Chapter Text
"Leave her."
The words were laced with ice and poison, quiet and vicious. So unlike the fire-blooded woman they had come from. There was a finality that was unfamiliar, a cold indifference betrayed only by the sheer anger behind it. It was unsettling in its unfamiliarity. The girl on her knees closed her eyes slowly and her bowed head fell even further down.
Ser Jorah glanced once more, disdain and confusion on his face, at the slave girl tethered to the post in this deserted, dark corner of Qarth. He said nothing, made no plea on her behalf because to him, it was assumed there was nothing worth saving. The princess -the Khaleesi- turned slowly, eyes narrowed and burning with rage and motioned for the knight to pick up her beloved dragons. Their weeping screeched through the fabric covering their makeshift carriers and Daenerys winced in tandem with Doreah as Drogon's discernible cry bounced off the stone walls around them, desperate in its urgency.
They stepped further away; Drogon cried out again. Doreah remained, bound with rough rope to the goat post. The night was cold in a desert, even within the confines of a city and Qarth, despite its superficial beauty, is no exception to the laws of nature. The falling of darkness casts deeper shadows across pathways and flickers of firelight bounce off objects, as they look more like dancing demons than comforting illumination. She can feel the violent cascade of a shiver down her spine, more than once.
"Khaleesi!" The plea, excruciating in its frequency, echoed high above what normally escaped from any slave's mouth, except when beaten or raped. But there was only a momentary pause from the khaleesi, just a brief second of hesitation before her shoulders set more firmly and she continued on, as far away as possible from the traitor that had once been a trusted confidant.
"I was trying to protect them," she whimpered as Dany rounded a corner and faded from sight.
The previous days had been terrible and terrifying at once, and considering the scope of her life from the age of nine onwards, that was a particularly depressing concept. There first had been the men: their sweaty palms, greasy foreheads and brutish touches. Not just one, three at once. Despite all her experience, she had been removed from this world for long enough to forget, and now was left raw and nauseated by the end. Her only respite had come in the form of their complete lack of interest afterwards during which she took her escape. Then came the warlock, with his disgusting blue lips and slimy fingers as he announced his even more unpalatable proposition, the one that made the sick rise up and her heart plummet. The knowledge from the other men had been valuable but she had no time to relay it in its entirety -not in front of Irri- before Daenerys had been once again whisked off to high-ranking lords of Qarth to plead her case over ships and armies. In the end, she hadn't really been given a choice at all by he slithering warlock. Even though she had nodded in solemn agreement, it may as well have been called kidnapping. Her only other option had been death.
Then the bloodbath came. She refused to watch, refused to listen to the screams of her Dothraki friends as their lives drained from them. Then came her participation: the theft of her khaleesi's own children. She remembers choking on bile as she stepped over Irri's strangled, lifeless body to snatch the young dragons and force them into the small, flimsy cages that Pyat Pree had already constructed, far in advance of even their arrival at Qarth. The remnants of her new family lay scattered around the courtyard, slain without remorse and without a second thought. The dragons had been restless, thrashing in their pitiful cages. As she carried them off, Drogon screamed too, terrified and anguished.
Xaro had been waiting at the location she had arranged with the warlock. His eyes gleamed like glass stones, unfeeling and almost transparent. Empty. He had led her to the vault, roughly pushed her inside, unconcerned with the welfare of the little dragons she was carrying. After an order to put them on the table, he had taken her, one large hand across her mouth as she weakly struggled against him, against her own guilt. His eyes still twinkled as he came, but hollow and glassy as ever. He had not been gentle but at least he had been as uninterested as the other Qarth men in the aftermath, allowing her to quickly pull down her skirts and try to will away the searing pain. Without even a farewell, the vault slammed shut and she glanced at its sparsity. No riches. No jewels, no wealth. It was populated merely with crates of grain, spices and a small area with rotting meat and a bowl of foul-looking water. A few candles glowed, their shadows dancing across the speckled walls. She wondered if perhaps she would suffocate in this tomb.
Being a prisoner had not been what she agreed to. A slave perhaps, but not a prisoner. When the khaleesi had ordered her to please the men of Qarth in exchange for information, this was not what she had envisioned. Above ground, Xaro would be meeting her soon, telling her lies and soon she would return to her quarters to see the massacre. Would she even notice what was missing other than her dragons?
Doreah sat awake through the night, whispering tenderly to the young dragons.
"Dracarys, dracarys," she commanded urgently, yet as gently as possible as she placed the least rotten cubes of goat between the bars. Drogon, exhausted as he was, cooked the meat for himself and managed to get Viserion to help a little too; he was really the one taking care of his siblings. She ate none.
