[A/N: We've been writing together for a little while, but this is our first time really dipping into GoT. It's definitely new territory for us, and we're grateful for any feedback. Thank you so much for taking the time to read, and we hope you all enjoy!]
Chapter One: Broken Horse
Standing in my broken heart all night long
Darkness held me like a friend when love was lost
Looking for the land that's hidden in the cross
The finders love
-"Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us"
I look down. He is kneeling before me and he guides the black panties up my thighs. The lace itches pleasantly as it travels up the map of my leg. He stands then, his right knee cracking. He tells me to turn.
"Turn," he says. And I do.
"Spread your legs," he says. His voice is low. "Shh... spread... show me."
So I do.
He gently tugs the panties up so that the seam slips into my ass, and the silk crotch cleaves my secret place. I am on my toes for him, gasping and trembling, my hands gripping the filthy bathroom sink. It hurts and it makes me think of coming again. His thumbs slip under the edges, just beneath the cheeks, and he squeezes.
His hand is in my hair then, and I arch my back for him. My body bows - my naked chest thrust out, my ass pressed to him where it fits best.
I know what he wants.
He is the saddest man I will ever meet. The most dangerous man I will ever meet.
I have known him for eight nights. I have known him my entire life.
I have loved him for eight nights. I have loved him from the exact moment of my conception.
He pulls my hair with one hand. He feels between my thighs with the other. His cheek is against mine and his face is smooth. He watches me writhe in the dingy mirror and then he tells me what he thinks.
"You're my sweet girl...," he says. My hips buck. He continues to pleasure me with the hand between my thighs. "Ñuha mērī dōna riña," he whispers, over and over, in the language of my youth. "You'll do whatever I want…"
"Let me go." I barely recognize the voice as my own. His fingers tighten their hold. He wraps my long hair in his fist.
"Daor," he hisses, and I feel his arousal, thick and pulsing, pressed against me.
We will never get dressed this way.
I don't care.
My existence was aimless. My life has only had meaning for the week that I have spent with him. I am ashamed and I am proud. I wasn't raised to be this woman, but this is the only woman I am meant to be.
In only eight nights, I have become his wife. His sister. His sun.
I am also his protector, his partner, and his whore.
I am in love, truly in love, for the first time. It feels like dying.
"Sweet little girl," he says against my ear.
He is the moon.
Two weeks earlier
Tywin Lannister is dead.
The message had come two days ago, delivered to my sorry little apartment on the outskirts of the reservation. I'd ignored it - stupidly - for the first forty-eight hours.
I receive plenty of bland correspondence from the company my family founded. New hires and releases, special events, letters about investments and portfolios and market prices that make my eyes glaze over.
They all live on the kitchen counter for weeks, until they go through the shredder.
For two days, it sat with the rest of my junk mail, unassuming and innocent. For two days, I had glanced at it, rushing past, thinking I should open that. I should read it.
When I finally got around to tearing into the envelope, fumbling one-handed with the paper while I balanced my morning coffee, I found the message was quite short. It was printed on the usual elaborate letterhead, and most of the page was blank. Just a few sentences squeezed beneath the header. But I'd read the plain words at least at least a thousand times.
Then I'd started another thousand.
I'd read them in the bathroom while I brushed my teeth, and stained the paper with water and toothpaste.
I'd read them on the secondhand couch in the living room at one in the morning, leather squeaking as I shifted, muted television flickering white in the background.
And here I am in my bed, huddled under the covers, reading them again. Shining the light from my phone over the unchanged letters, squinting down at them with bleary, heavy-lidded eyes.
You would have thought it was a best-selling novel.
Tywin Lannister is dead. Please return to King's Landing at your earliest convenience for the execution of the will.
Ever fondly,
Cersei Lannister
CEO
Dragon Glass Group, Diamond Trading Company Incorporated
I narrow my eyes at the closing. It's ridiculous.
Unbelievable.
Impossible.
Cersei Lannister
CEO
CEO.
