A One or Two Shot, set in Westeros, with Jon Snow leaving Dragonstone and Daenerys not caring.
She watched as they rowed away, and whatever flicker of sadness she may have felt quickly diminished the further the waves took them, much like the ebb of the sea.
Daenerys had chosen her path, and though it was an occasionally brutal one, she needed to allow it to guide her. She was not faint of heart.
"Khaleesi?"
Her gaze fell at her name. She felt less like a Khaleesi at that moment than she had ever done. Even when Drogo was Khal. "Yes?"
"Lord Tyrion was just asking for you."
She nodded, turning to see Missandei smiling at her. "Thank you," she said. "Walk with me, won't you?"
Her counselor fell into step next to her. "What troubles the Queen?"
"I'm not a Queen, Missandei. Not yet."
"You are to those whom you rule."
She smiled at her. "What did you think of the King of the North?"
"Not much."
"No? Why do you object to him?"
"I don't object to him. I've just known men like him."
Daenerys paused at this. "Have you?"
"Oh, yes. If you look closely, you can see ghosts of many men in his face. He's very noble, yes. But that can be foolish. And he doesn't know what he wants," Missandei looked at her. "And that, my Queen, is dangerous."
"He claims he wants peace. He wants to fight the Night King…"
They entered the fortress. "Yes…but that is his immediate concern. I'm referring to what he wants afterwards. That is less clear. Probably because he has no idea who he is," and they walked through a long passageway.
Daenerys wished that she had some recollection of the place. Something that made it familiar to her ears, or eyes…even the scent of it was foreign. "Who knows who they are, really?"
"I can think of a few people," and Missandei opened the map room door. "I have brought her, Ser."
"Ah, Missandei. Thank you," Tyrion greeted her from the chair by the hearth.
"Brought me, have you?" Daenerys looked crookedly at her. "I am not brought by many."
"No, perhaps guided is a better term," Tyrion sounded impatient. "But, while we are arguing semantics, Westeros is in shambles. Let's discuss these matters, if you will," he proffered his hand and Daenerys sat across from him.
She heard the door close with a click. "So," she rubbed her palms on her thighs, the thick woolen material soft against them. "Westeros is in shambles, hm? What do you propose we do about it?"
"Cersei is going to be desperate. We should wait to strike a day or two. Any immediate retaliation will be severe. Give her men the chance to desert her."
She looked at him crookedly. "What makes you certain that they will?"
"There is little likelihood that Jaime will stay with her while she is unraveling. He still believes that she can be saved, but that will soon be dismissed by him. Cersei cannot be. And Jaime is no fool."
Daenerys sighed. She looked into the hearth at the smoldering fire. She wanted to be warmer…and part of her missed Essos. "It's cold here."
"Winter is coming," he paused, smiling. "So said Ned Stark."
"What of the Starks of the North?"
His face fell. "I'm sorry?"
"What is your opinion of them?"
Tyrion shrugged. "They're a good sort."
"Noble?"
"If you like."
She smirked a touch. "I have no designs on Ned Stark's bastard son, the King of the North. But I feel as though we are destined to work together, so I need to know what I am dealing with."
"I never said that you held anything untoward relating to Jon Snow. But he is full young, and I do not mean his age."
"What do you mean, then?"
Tyrion took a long drought of his wine and looked at her. She was lovely, to be sure. He had felt more than one pang regarding her; and whores? The mere thought was more than abhorrent to him. It was absolutely repulsive. She had a hold on him, and he didn't like it. He needed to be as formal as possible.
Because there was absolutely no chance that Daenerys Targaryen would ever consider him as anything other than her advisor. And he was in danger of losing that, as well.
"I mean that is ill versed in the ways of the world."
"Ill versed?" she chuckled.
"I fail to see what's funny, Daenerys."
"It's a funny way to put it. There are many ways of the world, and who can be said to be well versed in most?"
"I am."
She looked at him very deliberately. Yes. Tyrion Lannister was likely more wise than most. "And is your understanding from your extensive reading, or is it from living in the world?"
"Both, I imagine," he poured more wine.
"It is a lacking Hand who neglects to offer his Queen some of his drink," she eyed the wine.
"Apologies," and he immediately poured her some.
Daenerys sipped long. "You think I made a mistake sacking the harvest."
"You did what you deemed the right thing."