Without the key to the cages, she could only offer a finger to soothe them. There was nothing she could do to relieve their shivering in the cold cellar. She had sworn to protect them. Her choice had been to steal them or die, and her belief was that one their own they too would surely perish. Pyat Pree had no knowledge about them. Would they even eat for him? Would they stress themselves to an early death? The warlock would have taken them by force regardless, which would have ultimately resulted in the last of dragons, perhaps in the entire world, going extinct in these catacombs. Her thoughts and her decision had not been focussed on saving her own life, for of what worth was it when there was so much more at stake? But the dragons? Daenerys? Their future was worth her sacrifice.
It had seemed so noble at the time.
The days blended together into nothing but pitiful attempts at comforting the dragons and trying not to go mad in the silence of her makeshift, solitary prison. Three days later, like he had everyday since stealing the dragons, Xaro returned, his wet grunts in her ear unable to completely over-power the crying of the dragons in their cages as they witnessed the power of greed and evil once again. She lay motionless and quiet until he rose, demanded her to rise as well and gather the dragons. She did so gingerly, feeling the hot dribble of liquid down her leg. She hoped it was not what she suspected it to be. Xaro paid her dawdling no heed, instead acting as if he had just given her a flute of refreshing wine instead of making her scream in agony. He was more interested in his real investment. A cursory glance to the plate of meat and then inside the cages assured him that they were being taken care of, as was the agreement.
"You take care of them, I take care of you," he rumbled as he slammed the vault door behind them. "Just the way you like." A smirk crossed his lips as if he were pleased with his own wit, stroking her breast with impunity. Her eyes lowered, as was the custom, the expectation.
The walk to the House of the Undying was unremarkable except in the overwhelming feeling of expounding dread settling deeper and deeper into her bones with every step closer. It was a confused structure, ruins making it all the more difficult to navigate as Pyat Pree and Xaro –a fist in her hair yanking her along- lead her through doors and corridors, chambers and tunnels. Her skin crawled non-stop throughout the ordeal, only occasionally overwhelmed by the burn of torn flesh between her thighs as she moved. The dragons remained eerily quiet within the confines of the House, as if suffocated by fear. If it could incite such paralysing terror even in a dragon, she worried how the khaleesi would fare when the time came for her to rescue her dragons, and the time would come. Of that she was certain. She was handed a plate of much nicer meat, fresh lamb this time and Pyat Pree smiled his toothless, blue grin as he watched in as she fed them. This time she merely mouthed the words to urge Drogon to singe his food; her voice remained trapped within her throat.
They had not told her she would be separated from the dragons until some men came to wrestle her away, bind her wrists behind her back and drag her out of this chamber of the dragons. The dragons screamed then, sorrowfully and long.
It was not a well-travelled section of the city they carried her to but nothing around the House of the Undying was. Down a twisting alley was a yard normally kept for goats. They unbound her wrists only to tie her to a post with thicker ropes, and a shackle and chain around her ankle for good measure. One of the men stared down on her, his blue smile gleaming forebodingly in the late afternoon sun. She opened her mouth to scream, hoping that perhaps someone would hear. But before the sound escaped there was a rough hand tugging on her hair, practically ripping it from her scalp. The man looked at it with a smirk of warning. He first attempted to gag her with his cock, snickering at the beginning as she choked helplessly on the taste as he forced himself further into her. But when she bit down, a string of obscenities erupted forth followed by heavy fist across her jaw from his companion. A dense ball of tattered sheep's wool was stuffed in its place. The smell made her stomach turn, and was made far worse by the taste of feces on her tongue. Tears gathered in response and she squeezed her eyes closed to prevent it. A swift kick came in suddenly; she did not know which man had done it. It did not matter, but her lungs heaved with the effort of breathing and a bitter soreness radiated through her abdomen. The men laughed with their blue tongues hanging out like dogs, and left her to burn under the high sun. The tears began to fall as her jaw began to swell, she could do nothing but wait and hope. She had no doubt that Xaro would return come nightfall, drag her back to his illusory vault of riches. But that was not the rescue she yearned for. All she could smell was fire.
It was unclear how much time had passed between that moment and when Ser Jorah came charging up to the goat pen, sword raised in suspicion. Hours? Days? Her teal blue eyes had sprung tears again, not from pain or taste but rather the lack of complete distrust on his face. A rough hand ripped the wool from her mouth and she gasped for fresh air as the agony from the bruising on her face flared up again. She met his eyes. They were clouded with confusion. On the periphery seemed to be accusation as well. Any hope she had been holding onto began to dissolve with his expression, and then disappeared completely when she saw Daenerys rushing up to his side, clearly exhausted but with pure rage still pouring from her skin. Behind her were the remaining Dothraki warriors with her dragons, safe and sound. Her hand reached out to pull Ser Jorah back. It was her betrayal to face. He waved away the Dothraki and stepped over to the dragon cages, guarding them vigilantly as Doreah had failed to do.
The khaleesi said nothing as the former slave clambered onto her knees, tangled in chains and twine. She said nothing still when tears escaped Doreah's eyes. She gazed down unflinching to the upturned, sniveling face of her handmaiden. Her posture was tense, her teeth clenched. That much was visible. Less noticeable and much more ephemeral was the flicker of despair in her lavender eyes. That was wear betrayal comes in. At the eyes.
