It was magic. The night, the candles, the air filled with heady incense and distant laughter of Xaro's guests. And Jorah was with his Queen, alone with her in her chamber, with nothing between his longing eyes and her tender breast but the thin veil of transparent turquoise silk. With light behind her her shapely legs and thighs were completely exposed, she might as well have been naked. Damn that Xaro. It was him who had this dress made for her, and she had to accept it to honour her host. And so she spent all day like this, all eyes on her. Many women there wore such fabrics, but what did he care for other women?
Jorah needed all his strength to stay focused on the task at hand and not be enticed by her candle-lit beauty to the point of distraction. What were they talking about? Oh, yes, Xaro, alliances, armies, ships, the whole game of thrones. She was looking at him as her advisor, and he tried really hard to make sense, arguing in favour of care and prudence, pointing out the danger of trusting people too soon. Mustering all the wit he had left, he thought that he was making quite a case, yet Daenerys was inexplicably cross:
"…Do not speak to me like I'm a child!"
A child was, perhaps, the last thing he saw in her, and he cast his eyes down.
"I only want…"
"WHAT do you want?"
Here it was.
What did he want?
He wanted so, so much.
He wanted, in some other life, to welcome her into his great hall as its lady. He wanted to see her gallop along a quiet winter road, brushing gauzy lower branches with her hood and laughing at the snow chilling her burning cheeks, he wanted to best her in this mad chase, pull her off the saddle and roll with her down the snowy slope to that tiny lake, away from the road, so that no one saw them kissing like newlyweds, them, married for ten years at least. He wanted to see her precious laughing face, framed with the finest furs – of course, the ones he had bagged for her himself. And then there would be venison, and mulled wine, and roaring fire, and their eldest son, a blond too pretty for a boy, would kick their door in vain, soon taken away by his tutor, because his lady mother and lord father, sprawled on a bear skin by the fire, were too busy trying to soften each other's moans with hungry kisses.
He wanted to tear Xaro's gift off her perfect body. It was him who should have the right to shower her with gifts, to throw the whole world at her feet, gold, silver, finest pelts, velvets and brocades, exquisite wine, oils and incense, perfect gemstones, coral and pearls. Pearls would look divine next to her luminous skin. He saw a long strand of priceless pink pearls around her neck, wrapped twice and still kissing her stomach, he saw her wearing nothing but those pearls and him making the pea-sized beads roll over her tender nipples, or, better still, hot slippery wet folds hidden between her thighs, causing sighs, and moans, and whimpers. He would tease her to no end, until she would be wild with desire, and then take her with her arms pinned above her head, with that very strand of pearls used as handcuffs. They would both pretend for that fleeting moment that he was no longer her slave ready to obey her every whim, but she was his.
He wanted to take a city for her and return, all covered in blood, to throw the enemy banner beneath her feet. He wanted her to gasp, eyes shining with admiration and awe, and lift her hand to wipe the blood and sweat off his face, and press her parted lips to his in a silent invitation. "There's a beast in every man, and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand". And that beast would take her against a wall, triumphant, without even bothering to shed his clothes and blood stained armour properly, only just enough for their bodies to become one. He once carried her in his arms, she was light as a feather, so he would just tear her dress to shreds with a savage growl, looking her right in the eye, push her chiseled knees apart with his, lift her high up and let her slide down on him, like a sheath on a sword, and she would bite her lip as the cold steel of his armour would press against her hardened nipples, and she would taste blood and sweat on his lips, and their voices, his, rough and husky from barking orders and shouting battle cries, and hers, throaty and lustful, will make this hurried frantic union wilder still, for everyone to hear…
He wanted so much more, but she – she wanted an answer to her question and she wanted it now, her eyes burning with anger and challenge.
"…What do you want? Tell me!"
His heart sank. He would never dare.
"To see you on the Iron throne."