"You disapprove."
"I do not, but I wish you would have listened to my advice more earnestly, rather than that of a young King who knows little of diplomacy or political nuance."
"They are your family. I understand that you are concerned. I acted in anger, and now …I feel a bit…humbled in my hubris."
He stared at her a moment. "I have no family," he said, draining and refilling his cup.
Daenerys swallowed. "You do, Tyrion. It does no good to deny them. I attempted that, and it only haunted me, allowing me to see the many connections I had, rather than the differences I tried to highlight."
"What do you mean?"
She smiled very slightly. "I mean that I am a Targaryen. I have a temper and a touch of madness."
"Perhaps we all have a touch of madness," he said softly.
"Some more than others, no doubt."
He raised his glass. "Indeed. And what fools we are to deny it," he sipped.
Daenerys considered him. "Will you always drink?"
"My Queen, that is like asking if I will always breathe, to which I must respond, yes. Until I die."
"But are you so sad?"
"Sadness is not the cause for my drink," he looked at her quizzically.
"What then?"
"Self loathing."
She sighed. "You hate yourself."
"Of course."
Daenerys shook her head and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, cup still in hand. "Why? When there are so many in this world who should, and don't? Why must you hate yourself, when there are those who kill without conscience, who are desperate for some unnamed something…why do good men hate themselves?"
"A good man am I?" he smiled at her. "My lady, you cannot possibly know what it's like to be unwanted," he dropped his eyes at that.
She sat back now, sighing. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure."
"No? Have you always doubted the love of another because you were certain that another could come quite easily and supplant you? Have you doubted the veracity of friends because you think that they pity you? Have you lost the love of those who should love you without question because they believe you to be a hindrance to the family? Have you looked at yourself in a mirror, and turned away because you could not bear to gaze at the reflection a moment longer?" he drank deeply of the wine.
Her eyes had gone wide. She had no idea they had so much in common. "Yes."
"Excuse me?" his brow furrowed.
"Yes. I have done those things. Shall I explain?"
"I …" he was rendered mute.
She stood, and put her cup down on the table, poured herself some more, then walked over to the window gap overlooking the sea. "I loved Drogo, but I had been sold to him. For the first half of our marriage, I wondered nearly every night if someone else more experienced would gain his eye. My friends…I had so few, and still, only a couple whom I trust. Enemies were always everywhere, and I was quite certain that people pitied me. A widow, grieving the loss of her husband and son…and I did not know who to believe. My brother should have loved me, but sold me for the Iron Throne. And when I look at myself," she turned and went back to her seat, sat down, and sipped. "Even now, I wonder who I am looking at. I have a vast amount of titles. I have done some good, but at what cost? Who am I, really? And am I worthy of the loyalty and service of those whom I lead?"
Tyrion was dumbstruck, and stared at his cup.
"So you see, Lord Tyrion. Though it may not be my face that holds my shame, I have it. And it stews beneath my skin."
"I'm sorry. I did not know."
"How could you?" she smiled at him as he looked back up at her. "And your face is not shameful."
"Not to you, perhaps."
"Nor should it be your shame."
"What should, then?"
"I do not know. But I do not see ugliness when I look at you. I see someone who has lived in the world, lost a few times, but survived on his own cunning. I see wisdom," she nodded.
He felt himself blush despite himself. "We are dreadfully off topic, Your Grace."
Daenerys dropped her gaze, then looked at the fire. "Must we?"
"Must we what?"
"Speak of war."
"This is your invasion, Daenerys."
"Dany," she said softly.
"Pardon?"
"Call me Dany," she looked back up at him. "It's been too long since anyone has called me Dany. I have all of these names, but no one calls me that."
"As you like," he nodded.
She smiled, and looked at her hands.
And he was suddenly struck by her youthfulness, and how much of an idealist she was. "What would you care to discuss, Dany?"
"Perhaps we might just allow the conversation to grow organically," she sat back in the chair once more and sipped on the wine. "I tire of rigidity and formality. Can't we just be friends for the night?"
He flashed a smile, worrying about Cersei and King's Landing. "Of course we can. But with my friends we discuss whores and wine," he looked at her for a reaction, but she did not flinch. "So…"
"So what of whores and wine?" she smiled.
"I like them both very much," he returned her smile, and poured out some more.