"Khaleesi," Doreah began, a sob choking her speech and her lip cracking from the earlier hit. She tasted sour iron on her tongue. "It was not–"
"Silence. I will not hear it."
"Please, Khaleesi, I–"
"I said silence. You stole my dragons. You endangered their lives and my life, my very future. For what purpose?" She paused but before the handmaiden could offer a reason, Daenerys continued. "I have seen your true self, Doreah, daughter of the whores of Lys. You have always wanted my dragons for yourself but I hope what wealth you were promised was worth the price of this." Disregarding the way her voice crackled, Daenerys gestured slackly around the dusty yard. "This is all you will ever see again."
Any cries were ignored, and her feeble attempt at stammering out a plea in between the wrack of sobs was of no use. Dany had no desire to entertain anything other than the sharp sting of broken trust. Doreah looked to Ser Jorah. Surely he would see that there was far more to the story than careless treason. She could hear Drogon wail from within his carrier. It mimicked her own cry. Her attempt was not completely in vain as he moved towards her but again, the princess put out her arm, holding his progress.
"Leave her."
The licking flames of hatred had long extinguished themselves in the seeping cold of the desert night. It had been hours, many hours in fact, from the moment she turned her back on her only remaining handmaiden. Qarth was in upheaval and she was on the verge of securing herself a place amongst its elite. It was so undesirable now, she could not fathom how only days ago it had been her only goal. The visions from the House of the Undying haunted her each time she attempted to shut her eyes. So after staying awake, feeding and tending to her anxious and trembling children until they fell asleep in her arms, she resigned herself to sitting silently and watching the flame of her night candle slowly move through the melting wax. Nothing could keep the visions at bay yet she yearned not to see them any longer. Even just the thoughts of them were hurtful and upsetting. Relaxation itself was impossible, even in this more secure accommodation, no small part in thanks to Jorah's insistence on increased security. The Qarth women of the house that she had asked to help her with her evening routine were clumsy and too desperate to please. She ended up sending them away before they had fully finished. Now her blonde hair remained tangled around her ears, the braids falling loosely.
She glanced at the spot on the floor where her dear Irri died a violent and lonely death. She could not even mourn properly with so much left undone, the dull stain of blood still visible even in the small amount of moonlight that filtered in through her thin curtains. Reminders everywhere of her loss; senseless loss. A horrifying loss. Her Irri, who had chosen even once freed to stay beside her. She had been one of the last reminders and defenders of Khal Drogo, the man who was still her sun and stars. The memory of her Khal, and their love was yanked further and further away with each day. The prickle of salt tears grasped at the corners of her eyes and she had to shake her head and breathe deeply to rid herself of the temptation.
– A khaleesi does not cry. A queen does not cry.
For a brief moment, she took in a sharp breath in order to call out for company, for reassurance. The name caught in her throat before she could utter a sound. Doreah. Her teeth found her tongue and clenched down until it bled. The taste of iron reminded her why her servant was not there any longer.
There was a softening however. As the sudden surge of betrayal rose and fell, the void it left behind began to fill with something else entirely. Doubt. It weakened her resolve piece by piece, picking away at the assurance that she had clung to so adamantly. The fire reignited weakly, but instead of finding its fuel in the passion of anger, it smoldered lost within the thick smog of guilt, of remorse. Her blood warmed as her hands ached to hold on to something real, something that would not be taken from her once again. Her grasp on anything but her dragons was always so fleeting, and even that -as she was learning- was tenuous at best. The world wants what it can take; it easily takes what she cannot hold onto.
Her thoughts began to deviate, zipping through her memory to her husband, her impossibly strong Dothraki stallion, and how easily even love itself could be stolen away. How easily she tossed life away for empty promises and misdirections. Her mind would not rest any longer.
"Ser Jorah!" she called out into the quiet night. She tried again, even as she heard his heavy footfalls frantically racing up the stairs to her. Her impatience was only rivaled by her impetus.
"Khaleesi," he acknowledged gruffly as he noted that she was already out of bed and pulling on a heavy coat. "What is it?"
She did not immediately answer his query. Instead she threw a blanket over her sleeping dragons. "Wake the guards. Tell them to come here at once. They will keep watch over my dragons until I return." Her voice was insistent and grave. "Then you will accompany me to the House of the Undying."
The objections were clear on his lined face but he made no attempt to voice them aloud. She would not be dissuaded; to try would be a waste of effort. Soon after, a throng of the strongest men she had at her disposal arrived. They would not be sleeping anymore that night. She offered them the fruits leftover on her table and her gratitude before rushing out of the suite, her knight close behind.