C. E. O.
The fine stationery crumples like wax paper in my fist. I throw it across the dark room. I fall back into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed and glare up at the popcorn ceiling. My heart pounds, a frantic bird against its cage of ribs.
Cersei Lannister. The CEO of Dragon Glass.
I knew the day would come - of course I did. I just wasn't… I hadn't… It was…
Sooner, maybe, than I had imagined.
The alarm clock on the bedside table glows like a bright red omen - 3:43 am. I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms.
Tywin Lannister may be dead, but I have a pile of untouched fire inspection reports waiting on my desk. I have a nasty case with an untraceable accelerant. I have calls with three different insurance companies. I have a nine o'clock meeting with Captain Moro.
I tell myself I don't have time for Cersei Lannister, CEO.
I tell myself that Cersei Lannister, CEO, has nothing for me.
I tell myself that I have work in the morning, that it's going to be painful, that I need to take a thermos of coffee with me, that I won't hit the snooze button on my alarm.
I tell myself that Tywin Lannister is rotting in the ground across the country, and that it doesn't change a thing.
I barely sleep.
The mesa is dark today. Storm clouds hang low and heavy over the horizon. I watch from the parking lot as their shadows spill across the pavement, across the undulating grass and thorny weeds.
The station is grey and quiet.
When I took the job as an arson investigator on the reservation, I was twenty-three. I was just married. I belonged there, and the halls felt like a second home.
Now I walk through the door, through the old lobby with peeling eggshell paint and sterile plastic chairs, with the administrative assistant who barely looks up through the smudged glass window…and it feels like maybe I don't belong here.
I swipe my security badge. I sling my bag across my shoulder. I realize I left my thermos on the kitchen counter.
Today will be long.
Today will be tiring.
Every day is, now.
My cubicle is tucked away in the very back of the station, under a flickering fluorescent light. Someone mutters a halfhearted, "Hey, Dany," as I pass, and I nod, not looking up.
I have twenty minutes before my meeting. I dump my bag on my desk. It's as messy as the rest of my goddamn life - stacks of papers, chewed-up pens, bent paperclips. A wrapper from a granola bar. A computer that's too old and too slow.
Until a few months ago, I kept a photo of my brothers beside it.
The photo is in the bottom drawer now.
My chair squeaks when I pull it back from the desk. Irri glares from the cubicle next to me, loudly tapping the spacebar on her keyboard a few times.
"Sorry," I mumble, dropping into my chair. I roll forward slowly. It squeaks a little louder.
She's a victim advocate. She works with them all day. She talks to them with a soft voice and uses soft words. She helps them fill out forms. She files their paperwork, and she gives them tissues, and she tells them she understands.
I think she's lying.
I think fire is easier to understand than people.
I know it is.
"Do anything fun this weekend?" she asks, eyes on her monitor, still typing.
She knows I didn't.
I flip through some papers that showed up on my desk during the night shift. Blueprints and old safety audits from the warehouse that burnt down months ago.
"Not really," I say. I pretend the papers are fascinating. I stare at a checklist, and read the line about proper storage of flammable materials five times.
"You look like you did." Her nails are acrylic, and long, and a simple neutral shade. They clack against the keys. "You definitely didn't get any sleep."
I try not to think about the letter. It's wadded up, lying on the floor near my dresser. I meant to throw it away this morning.
Tywin Lannister is dead, and I have bags under my eyes.
I ignore her. I glance at the clock on the wall.
Thirteen more minutes.
Today will be slow.
Every day is, now.
Captain Moro has never liked me.
His office smells like cigarette ash and sweat. He spikes his coffee with Crown Royal. When I walk through his door, he doesn't invite me to sit.
I've never liked him, either.
He looks me up and down as I stand before his desk. He taps his fountain pen against the wood. He makes a clicking sound with his tongue.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" I don't know what else to say, but I feel like I should say something. The air is heavy and strange.
He leans back in his chair, letting the pen fall to the desk. He inhales, and exhales, and his shoulders move with the breath.
"This is difficult," he says.
Something heavy lands in the pit of my stomach.
