A Dream of a Red Door

by MCorey1317

(EXPLICIT) This is a VERY kinky story of Daenerys and Jon in a post-GoT world in which he changed his mind at the last moment. Consensual bedroom fun, an adventurous twist that you probably won't expect, an attempted non-consensual encounter, and what I'd like to think is an ending that blends plot and feelings with erotica. I have decided to add the (tonally different) epilogue.

3. Chapter 3

"I suppose I have you to thank for my head still being attached to my shoulders," Tyrion said immediately upon exiting his quarters to find Jon, flanked by two brothers of the Kingsguard, waiting for him.

"Tyrion, I …"

Tyrion waved off whatever he was going to say.

"Let us not speak of it again."

Jon leaned over so that the Kingsguard could not hear. Given the Hand's height, an observer would have thought the king was bowing to the dwarf. "Dany's going to apologize, and she does feel awful."

Tyrion, dressed in a finely woven red coat over a brocaded black tunic, leaned in as well. "Jon, apologies are always appreciated, but if it happens again, I'm afraid I have to inform you that there are going to be resignations, starting with mine own."

A weary expression crossed Jon's face, then he nodded and stood back up. "I understand."

Tyrion cleared his throat with a polite cough, and continued in a more conversational, humorous tone in an attempt to lighten the mood, "You needn't worry about my future living arrangements. Casterly Rock may be Crown property now, but I'm sure they have a dusty tower cell somewhere I can use if and when my service here is done. You know how I do so like to have a view. If you've managed to cart off or demolish all the lion sigils, I might even find it quite pleasant."

"Stripping the Lannisters of Casterly Rock was your idea," Jon reminded him

"That's when I thought you might give it to me outright for services rendered," Tyrion replied.

Jon began to laugh, then held a hand over his mouth and stifled it.

"On to business then?"

Lord Commander Brienne of Tarth, who was grim-faced and taciturn at the best of times, and early mornings, for her, were not the best of times, joined them as they walked, along with a few officers of the Gold Cloaks and the commander of the Red Keep household guard. Eventually they reached the barracks, training yards, and various other buildings assigned to the King's Landing garrison, a soldier force which owed its loyalty directly to the Crown. The garrison had been Jon's idea, as he had realized relatively quickly that King's Landing being forced to rely upon Gold Cloaks, who were essentially mercenaries, or rallying armies from nearby lords, represented a disastrous state of affairs. The officers had been handpicked from amongst men who had served well during the early years of his and his queen's reign.

The inspection was, as Jon had anticipated, dull, tedious, and, unfortunately, entirely necessary. Men who didn't see their commanders or their liege lords were men who forgot who they served. Jon made it a point to remember names, to remember details, and to appear interested.

Perhaps halfway through the inspection, Brienne and the two other members of the Kingsguard realized that several individuals were running directly towards them. While the runners wore the livery of the household guard, predictably, the three white-cloaked knights formed up in front of Jon and placed their hands on their hilt.

"Is that really necessary?" Jon had asked.

"Probably not," Tyrion mused.

"I'm sorry …" whispered a soft voice from the rooftop of a nearby building.

It was uttered so quietly that Jon wondered for a moment if he'd heard it at all. Then he felt a sharp stinging sensation in his neck.

"What the …" he muttered as he spun around. For a brief moment, he saw a scrambling figure upon the roof of a nearby building. It seemed rather difficult to form words, for some reason.

At first, nobody seemed to realize what had happened, then Tyrion reached up with both hands, grabbed the front of the king's simple black tunic, and yanked him down. Brienne caught the motion, and she instinctively reached for the dwarf and opened her mouth to demand he explain why he'd placed hands on the king.

Then everyone saw the dart.

It was a small thing, wooden with neat fletching laced in green and black, and the tip was no longer than a thumbnail. Jon's eyes were beginning to glaze over when Tyrion plucked the dart from his neck.

The garrison yard exploded into a frenzy of screaming activity. Men began storming the building to locate the assailant, the Kingsguard formed up around Jon, swords drawn, and Tyrion found the most athletic-appearing soldier in the vicinity and using oaths most foul, screamed at him to find the maester and tell him to bring every poison antidote he had.

Jon, who by that time was struggling to breathe, realized the maester wouldn't get there in time. He was dying … he'd already done it once, so he considered himself an expert on the subject. Curiously, he felt at peace with the end. He'd already lived longer than he should have. He slumped against a workbench in the forge they'd been inspecting and a jumble of blades in the process of being crafted into swords and daggers clanged to the straw-covered dirt.

"Goddammit, Jon," Tyrion screamed as he grabbed Jon's arm to prevent him from collapsing. "The maester is on his way, you just need to hang on."

"It's alright," he croaked to Tyrion. "Forgive … Dany ..."

Brienne was screaming at someone, triumphant yells from soldiers who claimed to have found and killed the attacker echoed in the yard, and Jon's vision began to grow black. The fire racing in his blood, the bite of magic that he could never be free of, began to cool. Shadows pooled around his feet, and he found himself somewhat thankful that he would finally be free of it.

The two men who had been spotted running towards the king finally, after begs and howls and explanations, reached Jon. They found him white-faced and staggered, barely able to look at them.

"The queen's been taken, your grace!" one of them yelled.

Tyrion did not take his eyes off Jon as he replied. "Are you sure?"

The other man added, "We're sure, m'lord. We found a rope and claw attached to a balcony near where the queen went missing."

Jon growled and his knuckles turned white as he grasped the edge of the table hard enough that his fingers nails began to split from the quick beneath. His heart was lurching in his chest irregularly, and a red pulse was throbbing in the corner of his skull. He placed a hand on the table as he fought to keep from collapsing … from dying. Death was still coming, he knew.

He thrust the table out of the way when he saw the red of the forge's fire, a massive, squat black opening within which deep flames and smoke churned. That fire had likely been burning since the forge had first been built, and its burning heart called out to him. Jon could feel the pull of the flames, the sickly sweet-song of heat and life screaming to be absorbed by whatever Melisandre had put inside him, the rot that demanded to be fed so it could consume first him, and then everything around him.

For a moment, Jon decided it might be better to die. Let it end rather than feed whatever lived in him, for what Sam had repeatedly warned him he must never do, was to give in to the pull of the flames.

Then his wife's face came to him, smiling, needing him. He couldn't leave her.

He thrust Tyrion out of the way and to his chagrin the dwarf sprawled on the dirt.

Something else to apologize for.

The Kingsguard tried to stop him, but he shook off their hands. Moving his feet was an almost impossible struggle, and he was fairly certain his heart had stopped beating. The last step he took towards the forge would be the last step he'd ever take.

It was enough to reach the flames.

As Brienne grabbed the back of his collar to try to yank him away and Tyrion screamed for someone to take hold of the king. Jon thrust his hands down deep into the forge's furnace, spread his arms wide, and grasped the stonework within. The sleeves of his tunic flared and turned to char.

The fire.

The forge's blaze cascaded into him, and when it made contact with the thing Melisandre had breathed into him, that ball of heat and blood and magic churning relentlessly in his chest, the magic cried out in triumph as the fuel it had long been denied was, at long last, at hand. The poison in his blood burnt away in an instant and his heart skipped and resumed beating a blazing tempo in his chest … and then the fire kept coming. It poured into him, infusing every tissue, twining into every sinew, and the razor-sharp pain that was a pleasure too pure to bear burrowed through his muscles and then deep into his skull. The heat had become too much for even a dedicated Kingsguard knight to bear, and Brienne had to cover her face with an upraised arm as Jon's chest flared red. The remainder of his tunic burned away to reveal his scars, and as always when anyone saw them for the first time, there were gasps of horror.

When Jon removed his hands from the forge, the metal had gone cold and not even the spark of an ember could be seen within its depths. He dreaded turning around, but he had to find his wife, not run off.

What's done is done.

Bare-chested and with his lungs heaving for air but feeling more alive than he had since the knives first went into him at Castle Black, he turned around. The faces around him were as he expected. Tyrion remained sprawled in the dirt, and his mouth was agape as he stared at him in mute shock. The Kingsguard had raised their helms to get a better look at the king who, by all rights, should have either been dead or missing two arms, and only Brienne had the sense to grab at Jon's forearms and turn them over to check his hands.

The king's flesh was intact and unburnt.

Many of the soldiers and guardsman were whispering to each other, more than a few were praying to a variety of gods, and several, white-faced, had run.

"You," Jon called out to a nearby soldier who was liveried in the black and red of House Targaryen. When the man simply stared and didn't respond, Jon using a commanding roar honed during battles across Westeros, roared, "YOU!"

That snapped the man out of it.

"What armor do you have here?" Jon snapped.

