Chapter Text
Dany coiled the whip in her hand and took the washcloth from the handmaiden’s mouth, watching as she gasped and fought hopelessly against the chains. So beautiful, Dany thought, as she paced around to face the girl, inspecting her work as she went. She loved how Irri's body twisted and writhed like a fish caught in a net; how she tried in vain to free herself from the chains that held her arms above her head from the ceiling in Dany's bedchamber. The poor thing had no idea how long it would be until the washcloth would go back in, how many more screams it would muffle that night, or what the Mother of Dragons would do to her in the mean time.
“How many was that?” Dany asked, in the same tone she would use to ask what was for breakfast.
“Twenty, Khaleesi. May I please have more?” Irri knew the routine, and had learned long ago not to miss a beat.
"Do you mock me, cunt?" Dany dug a thumbnail into her nipple, hard, and watched Irri suck her breath through her teeth as her face contorted. Come on, come on, come on. Just a little more. Serve your Khaleesi. Suffer for her. Dany knew just when to stop, or so she'd told herself. I’m not my brother. I’m not. I give this slut what she needs, but no more. Viserys didn’t know when to stop. He didn’t care. I do. She's mine. She eased up her grip, preferring not to dwell on whether the things she told herself were true. Irri let out a grunt of relief.
Dany grabbed her under the jaw and pressed her forehead against Irri's. "Or is that as high as you can count?” She gave Irri’s nipple a one last tug and backhanded her across the face. Irri would have been able to hold in the tears had Her Grace deigned to remove her rings. “Or maybe you're just stupid and insolent both.” Dany slapped her again, from the other direction, and again with a backhand so hard that the gems in the rings would have broken her cheekbone had they landed an inch higher. This time, she was numb to the sting.
Irri was a bright girl who always did as she was bid without a hint of insolence, and they both knew it. Were Dany's blood not running so hot tonight, she would have nothing but praise for her sweet handmaiden. She knows I don’t mean it. She must know that by now. Dany scared herself in moments like this, but moments like this had grown more frequent since she took the Iron Throne.
“I’m sorry, Khaleesi. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Irri blubbered out between sobs.
“It was one and twenty." I think.
"Thank you Khaleesi, may I please have more?"
"You may.” I'm going to hurt her again. The thought made her wet, but filled her with guilt. But I cannot ask this of anyone else. Irri is blood of my blood. Aegon would not understand this.
As a husband, Aegon gave her no cause to complain. He was kind, dutiful, and not without skill as a lover, though he was no Drogo or Daario. But the gods saw fit to bind them together, so she played her part as best she could. Since when is Tyrion Lannister a god? Her marriage to Aegon was an act of governance; an arrangement Tyrion had brokered at Storm’s End with her Unsullied at the gates and Aegon's Golden Company waiting inside. She had wanted to burn the castle, and was mounting Drogon to do just that when Tyrion stopped her.
“Why bring dragons if not to use them?” She argued, her deep purple eyes wroth with no pretense otherwise.
“Your Grace, if we’re to be sacking cities in Westeros we need Westerosi men, and the Golden Company is the finest batch you’re like to get. Aegon will be useful for winning lords and smallfolk to your side as well. One silver-haired conqueror is a ghost from the dark days of the past. A relic to be thrown back into the sea. Two silver-haired conquerors are a dynasty, coming to sweep their Realm clean of all the rats and vagrants. Make common cause with him. If he’s your Mummer’s Dragon, he at least comes from a very good mummer.”
“I was warned not to trust him, and I don’t. I want his head.”
“Then take it, after you’ve used the hair and eyes to claim your birthright.” Dany often chafed at Tyrion's pragmatism, but it had saved her more than once. The man has a vexing habit of being right.
She would have preferred to marry her nephew Jon, but her Lord Hand had counseled against that, too. It seemed all but certain after Second War for Dawn, when the two of them together were all that had prevented death itself from consuming the Realms of Men. But Tyrion warned her that Jon’s claim was just as strong as hers, and his feats in the war just as great. "Only a fool," said Tyrion, "would invite a threat like Jon into her bedchamber."
Tyrion said nothing of what to do if she were invited to his, however, so as her army sat at Castle Black resupplying for the long march south, Dany and her nephew spent a fortnight acquainting themselves in the traditional Targaryen fashion. Dany rather enjoyed Jon, and may well have grown to love him if she’d had more time. The boy devoured my cunt like he’d been living on acorn paste for months, which he had been. Other places, too. Meanwhile, their respective Hands worked day and night on the pact that would bring peace to the Realm for the first time since the War of the Five Kings. There would be no such devouring of anything between those two.