My thoughts scramble, tripping and tumbling. I pour over the past few weeks. No mistakes. No write-ups. No verbal warnings. I haven't even cut it close with a deadline. Unless there's something I don't know about...mishandled evidence, an unserved subpoena...
"You've been with us...a while." He drums his fingers on the leather arm of his chair. "I know it's been a hard year for you."
I swallow. The thing in my stomach churns and twists.
"You've done...good work." He seems reluctant to tell me that. "Haven't had a grievance since you joined."
He's quiet again.
I shift my weight from one leg to the other. The floor squeaks. The vent behind him rattles, pumping stale air through the room.
"But," I prompt. My fingers grip the hem of my jacket.
"But the...changes you're going through...raise some issues for us."
He's weighing his words carefully. As carefully as he can. He's picking them one by one, and putting them down gently.
He's talking about the divorce.
Everyone's always talking about the divorce.
That's who I am now.
I have been many things here. The girl from outside who married the Khal. The girl who was pregnant with his child, his longed-for son, an heir to his people. The girl who craved bacon and fried shishito peppers, and planned to keep working until her due date.
The girl who gave birth to a little corpse.
And now, I am the white-haired girl who left the Khal.
Moro isn't good at this. I don't really know what he's good at. Being quick, maybe. Being assertive. Being a little too sure of himself.
"We have a policy," he says. He is pretty good at those. Policies and regulations. Things typed up with nested bullet points. "A...very strict one. Regarding who we can employee on the force here."
I nod, like I understand.
I do. And I don't.
I'm the outsider. I've always been the outsider, even when I wore the Khal's ring on my left hand. Even when I thought I had found a home, far away from the city where my family fell apart.
The room feels too small. The storm outside is roiling and there's an eerie pressure in the air. It makes my skin tingle.
The thing in my stomach is still now, but it's ice-cold.
"You're firing me." I'm glad it doesn't come out as a question. I don't like asking questions. I don't like waiting for answers.
"It's technically a lay-off."
"Firing," I repeat, my voice even.
He sighs. "Since you are in the process of…not being an official member of the khalasar, you cannot remain in this position." He rocks forward. "I know it's short notice."
I stare past him, unblinking, at the beige wall and the dirty window with the bugs stuck in the screen. A spider hovers near its egg sac. "I gave birth… to the Khal's dead son," I say, my lips barely moving. "I had to carry him, in my belly, knowing… I held his body in my arms. But I'm not a member of this khalasar."
Moro's face drops. I watch his cheek twitch. He swallows. "Dany," he says softly.
"With all due respect, you don't get to call me that anymore."
"This isn't my choice," he persists, all of his bravado melting away. "I was there with Drogo. I shared your pain. We all did—"
"Don't." I stand, smoothing my pants. "You kissed your daughter before work today. And then you kissed your wife. You can't touch my pain."
"I can't do anything about this. You know that. This is beyond me - this is Dothraki law."
"This is bullshit," I snap, my teeth nearly bared.
He's silent for a moment, grabbing the pen again, turning it end over end on the desktop. And then he hardens, his facade solidifying before my very eyes.
"We won't make it official until tomorrow," he says, detached. "You can keep your insurance through the month that way."
I can only stare at him. "Thanks a lot."
"What are you going to do?" Missandei looks terrified, sitting on my ratty couch with the crumpled letter from Cersei Lannister, CEO, in her hand. She watches me with her big dark eyes as I move between the rooms of my flat, tossing odds and ends into a suitcase on the floor of the kitchenette.
"I'm going to the reading of the will." I drop a book on top of a ziplock bag full of makeup. Beauty's Release.
"But… what for? You got your inheritance." She scans the letter again. "What good is to go see these people? You said it yourself - they're evil."
I sigh, my hands on my hips. I glance around my apartment, half-seeing, barely thinking. "Maybe she'll give me a job."