The man blinked a few times, clearly surprised at the question, but before Jon could scream at him again, he finally replied, "Just leather and chain, your grace … nothing suitable for …"

The man caught himself before suggesting that what the king's soldiers wore would not be good enough for the king. Apparently, word had already spread through much of the garrison that Jon was unlikely to look fondly upon that sort of talk.

"Bring me tunic, leather, gloves, and chain that looks like they might fit."

The man said, "Yes, your grace," and immediately turned and ran off to accomplish the errand.

Jon stared at another soldier and pointed. "You."

The man nodded. "Yes, your grace."

"Lord Tyrion is going to have a plan for a search any moment now, so I want you to find the fastest soldiers you have and bring them here so that when the Hand tells you what he needs, they can fetch it."

When he pointed at a third soldier, the man seemed to have clued in as to what was happening. "What shall I do, your grace?"

"Bring me my sword," Jon snarled.

The fire burned in him, an unholy, living thing, and Jon realized that he could feel the heat of a hearth in a nearby building, hearths in several nearby buildings, actually, and also something near the Red Keep that felt alive. He turned and stared at the Royal Tower. He could feel Drogon resting on his platform. It was not just fire, either, where the shadows ran deepest, they whispered to him, begging that he bend them to his will.

What has happened to me?

"Your grace," Brienne had finally said. "How are you alive?"

Tyrion was more blunt. "What in the name of the seven hells just happened, Jon?"

It had taken longer than Jon had hoped to respond to the relentless questions about his miraculous survival, particularly as the only answer he wanted to give was to blame Melisandre or his Targaryen blood. Every second they spent talking was a second they weren't looking for Daenerys.

"ENOUGH!" he finally roared. He looked down at Tyrion, who seemed to have recovered faster than the others. "You want Casterly Rock?" he asked. "Find my wife and it's yours."

"We all want to find her, Jon, I don't need a reward," Tyrion had said, somewhat taken aback.

The planning session held in the garrison yard, which had filled with people as members of the small council and guardsmen who had been tasked with searching the Red Keep for Daenerys arrived, was thorough in its efforts. Every room of the Red Keep would be examined, every cellar checked, and if the queen was still there, and so would the myriad secret passages … to the extent they were known. Tyrion sent some men to search the entrances he knew about and told them to keep walking until they found either the queen or daylight.

All of the gates in and out of the city were barred, Gold Cloaks and soldiers galloped down every road and game path on which a horse could ride, and they were given instructions to check every wagon big enough to hold a person and to examine the faces of everyone riding a horse. The harbor was closed to traffic in or out, and Tyrion ordered that the logs of the harbormasters be brought to him at once.

Finally, a search of the buildings of King's Landing was commenced, starting with those closest to the Red Keep. The small council had looked at each other then, and Tyrion's eyes revealed what Jon already knew. If Daenerys was still in the city, it would take months to search every building.

Jon made his opinion on the subject clear, "If it takes months, it will take months," he informed them. "The gates stay closed until she is found."

As the hours rolled on, fear and panic began to set in. Jon decided that anger was more useful of an emotion at the moment, so he snarled and snapped and raged in an attempt to avoid from screaming in frustration.

The corpse of the would-be assassin yielded the only immediate concrete information.

"Qarth," Brienne had confirmed. "I recognize him as one of the delegates."

Tyrion had squatted down on his misshapen legs and carefully used a dagger to slice open the man's pockets. Odd looking hollow implements, an array of darts, and an extremely unpleasant looking thin, curved knife honed to a razor's edge fell to the ground. The soldiers who had killed the Qartheen reported, in puzzled tones, that apparently, the man could have escaped quite easily, but had actually turned back, seemingly intent on finishing the job he started.

Jon almost admired the man's dedication.

"This is taking too long," he had grumbled at Tyrion as the dwarf pored through the harbormaster logs.

"There are a lot of ships," Tyrion had remarked, not without sympathy for Jon's feelings. The irony was not lost on the king that he was depending on the man who, the day before, had been threatened with execution by the woman he intended to rescue.

Jon eventually resorted to pacing back and forth in the garrison yard and yelling at anyone he could find to join the search of the city if they had nothing useful to add. The only reason Jon wasn't going building to building himself was that Tyrion had calmly reminded him that if they did find a useful lead, the king would probably want to be there to hear about it.

After Brienne had poked at his skin for the fifth or sixth time in an effort to determine how he was still alive, Jon became glad when the gloves, tunic, leather, and chainmail finally arrived. A few minutes later a breathless, red-faced page too winded to speak had given him Longclaw. When he was dressed in black and red armor with his sword slung across his back, he felt ready to take on an army for his love.

But where is she?

It was Brienne, normally surly and disinclined to providing comforting counsel, who finally gave voice to what he'd worried since the moment he'd heard she was missing.

"She's alive, your grace," Brienne reassured him. Tyrion had looked up briefly, then returned to the logs.

"How could you possibly know that?" Jon asked.

"Brienne is probably right," Tyrion interrupted. "They tried to kill you, but they kidnap her? If they wanted Daenerys dead, and please forgive my directness, she'd be dead already. Given the situation, the most likely scenario is they've taken her alive for some reason, and they wanted you eliminated … probably so you wouldn't start a war to find her."

"It wouldn't matter if I was dead," Jon pointed out, "the entire kingdom would be going to war for her anyway."

Tyrion had paused for a moment, then quietly said, "Of course, I'm sure you're right."

Jon looked around, and everyone was staring everywhere but at him. He was about to begin berating them, then he'd remembered his own advice to Daenerys the night before.

Better for me to hear the truth than a convenient lie.

"Brienne," he said, "if I'm ever so stupid as to leave my wife alone before the Kingsguard arrives, you have my permission to punch me right in the face."

"Yes, your grace," she said quickly and rather enthusiastically. Jon narrowed his eyes at her. "I'm sure you wanted your privacy for a good reason," she added as she blushed slightly.

"Anyone can make a mistake," Tyrion informed him, "and keep in mind that monarchs of Westeros have been captured and returned alive and whole before."

"Aerys Targaryen went mad when it happened to him," Jon replied.

"Let's make sure we find our queen quickly then," Tyrion said as he turned the logbook he was reviewing around and tapped an entry. "I think we have something here."

"What?" Jon asked as he scrambled towards the page. It was a jumble of names and numbers on a ledger of some sort, with symbols he couldn't read. "That's helpful?"

"I think it is," Tyrion said gravely. "The ship from Qarth that brought in the delegates isn't on any of the logbooks, which means there's a false entry somewhere."

"If the Harbormaster took a bribe, hang him," Jon said. Tyrion looked up quickly. "I'm not Daenerys," Jon said in a voice that rasped with steel, "I mean it. The men in charge of the docks knew that if they took bribes and it cost lives, they would hang, and it has."

"Whose life?" Brienne asked.

Jon pointed towards the dead assassin.

"In any event," Tyrion continued, "I think I've found the fake notation." He tapped the page. "This ship. It's the right size and type for a voyage to Qarth, and the entry makes no sense."

"How so?" Jon asked.

"Picking up wine at King's Landing, which is known for having notoriously terrible vineyards, to take to Oldtown, when the Arbor makes the finest wines in Westeros, is ludicrous. It makes about as much sense as White Harbor shipping snow to Winterfell." Tyrion raised a finger. "But Oldtown is the opposite direction of Qarth, and if I wanted to throw someone off the scent, and I wasn't very clever, I'd claim the ship's destination is someplace like Oldtown."

Jon's face fell. "That's it? We're trusting your knowledge of wines."

Tyrion shrugged. "I do know my wines, and it's not like our fleet is doing much good waiting in the harbor for orders."

"That's true," Jon scratched his chin. "Can we find the ship?"

"Well, we know what it looks like," Tyrion said, "but they have the tide and a half-day head start. I recommend we send every fleet in the harbor towards Qarth, have them spread out, with each only staying in sight of the ones next to it, and also send ravens to Dragonstone and Driftmark to put everything that has a sail into the search."

"They could be anywhere by now."

Tyrion looked sad as he stared down at the book. "That's true."

"But we know what the ship looks like?" he asked Tyrion.

"Generally, yes," the dwarf answered. "Sail color, size, number of masts, … faking that information can be spotted just by comparing them to the docked vessel, so harbormasters know better than to lie about them in their entries."

"Describe it to me."

"What?"

"You heard me, describe it. I have an idea."

Tyrion breathed deeply, his brow furrowed and he gazed quizzically at Jon. "Your gra …"

"Just, Jon," he interrupted him. "I bloody can't make her stop with the titles," he gestured at Brienne, "but you know better.

"Jon," Tyrion began again, "might I ask what you had in mind?"

"Drogon can fly faster than any ship can sail," Jon explained. I can cover more sea than a fleet, and when I find it, it'll be easier to catch."

Brienne and Tyrion exchanged a look.

"Your grace …" Brienne started

"This isn't a debate," he snapped. "What does the ship look like?"

