Missandei isn't quite sure when it started. Perhaps it had been on the day that Yunkai surrendered its slaves, when Daenerys Targaryen had smiled that radiant, wondrous smile as the freedmen lifted her on their shoulders and named her their Mother. Perhaps it was the day the Khaleesi had given vile Astapor a taste of the steel beneath her silk, razing the city from within in one fell swoop. Perhaps, even, that spark been lit from the very beginning, when the silver-haired queen had freed her from Master Kraznys, becoming the first to show her true kindness in so very many years.
For the longest time, she has been trying to tell herself that it is gratitude she is feeling, gratitude and admiration. But does gratitude explain why thoughts of the silver queen, of her magnificence and beauty, occupy her more and more every day? Is it admiration that makes her want to touch her, embrace her and more? Missandei is no fool. But neither can she believe the intensity of her own thoughts.
Today is worse than ever.
They are in one of the inner chambers of the Great Pyramid of Meereen. Daenerys is seated on a simple yet comfortable chair, with her Hand, Barristan Selmy, standing behind and to her right. Several Unsullied line the walls, standing stiffly to attention. Missandei herself is standing demurely to the queen's left, trying, and failing, to keep track of the conversation. Though the audience in the throne room has been over for over an hour now, Queen Daenerys is speaking to one of the Meereenese noblemen, something about taxes and trade routes and the possibility of a pit fight or two. Missandei is glad that this one is not one of the few who insist on speaking pure Ghiscari instead of Low Valyrian. She doubts that she would be capable of any translating now.
Daenerys' lips are curved in that remarkable half-smile of hers. It is a polite smile, faintly amused, as if at a jape that only she knows of. Beneath it, though, lies a promise of fire and blood.
The Meereenese lord – for the life of her, she cannot recall his name – has noticed it as well. Though the queen's air is cool and she has spoken little, he looks uneasy, wary. As if he were treading in a sleeping dragon's lair. It is remarkable what a simple curve of the lips can accomplish.
Idly, a part of her wonders what it would feel like to kiss those lips.
She mentally kicks herself.
"Your Radiance." The Ghiscari drops to one knee. Apparently, the petition has ended. Missandei notes, with some small satisfaction, that he looks none too pleased.
Queen Daenerys graciously inclines her head in return, then raises her hand. "Please accompany our guest to the Plaza," she instructs the Unsullied guards. As one, the impassive, helmeted soldiers march to the middle of the room, forming a tight, perfect square around the petitioner. They slam the buts of their spears on the ground in a wordless salute, then turn smartly about. The Ghiscari turns with them, and he is escorted out.
With the chamber empty save for the three of them, Daenerys relaxes a little. "They are getting more troublesome every day," she dryly remarks to her Hand. A thought seems to occur to her, and she gives a subdued chuckle. "Perhaps I should take to wearing Qartheen dresses more often. I might find them more compliant." Ser Barristan smirks a little at that. He replies, but Missandei is too distracted to hear, feeling as if someone had released an entire flock of Naathi butterflies in her stomach. The vision of Daenerys Targaryen spending entire days with one of her perfect breasts bared has banished every other thought from her mind.
Finally getting a hold of herself, she averts her gaze, cheeks burning. Stop it! she reprimands herself. Stop it, stop it, stop it! I am a good sl- a good servant. A good servant does not think such thoughts about her queen. A good servant serves her queen and pays no mind to her own desires. Reassured by that assertion, she dares glance up again. The queen is sighing, closing her eyes and rubbing the back of her neck with a faint grimace. A good servant would rub the ache from her muscles and kiss her and stroke her and make her feel like the queen she is.
No, no, NO! A new wave of heat rushes through her body. She fights the urge to shake her head or smack herself. Rarely has she been so grateful for her experience as slave and translator to the Good Masters. Her face, at least, she can keep under control.
"What do you think?" It takes her several moments to realize that the question had been directed at her.
"Hm, wha-? Oh!" She shakes herself back into reality, her mind whirling desperately to keep up. "S-sorry, y-y-your Grace, I-I don't... I mean, I didn't... Didn't hear." She bows her head, frightfully embarrassed. "Forgive me."
Daenerys smiles reassuringly, clearly making little of it. Does that mean she hasn't noticed what a state I'm in? Please let it be so! "I asked whether you had any thoughts about dealing with the Meereenese," the queen says.