"Oh Dan," she gasps. "No. Not after what happened… with your dad and—"
"What else am I gonna do, Missy?" Exasperated, I let my hands fall limply to my sides. "I can't stay here. Next step is eviction. I'm not Dothraki - they made that so goddamn clear…"
She shakes her head, her lovely eyes so sad. "Stay with me and Grey for a while - off the res. And then buy that house on the plains, the one you always wanted."
"I can't do that."
"Why not? You're rich. You don't even need to work," she argues, rising up to her knees on the couch, impassioned.
She's right, of course; I'd never have to lift another finger if that was what I wanted. But I look down and make excuses, dance all around the truth. "That money has to last me the rest of my life. And besides, I don't think—" My voice suddenly cracks. I was always terrible at lying. I fight my tears with everything I've got. "I can't stay here. I just can't."
Missandei is on her feet, rushing to me. She puts her arms around me, holds me tight to her tall, thin frame. I feel her chin resting on top of my head. I wipe away my tears, rub them off my cheeks. I haven't cried in months. I hate it. I hate it more than anything.
I wrap my arms around her waist and hug her back. I take a deep, shaking breath.
"Do you want me to pack the rest of this place up, after you leave?" She asks, her voice a whisper.
"No. Just burn it," I say into her sweatshirt, half-serious.
She laughs softly. "What about your car? Burn that too? Call a chop shop?"
I shake my head. "I'll leave it with you, send for it later... if I decide to stay."
"And the boys?"
We let go of each other. My hand trails down her arm, and our pinky fingers link. We look at the illuminated aquarium next to the window. All three monitor lizards are laid out under the red heat lamp, basking on a rocks. They're still babies, still eating crickets. They need me.
"I'm bringing them."
Early the next morning, I make the drive to my old home.
The sun rises in front of me, painting the plains and the tabletop mountains shades of pink and gold. The canyonlands are clear and imposing in the distance; their many layers of sandstone and quartz and fossils telling the story of time. Gambel oaks and chokecherry brush grow up alongside the narrow road, strong and hardy from last year's wildfires. Far away on the horizon, some hundred miles off, I can see a dark, rolling storm, moving fast and headed east.
I squint into the sunlight and roll down my windows to breathe in the dry, chilly air of the desert at dawn.
If I believed in god, I imagine he'd live out here, on the mesa.
I'll miss this, I think. If I miss anything at all… it'll be this.
Qotho answers the door. His eyes are barely open and he leans heavily on the frame, dwarfing the entryway.
"Hey."
"Hey." My voice is weak and tired. I just want to get this over with. "Is he around?"
Qotho moves so I can cross the threshold. Inside, the smell of pot and beer and cheap men's cologne is overpowering. I cough and glance around the living room that used to be ours.
He's put a flatscreen in front of the bay windows. It's huge. It's ridiculous. It sits on the floor, with a moving blanket under it, waiting for an entertainment center he probably won't ever buy.
Someone is asleep in one of the leather recliners, their feet sticking out from under a Dothraki afghan. There's a basket of clothes spilled across the microfiber sectional I picked out two years ago. The carpet we had replaced just before I left is spotted with suspicious, dark stains, and from where I stand in the foyer, I can see that he hasn't kept up the polish on wood floors in the kitchen and dining room.
"He's out back," Qotho says, stumbling down the hallway of the guest wing.
I take a deep breath and walk through the house, grabbing a crushed can of Blue Ribbon and dropping it in the bag of trash as I pass.
Under the brilliant red light of morning, Drogo breaks a stallion.
The horse rages around him in the low-fenced ring, bucking and kicking furiously. The violence of its fight stirs up a cloud of dust - the air hangs with grit and dirt. He watches the horse, his eyes narrowed, his hair loose and wild down his bare back. His hands wind a rope carefully, as sensitive to the angry beast as a seismograph, measuring each pull and slack. He moves with it, completely and totally present.
The stallion tires for a moment and canters around him in a wide circle. Its shining black sides heave as it pants.
I walk up to the rails, farthest from them, and wait.
Drogo speaks to it in a low rumbling voice, using the oldest words in his peoples' language. The horse stops circling…it slows and snorts, shaking it's beautiful mane.