Dany liked Davos Seaworth, and would have taken him into her service if he weren't sworn to Jon. He was a kindly man; like Ser Barristan, but gruffer, and Ser Jorah, but less beaten down by a life of regrets. If I kissed him on the cheek, he would not wring his hands about vows and protocol, nor forget himself and stare slack-jawed at my teats like they just asked him for three coppers and a groat.
But the Onion Lord learned statecraft from Stannis Baratheon, and if the tales were true, Stannis Baratheon would not have cared much for a friendly kiss on the cheek from the silver-haired Queen he had sailed to Dragonstone to murder in the crib. And like his former liege, Davos gave not a mummer’s fart about the subtle dance of diplomacy and compromise.
Tyrion began the negotiations with an entirely reasonable offer: Jon would bend the knee in exchange for near total rule over the North, five thousand of the Queen’s finest men under his sole command to keep the peace, no taxes until the rebuilding effort was complete, and four million gold dragons from the Crown, with no obligation to repay. He spoke to Davos like the high lord he was, and spoke to him of laws and precedents, of the subtleties of what men really mean when they speak of "owning" property. He showed the Onion Lord the same courtesies he would for a Tyrell, or a Martell, or a Baelish. But Davos at his core was none of those. He was still the roughspun peasant from Flea Bottom who put his duty to feed his family above some noble’s proclamation of what the law ought to be. Dany liked that. The charm was lost on Tyrion.
“I don’t know what half of the shite you just said is supposed to mean,” Davos replied to Tyrion's first offer, “but the boy is King in the North, and he’ll stay that way."
Tyrion countered with generous tariff concessions.
"That’s why the gods make smugglers. We’ve already got our tariff concessions.” The lion may be a fearsome beast, but the onion had planted its roots in the ground and would move for no one.
"He wants the North for himself, so let him have it,” Tyrion finally advised her, from his bed, his head aching after a final, failed attempt to ply Lord Davos with strongwine. “King in the North, Warden of the North, it means naught. Every man, woman, and child north of the Neck will worship him no matter what you do, so let him rule from Winterfell and style himself the Emperor of Yi Ti if he pleases. If you bring him to King’s Landing, he will only start to covet the Iron Throne while the North breaks apart in his absence. He will still need coin and men and food from the south to rebuild, so he is still yours no matter what the pact says.”
And so it was done. Now, here she stood, her dynasty in the hands of a man who may well be an impostor, her own blood claiming a piece of her birthright for his own, her days spent making up for her years spent in exile by watching her Lord Hand strike bargains like a master armorer struck an anvil. For a man who had once fled this city in a crate with a bounty on his head, Tyrion took to the Handship like the others had merely been warming his chair. He knew the history of nearly every House; who hated whom; each lord’s true motivations; who would respond most favorably to which kinds of flattery. And what he didn’t know, he would sniff out like a hound. Dany tried to absorb it all, and she was learning quickly, but without Tyrion, she worried she would be nearly as lost as when she first held court in the Great Pyramid of Meereen.
The thought made her chest tighten. "Power resides where men believe it resides," Tyrion told her once, "and the Realm believes it resides in a large, prickly chair." When she sat that chair she felt paralyzed, helpless, always at the mercy of others and what they wanted from her. Power should reside where I say it does. She was angry now.
Dany lifted Irri’s chin up and met her gaze. Dany spoke softly. Raising her voice was not necessary. Irri was well-terrified by now. "Do you want to learn how to count, or do you want to be the feeble-minded slut you were when Illyrio dumped you at my feet like nightsoil in a gutter?“ Dany loved this girl like the sister she never had, and would go through all seven hells for her if she needed, but when her blood ran hot she was consumed by a need to hurt, debase, and control that could not be stopped. Her life is too comfortable. I’m showing her what she is.
"Please teach me, Khaleesi. Please. Please. I want to learn. Please." She’s running out of words. It will be over soon. More oft than not, Irri forgot all her words by the end, save "please."
"Good,” Dany said calmly. “You need this.”