Tyrion gave him the description.

Jon nodded once, then looked down at Tyrion. "If this ends up being a waste of time, hopefully we find her on the road or hidden somewhere."

Tyrion stood up from the table and held up a hand as Jon turned to go.

"Jon, dragons have only one rider, you know this," Tyrion said. "That's why Daenerys always saddles Drogon first. I know you want to help your wife, and believe me, I know what it feels like when you're informed the woman you love has been taken by those who mean her harm, but I do not see how you are going to be of any help if you're in the stomach of a dragon."

Drogon's living fire called to him, singing a song in tune with the one in his own body.

"I'll be fine," Jon said.

. . . . . . . . .

Daenerys's head cleared slowly, fitfully, and it was only when she realized that she was slumped upright in some horribly uncomfortable manner that she finally opened her eyes.

A calloused, large brown hand roughly grabbed her face and yanked it upright so that she peering straight ahead. She immediately opened her mouth to scream a protest, then she saw a flash of steel and felt the curved edge of a blade press against her throat. Daenerys froze and held very still as the hand tightened. The man crouched closer so that his face was next to hers.

"Do not move and do not speak until the master addresses you," a sibilant voice hissed in her ear. "Blink if you understand."

Daenerys held her breath as the knife pressed hard enough, she was sure, to leave a red line on her pale skin, and she blinked in agreement. The blinking had the added effect of clearing her vision.

She had realized she was on a ship from the smell of the sea and the rocking of the floor, but as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she found herself to be in a cargo hold. The hand on her jaw and the knife at her throat was too tight to allow movement, but she directed her eyes upwards and could see the wooden latticework of the cargo hatch and the blue sky above. The wooden grid of the hatch allowed sunlight to stream into the hold. The walls sloped outwards and upwards on either side of the space, and thick ribbed beams lined the walls. The floor was dark wood and pitted and stained from undoubtedly countless voyages. The hold, curiously, was entirely empty of cargo, although she supposed she qualified.

While she could see no crates or boxes, a few opulent items of furniture were in her line of sight. A rack of wine bottles with tall goblets set atop was to her left and an enormous, richly upholstered settee with soft fabric dyed a lustrous blue was positioned in front of her and slightly to her right. A mirror of rippling silver-glass had been set on a dark wooden stand directly in front of her, giving her a clear view of herself. Obviously, her captors felt it important that she appreciate her condition. The entire arrangement made her feel as if she was on display, a bauble to be examined.

As she stared into the mirror, she decided that her sensation of being on display was apt.

She was slumped against a steel pillar at least six or seven inches thick and perhaps four feet tall, and the pain in her knees was immediately explained by the fact that she was awkwardly kneeling on a large, square plate that been poured from the same mold as the pole to form a smooth, solid piece of metal. At first, she thought the rippling appearance of the steel was because of the mirror, then her eyes widened when she realized that pillar and base were Valyrian steel.

This might be worth as much as King's Landing.

She had little time to marvel at the wealth in front of her because of the painful awkwardness of the way she had been bound. Three thick metal rings, which unlike the pillar and its base appeared to be forged of ordinary iron, were fitted through slotted holes in the pillar. They hung from the opposite side from where she knelt, and one ring was at the level of her ankles, one near her waist, and one positioned directly behind her neck. Her legs had been crossed behind the pole, and thick fetters bearing iron locks secured her ankles to the base of the pillar. Her arms had similarly been drawn behind the pillar, locked within manacles, and identical iron locks secured her wrists to pillar ring that was level with her waist. Chains attached to the thick iron collar around her neck were solidly locked to the upper ring of the pole and allowed her no more than a few inches of movement in any direction. The restraints around her neck, wrists, and ankles were closely fitted and after only a few seconds of twisting her limbs she realized that she could never slide her hands or feet free.

The end result was pitilessly effective. The manner in which her neck and wrists had been locked prevented her from rising, and with her legs pulled backwards on either side of the pole and her ankles crossed she couldn't effectively move to the side, either.

I'm really stuck.

A light perfume wafted from her skin, and Daenerys was shocked to realize that she recognized it. She'd purchased it in a small shop in Qarth and had favored it in the weeks after she had first taken the Dothraki out of their sea. In fact, she had mourned when she'd used the last of it, as she'd never found its like again. The fragrance smelled of honeyed fruits and exotic spices, and despite the fear that was quickly rising in her, she found it pleasant to smell it once more.

Someone, she couldn't imagine who, had styled her hair in a manner which she'd once loved, but which had proven too time-consuming for Westerosi handmaids. Complicated braids on either side of her brow swept like a crown to meet at the back of her head, and two silver-gold locks flowed forward over her shoulders, while the rest of her hair hung down her back. Whoever had done the brushing had continued until each of the strands gleamed.

Amazingly, she recognized the dress she was wearing as well. It was made of light blue fabric that had golden threads woven throughout, and wrapped around her waist was a wide, delicate, decorative golden girdle that hugged the cloth against her skin. Shoulder straps crafted of the same thin golden strands as the girdle held the dress aloft. This version of the dress wasn't quite a perfect match for the one she remembered, though, as it hugged her curves far more closely, the hem reached only to her knees, and like most women, she was very aware of the extent of decolletage an outfit revealed. The cut of this dress left little to the imagination.

Whoever had applied the light rouge to her cheeks and the dyed wax to her lips had not only known exactly how she once applied those items but judging by the faint taste of plum in the lip wax, which stores she had purchased them from. The final effect, she had to admit, was striking. At the moment, however, she was more concerned with the fact that she was trapped in a cargo hold with a knife at her throat than her kidnappers' oddly tasteful wardrobe and styling choices.

In the mirror, she examined the man who crouched next to her with the threatening blade. He was bare-chested, barefoot, and wore stained sailor's pants. He had a dusky brown keffiyeh wrapped around the lower half of his face, and his eyes were sunken, dark, and feral.

In front of her were two people. Facing her was a stocky, tall, dark-skinned man in a gleaming red and gold robe that reached to his ankles and was belted with a sash of the same material. She recognized him immediately, and her eyes widened in shock, as it was a face that she had been sure she would never see again. She would have gasped, but the knife's pressure was so unrelenting she feared cutting herself if she took a deep breath. Kneeling in front of the man was a thin brown-haired woman with creamy skin. The complicated braid of the woman's hair clung to her head and neck. For a moment, Daenerys couldn't understand what the woman was doing, as her hands and heads seemed to be bobbing back forth in a steady rhythm, then she realized what was happening. A wave of nausea washed over her, and it was all she could do, knife or no knife, to try to turn away.

That kneeling woman is pleasuring him with her mouth.

Daenerys was quite familiar with this particular act of pleasure, but she'd never actually seen another woman perform it. She wished she could turn away, but as if the man with the knife had read her thoughts, he tightened his grip still further and forced her to look. The woman worked slowly and gracefully, and Daenerys wondered if her efforts seemed as similarly skilled.

I suppose I could ask Jon, if I ever see him again.

The woman's pace quickened, the large man closed his eyes and shuddered for a time, then he smiled and affectionately patted the woman on the head. The woman slowly closed the man's pants and rewound his wide sash around his waist, then she hung her head, put her hands on her knees, and remained kneeling.

"Hello, my little queen," Xaro Xhoan Daxos said with a broad smile. The dark-skinned Summer Islander appeared much as he had when Daenerys had locked him within his own vault, though perhaps a sprinkle of dull gray could now be seen in his closely cropped hair and beard. "You may have forgotten about me, but I have not forgotten about you." His smile intensified. "You cannot imagine how heightened my anticipation became as I waited for you to wake. I assure you that I have been dreaming of this moment for a very long time." Xaro waved a hand at the man with the knife. "Leave us," he commanded.

The knife was drawn from her throat and the keffiyeh-adorned sailor vanished from the mirror. Daenerys heard the sound of footfalls rising above her and assumed behind her must be a set of stairs.

With the knife gone, Daenerys pulled herself upright into a slightly more comfortable kneeling position. As she did so, she realized how closely the manacles at neck, wrist, and ankles were bound behind the pole positioned at her back. No matter how she contorted or twisted, she was stuck staring at herself in the mirror. The fact that she'd been dressed so beautifully was the final outrage. She twisted in the manacles a few times, confirmed they were too close-fitting to slip free, then tried to relax and save her strength.

"I have not forgotten you," Daenerys said with a sneer. "You are the lying thief who invited me into his home and then tried to rob me." She glanced down at his crotch. "If you think I am some shrinking maiden to be impressed by your buying a whore to pleasure you, you are mistaken." She laughed a few times. "I've long wondered if the tales of the prodigious manhoods of the Summer Islanders were true but judging by the size of your pathetic little worm, I see that the stories are false."