Gently, Drogo winds the rope around his knuckles once more, drawing the animal ever closer. He'll break this horse. He's broken hundreds.
I rest my chin on my hands and feel the splintered wood on my palms. I remember, very clearly, falling off one of his horses when we were first dating; I broke my ankle and he sat with me in the hospital for hours, waiting to see an on-call surgeon. I was too terrified ride again.
In retrospect, I made a piss-poor Khaleesi.
"Good morning," he says to me, finally acknowledging my presence. The stallion trots around him.
My heart beats hard and fast in my poor chest. I don't know why it upsets me so to see him, to hear him. "Hi," I manage.
"I heard about your job," he says. The horse snorts, pawing at the ground. "I'm sorry."
I nod. "Me too." I put my foot up on the first rung of the fence. "I'm leaving."
He's silent, staring intently at the animal. But he hears me. I know he does.
"Tywin Lannister died. I'm going to King's Landing."
The panicked horse rears, circling again, passing between us. Drogo looks like a mirage in the dust.
"Those people are demons," he finally says, in Dothraki.
"I have no choice. I have to go home."
"You had many choices, Daenerys." He laughs, shaking his head. "I got the papers from your red witch. She brought them while I was eating dinner."
"Melisandre is my divorce lawyer. She's not a witch." I feel my temper flare. "Did you sign them?"
"She is a witch," he growls then. The horse startles and begins to buck again. He shouts over its noises. "She breaks the sacred vow. A witch."
"You broke the sacred vow!" I'm leaning over the fence before I can stop myself. I point at him. "You stopped loving me!"
"My son is dead!"
My heart drops into my stomach. Venom drips from every word that comes out of his mouth, out of his soul. Halfway to another barb, my mouth closes, and I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.
He blames me.
He blames my feeble, outsider body for what has happened. A Dothraki woman…surely…wouldn't have killed his son.
I knew, underneath everything, that he blamed me. I felt it every time he touched me, until the touching stopped. I heard it when he spoke to me, until the speaking stopped.
It has always hovered between us.
To finally hear it so plainly, though…it's like hearing from a nurse that my father died in a mental institution, all alone. It's like getting the call about Viserys, his body found in a trap house, surrounded by addicts who didn't even wait for his last breath before they stole everything he had.
Or perhaps it's more like the visit of two Marines, in the middle of a somber summer night…asking me to please sit down, before telling me what I already knew about Rhaegar. Covered in a flag someplace overseas.
My vision blurs with tears.
If I am responsible for the death of our son…who is responsible for the death of our marriage?
He tosses the rope aside and stallion gallops around him in endless, dizzying circles. "You mutilated yourself," he continues in Dothraki. "You did not even ask. You did not think of me." His fist thumps his chest.
"It's my body!" I yell, and I'm crying, I'm weeping, I'm shaking with a year's worth of untouched agony. It explodes out of me, pours from me. "I won't do it! I won't go through it! How—" I choke. "How could you ask me to do that again?"
"I married…a whole woman," he says through the haze. "I loved a whole woman. But you…are not a whole woman anymore."
Tears run rivulets down my hot cheeks. I stare at him, no longer sobbing. And I realize he wanted me to be another broken horse at the end of his rope.
I feel my heart turning to stone under the desert sun.
I will not break like one of his animals. I will not break like the Targaryens before me.
I will not break at all.
"I came to tell you," I say, the sharp words boiling up from a deep and untouched place inside me, "that any further conversation, between us…should go through my red witch. Her number's on the divorce papers you need to sign."
I turn away from the fence and leave the ranch for the last time.
I watch the mesa disappear in my rear view mirror.
I wipe my face, and turn the music up as loud as it will go. You Can't Always Get What You Want.
I'll stop at that little taco stand I used to love when I lived out this way. I'll eat al pastor and lengua until I want to throw up.
And then I'll get on a plane…and fly back to the place I've been running from for four years.
Whatever it is Cersei Lannister has waiting for me, I know I'll survive it.
I've fucking survived everything else.