"Oh. I, well- the dress seems like a good idea." It's out before she realizes it. Oh, holy gods, did I just say that? Horrified, she claps a hand over her mouth, as if that could force the errant words back inside.
Daenerys tosses her head back and laughs a warm, silvery laugh. Even Ser Barristan chuckles. Cheeks well and truly aflame, Missandei frantically shakes her head. "Nononono! It's not- well, it is, but- I didn't mean to offend..." She bites her lip, desperately searching for some words, any words, that will salvage the situation. "I just... I-I am sorry, your Grace. No, I d-don't know. How to deal with them." She averts her eyes again, wishing with all her heart that Drogon the Black would fly in and devour her on the spot.
"Missandei?" Her queen's voice, so unbelievably sweet and kind, is tinged with concern. "Are you all right? I was only laughing. Is there something wrong?"
Still avoiding Daenerys' violet gaze, Missandei stammers out an answer. "N-no, I mean, yes, b-but..." She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "It's warm, the air, I... I believe I need some fresh air. By your leave, your Grace."
Daenerys acquiesces, and the Naathi scribe flees the Dragon Queen's chambers, mortified to the bone.
Nightfall does not bring her any respite. On the contrary. During the day, at least, she has her duties as scribe and handmaiden to keep her occupied. Now, as Missandei lies alone in the dark, there is nothing to distract her from vivid thoughts of silver hair, violet eyes and smooth, hot skin. She has always been a fairly sound sleeper, even as a slave in Astapor, but now sleep eludes her.
She tosses and turns, shifting back and forth and back again, but she takes care to make as little noise as she possibly can. She is well aware of the presence only one room away.
Daenerys.
Almost of their own accord, her hands find their way between her legs. She stifles a small gasp at the twinge of pleasure her first touch elicits. She rubs again over warmth and wetness, slower this time. Heat blossoms in her underbelly and on her cheeks. Yes. She needs this. She needs this badly.
Gently, hesitantly, she starts up a rhythm for herself. She takes each deep, shivering breath with measured slowness, careful not to make a single sound. Her pleasure deepens, making her close her eyes, and suddenly, it is Daenerys' hand down there, and Daenerys' voice whispering in her ear, and-
No. She stops abruptly, though her body cries out for her not to. No, I shouldn't do that.
And why not? another part of her answers.
It isn't right. She's my queen, it isn't right to imagine her like that.
Isn't it? She won't know, will she? No one will.
But... Feverishly, the dutiful part of her looks for reasons she is sure exist, but the clamor of her desire drowns it all out. Missandei is only a young girl, and knows little of the ways of war, but she realizes that she has lost this battle with herself. She touches herself again.
Yes. Her eyes flutter shut, and there is Daenerys again, blood of the dragon in all her glory. Missandei's rhythm quickens. She imagines how those violet eyes would darken, how a pink glow would spread over that fair face, how their sighs and gasps would mingle as they lifted each other to ever greater heights. The fantasy sends dark thrills through her body, which combine with the sweet pleasure of her own touch into something beyond description.
She draws it out as long as she can, but eventually, the tension in her reaches its breaking point. White light explodes behind her eyes as her climax hits her. She arches her back, biting her lip against the moan of release. A final wave of ecstasy rushes through her, bringing with it brief, glorious oblivion. She basks in its glory, but all too soon, it fades.
Gently, she allows herself to drop to the mattress, slowly releasing the breath she had been holding all that time. Her frantic heartbeat gradually begins to slow, returning bit by tiny bit to a state of rest. Her entire body is damp with sweat, making the sheets cling to her, but she is too tired, too satisfied, to care.
Exhausted, she quickly drifts off to sleep.
In her dream, Missandei sits on the back of a flying dragon. The great beast's scales are green as the forest, the spines on its back are the color of polished bronze, and the sound of its wings thunders around her like some great heartbeat. With exhilarating force, the wind rushes past, whipping around her face and through her hair. On the horizon, a magnificent sunset – or sunrise, perhaps – paints the sky with colors of fire and blood. Far, far below her, rivers gleam like lines of silver in the dusky red, rugged landscape, and cities glow gold in the twilight.
Two pale, graceful arms are wrapped around her midriff, holding her securely, tightly. Lovingly.