Xaro laughed long and deeply. "You are as brave as you ever were, little queen. I can still remember you, wearing dirty rags, surrounded by peasants and misfits, and still you stood tall in your little horse girl outfit and threatened the greatest city that ever was and ever will be." He gestured towards her. "Even now, your fire still burns."

Him taunting her while she was twisted and manacled on her knees to a pillar was almost too much to bear, but she knew that if she began hopelessly struggling against the chains it would just amuse him further. As her blood boiled, it was all she could do to stop from screaming obscenities.

"Have you no questions for me?" he taunted her. "I assume you must wonder how I escaped the trap you considered oh-so-clever."

"Mostly I'm wondering how long before I watch you die screaming," Daenerys retorted. "I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, do you really think that I will not be found?"

"I know you will not be found, little queen," he chortled. "And we will see if you are so brave by this time next week, when your knees have turned to bags of glass that are in agony every second. I think then you will beg me to let you service each member of my crew in the most unwomanly of ways if I will only give you a glass of water to drink."

I will see you dead, I swear it.

"I'm sure you know best how the sailors of this ship like to fuck," she said flippantly, "so if it's all the same, I'll just let you keep doing the job."

That one seemed to sting, as he narrowed his eyes in anger. "I will use your mouth first, of course, and you cannot imagine how I long to see the haughty and proud Daenerys Stormborn swallow every drop of my seed."

"You try that, and you'll feel the teeth of the dragon," she promised him.

He laughed again for a moment, then shook his head. "Despite your courage and your fire and your dragons, you are a fool, little queen." Xaro glanced at a nail, then rubbed it on the red and gold robe. "For example, you had the wealth of nations in front of you, and you were too blind to see it."

Daenerys couldn't help herself, she pulled at the wrist restraints. As she expected, Xaro smiled at the sight. She immediately ceased struggling.

"Have you noticed the metal beneath and below you," he asked as he gestured. "Does it not appear known to you?"

"Mostly I've noticed the treacherous filth standing in front of me," she retorted

Xaro did not react to the insult and carried on, "Visitors to my house, I would show them my vault, rave of the Valyrian stone, and then they would see the richness and wonders on display. What none of them ever saw, including yourself, is that my baubles were dross, and my vault was empty, because the true treasure was hidden in plain sight." He gestured towards the pillar and platform. "Can you guess of what I speak?"

"The door to the vault," she spat out reluctantly. In truth, she had come to suspect it some years ago.

Xaro's flashed her a broad smile. "Very good, little queen. A single Valyrian steel sword will buy a castle in your lands of barbarians, and there was enough Valyrian steel in that door to craft a hundred swords, maybe more. Every dollar of profit, every successful trade, were used to hide a fortune where no one would think to look." Now his smile turned triumphant. "Did you really think I would be so foolish as to not have another way into my treasure room? Why do you think I walked in with barely a protest? You came to me stinking of horses and clad in rags, and then you lock me in my own vault and think you have outwitted me? Me, who came from nothing? I let you loot my worthless trinkets, I found the hidden way out of my vault, and then I allowed others to appear to manage my affairs until you departed from Essos." He snorted. "You did not even think to send anyone to ensure I was truly dead. You are reckless, and now you are mine."

"I should have beheaded you."

He nodded. "You should have, but you foolishly did not, and here you are." He pointed to her restrained image in the mirror.

Daenerys found it enraging beyond all measure that she had been dressed and decorated simply to be stuck on display in the cargo hold of a ship. She wanted to smash the mirror and kill Xaro with her bare hands. Forcing herself to stay calm so he wouldn't have the pleasure of watching her struggle was a torment in and of itself.

"You have enjoyed the Iron Throne for a time, but this is your new throne," he explained as he stepped closer and gestured at the pillar she was locked to. "When we arrive in Qarth, Daenerys Stormborn, Breaker of Chains, you will find yourself chained exactly as you are now. I will then secure a wicker cage over your head so that you can see the city, but they cannot see you, and I will mount you on my golden wagon and let you scream to your heart's content while I parade you through the streets to my palace." His eyes glittered in the dark as he leaned down slightly to look at her. "That will be the last time you ever see the sky, little queen, for I have a special room prepared in my home, just for you. It is exactly the same size as the vault you intended for me to die in. That room is secret, buried deep where no one who does not know the workings of my home will ever find it, and you will spend the rest of your life in that room. You will be fed, and watered, and I and anyone I favor will use your body however we see fit. No one will ever find you. A beauty such as you should not be flying dragons and setting cities on fire, you should be a ringed pleasure slave, pierced at the nose, the lips between your legs, and your nipples, and that is what you will be."

Daenerys heart was racing in her chest, and she could feel a desperate urgency rise at the miserable fate just described for her. Nevertheless, she raised her head defiantly. "Why not just throw me over the side and be done with it?"

"That type of primitive revenge is fit for barbarians of your country," he explained with a rueful snort, "but not the citizens of Qarth. No, our vengeance runs deeper. You were prideful and arrogant, and I have decided that a proper fate is for you to be a slave that honored guests shall use as they see fit. Men will beg to visit the home of Xaro Xhoan Daxos for the guest gift of fucking the former Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

He reached out to pat her on the head and she twisted away from his hand.

"I will allow you to retain that bit of dignity," Xaro said as he withdrew his arm. "If only to make breaking you over long hours in the years to come all the sweeter."

"I will kill you, or myself, before any of that happens," she promised him.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "I thought you might say as much. If I suspect you will try to end your own life, I will take your hands."

Daenerys tried to fight the shackles again. They did not budge, of course, but a wild hysteria was beginning to rise. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to relax.

Do not give him the satisfaction.

"I see the thought frightens you," he continued. "If you force me to take your hands, I will fit you with golden gloves that reach to your elbows so your beauty remains unaffected, and I will fill the fingers of the gloves with sand. For many men, this would enhance the pleasure."

"Free me, or my armies will come for you and Qarth," she promised him. "The king, my husband, if you know of him, you know he will never stop looking. All the might of our country will come for me."

"Your king is dead," he informed her.

He's lying. He has to be.

"I don't believe you." A current of fear began to grow and her stomach twisted inside.

He shrugged. "It is no matter what you believe. The Sorrowful Men are expensive, yes, but I paid for the best. The man I hired has never failed, and they say he will die before he will abandon a job. Aegon Targaryen … or Jon Snow … you Westerosi have so many useless names and titles … is dead, and your dragon is not here. You are alone."

"I don't think so," she said stridently, and the fact that her voice was rising in pitch bothered her immensely. "You're lying. Even if you are not, my husband has already died once and come back. For me, he will again."

Xaro actually appeared worried for the briefest of moments, then the expression vanished. "I have heard such stories," he admitted. "You clearly believe them, so maybe they are true. In any event, we will kill him again and again, as many times as needed. Or, perhaps, he may enjoy ruling on his own, free of your mad whims. Maybe he will find another woman." Xaro shrugged. "You are beautiful, my little queen, but there are far less prickly morsels to be had." He snorted. "Besides, how would he find you? Your king may have forged the Seven Kingdoms back together for your cause, but he is a warrior, not a Qartheen stone mason. Even should he take Qarth and kill me, you will sit in your room and die the slow death you intended for me."

"My people will find me."

"Your people hate you," he snarled, and for the first time he sounded angry. "You have accomplished much, Daenerys Stormborn, but you have always been blind to how you appear to others. You may be the hero of your own story, but for most of the world, you are a villain." He sighed. "That is enough for now. I have unexpectedly urgent business to attend to, and another wishes to have some time alone with you … I would not deny her that pleasure."

He walked over to the kneeling woman, looked down, and spoke, "I was very much hoping to watch this, but I must confer with the captain and I am already late." His next remarks were given in a stern, threatening manner, "No marks, do you understand me? Anything else you wish, her body is yours, but she is to remain unblemished."

"Yes," said a soft voice that Daenerys immediately found familiar.

No … it can't be.

Xaro walked towards her and then swept around the pillar, clearly intent on ascending the same stairs that the knife-wielding sailor had used. "Your former handmaiden wishes to continue her instruction of you," he informed her. "I am sure you will be a most attentive student."

Xaro vanished out of sight.

The woman stood up and turned around, and a tight ball of rage immediately formed in Daenerys's chest.

Doreah.

Neither of them said anything for a long time. Daenerys, because she was too angry that the bitch who betrayed her cause was still alive, and Doreah because she appeared to be too busy smiling at Daenerys. Eventually, Daenerys began to puzzle at the expression.

What is wrong with her?

It was Daenerys who spoke first. "I suppose you have a speech prepared as well?"

Doreah shook her head. "No speeches, that is for Xaro." She glanced towards the back of the cargo hold as if to confirm that he was gone. "He spoke truth, by the way. About the fate he has planned for you."

I rather thought he was.

"Whatever his plans are, they do not matter," she informed Doreah. "Destiny rides with me, not with Xaro Xhoan Daxos."

