys’s cheeks, clammy with rain. She kisses back, and the first brush of her lips is almost chaste. There’s a soft sigh - Dany can’t tell whether it came from her or Yara - followed by the first, exploratory flicker of the alpha’s tongue, tracing her lower lip.
Eager for more, Daenerys allows her entry, and when the alpha slips into her mouth, she gets lost in the heat of it all. She’s distantly aware of the storm - the walls are thick, but fail to blot out the furious crashing of the waves against the tower’s base - but cannot bring herself to care. The only thing Dany is truly aware of is Yara; her slender, calloused fingers trailing along her jaw, the alpha’s leather armor which digs into her body as they press closer.
Yara’s tongue slides against hers, and Dany draws her in deeper, sucking lightly. She hears another moan - this time it’s definitely Yara - and her lower belly coils with heat.
The alpha’s mouth tastes of sage and salt - which is what the Ironborn usually use to clean their teeth - but underneath, Dany detects a different taste. An almost feral tang, and as Yara sucks her tongue back into her mouth, rough and demanding, the heat that gathered inside her belly expands rapidly outward, incinerating everything in its path.
She’s never felt this kind of heat before - not coming from within. It reminds her of Drogo’s pyre at the edge of the desert, the orange flames licking at her naked flesh with hunger as they parted to embrace her. That heat had been almost unbearable, even for one who had fire in her blood, and under the onslaught, every hair on her body had flashed to ash. The flames raging inside her now, however, threaten to set her very soul on fire.
She and Yara break away from the kiss at the same time, panting for breath. The alpha’s eyes are fevered, their color somehow warmer. Not a wintry sea any longer, hard and grey and unforgiving, but the blue-green of melting ice in spring. Yara stares at her wide-eyed and disbelieving, and Dany catches a glimpse of her own reflection in her gaze.
The desire she sees etched on her own face scares her a little. It is the same look she sometimes glimpses in Ser Jorah’s eyes when he stares, thinking that she won’t notice. In those moments, he looks blind to everything but her, as if Daenerys were the sole focus of his world.
She is looking at Yara the same way now, but isn’t scared by how fast the alpha is making her heart race. Rather it is the raspy, dust-filled voices of the Undying, echoing in her ears. Daenerys closes her eyes against their cruel words of prophecy, but that only makes things worse. For a moment, she’s back in Qarth, inside a house which has no exits, where all the hallways lead to ruin.
Certainly I have endured enough. Certainly…
Yara’s hand lands on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.
“I’m alright.” Daenerys reassures her, hoping her voice won’t betray the doubt and terror twisting in her gut. Yara nods, but her brow remains furrowed.
“Take me to bed.” Rubbing herself against Yara’s front, Daenerys crashes their mouths together again, her command punctuated by the sinking of white teeth into Yara’s bottom lip. At the same time, her hand drops between their bodies, fingers splaying over the alpha’s generous bulge.
Yara groans, hips stuttering forward, a veil of lust descending over her eyes.
Make me forget, Dany wants to tell her as she’s backed toward the bed. Her fears and ghosts, and all of the betrayals she had suffered. Perhaps she’ll tell Yara about it, but later, after the alpha has filled her belly with her seed, and certainly once the storm has passed.
Thunder crashes around the tower again, as if on cue, and Daenerys suffocates a yelp into the alpha’s collarbone. The foul weather is unsettling enough on its own, without tales of prophecy and doom.
Thinking about them is enough to make her cold, despite the furs still wrapped around her slender shoulders. Despite the braziers that burn at each corner of the room and plunge it in the gold and russet hue of a dragon’s throat.
If a moment ago it was Yara pushing her toward the bed, now it is Daenerys tugging her to it, desperately so. Their mouths meet again and again, heat blossoms on their lips and they moan - in unison this time - the noises they make a perfect counterpoint to the maelstrom outside.
Yara trembles against her, uninterrupted growls and whimpers falling from her mouth. Or maybe it’s Daenerys shaking like a piece of flotsam tossed by wind-whipped waves at the alpha’s barely contained strength.
Then, her patience obviously at an end, Yara cups fierce hands underneath her quaking thighs and lifts her, carrying her the rest of the way to the bed.
Dany falls back into the bed, her descent softened by the nest of wolf and bear pelts the servants piled on it for her comfort.
