Summary: Dany's almost certain her extravagant charity event will not only be the best of the year, but also genuinely help those in need.
Notes: Are you following Dany?
Chapter Ten: Dany
Dany stops halfway down the Step and Repeat, makes a joke for the paparazzi, pops a hip out, and waits for the flashes. Her brother is four steps behind her, looking bored and maybe even a little pissed off with his hands in his pockets and his mouth a thin, flat line. Couldn't he at least pretend for the photogs? Yes, they argued in the limo, but it's always the same old argument.
He might refuse to be professional about this, but she can't afford to be as petty. Right now she needs to focus on her smile, so the pictures in tomorrow's papers and blogs will be pretty enough to rise to the top, drawing attention to her charity to help prevent sex trafficking of young girls in developing countries. The donations they collect tonight will be used to purchase bicycles for at risk girls, so they can ride to school or work, better themselves and make money for their families, all to help keep them safe. She's been planning this event for months, every detail, right down to the twinkling lights hung in the dark blue ceiling overhead, looking like a starry night sky over the desert—a desert with champagne and dessert always close at hand.
And it was well worth the effort, because Meereen looks beautiful, she thinks, as she steps through the arched doorway, and peers around. At the back of the vaulted room is the pyramid, cut from copper and embossed to look as if it was constructed brick by brick like the step pyramids in Central America. The lights bounce off of it, creating just the effect she'd hoped for when she dreamt it up. The lights and the decorations and the undercurrent of exotic music with its heavy beat are bound to impress, bound to draw more donations.
She doesn't have long to admire her work and imagine all the smiling faces of the anonymous girls she'll be helping, when a hand closes tightly around her elbow and jerks, spinning her dangerously in her heels to the side.
"We're not done." There's nothing vague about the menace in Viserys' face now that there's no camera pointed at them. His pale eyes narrow at her, his lip curls, and his fingers dig painfully into her bare arm. "I need that money. I need you to give me your check."
Dany's done that before, countless times: given her brother her monthly allowance check from her parents' estate, because he'd spent all of his. She doesn't know how he manages to spend it so quickly every month, sometimes before he's even been given the check, but she has her suspicions he's gambling it away on risky ventures and shady people in a desperate attempt to reclaim imagined past glories. He's always trying to impress someone, trying to prove the Targaryens are better than everyone else. It doesn't look good on him.
"I can't this month. I told you, I spent this month's check on the event."
"On this?" he asks, gesturing towards the crowded room with a sneer, as if it isn't the most beautiful charity event of the year.
"Yes, on this."
Her monthly check and more. This was quite the expensive venture. Everything sparkles in gold. It was her number one requisite when meeting with the party planner. Even the food will be gold, Missy assured her. It is, she realizes, as a waiter comes by with a round tray of tiny chocolate cups filled with raspberry crème topped with a flake of edible gold.
"Have a drink or two and find some girls to talk to, why don't you," she says, picking one of the chocolate confections off the tray.
He snorts. "I'm never going to find an interesting girl to talk to at this pathetic party of yours."
She nibbles at the chocolate, the tartness of the raspberry making her taste buds water. "Didn't know they had to be interesting." His thumb digs harder into her flesh, and she tugs, surreptitiously trying to free herself from his painful grasp, but his grip it too tight. She opens her eyes wider. "Let go of me, Viserys. Right now."
He releases her. "I've got bigger things to worry about than sex slaves a world away. You should too."
Her voice rises, but the music of the room keeps anyone from noticing the disagreement brewing between her and her brother. "Tell me what I should be worried about. What is so damn important? Quickly. I have guests to meet."
"Me."
Of course. Viserys thinks he's the center of the universe. "Right, well, I think you'll have to just make do for the time being, because as I told you, I spent this month's money on renting Meereen. You'll have to wait for your next check just like I'll have to wait for mine."
"I can't wait. This is serious. If something happens to me…" he begins.
She's actually a little worried by the way his posture changes, the way he looks as if he might crumple, when the rest of the words dry up in his mouth and his brows draw together. He's irresponsible and makes terrible choices, but he's her brother and she loves him. It's always been the two of them, and if that means she has to bail him out of one bad business move after another, then that's what she has to do. She's about to reach out to brush back his pale blond hair and tell him they should have lunch tomorrow, talk about it, and she'll help him figure something out, when she senses someone behind her. Viserys' face closes, his shoulders square, looking like an affronted prince.