Doreah's eyes were sad as she gazed down at her. "Destiny already happened for you, Khaleesi. Your fate is no longer in the hands of the gods, it is in the hands of Xaro."

Daenerys couldn't help herself, she yanked at the chains a few more times. Her knees were beginning to ache in truth, and the iron collar around her neck didn't allow her room to maneuver away from the pole at her back and find a more comfortable position.

This will be torture, soon.

Doreah stepped closer. The beautiful handmaiden wore a midriff baring halter top with straps crossing over each shoulder above a long, flowing dress that reached to mid-calf. Her top and dress were woven from the same cloth, silver and gold fibers threaded together in equal measures. For a moment, Daenerys idly wondered if Doreah realized how similar the color of the fabric was to the shade of Daenerys's hair. The woman was as beautiful as ever, slim and lithe, and her darting, lively eyes still sparkled above a soft smile.

"Xaro commanded that I could treat you any way I saw fit so long as I do not mark you," Doreah said. She glanced about, seemingly nervous, then continued in a conspiratorial whisper, "I have no way to free you, but I would not see you suffer."

Daenerys blinked in surprise at the unexpected words.

What?

Doreah grabbed two large pillows, then climbed onto the pillar's metal stand and crouched down next to her. Her movements were strangely gentle as she helped Daenerys raise first one knee, then the other, so that the pillow could slide beneath them. After the brutal misery of kneeling on the steel, the cushion felt heavenly. If not for her treachery, Daenerys would have thanked the woman.

Doreah placed a second pillow on the platform and then sat upon it, folding her legs gracefully beneath her. Daenerys began to feel a different kind of worry at the unexpectedly friendly proximity of the traitor she'd left for dead.

Shouldn't she hate me?

She decided that her situation could not possibly get any worse, so she spoke the question on her mind. "Do you not hate me?"

Doreah reached out and brushed a strand of hair that had worked its way out of Daenerys's braid and floated in front of her face." Daenerys tried to recoil from the touch, but she couldn't move more than a few inches. Doreah ignored her reaction and continued, "I hated you greatly for a long time, Khaleesi," she admitted. "But no more."

"For locking you in the vault?" Daenerys asked. She couldn't help herself, she continued. "Death is the usual punishment for traitors."

Doreah laughed, and it was an oddly lyrical and sweet sound to be heard in such a horrible place. The ship swayed back and forth, the smell of the seawater filled Daenerys's nose, and her beautiful former handmaiden sat next to her on a pillow and giggled as if they were relaxing in a palace garden.

"I was not mad about the vault, Daenerys. I had betrayed you and it was your right. Besides, I knew I would not die within its walls."

Doreah switching the mode of address from her title to her name was not lost on Dany, but she decided not to object to the informality.

"You were right, so long ago," Doreah carried on, "men who are happy do like to talk. I made Xaro very happy indeed, and one night he made it known to me that there was another way in and out of his treasure room. We acted the part of scared victims for your benefit, but we meekly walked in because we knew we would be walking out again."

Daenerys gritted her teeth in anger.

Jon would be very upset if he knew the kinds of punishments that I was dreaming up right now.

"It was before the vault that I came to hate you," Doreah said sadly. "Do you wish to know why?" Her voice was low, and gentle. She reached up and straightened the shoulder of Daenerys's gown where the gold clasp had twisted.

She dressed me.

Daenerys was stunned she hadn't realized it immediately. Doreah had dressed her in the manner in which she'd appeared in Qarth, when they had wandered Xaro's palace together. No one else would have known how to garb her so perfectly, or to identify the perfume, or know which face paints to use.

She twisted her head to look at Doreah and a terrible suspicion she refused to voice began to chime in the back of her mind. Daenerys forced down the notion and asked the question Doreah clearly wanted her to ask. "Why did you hate me?" she asked. "I gave you everything."

Doreah smiled sadly. "You were the Mother of Dragons. You were a Khaleesi, you kept women from being harmed, you were … good. I never knew what it was like to be treated well before you. My mother sold me, then I was sold to your brother, and then I was yours." She sighed and leaned her head to the side towards Daenerys. "Then, in Qarth, after you'd told me I didn't need to be a slave anymore, that I could be more than a man's plaything, when I had decided that you were the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me in my entire life, do you know what happened?"

Daenerys silently shook her head.

"You asked me to go sleep with men, many men, for information." An old wound bubbled in Doreah's voice. "You told me I was free, you made me feel important to you, then you asked me to sell my body again, not even for money, but for the chance that some old merchant might help you." Doreah bowed her head slightly.

Daenerys did remember now. "Why didn't you say something?" she asked. "I told you that you weren't a pleasure slave, that you had a choice."

"It was your asking that caused the pain," Doreah explained. "I smiled and made it seem I did not care, but inside, my heart broke, and I was angry at you, and then I sought out Xaro …" she paused a moment, then continued, "but then I realized, later, that you did not mean to be cruel."

I need friends more than I need to tell Doreah what I think of her.

Doreah pulled her pillow closer so that it was touching Daenerys's, then she leaned her body against her. Daenerys leaned away, instead.

The handmaiden made a clucking noise of admonishment. "I know what it is like to be bound to a slave pillar in the exact way you are now, it becomes increasingly cruel over time. I do not wish to see you suffer needlessly, so do not be proud … if you lean against me, it will be easier. Let me help you."

Daenerys reluctantly complied, and as much as she was loathe to admit it, the extra support eased the strain on her legs and back immensely.

"Do you know why I forgave you in my heart, Dany, long after you had left Qarth and I never thought to see you again?"

Daenerys mutely shook her head.

"I realized that you simply do not know what you do. Someone tells you no, so you threaten them. You believe it is your right to have something, so anyone who keeps it from you must be wrong. Or you need something, so you demand it, and if it is not given a person is evil, regardless of whether you had a right to the thing demanded. At first, I thought you did this because you did not care, that people like me did not matter to you, but then I realized that was not the reason at all. Do you know what the reason was?"

"No," Daenerys said flatly.

I might prefer it if Xaro came back.

Doreah continued, "It was because you were scared, and you were desperate, and so you did what you must. I do not think you would be like that if you were somewhere safe, where you were not always afraid."

"This is not that place," Daenerys pointed out.

"This is a bad place you have found yourself," Doreah agreed, "but I wish to help you … in secret, of course. Xaro would hurt us both if he knew my true feelings."

Leave the pillow and go.

Daenerys rattled the manacles slightly. "If you wish to help me, can you not convince Xaro to loosen my chains, or perhaps you could unlock me for a time?"

Doreah shook her head. "I do not have the keys, and Xaro cannot be convinced to take pity on you ... he has been planning this for years and spent a sum you would not believe. Revenge has become his obsession. I lied to him and convinced him it was mine as well, and I think my pretending to share his hatred for you is why he tells me he loves me." She leaned towards her as if sharing a secret. "Many nights he has asked me to speak of the wicked things I will do to you when you are under his control, and my words heightened his pleasure immeasurably. After I go, you must act as if I had tormented you and keep my secret."

"Can you not help me escape?"

Doreah reached out to stroke her cheek, and this time Daenerys held still and allowed the woman to do so. "I have made friends with a certain trusted guardsman who will be tasked with guarding your cell most nights. We are very good friends, and he has promised to let me come to you when Xaro is away or asleep. There is a small garden near where you will be kept that we can sneak to, from time to time. I know what you like to eat and drink, and what your favorite clothes are. There is a fountain there that has sweet, cold water, and many nightbirds like to play in the water under the stars. Your life need not be so terrible."

This time, Doreah stroked her bare leg beneath her dress, high up on her thigh. Daenerys recoiled in revulsion, but there was literally no place to go, and she realized that it might not be a wise idea to antagonize the handmaiden.

Oh, no.

As the woman caressed her, Daenerys realized what Doreah desired. If Jon were there, she knew what he would say. He would have grabbed her shoulders and screamed, or fallen to his knees and begged, for her to set aside her pride and do whatever the woman wanted if it would help her stay safe and alive. Jon had told her the story of the death of Qhorin Halfhand and she knew that her husband understood the necessity of doing what was needed to survive.

She watched in the mirror as Doreah nestled closer. Daenerys's beautiful blue dress glimmered in the light cascading through the cargo hold roof, but she remained mostly concerned with the dull black metal that locked her limbs and neck into place. Doreah continued to lightly stroke her leg as she stared into her eyes.

"If Xaro suspects that I wish to help you, I will not be able to come to you at all, and he may do worse to me than lock me to a slave pillar. Will you keep my secret?"

The hand crept further beneath her dress, and Daenerys shifted uncomfortably.

I need to get away from this woman.