She can only lie there, panting and unmoving as she stares transfixed into the alpha’s eyes, her thighs sticky with arousal and already parted.
A gust of wind more violent than the others rattles the window panes, managing to sneak past the old, cracked glass. Gelid drafts raise goosebumps on Dany’s skin, causing her to gasp and burrow deeper into the furs, but although she’s still in her wet clothes, Yara seems immune. She never felt this cold before - not even past the Wall - but she’s starting to believe this is no ordinary storm.
Lightning arcs outside, and some of its energy seems to have gathered between them. Sparks fly in each shared breath, and little shocks travel from where Yara is still holding her thighs.
The winds cry out as loud as Viserion had done when the Night King’s spear struck true, and Dany has to shut her eyes again, her eyelids like a paper barrier against the horror of her loss.
When she reopens them, the fire is down to struggling embers, and only intermittent lightning brightens the room.
Above her, Yara hasn’t moved. With hair still dripping rain and eyes as black as the sea at midnight, she truly looks like a creature of the sea. One of the sirens the servants in Pentos used to whisper of when the waters outside the city’s harbor were turned jet-black by summer storms. It was said that a siren’s song could make one forget the saddest moments of their lives, like they had never existed, and Dany opens her arms to the alpha, welcoming the thought.
Make me forget. Again, she manages to swallow the words back. Barely.
The servants also mentioned that, after coupling, sirens devoured those they had attracted to the water, but Daenerys chooses not to dwell on that.
Having witnessed the rough, savage way in which Ironborn fuck during one of the many feasts they had organized in her honor, Dany expects Yara will make swift work of the strings holding her breeches closed and mount her without much preamble. She hadn’t been shocked, nor offended when, in the midst of a banquet, one of Yara’s rowdiest deckhands had grabbed a passing serving woman by the waist and kissed her as deeply as the alpha had been kissing her just now, while groping her underneath her petticoats.
The groping had quite quickly turned to public sex - with the feast going on around the pair as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening - and at the memory of it, heat invades her cheeks. Some of the mainland lords accompanying her had grumbled, but Yara had shrugged away the disapproving stares with one of her usual half-smiles.
“What do you wish me to do, my lords? The two fools are betrothed.” Dany had been listening with only half an ear, too caught up in a fantasy of her own devising. In her mind’s eye, it was her, bent face down on the wooden table, and Yara fucking her cunt for the entire court to see.
Instead, the alpha seems bent on surprising her.
One hand pressed firmly against Daenerys’s pelvis, she pushes her thin nightgown out of the way with the other before descending - open mouthed and starved-looking - between her legs.
Lips ghost over the quivering planes of Dany’s stomach, making her clench down below - around nothing - then Yara’s mouth finds her core, and Dany’s eyes roll back into her skull.
The alpha’s nimble tongue is everywhere: one moment it draws tight circles around her clit until it’s teased out of its hood and throbbing in time with Dany’s heart. The next Yara is drinking of the slick flowing from her opening, tongue darting in and out of her until she is screaming herself hoarse begging for more.
Meanwhile, the alpha’s hands do not stay idle.
Fully knowing that Daenerys is too caught up in her own pleasure to try and wiggle away, she slides both hands under the nightgown, fingers clawing at flushed skin as they rapidly ascend toward the heft of her breasts.
Dany whimpers, her own hands flailing for something, anything to hold on. She grasps a fistful of Yara’s hair, eliciting a muted growl against her inner thigh, but that only makes her tighten her grip.
She can’t do otherwise, hips bucking desperately as she smears herself all over Yara’s mouth and chin. She feels weightless, on the verge of falling just like she had been on the bridge, and only the alpha’s mouth and hands anchor her to the bed.
Release catches her completely off guard. A heartbeat before it breaks over her, Dany is writhing into the furs, back desperately arched as she offers herself to Yara’s skillful tongue. Then her body stiffens and, toes curled against the bed, she comes, lightning brighter than that streaking the sky descending over her eyes.
It takes several minutes for her vision to return, and when it does, Yara is staring down at her, mouth curved in satisfaction. Dany’s fingers scrabble weakly at the front of the alpha’s leather jerkin, her throat too dry to form word, but Yara gets the gist of it and, bending down, gently captures her lips.
Daenerys never imagined that tasting her own sweet musk mingled with the salt of the alpha’s mouth would be so arousing.