"Barristan."
Her brother does not sound happy to see their uncle, but Dany is. She looks up over her shoulder and smiles. Her uncle always looks very dashing, when he's dressed formally, his white hair set off by the dark of his suit.
"Viserys," their uncle says with a nod to her brother. "Dany, your guests are waiting for you."
"He's trying to politely say that we're late. You know how she is. She took forever to get ready," Viserys says, rolling his eyes.
It did take her longer than usual. She only wanted to look the part, and explaining to her hair and makeup artist, Irri, just how she wanted things done was something of a challenge given the alteration in her normal look. Her one shouldered, gossamer gown in ever darker shades of gold from one layer to the next is pinned at the shoulder with a large dragon brooch with ruby eyes—one of the pieces that belonged to her mother that was given to her under the terms of the estate when she turned twenty-one. She's perfectly comfortable in it, since it isn't so different from her usual party attire, but the rest of her look is a little daring. She chose a crown of braids for her hair and rather dramatic cat eyes, thinking they fit the mood she was hoping to create, and then worried whether she had gone too far. Viserys said he could probably sell her on the street corner.
You hit the nail on the head if you're attempting to look like an actual sex slave.
"Shall we go see Tyrion Lannister?"
"One of them came?" she says, ending on a growl of frustration.
"Not only came. I believe he's written your foundation a rather sizable check tonight."
Viserys doesn't care about this or any of her charities, so at the first sign that things might turn into work, he disappears into the crowd, his blond head bobbing bright under the lights until she can't see him any longer. She's not eager to go to work either, and she suppresses a sigh at the thought of being dragged over to make chit chat with one of the Lannisters. They're not her favorite people in the world. She can't stand what Baratheon Industries stands for or the crimes that have been perpetrated by their government against civilians thanks to Baratheon tech. The Lannisters are literally and figuratively in bed with then. They fund their every despicable move, as far as she can tell, while smiling beautifully from the covers of shiny tabloids and newspapers.
She only sent an invitation to the Lannister offices, because she thought they might mail her a donation out of social obligation. She didn't imagine they'd show their faces at her event, where she would have to smile and thank them. There are people she added to the list tonight not so much for their fat wallets or the ability to cut impressive checks but for their other praiseworthy attributes, whom she would much rather seek out. Daario should be here somewhere. It shouldn't be hard to pick out his blue hair and tattooed sleeves in this staid crowd.
"A sizable donation?" she asks, slipping her arm through her uncle's.
"Very sizable."
"Color me shocked."
"I wouldn't say that exactly that when you speak with him," her uncle says, bending down to murmur his suggestion in her ear.
And she doesn't. Dany shakes Tyrion's hand, is introduced to his petite date, who watches them with big, dark eyes, and launches into her speech about how much good his donation is going to do and how very thankful she is for it. She's on her best behavior, smiling brightly, pretending not to loathe the very sight of him, but the same can't be said for Tyrion. Before he ever opens his mouth, she suspects she won't like what he has to say based on the grin he wears between sips of champagne. There's a lot going on behind that smile, but she's not sure she wants him to give voice to it.
Eventually her elaboration on the joys of bike ownership end, however, and he's given the opportunity to speak. "I was happy to make the donation, Ms. Targaryen."
"Please, call me Dany."
"Happy to make the donation, Dany. But I'm not certain how much it's actually going to help these unfortunate young women."
Dany frowns. Her various charitable endeavors aren't a screen for bloated salaries and lavish parties, although she knows there are charities that function for that purpose. She pays the bills out of her share of her parents' estate, so that all donations go directly to those who need them.
"No, I assure you that it will. I paid for the hospitality you've enjoyed tonight," she says with a nod towards the champagne in his hand. "All donations from our generous contributors will go directly to buying bicycles…"
"Oh, no," he says, waving one hand. "I understand the process. The hang up I have is that I suspect buying these women bicycles isn't the best way to go about solving the problem of sex slavery. How are you going to ensure that these bikes you're sending them will remain in the possession of the women? Lock them to their ankles?"
