A Song of Ash and Smoke | a continuation of A Song of Ice and Fire

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐚

Court was tiresome, as usual. Danaera Stormborn was easily bored, and not much happened in the noble court of Mereen. All gossip and chatter, none of which that enticing to listen to. She perched in a plush green velvet chair off to the side, needle in hand as she embroidered a swath of blue silk fabric with stitches of gold. Her life in Mereen was quiet and slow of pace, a life opposite of the one she used to live. Fire and blood, she'd promised her enemies, and that is what she'd delivered. But now, she was just another pretty bird of the court, still beautiful in her matured age. She kept her long white hair down, with a halo of braids sitting on her head. Her violet eyes still had fire, though the fire that once burned in Danaerys Targaryen had all but fizzled out in Danaera Stormborn.

She'd been brought back to life by followers of the red god, who'd ushered her to safety in Mereen. Long ago, the Second Sons had left, and instead it was governed by nobles elected into positions on a high council by the people, within which they made decisions together for the good of the city. She could no longer be queen, but they granted her gratitude for her role in releasing Mereen from chains and offered her a place in their court as a lady. She was no longer a conquerer, but just a girl. A Targaryen alone in the world – except, what of her nephew?

Danaera wanted to believe that the Unsullied had taken his head. Some man of honor he was, to drive a knife through her heart as they were embracing. To kill a woman he loved. Deep down she knew his sisters would not have allowed that. They would have had him sent back to the wall, what was left of it. Perhaps she'd be lucky and her vengeful thoughts would be otherwise brought to fruition. Maybe someone put a dagger in his heart, though it wouldn't be the first time he'd live through that. She imagined other ways – he'd fallen off the wall, trampled by a horse, lost north of the wall and perhaps frozen to a tree somewhere.

Some time went by before Danaera finally returned to her rooms. It was there that she stripped herself down to bare skin, as handmaidens prepared her a steaming bath. As she waited, Danaera studied the pink scar beneath her breast. It was no more than three finger lengths wide and thin as sewing thread, but the memory that burned behind it hurt more than the conception of the scar itself. It was baffling how just one thin line could be the remnant of what killed her.

Danaera sunk into her bath, sliding down until her head was beneath the water. Her lungs begged for breath and her head hurt from holding it, but still she lay there under the water listening to the sound of her own heartbeat with her eyes closed until she finally coughed and choked on the water drawn into her throat. She thrashed, gagging under the water. It would be ironic if this was how she died. The great dragon queen, slain by her own bath. And then, calloused hands curled underneath her arms and pulled her upright, where she expelled the water and gasped for air. When she finally caught her breath, she turned to face her rescuer.

His skin was tanned and wrinkled slightly from the desert sun, but the locks of chocolate hair that surrounded his face and lined his beard remained deep of color, with no strands of grey in sight. A face she thought she'd never see again hovered before her. Brown eyes stared back at her, almost as if they were peering into her soul. Danaera opened her mouth to speak, but words would not come.

"Why are you trying to drown yourself in the bath?"

Finally, she found her tongue. "An excellent question, Daario Naharis," she answered. "How did you get in here?"

"It's not like you have a queensguard anymore, my lady." He shrugged and pulled a shining red apple from his pocket and bit into it.

Danaera considered this for a moment before ruling it a fair statement. She might enjoy the luxuries of being a noblewoman in court, but her safety was of little importance to the high council. At least, not to the point where she'd been under constant protection as she once was.

"So, what brought you here?" she asked softly, drawing her robe from a stool near the tub and wrapping herself in it as she stepped out of the water.

"I heard 'Danaera Stormborn' was a lady of the court in Mereen as I was traveling through Astapor. I'd just docked my ship in the Bay of Dragons, when I overheard chatter from people walking past of a silver-haired noblewoman who resembled the Mother of Dragons. Then I heard the true Mother of Dragons had died, and this woman must be some distant relative or other theories. So I had to come and see this silver-haired beauty for myself."

Danaera must have looked as defeated as she felt. "Dead," she muttered. "My enemies would certainly like that, I'm sure."

Daario looked at her with gentle eyes. "My queen," he whispered softly. "Most of your enemies are dead. And I would be thrilled to add those remaining to that list, if you would have it."

"I have not been a queen in sixteen years," Danaera said sadly. How unfair, that she'd gone through all of that, lost so many of her people, for a throne she had not even sat on before she died at the hands of her lover.

Daario was serious. "What happened in Westeros, Danaerys?"

"I died," she hissed. "At the hands of a man who said he loved me, whose family usurped my throne as their father did to mine."

Daario could not hide the hurt that flashed on his face at the mention of Jon. There was no way he could have known there'd be another after him. "I expected you to have been too busy conquering for love."

"We saved each other," she explained, the pain creeping back into her voice. "But I don't expect you to understand, and I'm not upset if you don't either."

Her head, for just a moment, returned to the memory of him growing smaller and smaller in a sea of white walkers as she'd fled with the other men he'd travelled with north of the wall. She could hear the men behind her yelling as Drogon had soared through the grey skies. She could feel the tearing of her heart coming apart as she'd flown away from the man she loved, leaving him to the near certain possibility of death, with the child she'd lost that night sunk under the frozen sea.

Daario read her face and attempted to humor her. "It's a shame so many have tried to take you from this Earth. A beauty such as yourself should be preserved and allowed to flourish."

"You never cease to flatter me," Danaera said, a hint of a smile glowing in her cheeks. She could not stop the corners of her mouth from curling up, despite her commitment to keeping a serious demeanor.

Daario crossed the floor to meet her where she stood next to the bath and took her face in her hands. "I did not come to flatter you, your grace," he murmured. "I came to find you, so I can help you go back to where you belong – sitting on a throne with a crown upon your head. You are not Danaera Stormborn. You are Danaerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, queen of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm, mother of dragons, breaker of chains, the queen of Mereen and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. You were never meant to be average. Myself personally, I have always found you to be exceptionally extraordinary."

Danaera drew closer to him, his words piercing her heart and warming it. It'd been so long since she'd felt the call of physical longing, since a man had dripped honey off his tongue and made her breath catch like a maiden being kissed for the first time.

"Daario," she whispered, and just like that his lips were on hers, grasping for whatever his hands could squeeze, brushing her nipples through the thin fabric of her satin robe. One hand found the back of her head and enveloped itself into her hair. Her scalp tingled where he'd touched it. The other pulled her in close at the waist, his arm wrapped around it.

And just like that, Danaera Stormborn found her carnal nature again for the first time in sixteen years, as the wild man who'd never stopped loving her kneeled down, ducked his head into her skirt, and found his way up into her with his tongue.