This kiss is different, less frenzied and more languid than their last. Yara’s fingers wind with hers, and guide Daenerys’s hands to the rain-slicked clasps that hold her leathers in place. Undressing the alpha is no easy feat, humidity has soaked into the leather and rendered in unyielding, but she relishes the task.
They end up sitting cross legged on the furs during the process, and Yara never stops touching her either, wonder clear on her face.
“What is it?” Daenerys asks at last, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.
“It’s just…” The alpha wets her lips, eyes trained on the curve of Daenerys’s shoulder. Her fingers draw lazy paths on Dany’s skin - somehow she’s managed to push the nightgown all the way down to her navel, thus baring most of her body - and the insistent caresses make it hard to concentrate.
“Just...what?” Dany has made some progress of her own, and grasps one of Yara’s dusky nipples between thumb and forefinger, twisting harshly.
“Ah!” Yara presses into her touch, then swats at her hand - but playfully - and the frown shadowing her brow is naught but posturing. Then, her eyes turn pensive.
“We heard stories of you during the war. Before you set sail for the continent. How you stood in fire and came out of it unburned.” She smiles, and her hands palm the heft of Dany’s breasts. Her touch is reverent. “I confess I didn’t believe then. Tall tales, I called them. But now I do.”
“What changed?” The arousal pooling underneath her on the bed is momentarily forgotten.
“When we sought shelter from the storm, you were chilled to the bone. As cold as death. But now you burn.” Yara takes her hands away and, turning them palm up, lifts them to her face. From her expression, it’s clear she anticipates the skin to have been blackened and fissured by the heat.
“It almost hurts to touch you,” she admits, and Dany has to strain to hear the words.
“But you have done so, nonetheless,” she replies, just as quietly.
“I am Ironborn.” Pride straightens Yara’s spine, and lightning highlights the stubborn curve of her jaw. “We are not easily scared, not even by dragons.”
“Well, then.” The last bits of Yara’s clothing falling finally away, Daenerys lies back down and beckons her forward. “There are fires inside me that need quenching. That is, if you feel up to it?”
The only reply she gets is Yara’s lean, muscular body draping over hers.
It would not surprise her if the alpha turned her around to fuck her, the same way she had imagined her doing that night at the feast. There is a part of her that craves it, and following that urge, Daenerys shifts, eager to push up on her knees and present her ass.
“No.” Yara shakes her head, strands of damp hair whipping against Dany’s cheek. “I want to see you come this time.”
Dany makes to protest, but a soft, vulnerable light has entered Yara’s eyes. The request, she realizes, is how close Yara is willing - or able - to come to actual pleading. It must not be easy, for somebody like her to show her softer side, and Daenerys feels honored. To the girl inside the house with the red door, living like this would have been unimaginable, but Dany understands. Showing weakness is something that people like her and Yara can’t afford.
She keeps these thoughts to herself, aware that bringing attention to the intrinsic plea would shame the alpha, and contents herself with a brief, wordless nod.
Framing Yara’s face between her hands, she draws her in until the alpha’s forehead is resting against hers, their eyes level. This close, she can pick out gentle-swirling flecks of gold among the blue, and following their dance, Daenerys drowns.
“Please,” she breathes against Yara’s lips, the word flowing liquid from her tongue. For once, Dany decides, she can beg for them both.
She tries to keep eye contact, but Yara’s stiffness is grinding against her reddened cunt, and with each pass, her eyelids threaten to flutter shut.
“Please,” Daenerys begs again, and Yara drapes her legs over her hips before sinking forward, ever so slowly. Daenerys’s folds part in welcome, and as the blunt head of Yara’s cock pushes into her opening, she goes limp onto the bed, her spine like running wax.
The alpha is not as big as some of the other lovers Daenerys has taken over the years, but that makes her no less skilled. Aided by the overabundance of slick, Yara sheathes within her easily, and each of the following strokes have her walls rippling avidly around the alpha’s thickness.
The pace is slow and steady, like that of waves licking the shore during a doldrums, but with each thrust, Yara reaches deep, and Daenerys finds herself on the verge of a second climax much earlier than she expected.
“Breed me!” she whimpers into the alpha’s ear, and takes the lobe into her mouth, tugging with her teeth.
“ Fuck .” Yara’s perfect rhythm falters, her hips picking up speed. “Fuck, Dany .”