"Excuse me?"
"Well, if their fathers or brothers are selling them into sex slavery, what will stop them from taking the bicycles and using them for their own purposes and selling the women into slavery? They might take a fancy to those bikes, and I can't think of one way we could prevent them from taking them. Can you?" He shrugs one shoulder and pops gold painted cordial into his mouth that his date has been holding on a black napkin for him. Speaking around the chocolate, he continues, "It's like sending shoes to orphans. Well intentioned, but useless."
Dany has done that too, and she slept better at night, thinking of those orphans with new sneakers.
She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and her uncle attempts to change the topic, mumbling something about postseason baseball, as he reaches for a glass of champagne from a waiter's tray and passes it to her. She grips the stem too tightly and attempts a smile.
The music changes and she's forced to raise her voice to be heard over it, which is fine, because she feels rather like yelling. "No, that's all right. Let Mr. Lannister say what he thinks. It's an interesting opinion."
"An informed opinion," Tyrion says, grinning back at her.
They both grin at her, Tyrion and his black haired date, like a pair of freshly carved jack-o'-lanterns. The woman looks as pleased by Tyrion's rudeness as he is. Dany's filled with hatred for them both, coming here to ruin her evening, to mock her efforts.
"Are you saying that my opinion, that my charity is uninformed?"
"I'm saying that you don't know how to run a charity."
"And yet, you just made a donation to it," she says, attempting to keep her voice light, as she tips her champagne flute back, swallowing half the glass in the process.
"Yes, because if you ever decide you want someone to assist you, who actually knows how to manage your money properly, perhaps my little contribution will be a reminder to you that I'm ready and willing."
Dany nearly chokes, the bubbles burning the back of her throat. "What do you know about managing a charity?"
"Obviously you're familiar with Lannister Mercantile."
"Oh, yes. The business your father built, so that you and your spoiled brother can spend the profits?" she says through a fake smile.
"That's the one. We both know a little something about spoiled brothers, don't we?" he responds with a lift of his flute in a mock toast.
She'd like nothing more than to toss her drink in his face, when she feels her uncle's hand press between her shoulder blades, as he clears his throat. "Would you excuse us? There are other guests we should greet."
"Thank you again," she grits out, turning her back on Tyrion and his pretty date.
Her nostrils flare and she closes her eyes for a half beat. She'd love to give back his filthy donation, but the girls need it. He's wrong. They need those bicycles. Those bikes are going to change their lives and save them from a life of slavery.
Her uncle is trying to guide her through the crowd towards some other important person, whose hand needs to be pressed, but Dany can't stomach it. She shrugs free of him, darting off to the side. Waving hello and kissing people's cheeks, she slide by one after another attendee. Her mind is set on Daario, but it's another big hand that stops her advance through the crowd.
"Evening, princess."
Jorah Mormont was another name she added to tonight's invitation list without any expectation of a substantial donation. Having not been by her uncle's offices in the past few weeks, there had been no opportunity to run into him after their shared cab ride, but she thought he'd contact her, try to initiate something, so he could do more than undress her with his eyes. Sometimes she imagined she would say no if he did call and ask her out and sometimes she pictured herself saying yes. Why not? There have been half a dozen dates since she last saw him, two of them with Daario, but she's not serious with anyone at the moment. There's no reason she couldn't entertain the possibility of a date with Jorah other than his not being particularly handsome.
But she didn't get the chance to accept or reject him. It shouldn't have been too hard for him to get her contact info, given his position at Barristan & Rakharo, but she'd never heard anything from him. It was his silence as much as the blatant interest he demonstrated in the cab that made her add his name to the event list.
"Sir Bear." His hand closes around her arm as she leans forward to kiss him on both cheeks. "You see, I haven't forgotten."
"Neither have I. You made me curious, and I looked up the Mormont house motto."
"Yes, what is it that I have to fear from House Mormont?"
"Nothing. It's Here We Stand."
She sips the last of her champagne and considers him, tilting her head. "Oh, that's very good."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Loyalty and courage. It's what I value most in my guards. My knight in shining armor." She pats his chest. He's solid enough. Not the most handsome, but fit, just as she remembered him being. "Or at least a suit."