Doreah's breath was warm against Dany's cheek as she answered, "I will keep your secret," she promised. The next words were difficult to voice, but the last thing she needed was for Doreah to know her true feelings. "You were very … special … to me, and I see now that I abused your trust. I was thoughtless and careless with your affection. I am sorry, Doreah." She drew the woman's name out, letting the syllables slide off her tongue, and she lowered her voice to a murmur.

It was exactly how she said Jon's name when she wished to see him further excited.

Her words had the desired effect. Doreah pushed in closer still. Daenerys watched, wide-eyed in the mirror, as her former handmaiden curled around her side like a slithering snake.

"Do you need another pillow?" Doreah asked. "Are you thirsty? Xaro does not search my things, and I have brought onboard many bottles of wine that he does not know about. I hid one here, earlier this morning, while the men were preparing for the departure."

"Wine would be wonderful," Daenerys admitted. "Or maybe something to eat?" Her throat was parched and sore from the collar and chain, and she'd had nothing to drink or eat since the night before. Her back was beginning to cramp, and she began to wonder how long she'd been chained before she awoke.

Doreah eagerly stood up and scuttled to the back of the cargo hold. Daenerys took the opportunity to try to stretch her legs and arms. The position was rapidly growing strenuous, and beneath the dress, sweat was beginning to cling to her.

Bottle and goblet in hand, Doreah returned and eagerly sat back down on the pillow and pressed her body once more against her. The handmaiden held up her hand and to Daenerys's surprise a small rectangle of layered bread lay upon the palm.

Daenerys eyed it doubtfully.

"Xaro took his lunch in this hold, so he could watch," she informed Daenerys. "This is what I was able to hide." She held up the bread. You need something to eat, and I do not know if I will be able to bring food into this place."

When Daenerys realized that Doreah was not going to place the bread in her mouth, she bent her head as far as the collar allowed, and her lips brushed against the woman's palm as she ate from her hand.

I'd ask her to move the mirror so I don't have to watch this, but I think she might not like that.

The bread was actually quite good, thick, sweet, and filled with exotic nuts. Daenerys swallowed it and wished there was more. She cleared her parched throat, and Doreah held aloft a tall goblet filled that she'd filled near to the brim with wine.

"Do not let the wine spill," Doreah said in a frightened tone. "Xaro has a sharper eye than you would expect, and if he notices a stain upon your dress, he will realize I disobeyed him."

Daenerys nodded her understanding. When the wine reached her lips, she found it cool and rich with dark fruits and hints of oak, a far finer vintage than she expected, and she gratefully drank … and continued to drink as Doreah tilted the goblet far longer than she'd anticipated. The wine was much stronger than the light reds she preferred, and Daenerys could not recall wine that ever burned so heavily on the throat. It was not until the goblet was nearly empty that the former handmaiden finally pulled it away from her lips. Daenerys coughed a few times and felt the alcohol settle into her empty stomach. Her head was starting to swim.

Doreah had already poured more wine, and the handmaiden repeated the process of raising the goblet to Daenerys's mouth.

"Wait …" Daenerys started to protest, then the goblet was once more tilted against her lips. She tried to convey with her eyes that she wished for Doreah to take the wine away, but the woman was determined, and yet again Daenerys was forced to drain the goblet.

When she'd finished drinking, Daenerys coughed in earnest, wracking heaves that rattled the chains at neck and wrists.

Doreah gently rubbed her back until the coughing fit stopped, then Doreah refilled the goblet and proceeded to drink deeply of the wine. "More?" she asked Daenerys as she held up the wine bottle questioningly.

"No, please!"

Doreah looked disappointed but nodded. "I will save it for you. I do not know when anyone else will give you something to drink." She set the goblet and bottle far enough away that there was no danger of them accidentally toppling over.

"Thank you," Daenerys said. She forced the next words from her throat. "You are being very kind to me, when I was so horrible to you." She felt light-headed as the wine raced through her system.

Doreah's hand returned to her leg, and this time her fingers were very far up her thigh, near her waist. "I think, Dany," she murmured in a knowing whisper, "that what is happening right now is maybe not so strange to you."

Surprised, Daenerys snapped her head, as far as the collar around her neck would allow, towards Doreah. "What? What do you mean?"

Doreah smiled knowingly. "You are a queen, nobility of the highest sort, but I watched you in the mirror. You tested the chains a few times, and then were at ease. You did not fight and thrash and exhaust yourself, as Xaro expected. Such efforts are amusing to the captor, but pointless to the captive."

"I just don't feel struggling would get me anywhere," Daenerys spluttered. The wine was working its way through her system, and the cargo hold was starting to dance and sway. Sweat beaded on her brow.

Doreah bent to fill the goblet yet again. "We will talk more on this when you are ready to share truths."

"Doreah, really, I don't …"

Then the metal rim of the goblet was pressed against her lips for the third time, and Daenerys's eyes bulged as she drank. Her throat was on fire, and a dribble almost fell from the corner of her lip, but Doreah was watching carefully, and she quickly brushed the drops away with her hand. Her fingers lingered next to Daenerys's mouth.

Mercifully, this time the handmaiden removed the goblet after only half a cup had been poured down her throat. Daenerys spluttered and shook in her chains as the alcohol burned through her system.

"The wine will help you relax," Doreah whispered into her ear. Daenerys shivered at the nearness of the woman's voice. "So long as I am careful, even if I cannot bring you water, you will have something to drink. I will take care of you."

I'm going to be very drunk soon.

She swayed with the motion of the ship, her stomach lurched as the wine sloshed within her, and she also felt very bold.

"Doreah," her words were slightly slurred, "you loved me, didn't you."

"Yes," the woman purred into her ear. "For all your gifts, Khaleesi, it is remarked upon by many that you do not seem able to see yourself as others see you. How could someone look upon you and not love you?"

The hand was still upon her thigh as Doreah gently kissed her on the forehead.

I have to get out of here.

"I think now you are ready," Doreah continued. "We shall play the game of truths. Each of us will ask a question, and the other will answer truthfully." Her voice grew solemn. "It is a sin to lie during the game of truths, and I think I will know if you do."

"Truth about what?" Daeneryes asked hesitantly as she flexed her wrists against the shackles.

Jon … if you're alive … I beg you, hurry.

Doreah giggled. "That is up to the one asking. You can ask what a woman's favorite color is, or what the secret lust of their heart might be." She held up the goblet and tilted it back and forth. "We shall drink as we play."

"I don't know if I can drink any more," Daenerys admitted. "I might get sick."

Daenerys tried not to flinch as Doreah reached out and gently rubbed her stomach with light fingers. "We will take our time."

Daenerys fought against the intoxication as she swayed in the chains. Above her, the sun had turned a burnt orange, and she realized that it was almost dusk. "I will play this game with you."

Anything to keep you talking …

Doreah leaned very close, so close her lips brushed against Daenerys's ear as she spoke. "I believe you will like this game very much.

I doubt it.

Daenerys shifted her knees and tried to ignore the woman eagerly pressing against her.

Jon would understand why I am not cursing and screaming. I can't anger the one person who might be able to help me, and my husband would not want me starving in agony in this hold.

"I do …" Daenerys whispered as she shifted her knees slightly. She took a deep breath. "Who asks the first question."

Doreah's eyes were wide and excited as she pressed closer. "You may go first."

The question she wanted first came immediately to mind. "Xaro said that Jon … my husband … is dead. Was he telling the truth?"

It was the question that was burning at her soul, but Doreah clearly did not like the first topic she had chosen. Her eyes narrowed and she drew her lips tight across her face. She was a long time in answering. "I do not know for sure," she finally admitted, "but I think probably that Xaro was lying."

It was all Daenerys could do to keep from weeping from the relief she felt.

"Why do you think that?" she asked without hesitation.

Doreah frowned, then reached out and tapped Daenerys's nose in a scolding manner. "One question at a time," she said. "But I will answer, as you do not know this game yet. I think that the captain and Xaro were waiting for a signal that the Sorrowful Man had succeeded, the return of a bird that needs no land to find its roost upon this ship, and I think the bird never arrived. The captain and Xaro are keeping watch and conferring as to whether they should make for Qarth or other waters."

How will Jon ever find me?

"I can't say that I was looking forward to revisiting Qarth," Daenerys said in a sarcastic, acerbic tone. Her voice had grown thick and heavy, and it was becoming difficult to focus her eyes. A warmth was spreading through her body. "Somewhere else might be nice."

Doreah shook her head in a grave, solemn manner. "You should not be happy if we do not go to Qarth, Daenerys. In Qarth, you would be alive. If Xaro and the captain fear they are being hunted, and that having you on board puts them in danger," she gestured towards the side of the hold, "the ocean is right there."

I have to get out of here!

Daenerys knew she had to ask. "Please, help me," she begged in as supplicative and loving a tone as she could. The wine made her words slow and clumsy. "Doreah, we were … we are … special to each other. You don't want to see me dead, or caged and tormented. I know you can get the keys if you want, Xaro has said he loves you."

