Early December, 300 AC
The Great Pyramid of Meereen boasted three-and-thirty levels, row after row of bricks baking in the midday sun. The highest level, where once a towering bronze harpy loomed, was made of every color of brick imaginable, all the colors Dany had ever seen and more. The next level held her royal apartments, lavish rooms of plum-colored brick that opened upon a terrace filled with grass and pear trees and a bathing pool with waters clear as crystal.
Her steps were quiet as she made her down the pyramid, to a level whose bricks were grey as ash. Unsullied unlocked the doors to reveal great beams of black oak supporting high ceilings and Qartheen carpets of deep gold and white silk covering the floors. Broad windows opened onto a terrace, where fruit trees shaded a long, narrow space open but for a single fountain. When first she saw the terraces she had been filled with wonder, but now she was wise to the ways of the Ghiscari. It was a complex system of pumps, waterwheels, and cisterns that brought water from deep wells to the terrace gardens, permitting lush greenery hundreds of feet above the city, not magic as she had once supposed.
Dany raised a hand, silencing Missandei before she could announce her. With narrowed eyes she watched the prisoner, who sweated upon the terrace heedless of her presence. His short gold hair gleamed as he thrusted and parried, sword gripped tightly in his left hand. Anger coiled in her veins.
What was Illyrio Mopatis thinking, sending her such a man? His trading galley had born chests of gold and precious gems, casks of wines both sweet and sour, and a letter in the magister's own hand, written in High Valyrian, which offered Ser Jaime Lannister to the justice of House Targaryen. The Kingslayer had put the letter in her hand himself, his smile steady even as she ordered her Unsullied to drag him to the dungeons. The Kingslayer deserved the dungeons beneath the pyramid, not fresh air and green leaves and room to relearn the use of the sword. Was she weak, to have let herself be persuaded?
"He may be of use, sweet queen," her betrothed had soothed as she paced her chambers. It was nearly four moons since Aegon had demanded the right to counsel her in private, and that same day the Kingslayer had arrived to test his judgment. "Let him await your judgment in a cell fit for his birth, not a pit built for slaves. Your Grace may always kill him later, should you so choose."
"Or I could have his head off now," she replied. "Those laws you love so well are clear as to the fate that awaits traitors."
"They are," Aegon replied, running a hand through his silver hair. He frowned, then smiled wickedly, making warmth pool in her belly. "You have two choices. First, you might let him live for the nonce whilst you ponder what to do with him. Second, you might have his head struck off this very night. Should you regret your decision, I daresay the first option is much easier to change than the second, unless these Ghiscari have found the secret to reviving headless men."
"What use could he be alive?"
Aegon expounded at length on why the Kingslayer might be of use. The knight was the Queen Regent's brother, a valuable hostage. Jaime Lannister had been well liked in the Westerlands; his support would split the Westerlands between those inclined to favor Tywin Lannister's golden son and those who favored his daughter. Not only that, but the knight was an able commander, and might be needed should anything happen to the faithful but aging Ser Barristan. As a member of the Kingsguard for nearly two decades the Kingslayer knew much and more of the politics in King's Landing, and his information was fresher than Ser Barristan's by some eighteen months. Finally, there were rumors that Tommen Baratheon, the boy who sat the Iron Throne, was not even the Usurper's get but a bastard sired by the Kingslayer on his own twin sister. Incest was abhorred in the Seven Kingdoms; a practice only permitted to Targaryens, who were not like other men. Should the Kingslayer himself testify to the boy king's parentage, every pious lord would desert him.
Perhaps Dany could have argued with some of Aegon's reasons, but he gave so many that she had to admit the wisdom in such counsel. And so, since the end of eighth moon, the prisoner had been confined to a comfortable cell, free to eat and sleep and practice his swordsmanship, head firmly attached to his shoulders. She was eyeing his broad shoulders and muscular back when the Kingslayer whirled, his gaze falling upon the visitors within his room.