The night was bitterly cold away from the hearths and warm stone of the richer houses. Twice she tripped over beggars huddled shivering in crevices, hiding from the chill in shadows. Both times they paid her no mind and Ser Jorah had no need to even unsheathe his sword. The silence and calm of the abandoned streets felt eerie, as if even in night, Qarth should be alive and vibrant. But the House of the Undying was far from the Night Market. A wild dog leapt out in their path, a menacing growl erupting from deep within its throat. The dragon princess merely stared. She could not meet its stare in the darkness of the shadowed street but no less, she stood her ground. It eventually moved off, the growl never ceasing for as long as she could hear it.
Qarth was a labyrinth in the daylight; at night, it seemed to be a never-ending tomb. Having never been to these areas at so late an hour, her disorientation quickly set in. Even with Jorah's assistance, what began as a determined march devolved into a tentative search. However, the closer they seemed to come, the more disjointed was the rhythm of her slowing footsteps with that of her ever-increasing heartbeat.
The ruins suddenly loomed over them as if they had just jumped out of the darkness, juxtaposed to the clean lines of all the other city buildings around them. They were made even darker by her previous visit when Drogon had scorched the building nearly to its foundation. Even in destruction, it glowed red as the embers swallowed up light gusts of breeze in the night. Ser Jorah's hand reached for the hilt of his sword out of sheer reflex. When she made no move to enter the structure, he realised what she had actually come back for. With the distinctive features ingrained already in his mind, he guided her gently around the side of the ruins and towards her goal.
"This way, Khaleesi."
His voice fell to a low rumble. "You have doubts."
The young woman stopped abruptly. "What of it?" Her gaze narrowed on her advisor as if expecting rebuke for her hot-headed reactions earlier in the day. No such thing happened. He merely shook his head.
"So do I, that is all." He stepped out ahead of her, avoiding eye contact.
The goat pen and its inhabitant may have been easily missed by any other passerby. It was eerily dark in the narrow alleys and the moonlight offered very little reprieve. The figure sat hunched against a wall, motionless, legs drawn up to her chest and arms resting over her knees. Her head was cradled in them. Forgetting herself, Daenerys rushed forward, snapping the wooden gate in her haste and fell to her knees beside the girl she had abandoned that evening.
"Doreah," she said, her voice soft but agitated. The heartbeat that had been speeding up earlier was pounding furiously now as she placed a warm hand on her handmaiden's arm. It was sticky, cold. The pale white of her skin offered enough contrast that even in the dim light, she could tell it was blood.
There had already been far too much unnecessary blood shed. The fire flared up inside her chest. "Jorah!"
He had been standing respectfully at the gate, having learnt long ago that when Daenerys was with her handmaidens —especially Doreah— she had to be given privacy.
He sprinted forward, covering the distance in a few long steps. There was no need to tell him the situation as he glanced down at the blood-covered hands of his Khaleesi. Leaning forward with his torch, they could see the extent of the injury: jagged wounds slicing her forearm. A dog. Or a daemon. Rope burns inflamed the skin further down. A struggle had happened. He could not see her face but he assumed the bruises he had seen on her face earlier were darker now.
Leaning down, Jorah ran a hand through the handmaiden's tangled locks, as soft as one would do for a small child. His posture relaxed in defeat at another life lost.
"Your sword, Ser."
Broken from the moment, the knight stared at Dany with an unvoiced question on his face.
"Hand me your sword," she repeated gravely in almost a whisper. Her face reflected a dismal tenacity. It was much too heavy for her to wield effectively but this was not a battle any longer so he acquiesced, carefully placing the weapon in her hands. Working slowly, she attempted to slice through the rope binding Doreah to the post. He propped the torch up in a crevice in the stone. It would have been much faster for Jorah to do it but this appeared to be something she was intent on doing herself. There was something sadly regal about the gesture and he bowed his head and waited.
There was shuffling and a grunt and he looked up to see Daenarys with the sword alongside her head. Expecting the worst and fearing her mad with grief, he lunged forward. Sensing his actions already, she scrambled out of the way and held the sword again to her head, one loose braid hanging outside it.
"I have no right to wear such braids in my hair. I have no valour. I have had no victories. Khal Drogo deserved his bells and braids for he was a true warrior and king." Dany's voice trembled with the pain of her confession yet valiantly tried to withhold the tears on the edges of her eyes. "Mine are false victories!" Clumsily, she pulled down on the sword, straining her hair before it gave way, a frayed mess left over, a hint of her father's madness sneaking out in her dishevelled appearance. With the braid having been attached to the other side, she had no more purchase to cut the other braid opposite.
"Ser Jorah," she commanded, holding out his sword and turning her back to him. "The other one." Without argument, he easily did as she ordered and the tied braids fell to the ground at her feet. It was a terrible sight. A princess with no pride left, no hope.
"You still have your dragons. You still have wars to win yet, a throne to rightfully reclaim," he reminded her softly. "It is far from over."
She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping. "It has far from begun and already I have lost so much." Dany's gaze fell to Doreah, still cold and motionless against the wall. "More than I can bear."
