Work Text:
The day before departing Dragonstone for the North, Daenerys breaks her fast with Missandei. Her skillful advisor has overseen most of the necessities for the voyage and there are but a few final details that require the queen’s approval. Some of these matters have also been discussed with Tyrion before she retired to her chambers last night, however she is always grateful to have Missandei’s wise perspective and adherence to the finer details. Tyrion sees things as a Westerosi lord and Daenerys does not want to forget the plight of those belonging to the lesser stations and how they will be tended to in the great war that lay ahead.
“I am grateful for all your efforts in coordinating these matters,” she says sincerely once Missandei finishes her report.
“My Queen, it is nothing,” Missandei says lightly, breaking off the edge of a crisp fruit tart and popping it in her mouth.
Daenerys smiles and sips her watered wine. “It is not that bad to be a little prideful, friend.”
“I’ll consider it, my Queen.” Gracefully waving her hand toward the large trunks haphazardly strewn around Daenerys’s bedchambers, Missandei asks, “Perhaps I could help you make the final decisions on your Northern wardrobe?”
“I do not think I should bring everything I have laid out,” Daenerys confesses. She had slept ill the night before. When sleep refused to embrace her, it seemed a necessary task to spend those quiet hours reassessing her wardrobe. The dresses made for Essoi weather and even for the winter of Southern Westeros will not suffice in the grim certainty of Northern weather. She has experienced too much beyond the Wall and still the bitter grasp of ice lashes her breath when she breathes deeply.
Still mulling it over, she stands over the closest trunk, tugging at one thick overcoat, warm enough for the current weather in this part of Westeros but sewn without a thick fur lining. “An abundance of furs is likely all I will truly need. Especially when I am in the air--” she cannot continue further, voice thickening at the memory of Viserion’s terrifying final moments.
Missandei is quick to stand beside her. She gives Daenerys enough time smother the misery scratching within her throat and the welling tears Daenerys refuses to shed from her eyes. Daenerys forces herself to continue as a composed leader and not let the sorrow show. “I must be prepared to meet any battle, no matter what conditions we shall face.”
“It is said beyond the Wall is the land of Always Winter and the North is just as bitter now.” Missandei shivers at that, tugging at the long sleeves of her somber grey coat. “I fear my blood will always be chilled when we are in the North. But this danger shall be met because we fight for what is good in the world. I have seen you accomplish much, your Grace...and this is the choice we all make with you.”
Daenerys wishes she could truly make Missandei understand the real terror of the dead but all she can do is nod in agreement. “Yes.” She pauses, briefly laying a hand over Missandei’s. “If, however, you do not wish to join me-”
“No. Your destiny has brought you to these shores and I have followed you to this destiny. It now takes you North and I gladly follow.” Missandei’s eyes shine bright and Daenerys cannot help but look away, seeking a distraction from the dire conversations that have penetrated her mind as of late.
She turns her attention to a nearby trunk, pushing some clothes aside and aks, “Perhaps my lighter dresses and cloaks could be repurposed somehow?” It would be a shame to waste all the fabric, to leave it mouldering in trunks when they did not have a full accounting of the North’s resources. The Dothraki and her ships should bring as much supply as they can carry, and if she left anything of value behind, it would be most foolish.
“How so?”
“Perhaps as blankets.”
Missandei considers this, a sly smile forming on her face. “Forgive the impertinence…”
“Let me hear it first and decide if forgiveness ought to be granted.” She forces a stern tilt of her chin though she cannot quite master her lips from twitching upwards.
“You are of a slight stature, your Grace, and not much fabric is needed for your garments. Besides the more...elaborate ones,” Missandei says, as diplomatically as possible, her hand flitting over one particular gown that twists delicately to reveal panels of skin once the bodice is properly aligned.
Daenerys huffs in amusement. “Indeed. Perhaps the seamstresses ought to make quilt of the Queen’s finery. Or strip it apart for suitable bandages. We will likely need many bandages Finery has little use on the battlefield.”