"My best," he says with a quirk of his mouth.
That might be the case, but she wonders whether he wouldn't look better out of his suit than in it.
"It's a good suit, but is it suitable for doing battle? I might have someone I need you to dispatch for me," she says, wrinkling her nose at the thought of how Tyrion and his date stared at her, when he announced she didn't know what she was doing.
"It's a little constricting, but I can always take off the coat," he says, taking the empty champagne flute from her and depositing it on a round bar height cocktail table draped in black that is within his reach. "Who is it I'm supposed to challenge?"
Dany leans in and rises up on the balls of her feet so no one will hear, gripping his shoulder. "Bring me the head of anyone with the last name Lannister and I'll be thrilled beyond words. They're all beastly."
When he inclines his head to whisper, "And yet you invited them?" he's close enough that his breath stirs the hairs that have pulled free of her braid behind her ear.
The air is pumping hard here at Meereen to keep all these bodies cool. Working a little too hard, since her dress is short and her arms are bare, and suddenly her whole body is alive with goose flesh. The inability to wear a bra with this dress is something of a liability in disguising such things.
"Strictly business. Unlike my invitation to you of course."
"Which was?"
"Strictly pleasure."
He raises one brow. "Are you drunk again?"
She laughs. It's too blunt and a hair rude, but not meanly meant. Maybe they don't teach etiquette in Michigan. "Not at all. Do I look it?"
"No, you look…" he struggles, his eyes lingering suggestively, where the layers of her gown sweep down over the rise of her left breast.
It would be stupid to tell him she's cold.
She knows he appreciates her and that fishing for compliments is gauche, but she turns partly to the side and narrows her eyes at him, wanting to hear some word of praise from him after he disappointed her in not ever seeking her out after their last parting. "Don't you dare say anything other than lovely or beautiful or stunning."
"Those are my choices?"
"Yes.
"Well then, all of those things. But why the threat?"
"Oh, Viserys. My brother. Something he said. It doesn't matter," she says, running her hand along the length of her skirt until her fingertips reach the hem, smiling at the way his eyes track her movements.
"That brother of yours is something of a problem," he observes.
Of course Jorah would know. It can't be a secret around her uncle's offices just how badly Viserys manages his finances or how often he sends his sister in to beg for an advance. At first she wasn't planning on helping her brother, but she's ready to do it again based on that look in his eyes right before their uncle interrupted them.
"You know how brothers are," she says, lightly touching the edge of his jacket sleeve.
"No, I don't."
"Well, they're always a hassle. He's in a bit of a fix apparently. I might have to drop by on Monday to have a chat with my uncle. Fall on his mercy for Viserys' sake. Or maybe you can help me with it?"
She runs her finger around the gold button at the cuff, and he wets his lips, shifting his weight over his feet restlessly. She certainly has his attention.
"Maybe."
"Viserys has some debts he needs to pay, and I spent my monthly allowance, the past few months' allowance actually, on hosting this event. Completely worth it, because it's a really excellent cause." She waits for him to chime in with his agreement, but he merely sticks his hands in his pockets, disrupting the seduction of his jacket. "But it means I can't help him, and he needs an advance."
"Have you ever thought of just letting him fend for himself?"
"He's my brother."
"So, what do you need from me?"
"You might say something to my uncle."
It's a simple task, but not an entirely pleasant one. She knows her uncle will respond poorly to whoever speaks on Viserys' behalf. Jorah probably expects as much, and no one likes to irritate their boss, but she'd like to test if he's as loyal as his house motto would claim.
"He's more liable to say yes to you than he is me."
Dany pouts. "You might be right. But you'll try, won't you? He might appreciate an analyst's point of view. You know my uncle is almost as fond of analysts as I am," she teases.
He looks as if he's going to concede, his eyes softening and little lines showing up at their corners, as he opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn't get a chance. Something hot and wet—a mouth—fits against her neck and she jumps, looking up into blue eyes just a few shades off from the blue of his hair, slicked back against his head with some product that makes it darker than normal.
"Daario. You came."