Irri nodded and muttered something that started as fervent agreement but melted into a sob. Dany had planned to simply start back to whipping her, but something stopped her. She stepped back, sat herself on the bed, and touched between her legs, struck by the sight of this precious, broken girl. She had seen men suffer like this before; in her dungeons, in the Plaza of Punishment in Astapor, but never by her own hands. She cared not a fig for the slavers and criminals and traitors, but seeing it happen to slaves and innocents had utterly disgusted her and started her on the mission that would define her life, that the singers now called the Great Liberation. But this was different. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. I’ve sentenced men to death for doing this to strangers, yet I do it to a girl with as pure a heart as I have ever known, who has served me since I was a child, and I touch myself as she cries. A wet spot had grown on the sheet, and her cunt was almost pulsing as she slid two fingers as deep as they would go, got up again, squeezed Irri’s jaw open, and put them in her mouth.
“Suck.” The girl pressed her lips around Dany’s fingers and closed her eyes. Dany could see her mind going blank. She slumped as much as the chains would let her and suckled like a babe at her mother's teat. Some nights, that was enough. Tonight was no such night. Half-hearted. Dany pushed her fingers deeper and pressed down on the girl’s tongue until her eyes widened and she started to gag. “Not good enough.” She spat in her face. “Get it right or I’ll keep you here until you piss yourself.”
It would not have been the first time. Dany was fond of forcing all manner of liquids down Irri's sweet, helpless throat and torturing her until there was a good healthy puddle to lick up. Tonight it was an empty threat, though. Lord Tyrion had business with her. Real business. Business for the Queen, not the demon she had let out to play. Irri knew that too, but Dany studied the girl’s face for any hint of fear that Dany would simply leave her bound and gagged while she and Tyrion ignored her and discussed matters of state. I want you always wondering what I’m capable of, sweetling. Irri finally got it right and sucked like the good slut she tried so hard to be. Dany removed her fingers, took the washcloth, and wiped some of the wetness off of her thighs so the taste would fill the girl’s mouth for the rest of the beating.
The skin on Irri’s back was bright red, and the whip would break it soon. It had become a ritual that when the blood started trickling down, Dany would lick it straight from the wound, kiss her on the mouth, dispense with the smallclothes and grind her cunt against Irri's thigh like a feral dog until she was finished. If she was feeling generous, she would let Irri do the same, as long as she licked up every bit of her savage mongrel filth afterward. Once the girl was bleeding, Dany was no longer so enraptured by the game they played. In her mind she would see Viserys with his golden crown, and her father’s lifeless body on the floor of the Throne Room. A crippling shame would wash over her if only for half a heartbeat. The father will judge me justly for this, just like my father and brother and my whole wretched family.
This time was no different. Once Dany was sated, she removed the chains, grabbed the sweet Dothraki girl before she could collapse onto the floor, and helped her to a chair by the brazier. As Irri wiped the tears from her eyes, Dany brought her a flagon of wine and a clean rag to wipe off the blood, as if she had suddenly become the handmaiden. Dany never apologized for nights like this, but her face showed more than a hint of guilt.
“Are you hurt?” She asked, sitting down across from her.
"Not badly, Khaleesi.”
“You should dress yourself, Lord Tyrion will be here soon." Dany wondered if Irri found this part as uncomfortable as she did. Neither of them had ever truly known how to manage the return to normalcy. Dany took great pains to treat the girl as kindly as she could, and Irri never forgot her courtesies, but it always felt false. She fears me. She thinks less of me. She has so much she wants to say but she fears to say it. But she couldn’t ask the girl to speak. To apologize or explain or ask her feelings on the matter was to force herself to look inside her own heart, and she was terrified of what she would find. If I look back, I am lost.
Irri and Dany had crossed the world, fought battles, sacked cities, celebrated, and grieved, together. They shared fear, hope, anger and elation, and nothing could break that bond. When Dany’s blood did not run so hot, they took an odd comfort in that. Dany was still only half dressed when the knock at the door came, but she bid Tyrion enter. She was anxious to speak to him. He insisted this could not wait until tomorrow.
The Lord of Casterly Rock strode past the guard and into the chamber just a moment too late to catch a glimpse of Dany’s breasts. He made no attempt to apologize, but merely shook away the flash of lust on his face and kept his gaze on Dany’s eyes. He knows he will never fuck me. He always had, and if he ever lamented that, Dany was sure he had long since made peace with it. Once she decided to let him keep his head, they became fast friends. She confided much and more in him, but not everything.
Tyrion knew better than to question why Dany and Irri were both sweaty and red in the face, or why Irri was sliding a whip under the Queen’s bed, or why there were manacles dangling from the ceiling. If he’s spent half the time in brothels as they say, he knows why. She knew there were eyes everywhere in the Red Keep, but Dany felt comfortable around her Hand. Tyrion had not forgotten the last time he left this city, or the events leading up to it. He knew what it was like to suffer the judgment of others for what he did in his own bedchamber, and though he never said it outright, he made clear that he would not inflict that on Dany. The only others who knew were Irri and the most loyal Unsullied she allowed to guard her bedchamber. The gargoyles would tell my secrets before they would.