They begin the tedious work of pulling apart her trunks. Daenery finds herself lost in the task of sorting through smallclothes, which she cares for little but does find useful as a layer beneath the matted fur of her thicker winter trousers.
“So what else should be packed besides anything trimmed in fur?” Missandei asks once they have finished sorting the best of her riding trousers, for dragon and horse riding alike.
“Perhaps one of my nightgowns can be a bit lighter.”
“Indeed?” There is a subtle tone to Missandei’s voice that seems slightly pointed. “Which one?”
Looking at the pile of her thinnest gowns set to be ripped apart for her seamstresses to reuse, she pulled out a moon-pale gown, with sheer sleeves. “This one is a favorite.” Pressed against her chest while fully dressed, the material casts a hazy glimpse of her form. She had worn it a handful of times in Meeren and would be loathe to part with it. Yes, that is why it calls to her this moment, she decides. There is no other reason.
Missandei bites back a smile. “I do not believe it will provide much warmth at night.”
“Well,” Daenerys says, not quite accepting the sudden flustered beating of her heart, though she cannot ignore its presence and how it makes her thoughts scatter, “it is my understanding that Winterfell has many well appointed bedchambers outfitted with fireplaces. I do not wish to be uncomfortable when sleeping.”
“You must have a better source of information than myself,” Missandei concedes, her eyes sparkling with continued mirth. “Who provided you with such intelligence on Winterfell’s sleeping quarters?”
Daenerys stiffens, trying to halt the smile yearning to blossom across her face. “The journey from Eastwatch by ship was rather long. I was curious what Winterfell was like and received helpful advice about its defenses from...Jon Snow.” Her pitch trembles a little at saying his name and she hopes her expression has not given away her foolish stammer. Steadying her voice, she continues, “Did you know there is a hot spring beneath Winterfell? The cold of winter is not as present within its walls.”
Missandei nods, allowing the deflection. “That shall be one rare thing to look forward to once we arrive at Winterfell, my Queen. After all, we will be living in these furs day and night during the journey to the North.”
“Yes, I suspect we will smell like rank beasts. Perhaps we will be mistaken for Northerners after enough time.” She chuckles at that. They are unlikely to be mistaken for anything other than foreigners to the cold, uncompromising Northerners.
“Of course, you could arrive much earlier if you desired, for a ship is nothing to the flight of a dragon.”
Daenerys’s hands falter as she closes a trunk. “I agreed with Jon Snow’s course of action. Sailing together is the best approach. His reasoning was clear.”
“Oh yes, very clear.”
“We cannot change the plans now,” Daenerys protests weakly and Missandei returns to the task ahead, saying much without saying anything at all.
With the clothes properly sorted this final time, and garments sent to seamstresses and be broken down for any useful materials, Missandei pours another glass of wine for them both, sitting besides Daenerys.
“Is it true that Jon Snow has a direwolf? I have not learned much about the creatures but Ser Davos assured me the beast is a fierce companion to his master.”
“He spoke only a little about the direwolf...” Daenerys trails off trying to remember. Ghost is his name, she recalls and Jon Snow had told her he was white as snow but she has no way to envision the wolf beyond the sparse words Jon provided. The wolves she remembers are but a distant memory. Perhaps she glimpsed one in the Red Waste, but it was long ago.
Ser Davos likely painted a more vivid image to Missandei, for Missandei comments on how she heard the beasts were twice the size of a man standing. Another smile attempts to flit across Daenerys's face at the memory of Jon’s fumbling attempts to escape his taciturn nature and share some knowledge of Northern ways. The wolf was dear to him, that much she could tell. “He is most loyal, I have been informed. I’m glad.”
Missandei furrows her brows. “I do not understand.”
“Someone ought to look after Jon Snow,” she says, a weak explanation as she tries to smother any emotion from her words.