"My apologies, Your Grace," the Kingslayer said, a mocking smile upon his lips as he sheathed his blade. An Unsullied stepped forward, and the knight handed over the sword with an insolent bow. Briskly the Unsullied checked him for any other weapon, removing the eating knife that hung at his hip and the dagger concealed within his boot. When the Unsullied was satisfied he backed away, and the Kingslayer knelt, magnificent and proud even in submission.
Your father always had a little madness in him, I now believe, Ser Barristan had said, long ago when she first took Meereen. Yet he was charming and generous as well, so his lapses were forgiven. His reign began with such promise... but as the years passed, the lapses grew more frequent, until...
Dany could not bear to ask the old knight more of her father. Instead she asked him of her brother, Rhaegar, as brave as he was wise, though even his wisdom knelt to love, to the realm's sorrow. She asked of her grandsire Jaehaerys, Second of His Name, clever and sickly, of her great-grandsire Aegon the Unlikely, Fifth of His Name, beloved of the smallfolk. She asked him of Duncan, Prince of Dragonflies, who had named Barristan "the Bold" for his audacious courage in his youth, and had given up a crown rather than surrender Jenny of Oldstones.
"Have I your leave to rise, Your Grace?" The man drawled.
"No, Kingslayer."
Dany's voice was cool despite the fire in her blood. Let his knees go on aching, it was the very least of what he deserved. Ser Barristan could not speak of Aerys or Rhaella without great pain, he who had served them so faithfully and loved them so well, but perhaps the Kingslayer's wagging tongue might tell her what she needed to know.
"Why did you kill my father?"
The Kingslayer stared at her, his eyes glancing to the Unsullied about her and the little scribe standing at her left hand. To her surprise, he gave a laugh, his shoulders shaking as the sound grew louder, almost hysterical, until suddenly the laughter stopped.
"Because his blood looked so fine upon my blade. Because I wanted men to forget my name and call me kingslayer instead. Because Aerys was a crowned beast and he deserved to die."
Dany searched the Kingslayer's face, seeking truth beneath the power and beauty of the faithless Kingsguard. She found nothing but a pair of emerald eyes, an aquiline nose, full lips shaped like a bow, a jaw covered with a close cropped golden beard, and a head topped by golden curls.
"Shall I tell you why?" The Kingslayer's lip curled as he looked back at her, not waiting for an answer. "Aerys was mad, mad and cruel. Wildfire was his dearest love; he'd have bathed in it if he dared. Every man who dared oppose him found himself exiled or burned alive. The fire aroused him like nothing else, oh yes." The Kingslayer laughed again. "Gods, what he would have done with even one of your dragons."
"I am not my father," Dany snapped. "You do not know me." The Kingslayer laughed again, bitterly this time.
"No. But I do believe I was there the night you were conceived. Aerys had burned his newest Hand, you see. Dipped him in wildfire and had him set alight."
"For what crime?"
The Kingslayer smiled. "Treason. When he gave a man to the flames, Aerys always visited Rhaella in the night. I stood guard outside the bedchamber as he raped you into her. I can still hear the screams; would that I were a mummer so I might share them with you."
Dany recoiled, bile thick in her throat. Ser Barristan hated this man for good reason. Her faithful old knight had favored execution, or putting the Kingslayer on the next ship to the Wall. The rumors of incest had only increased his ire; Ser Barristan had nearly spit with fury.
"Why did I come here?" She muttered under her breath. The Kingslayer laughed again.
"Little girls are always eager to see a lion in a cage, and I am the rarest lion you'll ever see." He glanced around. "This is a finer cage than the last one I was in, I'll admit, and you're a much prettier gaoler, even if your breasts are the size of figs and your hips as narrow as a boy's."
Her Unsullied frowned, able to sense the mockery of his tone if not the meaning of his words, as none of them spoke the Common Tongue. Missandei, however, did, and her expression was neutral, golden eyes shining in her dusky face.
"It is not too late to have him thrown in the pit beneath the pyramid," Missandei said softly in High Valyrian.
Tempting as the thought might be, Dany had better things to do than respond to such feeble taunts. Meereen needed her. Her children needed her. "No," she answered, and with a sweet smile she turned and left the kneeling man behind.