“Wine?”
“Your Grace knows me well.” He bowed politely and sat.
Dany glanced at Irri, who was standing on a chest and reaching to unhook the manacles from the ceiling. Too late to hide it, silly girl. “Do that later, sweetling. Lord Tyrion is thirsty.” She stole a glance at Tyrion, who had thought it best to stare silently into oblivion like the Unsullied outside her door. She looked away, joining Tyrion in the mummer’s farce of pretending not to see.
Irri stepped down and smiled. “At once, Khaleesi,” and she set to filling their cups. Dany smiled back, but was uncomfortable meeting her eyes. She turned back to Tyrion, and was no more comfortable meeting his, but their gazes collided nonetheless. For half a heartbeat she cracked a dry smile before bringing it under control, and Tyrion restrained one himself. They both knew what was happening.
“What news?” She asked, as Irri handed them both a Dornish red.
He sighed. “Troubling word from the east.”
Is there any other kind of word from the east? Dany’s face told Tyrion to get on with it.
He continued. "It appears the Iron Bank has agreed to finance Pentoshi slave raids on Skagos, Hardhome, and the Summer Isles in exchange for a share of the profits, and the Sealord of Braavos has agreed to turn a blind eye. As yet there is no trade in Braavos itself, but slave ships sail unmolested into Ragman’s Harbor to resupply for the journey to Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and Volantis.”
Dany set her cup down, and clenched a fist. They sat in silence as she composed herself. "Skagos,” she said, with an icy calm. “What does the King in the North say to this?”
“The King in the North says ‘more grain please, I can barely feed my people.’”
Dany loved Tyrion’s wit, but could have done without it just then.
“How. How?!" Dany slammed her cup onto her side table, speaking in the same voice she used when she first announced to the Unsullied that she was their owner. It was a voice not meant to be answered back to, and Tyrion was not fool enough to try.
She tried again. "How did this happen? Did I not make my position clear enough when I burned half of Essos?”
“We are in the Iron Bank's debt, Your Grace. Deeply.”
"We’re in Petyr Baelish’s debt as well, but I don’t see him sailing about on a ship full of child whores, do you?”
"I haven't seen it, no, Your Grace." Tyrion saw the look on Dany's face and regretted the quip. When Dany was wroth, she would raise an eyebrow and smile a bit, as if she was amused that he thought he could get away with whatever he just did. He was no stranger to her anger, but he knew that it would pass, and that the Queen was not her father. But it was late, and he was growing frustrated with her. “Would you like me to write the Iron Bank a strongly worded letter and threaten to stop paying? They would pluck up the first shoeless, flea-ridden child with black hair and blue eyes they see on the street, proclaim to the world that he’s Robert’s bastard, and send him here to deliver their reply with fifty thousand men at his back." He grows too familiar, like Ser Jorah and the rest of them.
“Enough. Lady Greyjoy shall close Blackwater Bay to all ships from Braavos. Have her men board all other ships and inspect the hold before they enter the harbor. If a ship is carrying even a single slave, we shall free them, behead the captain, geld the crew root and stem, and take whatever else is in the hold. Greyjoy's men will sail it back to wherever it came from, with nothing but a crew of eunuchs and a hold full of broken collars, flying the three-headed dragon with the captain’s head on the prow.” She had not been this wroth since she sailed from Essos. "Ready the Royal Fleet. The biggest galleys with the fiercest men. Ironborn. Mean ones. We shall do the same on the open water from the Stepstones to the Skaagosi coast. When Drogon returns from his hunt I will–”
“Burn the Free Cities to the ground? And destroy all that trade with Westeros? Forfeit a million dragons in Tariff revenue for each turn of the moon? I’m sorry Your Grace, but at the moment, we are powerless to do anything about this."
“You choose your battles wisely, my lord. Of all the commands of mine you could question, you’re choosing to defy me on slavery?” Men are so eager to serve and obey, until they’d rather not, she thought. Until they think they know what’s best, and then they talk to me as if I’m still a maid of three and ten. "I will not sit by and allow this to happen so long as I draw breath. Do not speak to me about being powerless. Power resides—“
"In a vault in Braavos that pays the army that keeps the Queen’s Peace, and drains the Realm of half its gold in return."
