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Dragonstone happens to be her birthplace — her birthright, just like all of Westeros is — and yet, Daenerys cannot sense any familiarity or warmth about these midnight-colored, dripping stones.
It becomes clearer on why this is. After all, she had been little more than a newborn, living on this island with her older brother created originally by the Valyrians. Fire and sorcery. Long ago before her time, the dark, glimmering stones melded and burned and flashed red-hot, climbing high, twisting into strange, ornate structures and figures like cockatrice and basilisks and wyverns.
She's ventured through the arches and kitchens and galleries, overseeing the Stone Drum and Chamber of the Painted Table with her most trusted allies like Missandrei and Tyrion. Daenerys visits the sept and maesters's lonesome, dusty rooms and even the place of her own birth.
Queen Rhaella died for her to return home, Daenerys tells herself somberly. So she may destroy the vile conquerors of Westeros, to strip away their influence and restore goodness and justice.
There is a pleasant, woody scent in Aegon's Garden situated down below the eastern tower. Spindly, dark trees and rose bushes and hedges brimming with cranberries. Daenerys plucks two of the berries, quietly examining them and then crushing them betwixt her fingers, straining her palms red. Red, red.
A storm thunders on the horizon, crashing white, frothy waves onto the beaches. Daenerys listens for it, surrounded by the glow of her tapers, bathing in a steel-edged tub in her quarters.
"My Queen," Missandrei announces, peering inside. "There is someone here to speak with you."
Before she can properly robe herself, Daenerys gawks at the other young woman who enters boldly. Yara stands before her in purposeful silence, tall and straight-shouldered, covered in filth and dried, crusted blood. Her garments ripped, tattered. Yara's expression seeming deadened.
"Forgive me…"
"You're alive," Daenerys murmurs, hoisting herself out of the bath. Water sloshes onto the dark, glimmering stone-floor. She forgets herself, and to dress all together, quickly approaching Yara. The relief goes short-lived as soon as Daenerys notices the large, puffy bruises around her neck and wrists supposedly during her capture, mottling yellowish-green on her left cheek. "Were you…?"
She doesn't dare voice the possibility. Heat rises in Daenerys's chest and her throat.
"No," Yara says bluntly. "I wouldn't ever allow a man to rape me. They die first or I would." Despite this horrendous, exhausted appearance, her strong-willed temperament doesn't waver.
Daenerys glances her over, frowning slightly. "This is my fault."
"You're not my uncle. This was his doing, not yours."
"All of you are under my protection," Daenerys insists, lifting her chin. Her teeth gritting. "I am the Queen, and if I cannot do so much as punished the men who have harmed you, then—"
Yara's mouth twitches into a smile. "There will be time enough for that," she mutters, accepting the stiff clasp of Daenery's hand on her forearm, as she leads Yara over to the tub. Neither of them speak of pale, naked flesh as the Greyjoy woman strips off her tatters upon a silent but mutually understood command, ducking into the warm water and gasping, surfacing, wiping her eyes.
They won't speak of it but regardless, Yara's eyes wander to Daenerys's breasts and to her lips, and Daenerys tries to keep herself from eyeing the prominent muscles in Yara's torso and to her mound where dark and curly hair gathers against where Yara's inner thighs meet.
"Shouldn't there be servants for this?" Yara whispers, her smile teasing and widening. She winces a moment when Daenerys's fingers combing her tug a bit too harshly on Yara's scalp.
As if signaling her to hush up.
"I'm perfectly capable of washing myself…" she declares, raising an eyebrow. Daenerys remains kneeling beside the tub, brushing her thumbs over Yara's temples. "And you…"
Perhaps a Queen should not kneel for another, as a Queen should not tempt herself with Yara's wet hand resting over Daenerys's nape, dragging her in for a groaning, skin-hot kiss. Yara kisses like one who kisses often and well — messily, fervently, sliding and touching their tongues gently.
That is clear — and, yet, Daenerys basks in this.
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Game of Thrones isn't mine. I'M BIG BIG GAY FOR THIS SHIP. I would absolutely love to see them full on canon but you know,,, whenever I hope for something, it never happens! So I gotta stop doing that! :/ hm SO LET'S SEE today is posting for the ASOIAF/GOT Secret Santa hosted by Tinfoil-Throne and ASOIAF Rarepairs on Tumblr and I was assigned to salty-squid-queen! Would love it if they got to see it! Thanks for reading you guys and any thoughts/comments would be WONDERFUL!