Her skirts rustled as she strode through the pyramid. Dany's gown was a vibrant green stozar, the garment favored by merchants' wives not permitted to wear the tokar of the masters. It was a sleeveless dress that draped over the body, fastened by ornate clasps at the shoulders. A pair of belts hugged her close, one about the waist and the other below the breasts, creating folds of cloth which vaguely resembled a tokar but left the wearer's arms free.
Walking was much easier now that she no longer wore the hated tokar, but Dany's ankle still ached as she climbed the steps, an unwelcome reminder of the injury suffered upon the shore. It was a relief when she reached the level built of scarlet bricks which she had chosen for her council chambers. Jhiqui and Irri were already within, seated at the table carved from ebony. Ser Barristan should join them soon; he always bathed after hours of training in the hot sun with the boys he had taken as his squires.
Missandei announced her, and both Irri and Jhiqui rose.
"Khaleesi," they said in unison, bowing their heads. Both wore the dēl, the wrapped knee length tunic of Dothraki noblewomen, over close fitted pants. Where Irri's dēl of amber silk looked modest and demure against her copper skin, Jhiqui had chosen a dēl of bold orange silk that hugged her ample bosom and her lush hips. Annoyed, Dany took her seat at the head of the table where a pile of scrolls awaited her.
"What are these?" Dany asked, picking one up and carefully unrolling it.
"Petitions from the freedmen's council," Jhiqui explained meekly, taken aback by the sharpness of Dany's tone. The scrolls were written in High Valyrian; Jhiqui must have taken one of the scribes with her.
Although they had unanimously celebrated the destruction of the Harpy and her sons, the freedmen could not come to a consensus on any other topic. After weeks of enduring endless arguments held between former slaves across a dozen tongues, Dany had decided her incessant headache was best treated by delegating. Jhiqui had organized the Yunkish freedmen in their attacks on their former masters; why not let her handle all the freedmen? The girl was as amiable as she was pretty, and practiced in remaining calm despite provocation.
Dany hummed under her breath as she read the petition in her hand. A group of freedmen formerly owned by Reznak mo Reznak wished to appeal the distribution of his wealth. With the aid of the scrolls the Great Masters themselves had compiled before her wedding, Dany knew the worth of each pyramid down to the last copper honor. Half she had taken for her own vaults; the rest was to be divided among the freedmen of each pyramid. Simple enough, or so Dany thought.
As per usual, the Meereenese could do nothing without creating unnecessary complexity. The city's tax and census records were a labyrinthine mess. Some masters had been more diligent than others when it came to recording the purchase and sale of slaves, which might occur daily; different masters had different customs for naming their slaves, and often gave them new names upon purchase...
Before the conquest of Meereen, Reznak mo Reznak, her traitorous seneschal, had owned several hundred slaves, both within the pyramid of Reznak and in the lands he owned outside the city. According to the petition, Reznak's scrolls accounted for more slaves than he actually owned. As such, portions of gold awaited claimants who did not exist, depriving the rest of fair recompense.
"Didn't we check Reznak's scrolls against the city records?" Dany asked Missandei. The girl bit her lip.
"This one believes so. Ossalen will know, Your Grace."
The old scribe arrived not five minutes later, his tufts of kinky grey hair braided tightly in rows along his scalp. Each braid ended with a tiger-striped cowry shell; Missandei's eyes went wide when she saw them, and she reached out to touch one before remembering herself. Ossalen smiled and slid a hand into the pocket of his tunic, handing the girl a similar shell which was much larger than those he wore on his head. She clasped it tightly to her heart as the older Naathi explained the issue with Reznak's records.
"Not all types of slaves were taxed, Your Grace," he informed Daenerys. "And even for those which were taxed... the records are not accurate. Some masters took pride in claiming to own as many slaves as possible; others might claim less than they truly owned so that they might pay less tax. As for the census records, they were taken once every ten years, and the last was eight years ago. Comparing the records against each other sheds little light on the true numbers."
"So these freedmen speak truly. The rest of Reznak's wealth should be split as they ask."
"Perhaps not," Missandei ventured, tearing her eyes away from the striped shell. "Some of those listed might have not yet heard the news."
"How is that possible?"