"I thought it was a chair."
"That chair may be ripped out of the floor and carted off to the bank vault if we're not careful." He has the right of it, the little shit. She glanced at her serving girl, standing politely in the corner, smiling a dutiful but vacant smile. Dany hated when Tyrion outwitted her in front of Irri. It made her skin crawl and her whole body tense. As if the girl was waiting to put a sword in her back at the first sign of weakness, like Ser Jaime did to her father. She took a sip of wine and collected her thoughts.
"If they want to choose a new King, we shall choose a new Sealord.” Tyrion was not expecting that. He had not thought of it. She liked that. “Braavos is flooded with freedmen seeking work and fleeing their former masters. This cannot sit well with them. Find a rival to the Sealord, promise him our backing, and raise him an army of freedmen and Braavosi smallfolk. Grey Worm will come with you to choose officers and train them properly. Leave within a fortnight.” Tyrion looked he had more wisdom to impart. “One more condescension from you and we’ll compromise. You can write that letter you so helpfully suggested, and I’ll send it to them on a ship with your head on the prow.”
She did not mean it, and they both knew that. Singers spoke in rhymes, septons spoke in prayers, but Tyrion Lannister spoke almost exclusively in threats and japes, and he judged people on how well they could give back what he gave them. At first, she feared he would sell her to the highest bidder at the first hint of weakness, but by now, the insolence had become a game, and one she was growing to love. Tonight, though, it was clear the Mother of Dragons was near her wit’s end.
“As my Queen commands." That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since you walked in the room. Tyrion bowed and left.
Dany turned her head to Irri, standing politely in the corner. They exchanged a sad look, almost mournful. If Dany could only be remembered by one of her titles, it would be as the Breaker of Chains. Kings of Westeros come and go, and as much as she cherished her dragons, they were a gift from the gods and a means to her destiny, not the fruit of a labor she chose to undertake. She had left a trail of corpses on her journey back to the Iron Throne, and without the Great Liberation, those men will have died for naught but her own vanity. I will not have it said that I sent thousands of men to their deaths for a nicer chair and no other good for the world.
“I have no more need of you tonight. You have my leave to go,” she told the girl. She tried to say it as kindly as she could, but she was exhausted and drained of emotion.
“As you say, Khaleesi.”
Dany mustered a smile as Irri left. “Sweet dreams!” She added, right as the door closed. If Irri heard it, she made no reply. The guilt washed back over her for a heartbeat.
She remembered the first time Irri offered her body in service, on that terrible cog that Illyrio had sent to fetch her back to Pentos. Her dragons were babes and would eat from her hand. She had barely escaped Qarth with her life. She was still numb inside from Drogo’s death. Irri’s skill with her mouth had reawakened Dany’s desire, and for that she would always be grateful, but somewhere between Qarth and King’s Landing, something changed.
Dany had always craved a bit of power over her lovers, ever since she pushed Drogo the fearsome Khal on his back and made him say her name as she rode him. Maybe this was bred into her. Maybe her mind had created this when she was young, to save her from the cruel and arbitrary anger of Viserys. And his forty thousand men, and their horses. She still preferred men who could overpower her, as Drogo could, and then Daario, but she insisted on being overpowered on her own terms and hers alone.
The more power she gained as a ruler, the more she lost as a woman. Each city she sacked needed to be rebuilt. Each man who bent the knee brought his own sorry tale about how his neighbor was grazing sheep on his land, or got his daughter with child. By the time she came into her Kingdom, the gaggle of men following her with their own demands and agendas was larger than the khalasar she had led across the Red Waste. It was all dressed as humble supplication, of course, but she had learned long ago in Meereen that should she refuse too many of them too often, soon or late she’d face rebellion. Yet by appeasing one man she angered another, and would have to make up for it the next time his neighbor’s daughter was eating his grass or getting his sheep with child, or whatever they were going on about.
The loneliness of her bed was the worst, though. She had amassed an army of a hundred thousand men, and it seemed like every last one of them was beautiful, but she could not risk the scorn and scandal that would come with summoning any of them of them to her chambers. As she journeyed west, she relied more on the Dothraki girl to tend to her needs. The change started simply enough. If her day had been taxing, she would take the girl’s hair into her fists and pull just a little bit harder. I am tense, and the girl is here to relieve me, she would tell herself. It’s a testament to her skill.
But soon that was not enough for Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons. One night as her ship sailed west from Volantis, she asked the girl if she would like her Queen to make love to her the way she did to Drogo. Irri was confused at first. “Khaleesi, I don’t–”
“On your back, sweetling.”