He's in a t-shirt and jeans and smells like cigarette smoke, but it doesn't matter.
"Told you I probably would," he says, wrapping an arm around her lower back and pulling her hip into him, as he presses another kiss to her temple.
His fingers tug at the fabric of her dress, making it inch up dangerously high, and she wiggles in his grip, cooing his name in mock outrage. Her heart gives a little skip at the intimacy of it all, how familiar and possessive he's acting. It's only been two dates, but maybe this one will stick and she won't lie awake thinking about Drogo anymore.
A hand extends, almost directly between the decreasing space between herself and Daario, interrupting. "Jorah Mormont."
Daario is a little slow to offer his hand back and says nothing in response, but then, he probably expects that Jorah knows him. He's something of a sensation on the New York music and social scene, appearing in blogs of both types thanks in no small part to Daario's good looks. The paps probably took as many photos of him in front of the Step and Repeat as they did her, which isn't such a terrible thing for the visibility of her charity.
"Jorah is an analyst at Barristan & Rakharo." Daario grunts. "Barristan is my uncle," she reminds him. "And this is Daario Naharis of Stormcrows."
"Who or what is Stormcrows?" Jorah asks flatly.
"A band," Dany says without elaborating.
There'd be no point. It's the kind of band Jorah wouldn't have heard of and even Dany finds their music—loud and fast and angry—a little bewildering, despite being closer to their target age group. She isn't much into music herself, but one of their two dates was at a dingy club, where his band was playing, and she did her best to imitate the rest of the thrashing, sweaty crowd. Maybe she shouldn't count it as a proper date: he barely spoke to her and seemed distracted when she came backstage. But it wasn't an entire waste. She invited him to tonight's event while she was there and he did look sexy up on stage in his leather pants with the strobe lights catching on the piercing in his eyebrow and the cords in his arms standing out underneath his tattoos. They're hard to miss. Dany can tell Jorah's staring at the one of the naked woman done in the pinup style. What Jorah can't see is that he has two, one on each forearm. Daario introduced them to her as 'the twins.'
"How long do we need to stick around at this thing, babe?" Daario asks, nuzzling his slightly hooked nose into her braids.
The use of 'we' makes Dany laugh with nervous excitement even as she turns into him and tries to explain that she can't leave.
"I'm the hostess. I have to thank half the people who are here tonight and the other half I need to convince to give me money. It's kind of my job. You understand, right?"
"Yeah, you know, I just thought we could get out of here," he says, tracing the rim of her ear with his finger. "Show me that place of yours."
The idea is more tempting than it should be, given how much effort she's put into this event and how much she believes in her foundation. Or how much she believed in it until Tyrion Lannister spilled poison into her ear. But Daario could probably make her forget all of tonight's disappointments. He looks like he'd know what to do with a girl to help her forget.
"How about you give me an hour? I can make the rounds in an hour and get us out of here before it's too late."
She smoothes her hands over his chest and looks up through her lashes at him, but she can tell by the way he gazes over her head that he's not listening to her, distracted by something and looking distinctly bored. Admittedly, it isn't his scene, but she really has worked hard and the thought that she was ready to hurry away just to please him makes her more than a little frustrated with herself. Hormones.
She frowns and pulls her hands back, turning to address Jorah, who can't ever seem to take his eyes off of her—unlike the fickle attention of a musician at the height of his popularity—but he's gone. Somewhere during her bargaining session with Daario, he disappeared. She looks to the left and the right, and spots him, his arms crossed over his chest, pulling tightly against his suit coat, and his brows knit together. The crowd shifts and through the temporary gap she sees him. Tyrion Lannister. Jorah is deeply engrossed in conversation with the one man in this room she doesn't want anyone pleasantly chatting with, and she told Jorah he was hateful, she asked him to serve his head up on a platter.
Disloyal bear.
Her hand finds Daario's and tugs. "You wanna get out of here?"
He smiles down at her, the rise of his lip somehow deliciously wicked. "Your place?"
"Absolutely."
Notes: Tyrion's chapter is up next, where we'll head back to Lannister Mercantile and indulge in a little Cersei and Tyrion sparring. Then Ned, Cersei, Sansa, and Cat.