Doreah stared at her contemplatively. "We will talk more on this later. Right now, we finish the game." She smiled and held the goblet to Daenerys's lips. This time, she allowed her to take only a small sip.

"My turn," Doreah announced with a gleeful smile as she rubbed her hands together. "Before you pretended confusion," the handmaiden said as her eyes lingered over Daenerys's body, "but when I dressed you, I saw that the hair beneath your gown had been removed and that you had marks upon your skin." Doreah sighed, seemingly in appreciation at the memory. "So many marks …" she smiled mischievously. "And as I said, you appeared to be no stranger to the chains. Truth now, Daenerys Stormborn, it is not so strange for you to be bound like this, is it?"

Daenerys closed her eyes before she answered. "No."

Daenerys opened her eyes to find Doreah with her hands to her mouth giggling. "I knew it!" the handmaiden said triumphantly. "Who was it?" she whispered conspiratorially. "Khal Drogo was a brute … and I can't imagine your grim Northern warlord would ever be so creative." Doreah pointed at her in excitement. "A lover from the East … maybe Braavos … that is it, isn't it?"

"You only get one question at a time," Daenerys reminded her.

Doreah laughed and patted her knee. "You are right," she apologized. "Whoever it was, they must love you very much."

Now THAT is actually an intriguing comment.

Daenerys's brow furrowed as she looked at Doreah with the question beaming from her face. She tried to the difficulty she was having in keeping her thoughts straight as the wine coursed through her.

"You want to know how I know the man who binds you loves you?" Doreah asked. "I will tell you, but do not worry, it will not count as your question. Men who are kind to women who they have at their mercy must love them, for men are not kind otherwise. For a woman to be so comfortable, so at ease, when tied, she must have learned from a man whose hands are guided by love, because only then does the woman learn to welcome, rather than fear, being helpless." The handmaiden rubbed her shoulder. "I believe you like being helpless with a man who loves you very much, Khaleesi."

Daenerys just stared in stunned silence at the woman.

"You need not be ashamed," Doreah continued. "In the pleasure house which once owned me, on one occasion a very rich, very powerful man came from far away to ensure he could pursue his secret desires with utter privacy. He was a satrap from Yi-Ti, a ruler who with the snap of his fingers could command armies to march or condemn tens of thousands to die painful deaths. And do you know what he wanted?"

Daenerys slowly shook her head.

"He wanted to dress as a woman and to be used roughly by men. The more cruelly and brutally he was used, the more he paid, and when he finally departed content and happy, the men who had been the most harsh and unforgiving with him received enough gold to buy their freedom." Doreah rubbed her leg again. "So do not be ashamed. We are as the gods have made of us."

Daenerys looked away.

Jon … where are you?

It was becoming rather difficult to think clearly, and so she knew her question could not wait. Doreah clearly was obsessed with her, and she may never have another chance.

"My turn to ask a question?" Daenerys asked

Doreah nodded, then had Daenerys take another sip of wine.

"Will you leave this ship and come away with me, to live in Westeros, and stay by my side?" Daenerys asked.

Doreah stared at her in shock. "What do you mean?" she finally asked.

"You understand me," Daenerys answered as she swayed in her chains. "If you can unlock these shackles, you and I can go over the side into the ocean, or maybe through that hatch." She gestured with her head towards a porthole high on the far side of the cargo hold. She prayed her words didn't sound as desperately slurred to Doreah as they did to her. "There are things onboard that will float, and if you and I go at night, the sailors will never find us."

"We would drown …" Doreah said doubtfully.

Daenerys quickly shook her head. "We would not. My entire fleet must be on their way to Qarth, and my dragon will look for me, too. One day floating on the ocean … maybe two … and we will be found." She put her head on Doreah's shoulder. "We can hold on to each other while we float and take turns resting."

She's not saying no.

"And then what?" Doreah asked suspiciously as she took her own sip of wine. "This sounds very much like you are not telling me truth, but that you are telling me things you believe I wish to hear. There is no place for such as me in the life of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

Daenerys quickly shook her head. "I make a place for anyone I want." She hiccupped again. "The people I want in my life, are in my life. You would be with me every day." Her voice turned wheedling and plaintive, "There is no need for us to be slaves in Qarth, hurt and used and raped. Come with me and help me be queen. I … I have missed you … despite everything. You were with me at the beginning."

Doreah changed the subject as she replied, "Your king, I have heard very strange things about him … I do not think he would like me."

At least she still hasn't said no.

"He is not what you think," Daenerys quickly replied. She whispered, "I will give you a free answer to a question you asked earlier … it is my king who put those marks on me."

Doreah pursed her lips thoughtfully. "He sounds very different than I would have thought."

"He is," Daenerys promised. It was becoming very difficult to focus her eyes. The rays of the sun through the lattice work had begun to turn red, and soon, she knew it would be dark.

I have to convince her now, or it will never happen.

"Some men," Doreah said thoughtfully, "they are very jealous with their wives when it comes to other men, but not so jealous when it comes to women. Some men very much like to watch their wives enjoy the pleasure of another woman's body. Is your … Aegon … one of these men?"

He'd better not be.

"He enjoys such pleasures," Daenerys lied as smoothly as she could. "And you are very beautiful." She roamed her eyes up and down Doreah's body.

Doreah was quiet and thoughtful as she held the goblet once more to Daenerys's mouth, and this time she made her take a long drink. Doreah set the goblet aside.

The handmaiden's hand snaked once more beneath her dress, and Daenerys forced herself to lean against the pressure. So far, Doreah had shown some measure of restraint, but she knew it would not be long before the deranged woman sought more from her than she was willing to give. The wine at least helped her keep from screaming.

"I can probably obtain the keys to your chains, Daenerys," Doreah slowly admitted. "Xaro keeps them close, but we rest near each other, and he does sleep."

Oh, please … yes.

Daenerys's heart soared.

The handmaiden continued, "But as to your question as to whether I will do so, I will answer that question later."

Daenerys whipped her head around. "Is that how this game is played?"

Doreah shook her head. "No, but I must be sure you speak the truth, Daenerys. With all my heart, I have dreamed of hearing such a thing as you have said, but I have learned that promises are often wind."

I can hear Jon screaming at me to do what she wants.

She could, in fact, hear her husband's voice as if he was in the cargo hold with her. Begging, pleading with her not to waste this one chance, that it might never come again, and that she would be a fool to let vanity condemn her to a terrible fate.

She forced the question from her lips as she gazed into Doreah's face, "How can I help you be sure I am telling the truth?"

Doreah's entire posture seemed to soften. She withdrew her hand from beneath the dress and moved herself on the platform so she was facing Daenerys. "You know how, Khaleesi."

Daenerys couldn't help herself as she replied, "I … I would prefer that we come to my husband together to ask him … to have his blessing. I swore an oath … he would not mind, I know that he wouldn't …"

She tried to silence the sound in her mind of Jon cursing at her for being a fool.

Doreah smiled shyly. "I understand but let me ask you this. It is not breaking an oath to want something, is it?"

Daenerys mutely shook her head.

"So …" Doreah drew out the word as she rubbed Daenerys's knee, "… you ask me to answer if I will jump into the ocean with you, to risk death … but I will need you to speak to me truth before I can answer that question. I have thought long and hard on this, Dany." Doreah's voice grew very solemn. "I promised myself, and I now promise you, that no matter what you say or do today, even if you spit in my face when next you open your mouth that I will still help you on this ship and in Qarth in exactly the same way that I have said I would. I do not want you forced to tell me things that are not true because you fear that I will turn my back on you. I have been forced to do that which I would prefer not to, many times, and each such experience is a scar on my heart. I promise you, Dany, no matter what you say, I will still bring you things which will ease your burden and take you to the garden of which I spoke until, perhaps, someday you will grow to love me as I love you." The woman drew a deep breath. "Knowing all of these things I have just said, and I promise they are true upon my very soul, I ask you this question: do you want me, Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, right now, in this place?"

If this ship reaches Qarth with me on it, I will never see Jon or the Seven Kingdoms again.

Daenerys couldn't force the words from her mouth, so she nodded.

Doreah's eyes softened, and a small tear appeared at the corner of her eye. Daenerys felt a twinge of nervousness as the woman scuttled behind the pillar, where even with the mirror she couldn't get a clear view.

"I understand about your oath, so I will make this much easier for you," the handmaiden said matter-of-factly.

Daenerys tried to twist her head to see what the woman was doing, but then she reappeared in front of her.

"Do you know what this is, Dany?" Doreah asked as she held her hand out.

Daenerys tried to focus her wine-blurred eyes and look at the woman's palm. A strange oval block perhaps three inches long and carved of black wood sat in Doreah's hand. The wood had been carved in such a manner that extending from one side was a thick, wide protrusion that was also roughly three inches in length. Something seemed to be curled beneath the wood, but she couldn't tell what it was.