She mounted the girl’s face and rode it the same way as she did Drogo’s cock the first night she tamed him. Hard but deliberate. Sweetly, in her own way, but never yielding her position or allowing even the thought of resistance. Irri struggled a bit at first, but relented when it became clear that Dany would allow her a few gasps of breath when she needed them.
Like all Targaryens, when Dany was born the gods flipped a coin to decide if she would be a great ruler or a mad one. To the rest of the world, her coin seemed to have landed on the side of greatness. But on that bed, in that ship, on that night, the coin seem to flip again on its own, like a mummer’s trick. I have fooled even the gods.
A madness consumed her that night. She could not say where it came from, but she could not deny its power. She needed something, someone, that was hers and hers alone. Power that no one else could tell her how to wield; a conquest without compromise; an indulgence of the vice she had made it her life’s work to eradicate. The people she had freed made no matter in that moment. All the wars she fought and all those to come made no matter. Her birthright made no matter. All she wanted was to conquer, subjugate, and bend this girl to the darkest urges of her will. She needed it. She needed to feel what it was like to become every bit the tyrant that her father was, if only for the night; to rule with an iron hand over a kingdom of one. My father was ready to raze a city of innocents to hold on to this power. Surely it must feel good to hold. I’m a good person, I’ve worked so hard, come so far, and done so much good. I deserve a taste.
Dany felt Irri grab her hips reflexively, tugging and urging her to go harder, faster. Any fear or confusion the girl had felt before had melted into lust and eagerness. Dany knew this, and understood it was a good thing, but still she liked it not. She presumes too much. They all presume too much. This ends now, before she grows accustomed to it, she thought, as the sensation of the girl sucking on her clit overwhelmed her and her panting grew more feverish. I put my cunt where I want. Her face is mine to rape. Dany grabbed the girl’s wrists, pinned them above her head, and tugged a fistful of her hair, forcing Irri’s widened eyes straight into Dany’s stare. “You do not touch my body without my leave. Viserys did that and he died screaming. Do you want to be like Viserys? Do you?” What in the seven hells am I saying?
The girl’s eyes widened even more as she shook her head frantically and muttered a “no, Khaleesi!” into Dany’s cunt. Dany searched for something to bind the girl’s hands where they were, but the best she could do was to throw a pillow on top of them. “Move your hands again and I’ll cut them off myself and toss them right over the side of this ship.” That was all it took. The girl obeyed, as tears began to fill her eyes. That alone was enough to make her cunt pulse. I want to see more of those. I want to see how much this slut can take. I want to strip her of everything she is, and rebuild her as my own creature. I want her terrified of me. I want her in love with me. I want to hear naught from her cunt-licking mouth but pleas for more of whatever I think she deserves.
Treating the girl like this, speaking to her like this, breaking her will and claiming her as chattel made Dany feel liberated, possibly for the first time in her life. The rush from the power burst forth like Rhaegal and Viserion the day they escaped the catacombs of the Great Pyramid. She felt like she was soaring. She felt hungry, powerful, and furious with herself that she had held this back for so much of her life.
Only weeks earlier she had ridden her Silver right through the gates of the most important city in the slave trade of Essos, its streets lined by the hundreds and thousands of freedmen who had risen up in revolt when they heard she was coming. Thousands were on their knees; some in terror, some in awe, some in gratitude, some in hope, and some because they had no other notion what to do. With Volantis came an enormous fleet, a well-organized legion of former slave soldiers, supremacy on the river Rhoyne, and gold enough that Tyrion told her he felt ashamed to have ever called himself rich. But this was more thrilling, more satisfying, than all of that.
When Dany decided that Irri’s face and mouth had done their duty in service of her royal person, she slid down, licked the wetness from her servant’s face, and kissed Irri passionately on the mouth. She had never done this before. Not like this. Irri was not as surprised this time. She kissed back, hoping to provoke Dany even more; to wake the dragon and let it consume them both. After the kiss came a slap to the face, and a twist of the nipple, and it would never be the same.
Her mind turned back to the matters at hand. It seems broken chains can grow back and multiply. If it was not enough to break them, she would pull each one up by the root, melt them down, and give the Sealord and his Pentoshi cheesemongers a crown of molten iron, like Drogo gave Viserys with gold.
The manacles were still swaying back and forth ever so slightly when they caught the corner of her eye. The gods’ jape was not lost on her. That one shall stay, she vowed to the gods, defiant. I claim it for mine own.