Jorah moved closer, sheathing his weapon and pulling her towards him. "You are a Targaryen. Mother of dragons." Her face found warmth against his chest as his arms encircled her protectively, but hers remained at her sides, limp with defeat. "You will rise again," he whispered forcefully in her ear.
She said nothing in response as she could not think of a thing she wanted to say that would prove him right. Instead she stifled a sob, swallowing it before it could escape and squirmed from Jorah's warm hold. Defiance set across her face once again.
She gestured to the chain. "I want her freed."
Shaking his head, Jorah could only tell her that a sword could not break a chain that thick. It would have to wait until morning when they could procure a key or axe. He withheld the alternative option. Desecrating the body of her last handmaiden would serve no good.
Her blonde hair swung wildly as she dismissed his objections. "No. No, I will not leave her here for the dogs!" Daenerys promptly took a seat beside Doreah's body. "I will stay. You will return to my dragons. At first light, bring me an axe."
"Khaleesi…" His voice held grave warning.
"Yes, I am your khaleesi and you shall do as I command." He glanced up at the night sky, gauging how many more hours it would be until sunrise. Perhaps it would not be very long. He reached down and pulled a dagger from his belt, holding it out for her to take.
"This is truly foolish, Princess," he said as she took the small weapon. Her look was still confident and daring. Shaking his head, knowing al too well her stubbornness, he turned from her. "I will return at dawn."
The wooden gate snapped into pieces as he brusquely pulled it closed after him. The darkness of Qarth devoured him and Dany was finally left alone, with only the fire of the torch to ward off the night. She squinted over at her fallen handmaiden, the guilt rising fast and thick in her lungs. Her army was becoming smaller by the day, and her friends almost completely gone. She wished for Ser Jorah to make his way back to the guesthouse without incident. She could not lose her very last friend.
Her fingers reached out tentatively to push back a lock of hair that had fallen loose from Doreah's braid. There was no twitch of recognition and Dany realised that hope was as futile as it was absurd. It was merely a child's fantasy.
She shifted closer, ignoring the smell of blood and dust, and lay her cheek against the stony shoulder as she had so often as they relaxed in the khalasar after long days of travel. The night seemed to go on forever.
A dog came sniffing around some time later but seemed uninterested in the figures huddled against the wall. It urinated excessively on the post and left again, the rancid smell floating over them. Dany wished she could have swung the dagger at it, slit its throat, but revenge on an innocent party for the actions of another seemed too far from her mind now. Instead she sat in silence, waiting for dawn.
"Cold."
The voice seemed to come from elsewhere, otherworldly even. Although it was dark beyond the garden wall and she could see nothing, Daenerys looked in the direction of the House of the Undying and swallowed nervously. She had thought they had all been killed. Flashes of blue-lipped men came up before her and she gasped at how real they seemed. But then they vanished from her vision. They had been imagined.
"Cold."
It came again, softer than before. Weaker. The khaleesi turned quickly to her deceased handmaiden, backing up in fear of the undead. That is when she saw the tremble. It was tiny, but it was new and hope flared. She knew she had not felt that before. Without thinking, she grabbed at Doreah's hands, shoving them away from where they nested her bowed head, regardless of the wounds. She grasped at a swollen jawline with tight hands and forced the girl to face her. Eyelids flickered only briefly but it was enough. The weak corresponding groan of pain at Dany's grip reinforced what she had thought may only have been her imagination.
"Doreah?" She had withheld tears all night but they broke free now. A queen does not cry, but Doreah had seen her in predicaments of much more helplessness than this.
Seeming to gather strength, the brunette slowly raised her own head, forcing her eyes open. "Khaleesi?" Before Daenerys could reply, Doreah began. "I am so sorry. I tried to protect…" Her speech was stuttered and fading as if it was too much of a task.
"Later," Dany responded, choosing to keep the topic of the dragons at the wayside for the time being. "I thought you were dead." She let out a small laugh of relief.
She had expected a smile, or least an attempted one as Doreah so often granted her but none was forthcoming and it ate a hole in her heart at the realisation. If her doubts were indeed proven correct, then it had been she who betrayed her friend, and left her to die in the slums of Qarth, no better than a stray dog. She grappled with her large coat, spreading it wide over her companion before sliding a less than cooperative Doreah forward from the stone wall. With an agility that she had not known, Daenarys wormed in behind and cradled her friend between her legs, acting as a pillow of warmth as the fire burned in her blood. Doreah eventually lay back against her chest as the bitter cold began to trickle out and was replaced with Dany's heat. After pulling the coat tighter over them, small arms snaked around Doreah's abdomen, hands finally finding something to hold onto. The shivering then began more fervently as life and strength seeped back in.
They said nothing more, Doreah dozing off again but her breathing deeper and more regular. As her head lolled to the side against Dany's shoulder, the princess leaned down and placed a chaste kiss to her handmaiden's ear, delighting in the minuscule twitch in response.