Jon Snow calling her that had made Daenerys grit her teeth. She’d reprimanded him, telling him no one save Viserys had ever used the name, and he’d apologized for the offense. Obviously, he had not understood.
There had been a time - Daenerys remembers it dimly, like a dream - before madness had taken root inside her brother and made him vicious, when he’d sit her on his lap to tell her of the land that belonged to them by right. She had been very young then, barely able to walk, and baby fat still clung to Viserys’ cheeks. He had been kinder then, before a life of running for their lives turned his heart to stone and lesser men poisoned him with ambition.
He would call her “Dany,” and the smiles he had for her were radiant.
She finds that same warmth in Yara’s voice and, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, Daenerys seeks refuge against her chest.
“Yara!” She wants to beg again, but emotion chokes the words out of her lungs.
The alpha roars her name again and starts to shake, hips pressed firmly against hers. To her credit, Yara attempts to pick up the pace again, but her thrusts are now shallow and erratic. She is close, and the same pressure Dany feels tugging at her belly is throwing her off of her rhythm.
Before much longer, she’s huffing into Dany’s neck, little groans and whines vibrating against her throat. Dany’s hands are splayed on the alpha’s heaving back, and her nails leave trails of red as she urges her on. Faster, harder.
When she comes, it is the force of Yara’s seed spilling into her womb that pulls her along. There’s too much cum, and no knot to hold it in place; it overflows, making a mess of the furs beneath them and her belly.
The alpha pounds forward one last time before collapsing on her chest, utterly spent. Dany feels the same, like she can only lie panting on the bed, arms draped loosely around her alpha lover.
But, even though the storm is still trying to bring the entire fortress down on their heads, for the first time in a long while, she feels at peace.
“I can’t give you pups.”
Dany breaks the silence, hours later.
Eyes fixed to the ceiling, she is stroking Yara’s hand while the alpha seems intent on mapping every inch of her breasts with her mouth. This kind of relaxed intimacy is something new: Drogo would always leave her bed as soon as his cock softened, and Daario would stay, but fill the air with empty platitudes, mostly about himself.
Yara stops what she’s doing and noses up her throat.
“I can’t give you pups,” Dany repeats patiently, making sure to enunciate the words more clearly.
Outside, the rain has stopped. Thunder occasionally rumbles in the distance, but Daenerys knows that soon enough, the sun will pierce the clouds and they will have to leave this refuge for the Main Hall and the other Lords.
“So?” Yara sits up and stretches, smiling when she feels Daenerys’s eyes on her. “You are the Queen. Put the word out that you are seeking wards, and the Lords will race over one another to send you their children to foster. Should one of them not be an imbecile, make them King when you get tired of ruling. Or Queen.”
“You wouldn’t want your line to inherit the throne?” Yara raises an eyebrow in question. “If I married you,” Daenerys adds. She wishes she could take the words back, not because she doesn’t mean them, but for fear Yara will laugh.
“I would marry you.” It’s disconcerting how quickly the alpha can shift from jest to seriousness. “But I don’t care for the Iron Throne. My father cared, and it almost cost us everything.”
Dany tries to ignore the way her heart hammers against her chest, but fails.
“Or you could have a Kingsmoot like we do. Have the Lords argue who is the best to lead,” the alpha comes to her rescue.
“Won’t that lead to war?”
“It might.” Yara shrugs her shoulders. “Or not. The thing is...” She lies back down, her hand trailing the curves and dips of Dany’s nakedness. “You can be a just ruler and a fair one, but what people do with the legacy you leave behind is not your responsibility.”
“That’s… bleak,” Daenerys admits, a bit disheartened.
“Yes.” Yara’s smile is as radiant as her brother’s once was. Before his thirst for power and the madness. “But that has never stopped you from trying.”
“As for giving you children.” The smile turns into the lazy, all-knowing smirk Dany loves so well. “I’m happy to try as many times as it takes, if you’re willing.” The alpha’s womanhood is already stiff against her thigh, and Dany’s hips jerk in response.
“But, Lord Blacktyde…” Her voice is high and breathy. Needy.
Yara snorts and shakes her head.
“With the crosswinds, it’ll be a couple hours before his ship pulls into port. Besides. You are the Queen. You have the right to make people wait.”
Then, the alpha’s nimble fingers return to her cunt, gathering slick and cum as they descend towards her opening, and whatever words of protest Daenerys may have thought to utter are forgotten.