Two moons had passed since the announcement. Tablets had been placed by the fountains and in the plazas, written in Valyrian and Ghiscari glyphs, in the flowing script of Naath and the looping script of the Summer Isles, and the plain letters of the Common Tongue. For those unable to read, heralds cried the news in the markets and along the docks. Surely the whole city should know the announcement by heart.
"The heralds cannot always be heard, khaleesi," said Jhiqui. "Many of the freeborn worship the gods of Old Ghis; they scream and wail in the streets and call down the wrath of the gods against the Blood Bride."
Well, blood bride was better than godless cunt, at least. "Have the heralds go forth again, this time with escorts of Brazen Beasts."
Daenerys turned to Irri, who was twisting a ring on her finger. "What news of Yunkai?" She asked in the Dothraki tongue, for she needed the practice. Besides, it amused her to converse with her counselors in different languages, for then none of them could know all her thoughts.
Irri had little to report. Soon after the Kingslayer's arrival Khal Moro and his khalasar had descended upon Yunkai with fire and sword. Embarrassingly, he had then promptly died of the bloody flux, leaving his son Rhogoro to declare himself the new khal. To general amazement, Khal Rhogoro had not only defeated several challengers, experienced kos at that, but had then taken the city in less than a week. Even more strangely, he had chosen to take it as his own rather than sack it, renaming it Vaes Vishaferat, the city broken like a horse.
When Jhogo returned, the bloodrider brought an offer of friendship from the new khal, as well as an offer to betroth Rhogoro's eldest sister to Jhogo. Such alliances were customary among the Dothraki, and Jhogo had no objection to wedding a pretty khalinavva, so Dany left it to Irri to deal with the arrangements.
"Khal Rhogoro has agreed to the dowry offer, khaleesi." The parchment Irri handed her was in Dothraki characters, written in a bold hand. "As the bride's brother, it is his right to choose the age at which they will wed. Rhogoro states they may wed when she turns tor-mek."
"Twenty?" Dany replied, startled. "How old is the girl now?"
"Morriqui is eighteen, khaleesi." That was only a year older than Jhogo. Why wait two years to wed? Was this some ruse of the khal, to feign alliance without binding himself to her cause?
"Does Khal Rhogoro say why he seeks such a delay?"
Irri and Jhiqui both stared at her as if she'd suddenly started speaking Ibbenese. "All khals wish for their sisters and daughters to enjoy a blessed marriage," Irri said carefully. "To wed at tor-mek is best, for then the bride has seen four years for each of the Great Stallion's hooves, and another four years, one each for the sun, the moon, the earth, and the sky. Some brides may wed at tor-tor, in time of war, but it is less lucky."
"Doesn't Rhogoro have other sisters?"
Irri frowned. "There are five khalinavvas. Morriqui is the eldest; the next is fifteen, and the others are not yet flowered."
The solution seemed obvious to Dany. Jhogo should marry the second khalinavva as soon as she turned sixteen, the quicker to bind their alliance. She voiced this proposal only to see Irri and Jhiqui exchange wary looks and shake their heads.
"The wife should always be older than the husband, khaleesi," Jhiqui explained. "That way she is wiser, able to guide him in worldly matters. To ask for the younger khalinavva would be to suggest that Morriqui is foolish and unworthy, a great insult to the khal."
"But I was only thirteen when I wed Drogo—"
Both of her Dothraki ladies froze, like fawns hiding from hunters in long grass. She could hear the rustling of Ossalen shuffling his papers, the splashing of a servant pouring wine at the sideboard, and the creaking of Missandei's chair as she looked up from her shell, drawn by the sudden silence.
"Good morrow, Your Grace," a chivalrous voice called, and her betrothed strode into the room like a knight out of a song. Aegon's fingers were long and elegant, his cheeks clean shaven to reveal a jaw that would make an artist weep. Hair as silver as her own fell to strong shoulders; with his indigo eyes and pale skin he could almost pass for her twin, rather than her nephew. Her counselors paid little mind to such resemblance, well used to the Valyrian looks of the Lyseni, but Dany knew better. He was her own blood, so perfect it was as if the gods had shaped him for her.
