Absence truly made the devoted heart grow heavy in weight, arousing the agitated body with repressed yearning. It burned mostly in the privacy of bleak nights, crackling softly like warm, little fires casting black shadows against the walls of her secluded bed chamber.
Alone and barefoot, Missandei's violet dressing gown-sheer and form fitting- trailed the ground, swishing quietly against the cool gray stone. Her spiralled brown hair was in a modest bun, a few wisp curls dangling upon her thick, sparse brows. She reached her destiny- the window- only to stare out unseeingly and hug her slender arms to her chest, wading off an invisible chill.
It seemed a lifetime. Like years miserably passed by as opposed to endless weeks without notice. So utterly long since they had passionately parted, inflaming and exhausting their curiosities, teaching each other limitless desires. She had been his language tutor and he led her down an uncharted path of tangled sheets and desperate cries.
In the solemn darkness of Dragonstone, Missandei prayed for Grey Worm, her beloved Torgo Nudho's safe return from yet another battle. After all, ages ago, the vicious Sons of the Harpy ambush nearly killed him in Meereen, encouraging the quiet translator to tearfully sit vigil at the Unsullied soldier's side, grasping his cool hand, waiting impatiently for his deep brown eyes to open for her. That made her ultimately realize just how deeply he affected her, beyond giving him private Common Tongue lessons and that daunting moment in the waters when he saw her unclothed body.
He was beautiful to her, a beautiful, once broken man coming to full bloom. She loved his gentle brown eyes, how they lit up in her presence, slowly breaking out of a cold, haunted prison. The shape of his puckered lips fascinated her, the fervent manner they felt pressed against hers. His vulnerability touched her immensely, opened her heart to the alluring possibilities he presented.
They were alike in many ways, stolen, light brown complexions that the hot, gracious sun kissed with affection. Yet she remembered Naath and its large, splendid butterflies, the white sand beaches, her family. He remembered nothing of the Summer Isles, just the diligent, ruthless training, the turning of his mind and body into weaponry, disposability. All she wanted was for him to see that he offered more than what manipulated slavers enforced. He had potential to be one of the greatest men she ever knew.
Now he was ever so faraway, so far that if he were wounded again, she wouldn't be able to linger near his side and hold his hand in comfort.
"Please," she whispered, echoing an old, familiar wish to no one, a coveted wish for no more terrible casualties, his especially. "Keep him unharmed."
She stared at the glittering stars, watched each twinkle as though acknowledging and communally sharing her words. She then turned away and collapsed on her lonely bed. The fine spun linen sheets, graced in lilac color, melded with her violet gown, making her appear like a nymph sinking in draped fabrics. She laid on her side, reflecting on the afternoon words she admitted to her friend, her queen, Daenerys. Missandei slyly inquired about the Unsullied. Daenerys promised Grey Worm's return whilst curious about the nature of their relationship.
"Many things," Missandei remarked, causing mild blushing and clandestine smiling.
The sudden rushed secrets unveiled themselves in her fervent reminisce.
"It is hard to say goodbye to you," Grey Worm said.
"Why?" She asked.
"You know why."
Of course, she did. She wanted him to say the words, to confess in his own way what had been simmering for a while, that sweet, divine temptation that mercifully stung them both senseless. His pensive stares set her ablaze and she knew he was burdened with shyness and shame to initiate.
In his private quarters, a night before he would take morning leave, she came. He spilled honest fears, calling her a weakness, something of which a soldier couldn't afford. She admitted the same.
When he allowed her to fully undress him, nodding at her whispered request, she was careful yet attentive in her removal of his trousers, the barrier of his humiliation. She saw only a lovely body that didn't deserve the castration, skin so warm and full of life. He pleased her very much and she would show him.
She turned over and sighed aloud, her hands remembering his, so unsure and innocent, so anxious and hopeful to touch her. His full, pliant lips and ravenous tongue, however, wetly kissed and laved every exposed part of her, coating her bare skin with erotic liberation. Although they were both inexperienced in this arena, he learned rather quickly. He had her sighing and trembling explicitly until the upcoming dawn shed brilliance on snuffed candles and their sweat sheened bodies.
Someday she would ask him how he knew to bring her to the brink of this ecstasy.
As tired eyelids fell hostage against her cheekbones, her dark, unhibited thoughts waited and her sorrowful body responded to unconstrained longing in both sleep and reality.
/
The Unsullied killed soldiers at Casterly Rock. Yet they were limited, few. Afterwards, it felt deserted.
The Lannisters had obviously been expecting them.
Grey Worm, intuitively irked by the sight of by the trap, took off his helmet, jumped up on the roof edge, and saw the devastating sight ahead.
All of the Unsullied ships were systematically destroyed, fires and smoke rising to the sky, the large wooden particles floating in the abyssal waters, drifting to sandy shore like dismembered bodies.
"Where are the others?" Grey Worm asked a dying soldier. "Where are the Lannisters?"