Dawn came slowly, but it was a welcome sight at last. Daenerys stirred first, her body stiff from being so still all night and holding such weight. However, the weight on her was not for her to complain about. It was warm and soft again. The stench on the other hand was close to unbearable. As he had promised, Ser Jorah arrived at the first break of sunlight with a very disgruntled merchant at his side. A locksmith.
Initially disgusted at Dany's position of cradling a corpse, he realised that in fact it was no lifeless body. Making quick work of the shackle, the locksmith retreated back to his bed and Ser Jorah quickly helped both women to their feet. Doreah was still very weak from blood loss and exhaustion so he took her up in his arms with an approving khaleesi close to his side.
The contented sounds of whistling dragons filtered in through dreams of fire and platinum blonde hair. Heat seemed to fall in slices across her body as she came into consciousness, squinting at the harsh sunlight coming in streaks through the shades. These were the Khaleesi's chambers, yet she was in the bed. Alone. Groaning with the effort of raising herself even partially upright, Doreah glanced around briefly, then down at her arms, covered carefully in bandages and poultice. Her bruised jaw felt less swollen and her skin was scrubbed clean. She could remember nothing of how this came to be.
It was then that she caught sight of the khaleesi across the room, playing with Rhaegal as the other two lounged in the sunshine being cast across the table. Her hair was strange, unkempt in some way but her demeanour was relaxed and carefree. Finally she turned towards the bed, a smile spreading across her face at the sight.
"You're awake." It was an obvious statement leaving Doreah to nod in agreement.
"Khaleesi, how?" She had far more questions to ask but that seemed the most pressing for the moment. "I should not–." With a wince, she tossed the blankets back taking quick note of the fine nightdress on her body, and stepped out. Her habits took over and immediately and despite her injuries, she began to adjust the bedclothes.
"Doreah." The voice was gentle, patient. Even a little bemused. So unlike the previous night.
"Yes, Khaleesi?"
Drogon took the moment to screech loudly in her direction and she involuntarily winced. She was not sure if it was a friendly sound or not, especially after what she had got the dragons into. Daenerys scowled momentarily at her dragon before refocusing her gaze. "Get back into bed."
"My quarters are–"
"You have taken no issue with coming into my bed in the past, Doreah." There was the slightest of smirks across her lips. The words were indirect yet pierced in exactly the right places. She wanted to argue with the implication, to remind the khaleesi that those were different circumstances and the current request was beyond what was considered appropriate for a handmaiden. But then perhaps that would be equally inappropriate. And, in all honesty, she doubted many handmaidens would have found the previous requests any more appropriate to have so gleefully accepted. Irri certainly had not when she learnt of Dany's more controversial requests of Doreah.
The thought of Irri stung. The competition that had existed for Dany's affections and the resulting tension of cultural conflict was not lost on any of them but the thought of losing what amounted to a friend, as best as she could find anyway, was painful. Suddenly, her head felt heavy and she sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the floor just beyond her feet.
Lost in thought, she did not realise that she had been absent until a rather large black lizard nipped at her toe. It was Drogon and he croaked in protest at her when she jerked her foot away from him. She was still not certain what he wanted and as she tentatively placed her foot closer to him, she was surprised to hear him chirp softly and begin to climb her bare leg as she had seen the dragons do so often to the Khaleesi. When he reached her lap, he settled and made a feeble screech towards his mother.
"He still loves you," Daenerys said, a small smile playing on her lips. "If you had wished them harm, or treated them poorly, you would no longer have any toes, of that I am sure." Her voice was severe yet warm. She had accepted the apology that Doreah had tried and failed to get out previously.
She wanted to try once more, but looking at Daenerys made it clear that it would be unnecessary. "I trust you have reasoned that I meant no harm then, Khaleesi? That I tried to protect them?"
The light on Daenerys' face fell slightly. "I understand a little. Not everything." She sighed and stroked a tender hand over Viserion. "In time. Right now, you should rest and get well. Qarth is in disarray and I will need you by my side again."
"Of course." The request to resume her duties as Daenerys' handmaiden was easy to agree to. The actual action of crawling back into her bed was quite another. It was awkward. Not only was the mattress itself far more pillowy than she was accustomed, but the idea that it was not meant for her made Doreah constantly question the idea. Should she insist on heading back to the servant's quarters? She adjusted and readjusted the blankets and pillows, her forearms spiking with pain each time they rubbed too hard against the heavy bedclothes. Her body itself would not relax, twisting and turning as best she could in her tender state. To top it all off, she could feel Dany's eyes on her the entire time. She willed herself to hold still and feign sleep.