"Lord Hand," Daenerys replied in High Valyrian.
For nearly four months her nephew had served as her closest advisor. Aegon did not lack for boldness. He had demanded the office the same night he spoke in favor of keeping the Kingslayer alive.
"What the king dreams the hand builds," Aegon had said, his eyes gleaming purple in the torch light. "Make me your hand, and let me prove myself, my queen. If you are pleased, then let us wed on the last day of the year."
When the Golden Company lifted the siege of Meereen, Dany had agreed to a year long engagement. Jon Connington had not liked that at all, nor, to her surprise, had Ser Barristan Selmy.
"You must unite your claims, Your Grace, before the Golden Company sinks their claws into your royal nephew." Ser Barristan had fought the Golden Company in his youth, and did not trust them. "It is well that Ser Jon raised Aegon; men as honorable as the Lord of Griffin's Roost are rare among the company."
The griffin in question had different objections. "Aegon's claim is better than yours," the knight said bluntly. "I swore to Rhaegar's shade that I would see his son sit the Iron Throne."
"The throne should have been Rhaegar's," Dany had replied softly.
The more tales Ser Barristan and Ser Jon told her of Rhaegar's gallantry, the more she missed the brother she had never known. What would her life have been like, had she grown up with noble Rhaegar rather than cruel Viserys? Rhaegar would have sung to her in her cradle and lulled her to sleep with his harp, just as he had for his own sweet children with the Dornish princess. Surely he would have betrothed her to Aegon, they were less than two years apart. When she was older she would watch him triumph at the joust, his love the lady Lyanna applauding beside her and telling her stories of how Rhaegar whisked her away like a prince out of the songs. In her daydream a silver crown glimmered in Lyanna's dark hair, twin to the golden crown worn by Elia. Aegon the Conqueror had two queens, why shouldn't Rhaegar?
"The throne should have been his," said Jon Connington, his face lined with sorrow. "Now Aegon is Rhaegar's son and heir."
"And I am Rhaegar's sister," Dany replied.
"No woman has ruled the Seven Kingdoms alone, not even Visenya after Aegon the Conqueror died. You may have dragons, but can you ride them?"
"They are not yet large enough to ride," Dany answered sweetly.
It was true enough. She could only pray that Rhaegal grew more slowly than Viserion and Drogon; so long as he was too small to ride Euron Greyjoy would have good reason to keep him hidden. There were plenty of rumors of the reaver's vicious attacks on merchant ships across the Summer Sea, but none of the dragon he had stolen.
"How was your morning?" Aegon asked, beckoning a servant to fill his cup with wine.
"I continue to wonder why we permit the Kingslayer to keep his insolent tongue," Dany replied. Her stomach growled quietly; she really should send for some food.
"No one will believe letters declaring Tommen Baratheon a bastard born of incest unless they are writ in Jaime Lannister's own hand and sealed with his own seal," Aegon replied. "And as he refuses to write any such letters until we sail for Westeros, keeping him in relatively good humor is rather necessary. Cutting out his tongue would prove counterproductive."
A servant entered the room bearing a platter of dates and figs and soft cheese, accompanied by warm flatbreads; a lazy wave of Aegon's hand and the platter was set before Dany. She nibbled at the bread and cheese, her mind wandering to the flowers Daario had given her on the road to Meereen as the sellsword swaggered into the council chambers, taking a seat as far away as possible from Aegon.
Daario did not like the silver haired youth. For all he knew Young Griff was the mere heir of a wealthy merchant, an untested pup who hired the Golden Company on a whim. He liked their betrothal even less. But to Dany's mingled annoyance and satisfaction, Aegon was proving himself a more than adequate consort. In ninth moon, he had taken on the unpleasant task of questioning the Kingslayer, a scribe taking copious notes as he charmed information out of the arrogant knight. In tenth moon, after rumors of Lys hiring sellsails to blockade Meereen, he had suggested seeking an alliance with the Braavosi, who hated slavery and had the greatest fleet in the Narrow Sea. In eleventh moon, he had proposed and helped choose a master of laws to sort through Meeren's laws and determine which should be kept and which should be changed.