The soldier said nothing, spitting up more blood, his blue eyes awash with death.
"Do we even have enough food and supplies for the journey, Commander?" Red Snake asked. He was a young, impressionable one, shaved head and sienna skin.
"We will have to ration," Grey Worm replied grimly, not pleased to have his soldiers walking in this nasty cold.
...
At dusk, on the hard ground, with arms folded behind his shaven head, Grey Worm stared above at the navy blue tent roof. He had rested inside these thin, tents millions of times throughout his pragmatic soldier life, been accustomed to their portable temporariness. It seemed that would be his whole destiny, to train, command, fight, and die, no in-between, living in nomadic tents.
Ever since that great day he and his Unsullied comrades became free and they chose him to lead, he became lost to the erratic beating within. After taking off his iron helmet and stepping towards Queen Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains and beloved Missandei from the island of Naath, his hardened heart softened for a titillating beauty whose radiant skin and halo forming curls struck him like a lightning bolt. And she was intelligent, bright, and kind. Those irresistible qualities beckoned him, teased him in thoughts and dreams. She deserved a complete man, a real man. He tried to bury the unexpected brewing, ignore the amorous intensity building slow and steady, but the preciousness of her Common Tongue lessons gave them opportunities to be alone, to revel in each other's intimate presence with a heightened sense of urgency.
The brutally violent Sons of Harpy had almost destroyed everything by first murdering his friend White Rat in a brothel. Missandei sought Grey Worm out specifically to ask about the Unsullied visiting such scandalous places. He was shocked that she inquired knowledge about a private act, that she would come to him specifically. Her undeniable innocence stunned him. He couldn't bear to look into those large, observant eyes, widening with stark curiosity. Oh yes, he over heard his men talking about the acts they indulged there, what soft, perfumed ladies desired. Yet he himself didn't want to share scrupulous details to a sensitive lady like Missandei, the ruler of his heart and mind.
Days later, awakening in excruciating pain, he was surprised and honored by her fearful regard, her obvious compassion. He never would expect her to sit nimbly at his side, her expressive face, captivating in the muted fire's light. Although taken aback, he felt like a failure. His men were dead. Ser Barristan didn't survive. Still, she believed in him, healed him with her sweet words, provided medicine for his impending wounds, his broken spirit. It was then that he admitted fearing that he would never again see her, his beloved Missandei from the island of Naath. She blinked and let out a breathy sound, joined his side, and tenderly kissed him for the first time, drowning any doubts of her unconditional affection. He had been imagining her plush pink mouth forever, torturing himself, idly staring at lush flowers speckled in morning dew, reminders of her impressionable, voluptuously formed mouth. He was by no means a poet. She simply coaxed a hidden part of him to come out into the light and leave strict rigidity behind, transforming him completely.
Now his feelings were requited a thousandfold.
He groaned, fighting against seductive sleep, threatening to keep him captive. If he closed his eyes, she would be there, waiting for him, anxious to repeat their one glorious night together. After the departure, in which he could still taste traces of her succulent essence on his lips like droplets of love letters to remember her by, he tried to suppress his innermost hunger for her, hating that he waited so long to speak his delicate emotions. He could not let his judgment be clouded. That was why he made for a great leader. He had no prior distractions. Until her.
Most of the Unsullied knew, whispering about him and the beautiful translator, immediately quieting their conversations in his stern presence. He didn't like being the source of gossip or her for that matter. She deserved protection.
He turned on his side and pulled the coarse black sheet over him, uncomfortable for many reasons. His eyes closed, weakly succumbing to the power sequestered by his thunderous longing. He remembered how the humble red-orange fires of his new room in Dragonstone glowed perfectly against her dewy naked skin, how his nervous fingers touched her graceful form, how supple and smooth her moist flesh, how his lips and tongue wickedly searched for places to please her, to incite her melodic moans filling the air. Her generous nature gave way to raw sensuality, pleasing his heart and soul. As his fingers massaged her luscious softness and his lips and tongue found piquant nectar that the Naath goddesses had seemingly concocted just for him, he nearly growled, wildly addicted to the introduction of delicious paradise. She encouraged him, parting her limber legs and thighs wider, gasping at his intrusion, and he could not stop, could not get enough. He snuck glances up towards her face, watching her arching back, her hooded eyes, her moistening hair coating her glistening face.
When she turned the tides over, meaning to return favor, her tender hands touched him, explored his skin. As her full lips kissed and suckled everywhere, he knew that the masters didn't take away his capability of experiencing real joy.
He closed his eyes then, seeing her smile, hearing her laughter, and found a needed peace.
"I will come back to you, Missandei from the island of Naath," he vowed.
/
A month later, Missandei woke from a terrifying nightmare, viciously shaking at the sharp ache that suddenly filled her, piercing everything inside like pointed daggers. Sweat beaded her forehead and lightly dampened her curls.
"Torgo Nudho," she whispered, placing a hand over her panicked heart.
Something was wrong.