Sometime between lying perfectly still and pretending to sleep, she had actually fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber. Waking many hours later, she heard the night bugs twittering in the garden nearby and when she opened her eyes, everything almost looked as if it was shimmering under the silvery light of the moon. As she contemplated whether or not it was just the cool breeze stirring the curtains or something more foreboding, she felt the bed shift of its own accord. It only took a moment for her to realise that Daenerys was asleep beside her. The knowledge made her uneasy, despite how comfortable it actually felt to be close to someone, especially someone who was not trying to shove his cock into any number of orifices where it was not welcome. As she gently tried to slip from under the thin blanket, she noticed the painful ache of her wounded arms was significantly less. Squinting down, she saw fresh bandages and sighed. She really had to stop being such a deep sleeper.
The pause to look over the handiwork on her arm had afforded the girl beside her chance to stir and then reach out. "Stay, Doreah."
Jumping slightly at the unexpected sound, the handmaiden looked down to see Daenerys with her eyes closed, already drifting back to sleep. Even so, there were warm fingers gripping tightly at the loose fabric of her borrowed nightgown as if it was a treasured childhood toy - or a fleeting hope. This had never been a scene she'd been able to witness. The khaleesi, innocent and unaware, likely lost in a world where dragons clouded out the sun and all the people of Westeros knelt at her feet. Or perhaps her dreams were more simplistic, because as Doreah peered down, she did not see a warrior queen at all. Barely even a princess. She only saw a young girl, naïve and alone. There was no mark of bloodshed and war, no broken heart, no fear. It struck Doreah as suddenly quite mad that this person would command mighty dragons and sit on a throne surrounded by the skulls of her enemies, obtained with fire and blood.
Sometimes, in the light of day and Daenerys' blustering passion, it was easy to forget that she was still just an 18-year-old girl, looking barely more than a child at times even though she had experienced so much more. The moon itself seemed to honour her, bathing her fair skin in soft light, making it almost glisten. She had often heard Khal Drogo refer to the khaleesi as the moon of his life. She certainly saw now how such a comparison could be made.
It also left very little doubt in her mind that dragons indeed came from a shattered moon.
Inching back under the blanket, she lay her head on the down pillow and let the warmth of the fire-blooded girl beside her ease her back into dreamland. Daenerys never loosened her hold.
The quiet stillness of night dissolved quickly as the sun rose and birds of all sorts began to praise its return once again. Not soon after, the house and city itself was suddenly a flurry of noise and activity, including the furious footsteps of servants. It had been weeks and Daenerys still had not quite grown accustomed to the hustle of a city. The khalasar was equally busy, true, but it seemed but organic, in tune with the ebb and flow of time passing. Here in Qarth the moment the first pink glow rose in the east, life exploded forth. Doreah was still sleeping soundly by some odd miracle despite the busy comings and goings of house staff in the room. Dany knew that any moment Ser Jorah would be arriving, no doubt with news of a potential ship's captain for immediate hire or awaiting her next plan – to shoot it down as he was so prone to do.
She rose abruptly, surprised at how incredibly well-rested she finally felt. The previous night had not chosen to plague her with visions of blood and death. In fact, the vague recollections she had were of childhood memories, or more precisely, fantasies of a childhood that she had never had. Hers had been stolen but for one night, she had lived what she had longed for. There were smiles and parents she did not know but nonetheless loved; her brothers were alight with peace. She can recall the touch of her mother's hand over hers. There was comfort and a sense of protection that had been absent, and she never had to run. The fear never existed. Then there had been the red door. The red door was always in dreams, but finally it was no longer a reminder of what had not been, but a symbol of what had. Her own history had rewritten itself in dreams and she had woken feeling happiness, in its most pure essence. Doreah lay unaware of the gift she had given.
As she whispered tenderly to her dragons, they rustled around peeping and whistling in response, scratching at the confines of their nests for food. Daenerys obliged readily and was happy for the distraction from thinking about a debt she had no idea how to repay. Drogon shrieked out impatiently as his brother was fed first rolling over on Dany's lap in satiated pleasure. The sound roused Doreah and Dany glanced over somewhat nervously before returning her attention to easing Rhaegal back into his cage. She could hear tentative steps across the floor. Busying herself with feeding Drogon was the simple task. Ignoring Doreah was much more difficult.
When Drogon chattered at the familiar face and then twisted his lithe body around to steal a piece of meat from between Doreah's fingers, Daenerys eventually had to face the gaze of her handmaiden. This was a new sensation and she could not quite form an idea of what it meant. Doreah's eyes were wide and reflecting greens and blues in the morning light, strikingly clear. That is, until her stare drifted across Dany's shoulders.
"Khaleesi, your hair!" Her voice sounded quite concerned as she hastily reached out and let the uneven strands of severed hair fall through her fingers. Dany flinched away from the touch, feeling suddenly that the familiarity of her handmaiden was becoming a discomfort. The other girl must have received the message because she stepped back somewhat briskly but her face showed no less distress. Daenerys turned away from the imploring stare and focused on wrangling her unruly dragon back into his cage. Despite her best efforts to slow the process, the action had not taken the entire day and Doreah was still standing there, awaiting an explanation.