"Khal Pono has finally left Selhorys," Aegon said absentmindedly, interrupting Dany's thoughts. "The Volantenes paid him thrice what they usually do, after he thrashed their last group of sellswords."
If only Khal Jommo had been so obliging. Her bloodrider Aggo had ridden far to find the khal, only to be told that Khal Jommo was well contented to remain grazing his herds near the Painted Mountains that lay to the northwest of the Bay of Dragons. His coffers were filled with plunder, his four wives all expecting new children by the end of the year. Aggo had been welcomed, feasted, and offered two new mounts from the khal's herds, but that was all. To the Mother of Dragons the khal offered friendship, but not aid.
Her counselors continued to arrive as Dany sipped at tart persimmon wine. All would be here today, all but Brown Ben Plumm of the Second Sons, who was away in Astapor.
Astapor had fallen at the end of the third moon, ransacked by the same sellswords the Yunkish later brought to besiege Meereen. No sooner had the sellswords departed than a Lhazareen healer had arisen to take charge of the shattered city. The bodies of the slain had been cleared from the streets; bricks from burned pyramids were taken to build homes for the freedmen who survived the sack. One fighting pit remained, but now only condemned criminals shed their blood upon the sand. The rest of the fighting pits were being planted with orchards, the trees brought down from the terraces of the pyramids by the same gardeners who had once tended them in chains. All the Astapori asked of Daenerys was men to defend them from wandering bands of sellswords and bandits; to this she had readily agreed, remembering the Astapori refugees who had sought her help only to die beneath the walls of Meereen.
Finally the council meeting began, as tedious and dull as she had expected. The Shavepate readily agreed to have Brazen Beasts accompany the heralds across the city, and sought permission to arrest any freeborn who attempted to molest the heralds. To this Dany gladly gave her assent. Ser Barristan reported that his squires continued to progress in their training; he hoped that within three years she would have at least a dozen knights.
Moqorro announced that Qohor would not be troubling Meereen, dark eyes luminous in his dark face. His flames showed riots in the streets of Qohor; the Lord of Light's humble slaves had burned the Black Goat at last. Rather than hire sellswords to march on Daenerys, the Qohorik were hiring sellswords to put down the riots. Her admiral, Groleo, had less pleasant news. Word on the docks spoke of Ghiscari legions preparing to set sail for Meereen to besiege the city once more.
"Why not give them a taste of dragonfire?" Daario Naharis drawled. His mustachios were dyed crimson, his hair deep black. "A sign of my regard for the Mother of Dragons," he had told her, eyes lingering on her breasts. Even as her nipples hardened she had smiled and turned away. The sellsword reminded her too much of Greyjoy, and besides, Daario did not have eyes like Aegon.
"These Ghiscari are not worthy of dragonfire," Daenerys replied. "If they dare come, they will find Unsullied, the Golden Company, and the rest of my gallant captains provide such a warm welcome they'll wish they faced dragons."
Grey Worm gave a half smile as the rest of her captains roared in approval, Missandei wearing a look of quiet pride as she glanced at Marselen, captain of the Mother's Men and her brother.
There were several more hours of wearisome business before Dany could finally dismiss her council. One by one they filed out, until none remained but her ladies, Missandei, Daario, and Aegon, who was handing a pile of scrolls to a servant. Ser Barristan stood guard at the door, awaiting his queen as she rose from her chair.
"Sweet queen, you rule with the wisdom of the ancients. How, then, can you look as young and beautiful as the maiden moon?" Daario's thumbs brushed the hilts of his arakh and stiletto, stroking the breasts of the wanton golden women. "The courtesans of Braavos would weep to see your grace; bravos would gladly die in defense of your eyes, your lips, your breasts. Magisters would beggar themselves for just one kiss, one night with such radiance."
Irri gasped; Dany stared, her cheeks turning pink. Her captain had never been so bold before others, never—
Aegon jerked to his feet, in one fluid movement drawing the plain sword he wore in place of Blackfyre. "You dare?" Her betrothed hissed. "A dragon is no courtesan, no camp follower to be thus insulted." The tip of his sword rested against Daario's chest, the sellsword captain having made no move to defend himself.