“Something else, at the very least,” Missandei clarifies gently, nodding her head in agreement. "Is there anything else you require, my Queen?"
With the last of her thickest dresses, coats, and lined breeches locked away in the trunks, Daenerys has little left to do before they are to depart on the morrow. "Everything is sorted as best it can. Thank you, as always."
Before Missandei leaves, she embraces Daenerys in a firm hug. “I would suggest you save the chosen sleeping dress for a later encounter,” she whispers. “Though I doubt you will have to wait for long.”
Daenerys means to protest but Missandei departs before she can even think of another poor, hasty denial. Her feelings have been unsettled since Jon’s professions upon the ship and she wonders if he would ever dare continue the conversation she had seen dancing in the dark of his eyes.
*
The rest of her morning is spent cliffside with her dragons. Drogon vibrates with vengeance and she cannot help but feed into his rage until it hums in her blood.
Rhaegal is quieter. Their connection is not the same for she is not his rider, and yet his sorrow still rumbles an unsteady pulse through her veins, filling her heart with unease. Her breath catches when he takes off the cliff, a bellowing shriek to the sky that Viserion can no longer answer.
She had left Rhaegal in the darkness chained with Viserion together. Her children. The cold ache of fear lingers in every fiery breath Rhaegal now draws.
The spray of dragon blood upon the broken frozen lake is all she can see when she tries to connect to Rhaegal. If she tries to connect with him any further, she knows she will see the image of Viserion dying through his eyes.
She mustn’t lose.
Drogon nudges her from behind and she turns. His teeth are bared but not in violence. She cannot quite call it a smile but it is enough. this ferocious promise of defeating their enemy with fire and blood. His great eyes flicker in satisfaction when she presses her forehead to his chin, his breath hot on her skin but it does not burn her.
Yes my son, she swears.
*
Daenerys has no appetite for a midday meal and spends her afternoon wandering the halls with a light guard of two bloodriders, not intending to rendezvous with the King of the North despite wandering near where he and his men are lodged. Well, the Warden of the North, for titles and pretenses ought not be ignored. Yet she had not thought to tell anyone of Jon Snow bending the knee until he confessed as such during their parlay at the Dragonpit.
A pretense of inquiring if he needs more of her men to move the dragonglass to the ships is all she will claim if anyone asks why she has strayed to this part of the castle. She is a queen and can go wherever she wishes.
(What she truly wishes is for something she dare not name).
It is a short mummer’s game, this stroll of pretended indifference and her true prize is sought once she has made her way to an open solar with a particularly striking view of the cliffs.
She finds him standing at a window, his silhouette tense. She recalls how Tyrion commented on his brooding, and she cannot help but think that he has even mastered it when the very back of him seems to be lost to dark tidings. Jon Snow turns at the heavy footfalls of her bloodriders. Daenerys is surprised that his face is set in pleasant surprise instead of his usual frown.
“Is there something you need of me, my Queen?”
A pointed question.
She stiffly holds her position, head held high. “I intended to inquire if you had any further need of my men in moving any cargo,” she begins, casting a quick look around the bare room. She doesn’t even see a trunk, does he intend to sleep in his armor--or in the nude? Daenerys hopes her face doesn’t flush, remembering his convalescence upon the the ship once they left Eastwatch. Though he bears fatal scars across his torso, Jon Snow is handsomely formed beneath his boiled leathers. “It seems that you are prepared to leave at the first light of dawn. Or perhaps you intend to sleep on the ship tonight?”
She meant it as a gentle tease but he does not seem to find very amusing, his face solemn as ever. “Your lodgings are generous. I’m glad to have one more night of of being on land before we sail tomorrow.”
“I don’t need praise for my supposed generosity,” Daenerys says, feeling that their conversion has already gone off-kilter.
“You know I’ve slept in worse conditions.”
“Do I?”