"I cut my braids the night we found you," she finally managed to admit, flippantly trying to pass it off as inconsequential but failing. It seemed impetuous and excessive now in retrospect and she feared reprisal for her emotional reaction. Of course, she had forgotten that Doreah very rarely passed undue judgement on anyone, especially not her own khaleesi. She was not disappointed in her assessment, as Doreah said nothing, moving in silence to twist straying strands together between her fingers thoughtfully.
"I can fix it," Doreah muttered quietly, almost reverently, seeming to take in the meaning without the need for explanation. She said nothing more, rapt in the action and considering her options as she idly stroked over the frayed ends.
Daenerys nodded, breaking the contact momentarily as she moved to take a seat and let Doreah work.
The swamphens and warblers were both in full song as the mid-morning light made it's way across the sky. As Doreah finished, an uncomfortable anxiety settled back into Daenerys' stomach. The brief interlude of silence had eroded any ill thoughts she had been having and the feelings of warmth from her previous night's sleep had begun to soak into her skin once again. But with the end of task, Dany was reminded that even if it was only in her own mind, she owed a debt to Doreah now. It was ridiculous for a khaleesi to owe anything to anyone, certainly not her help. For a queen, it was even less likely. But then she was also certain that it was equally ridiculous for a khaleesi to be pinned, virtually helpless to the bed for lesson on sex from her servant. Her cheeks flushed of their own will at the impromptu memory. Any way she looked at it, she was not an ordinary queen.
Her stare fell upon her servant girl who was now adjusting her own bandages. The wounds had not been as bad as they had looked under the chilly veil of night and the Qarth ladies had offered some remarkable medicines to ease Doreah's recovery. The treatment seemed to be working quite well. A dog bite was often fatal primarily because they had a tendency to go for the throat. Doreah had been lucky whatever dog she had met lacked the instincts of its breed. Tearing at the flesh of her arms had been painful, but much less severe than it could have been had it gone for softer tissues. Yet, she was not fully healed and there was still so much to be done in Qarth before they could leave. It had not come as a surprise when Ser Jorah arrived, staying only briefly before insisting that he must go find a ship. The khaleesi made no complaint with the plan. It was for the best. She watched as Doreah winced as she pulled the scrap of fabric tighter around her forearm, twisting it into a knot securely. Her thoughts meandered back to that night.
"There was a great deal of blood. I was concerned," Daenerys said quietly. "The women cleaned you as best they could."
"And I will thank them for it."
The air became tense with unspoken questions and the silence seemed to make it drag on twice as long. "The blood…" The voice of her lady came out uncertainly, wavering slightly on the words she failed to express.
"It was a wild dog."
"The other blood…"
Doreah recalled the struggling, the ripping, the burning. It should not have been so messy. After all, she had taken larger before. Yet the circumstances were altogether different. She had not been ready, not even afforded the benefit of spittle. It was so much like her first time. And now, there was an ache still present there. Bruising, perhaps. But of course, that was not entirely unfamiliar.
"Xaro Xhoan Daxos is a large, indelicate man, Khaleesi." She could not look Daenerys in the eyes any longer and all the better since the khaleesi took on a sickly pallor at the vile admission.
"Was." Her voice shook slightly, but it was certain. Eventually Doreah looked up, surprised to see unshed tears in Dany's eyes. "I have never been so glad to have had a man killed before now."
It was Doreah's turn to feel tears welling up. She held them back but not her tentative astonishment, her hopeful jubilation. "He is dead?"
The blonde frowned hard and stared toward the garden beyond. "Yes, I trust he is." She was still uncertain but either way, dead or exiled, he was of no consequence anymore. He would die in the Garden of Bones if he had not perished in the fire already. Her guilt bubbled away deeper still. If she had not asked Doreah to lay with the men of Qarth, perhaps none of that would have happened.
"Thank you, Khaleesi." Her head was bowed.
Daenerys was taken aback at how small Doreah's voice had become. She had always been sure of herself, of her powers, of her experience. At least that is how Dany had seen her. Even when pleading for her life, she had fire in her. It had been one of the reasons Dany had kept her closer than the other handmaidens. Perhaps it was due to her past, but she realised that she had been often blinded to the fact that just because a girl worked as a courtesan did not mean that she could not be devastated just the same as other women. Just the same as she herself had been.
If Xaro was indeed alive by some miracle and she ever heard of his name again, she would be certain to let Drogon at him. Burn him alive and feast on his sizzling flesh.
They did not talk anymore on the subject, allowing the day to pass with necessary tasks until dusk settled into the room and the nightbugs sang to the waxing moon. Scared of the meaning behind such a good night's rest the night prior, and moreso the extent of the debt owed, Daenerys did not argue when Doreah took her leave that evening. Despite how she longed for the company, she could not risk what it meant.
Under the shadow of navy sky and the jewelled belt of the stars above, the nightmares returned.