"Apologize to your queen," Aegon snarled. "Apologize to my betrothed."
"This one has more spine than the last," Daario chuckled, heedless of the steel at his breast. Ser Barristan still stood in the doorway, but now he held a naked sword, eyes fixed on the sellsword captain. Even Irri clutched an empty flagon of wine as if prepared to fling it at Daario's head.
"Apologize," Aegon insisted, pressing the tip of his blade until a tiny eye wept blood.
"My humblest apologies," Daario said at last, gold tooth gleaming. "My love for our queen carried me away. How may I atone, Your Grace?"
"The Stormcrows are braver and bolder than the Second Sons, or so you have told me," Dany said. Daario grinned as Aegon stepped back, wiping his sword before sheathing it.
"Braver and bolder in every way, 'tis true."
"Astapor shall be blessed, then, to have such dauntless men to defend her."
"As my queen commands," Daario said, bowing deeply before swaggering from the room.
Ser Barristan escorted Dany to her chambers in silence, her ladies attending her. Servants brought the evening meal, but while Irri and Jhiqui and Missandei feasted and chattered about the day, Dany nibbled in silence. A different hunger plagued her now. It plagued her as Missandei left to visit with her brother; it plagued her as Irri undressed her and Jhiqui brushed her hair until it shone like moonlight. When she could bear it no longer she dismissed her Dothraki ladies, and sent for Aegon.
Her betrothed wore a crimson silk bedrobe over a shift of black linen. No one questioned Dany's command that her betrothed dress in the colors of her house. Our house, she thought, exulting.
"I did not give you leave to draw steel against Daario Naharis," she said, heart pounding in her chest. Aegon frowned.
"That sellsword cannot be trusted. He speaks too freely."
"Oh? How so? Many men praise my beauty."
Aegon's eyes burned as he looked at her, his gaze stripping her bare. "He wants to be in your bed, Daenerys."
"Many men want to be in my bed. Only one man is my betrothed." She shrugged, her own bedrobe slipping off her shoulder. She wore no shift, and the cool night air made her nipples peak. Aegon drew a harsh breath as he met her eyes, indigo on violet, and then his lips were on hers.
Yes, she thought as his fingers twisted in her hair. Yes, she thought as he slid her bedrobe off, strong arms carrying her to the bed. Yes, she thought as he teased her until she was melting beneath him, his bedrobe and shift long gone, his manhood hard against her thigh.
Afterwards he slept, one hand still cupping her breast. She should wash, but she liked the stickiness between her legs, the proof of how badly her betrothed wanted her. They would wed on the last day of the year, she decided. Viserion would be his as Drogon was hers, and when the dragons were grown they would ride them together, proud and unafraid, and together they would fly to Westeros to claim their birthright.
She wondered what it would be like, to finally have a home.
NOTES
1) The terrace gardens of the Great Pyramid of Meereen are inspired by the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I imagine the pyramids of Meereen as stepped pyramids, designed with plenty of room for terraces and gardens.
2) I thought GRRM had lost his mind when I saw a reference to silk carpets from Qarth. Turns out silk carpets are real, albeit heinously expensive.
3) The tokar is very blatantly based on the roman toga. So, for an alternative, I turned to the gown worn by respectable Roman married women, the stola, which I lazily renamed the stozar. The Dothraki dēl (pronounced deel) is similarly based on the Mongolian deel, a traditional tunic.
4) The people of Naath are described as having dusky skin and gold eyes. Since it is adjacent to the Summer Isles, I decided to base Naathi culture on West Africa. Ossalen is wearing cornrows with cowry shells. Missandei hadn't seen cowry shells in a long time, hence her forgetting herself to be a kid for just a minute
5) The actual Mongols usually took over cities they conquered, rather than just looting them. Khal Rhogoro has common sense. Khalinavva means sister of a khal.
6) Dany is lost in the sauce on pro Rhaegar propaganda, courtesy of Barristan and JonCon. Elia Martell has quite a different point of view, which we'll see in Chapter 112
7) Dany had completely consensual sex with an age appropriate partner! It's a miracle!