He shifted uneasily and she wishes for him to come closer to him but knows he would not dare. “I will see you tomorrow, my Queen, when we sail for Winterfell.” Jon Snow pauses, and seems like there is something warring within him. His jaw clenches briefly before he takes a step back. “Is there more you wish to say?”
She breathes deeply. It is time to be bold. “Do not be mistaken and think your intentions would be unwanted, Jon.”
His gaze softens and then Daenerys feels it, the panic chilling the warmth in her heart. What blooms between them balances on the knifepoint. He looks to her bloodriders and makes no move towards her.
She is not bold enough to say what she wants. And she flees shortly after that, bidding him a good night.
*
It shall be perhaps her last night in the Dragonstone quarters that have served as her bedchamber. At no point have these rooms felt like home, though she has desperately tried to ignore that unease. She was born here but it remains a stranger’s home despite bearing her ancestors’ accomplishments. Whatever place her mother drew her last breath, she will never know or remember. Time has distorted the ancestral home of the Targaryen line and she is all that remains of their diminished glory.
Perhaps nowhere is her home, truly. The Red Keep is no home to her, only the place where the usurper’s queen dared to sit upon the throne Aegon built as a symbol of her family’s rule.
Daenerys must not think upon the stalled war for the throne and what remains of Westeros. There indeed will no longer be a Westeros if the dead overrun them.
She wishes sleep would come to her before the dawn breaks across the black of night. It is easier said than done and she throws her covers off. A lingering shadow flits across her mind as she chases sleep: a reckless thought of Jon Snow coming to her quarters.
He would never dare such a thing. Yet in the council meeting resolving their course of action, he requested that they arrive at White Harbor together. It was unseemly how her heart had fluttered, a burst of nerves had left her unsure of how to place her hands upon the table. It was not queenly to be so flustered. Still, his Northern ways could not lead him dare such a thing she imagines now: to come to a queen in the dead of night and have his way with her.
His eyes would shine so delightfully in the moonlight if he came to her at this very moment. Breathing deep, her nipples budded at the very thought. The tension winding through her body shot straight to her cunt with a clench.
Yanking her gown up, she slides her fingers in the slick of her aching cunt, heartbeat pounding at the welcome thought of him bursting upon her in this state. Would he be shocked seeing legs spread apart, the shine of her cunt as she works upon herself in a frenzied rhythm to wring out the lustful thought consuming her mind and heart?
She bites her lips to hide the whimper, whispering his name over and over again, her left hand twisting her nipples to tease a sharp edge to the pleasure as she strokes surely within her cunt, thumb slipping upwards to tease at her clit, chasing the pressure building further and further into that cresting wave until she arches her back as she pulses, orgasm softly lulling her to sleep.
Come to me her heart cries out one last time but Daenerys knows she shall have no visitor this night.
*
The last morning at Dragonstone finds her Hand nursing an ill mood he seems loathe to banish.
The questions Tyrion issues are laced with implications she does not appreciate. Perhaps her behavior is no better, as she provides terse responses. When he finally condescends if her dragons will be able to keep from shocking the Northerners when the army will begin their travels on land, Daenerys has had quite enough of it. “They crossed the Narrow Sea and journeyed along the ship when I returned from Eastwatch. What terror do you envision?”
“There are many possibilities," Tyrion says, trading his edge for a note of weariness. "I told you once that you're in the great game now--”
“We are in the great war, my lord. None of us survive if the dead do what they are compelled to do.”
“And therein lies the problem. Their compulsion is death. We must be smarter than that.”
She sees his insecurity. “Tyrion. Clever plans may come in handy and your guidance is ever needed. We now face an unknown and I will have my Hand to guide me. We have both seen battle and now what we face is even greater.”
“And what might that be, your Grace?”
“It is death,” she says simply. “Come, let us depart together. We must do what only the great rulers wish they can do during their reign. Save the realm.”
She walks up the plank to the ship with Missandei and Tyrion beside her. The Northerners already gathered on the ship deck, their faces grim as ever.
She hopes that until her last breath she will regret nothing.