"No," Daenerys admitted. "What is it?"

"Oh," Doreah said in a manner that sounded disappointed. "No matter, your husband will be delighted to learn of this."

Daenerys opened her mouth to ask why, but before she could utter the words Doreah's hand darted forward, and the oval block was between her teeth and the thick wooden protrusion was resting on her tongue. She tried to wrench her head away and spit the thing out of her mouth, but Doreah pressed it tightly against her lips and the collar around her neck kept her from moving.

She was still trying to digest what had happened when she realized that thin leather cords that sprouted from either end of the device had been neatly tied behind her head. Doreah sat back, smiling in satisfaction, and Daenerys again tried to spit the wood away.

She's gagged me.

The thin cord held the object tightly in her mouth, and although her lips could nestle along the edges of the wood in a comfortable fashion, she was unable to dislodge it. Furious despite her need to keep Doreah happy, Daenerys tried to voice an objection. She'd had some practice speaking through gags of various types, and while muted, typically she could make herself understood.

Only a nonsense string of syllables emanated from her mouth, and what was worse, the attempt immediately made her start to choke on the gag. The instant she stopped trying to speak, the sensation went away. Experimentally, she tried again, and the horrible choking feeling returned. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized she would not be able to say a single word until the handmaiden removed the gag. She stared at Doreah in mute horror.

"It is very elegant, is it not?" Doreah asked proudly.

Take this out of my mouth!

"Phlew grah …" was all she could say before the choking sensation forced her to stop. Almost as bad as the choking, however, was that every time she attempted to speak, she found that drool began dribbling from her mouth as if she was a child.

Doreah reached forward and wiped the spittle from her chin.

"The tongue gag is very comfortable to wear," Doreah informed her. "I know, I have worn it many times, it is a favorite of Xaro's. I assure you that you will not be able to speak, Dany, so even though you have told me of the desire in your heart, your oath and your honor will remain intact." Doreah smiled at her own reasoning, and Daenerys found herself wanting to throttle the woman.

GET THIS THING OUT OF MY MOUTH!

She tested the shackles again, and of course they held. If she could just get one hand up to the back of her head, she could undo the knot … but of course, she could not. The frustration of such a simple thing rendering her voiceless was beyond calculation.

"I will know from your body whether you told me truth about my having a place with you in Westeros, Daenerys," Doreah said matter-of-factly. She perked up and raised a finger as if she had just had a sudden thought. "I have an idea as to what will make this even easier for you!"

I doubt whatever it is will help much …

Daenerys stared at her fearfully. She almost began to speak but remembering how unpleasant the last few attempts had been, she remained silent.

Doreah giggled. "You are a fast learner of the ways of the tongue gag."

Just get on with it.

Doreah pulled a handkerchief out of another small pocket. The fabric was striking, a black and white pattern with reflective threads of some strange material woven into it. It also seemed familiar, but Daenerys couldn't quite place it.

"You bought this for me in Qarth," Doreah explained. "I liked it at a market, and you bought it for me, merely to see me happy." The woman smiled. "I think it was at that moment that I knew I loved you."

Daenerys's curiosity as to what Doreah intended with the small scrap of cloth was satisfied when it was folded to make a wide band, placed across her eyes and tied securely behind her head. She could see some faint light, but no more. Oddly enough, Doreah had been right … the blindfold did make things much easier. She pictured Jon's face and leaned back against the pillar. A few more bits of drool dribbled from her mouth, and Doreah wiped them away.

Doreah moved her pillow closer, so that she was sitting right in front of her, and Daenerys knew what would happen next. The wine slowly twisted in her stomach, sickening her. When she felt the heat of Doreah's breath on the skin of her chest and neck, she instinctively shifted on the steel platform, trying to move away, and with splayed fingers she strained against the manacles imprisoning her wrists. The chains held her fast, and she resignedly slumped in despair and let her hands and head hang limp as she waited in silent terror for the violations of her body that she knew would be soon in coming. In her mind she imagined Jon hugging her tightly and making her promise to do whatever she had to do.

A moment later, she felt Doreah's hands upon her legs as the woman, with nauseatingly delicate movements, grasped the fabric along the hem of her dress.

Jon … please ... don't let this happen to me ...

Doreah had just begun to lift the hem of her dress towards her hips when Daenerys heard a piercing roar from the sky above the ship. She recognized the sound immediately, and as adrenaline coursed through her body, her head snapped from its slumped position and she began frantically, with garbled mumbles, to protest against the gag.

The handmaiden yanked away the handkerchief blindfold and Daenerys blinked as her eyes adjusted. She immediately looked upwards. Above her, through the slats of the cargo hold hatch, the sun had begun to turn to red. She recognized the black shadow winging across the sky and once again fought against the choking gag and rattled her chains as she stared, wide-eyed, at Doreah. Daenerys tried to make her eyes plead her case and tried not to let her rage spread across her features.

The handmaiden hesitated for a moment, then she reached out and untied the cord holding the hateful gag in her mouth. Daenerys leaned forward and spat out the abominable thing.

"Your king?" Doreah asked as she gazed upwards. "He can take us both? There is no need to jump into the ocean?"

Daenerys ignored the foul, venomous woman as she cleared her throat, inhaled deeply, and gazed skyward.

"I will get the keys," Doreah said as she scrambled to her feet, clearly taking Daenerys's silence to be agreement. "Xaro will be distracted."

Jon!

Doreah disappeared behind her, and Daenerys began to scream.

. . . . . . . .

The sun had just begun to set when Jon, after hours of desperate flying, spotted the ship. The great black beast had been curiously indifferent to him when he jumped in the saddle, but as if sensing his desperation, had eventually leapt into the air with a great urgency and begun flying to the east. They had passed Dragonstone and entered the open ocean, whereby Jon began to fly first one direction then another as he worked his way across the most likely path of a craft bound for Qarth.

Every time he saw a sail, he flew Drogon lower, and every time it was the wrong color of sail, or the wrong number of masts, or the wrong size, and his heart would break. He knew that once it grew dark the search would become fruitless, but he resolved to maintain the attempt until the last light of the day was gone.

He'd almost reached the conclusion that the ship he was searching for had, indeed, been bound for Oldtown when, at last, he flew close to yet another sailing vessel and this time there was no mistake.

That's the one.

That still didn't mean Daenerys was on it, of course.

If the men on the ship had simply been patient, and clever, they likely would have evaded detection even had Jon made his way onboard. It ended up taking him quite some time to convince Drogon to fly low enough for him to jump for the deck, and in that time the men could have hidden Daenerys somewhere aboard or thrown her over the side. The sailors merely had to remain peaceful and act as though they'd done nothing wrong, and Jon, in frustration, would have decided that the ship was a false lead.

When the arrow whistled by Drogon, the fire in Jon's breast burned hot.

Daenerys must be down there.

Ignoring the arrows, he flew Drogon low … and lower still … until the dragon hovered above the vessel. The mast was a nuisance, as the dragon couldn't get a proper angle with the sail jutting out of the middle of the deck, and when Jon jumped, he knew that if he missed his target the weight of the chainmail would pull him under the water.

His feet landed just within the railing.

Drogon flapped wildly to ascend, and one of his clawed hind feet tore a great gouge in the side of the ship as he struggled for altitude. A portion of the railing along with half of one of the great beams that formed the hull of the vessel spun away to splash into the water.

The sailors, who had hidden as Drogon neared, crept back into sight. There had to be at least ten of them, and each was armed with a cutlass, or a belaying pin, or a weapon of some sort. It occurred to the King of the Seven Kingdoms that perhaps flying on a dragon had made him overconfident.

The magic, however, was beating a siren song in his heart, a sweet, cloying, white-hot rhythm that begged for him to give in and to call upon it. He had an idea of what might help even the odds, he'd seen Dondarrion do it often enough, but he'd never learned the trick of it. Melisandre and Dondarrion were long dead, Sam's learning was from books, and while he could feel the power, he didn't know how to use it. The sailors pressed closer, fearful of his armor and the reach of Longclaw, but confident they had the numbers. Behind them, an enormous dark-skinned man in a red and gold robe roared a command for them to attack.

When Jon heard his wife screaming for help, somewhere deep within the ship, the answer came to him in a flash, so obvious that he was shocked he'd been too stupid to realize it before.

Fire and blood.

The men paused and looked at each other in confusion as with a grim, slow stroke he ran Longclaw's blade along the palm of his left hand. The pain of it was nothing compared to the rage he was feeling as Daenerys shrieked his name. When he was done, the Valyrian steel from tip to cross-guard was coated with his sparkling blood. He wrapped his bloody palm around the hilt and held the sword in front of him two-handed. The magic called to him, and with only a thought he responded to that call.

And then the sword caught fire.