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It was a miracle, that, after all the blood, and screams, and mayhem of the arena, they were finally sitting quietly in the safety of the Queen's quarters, sipping wine, their wounds tended, their blood-stained armour and weapons resting peacefully by the table. And two men who only yesterday were ready to be at each other’s throats were now breaking bread like brothers.
Well, almost.
Tyrion was off with Missandei, brushing up his Valyrian; the Queen rested; and these two were drinking and exchanging an occasional glance.
Darrio refilled his tankard and raised it high: "Your very good health, Jorah the Andal!"
"And yours, Daario Naharis," answered Jorah not entirely without sarcasm.
For Gods only know what time this day Daario exclaimed: "You were fucking brilliant, you know that? Of course, you made some mistakes and, one or two times, oh, that was really close, but you were fucking brilliant! I did not give you enough credit before! And the way you dispatched that son of a… Harpy?! I wish I have your eyesight and strength when I am your age."
Jorah's knuckles turned white as he gripped his tankard to take another sip. He was fine with his age but not when a boy who stole the love of his life from him rubbed his nose in it. Yet he deemed it undignified to take offense: "Unfit don't survive."
"But this thing you did! Ballad material, let me be damned! That's what minstrels sing of, you're, like, this legendary knight of old. I honestly envy you, I don't have what it takes. Not in that way. And, bloody bastard that I am, I thought that you were aiming at me! Or even her! You are so fucking grand…" Daario rambled and rambled for what seemed like a thirty year long Winter. Jorah ground his teeth: out of Tyrion's frying pan into the fire. "…And, let me tell you a secret, I am not the only one to be of that opinion. I would have never told you, but you were so fucking brilliant! I am well aware of your feelings towards the Queen (the whole world is, for that matter!) and it's nothing to be ashamed of, even given all the circumstances and the fact that you…"
Jorah sighed and raised his weary narrow eyes on Daario: "Do you realize that I am about to snap your neck with my bare hands like a dry twig, just to make you stop talking?"
"Don't be like that. I feel for you. Truly, I do. I am trying to make a point here."
"Which is?"
"I was trying to say that not only you love her, but also her Grace… I believe, her Grace loves you. Well, in a certain way!"
Enough was enough; hearing the word "love" from this pup Jorah bared his teeth and slammed his tankard on the table, spilling wine, but before he could say anything, Daario threw his hands in the air:
"All right, all right, I wouldn't dare to talk about Love, I wouldn't sully the sacred word with my filthy tongue, but I know women and I know she wants you."
A bitter scoff from Jorah.
"I am telling you! I have seen you two together. There's tension you can cut with a knife. She is just so damn proud, and, as I was given to understand, you have known her for such a long time, back when she was a scared and abused little girl."
"How would you know?"
"Believe it or not, I listen. So, maybe you remind her of that, I don't know, maybe there's something else, but my point is that she wants you and you clearly want her, and it's fucking painful to watch. I was amused at first. I love being picked over others – who doesn't? – but this is not funny anymore."
"Do you ever shut up?"
"All right. Here is my plan. Tomorrow make yourself presentable and be by her chamber at sunset. I will let you in and show you that what I say is true. If the moment is right, I can talk you up, and, perhaps, you might even… you know… One thing, though. Nay, two: you might want to bathe and lose the goddamn shirt."
"What's wrong with the shirt? I've worn it for years."
"Precisely."
Jorah knew better than to believe everything he was told, and yet a faint shadow of hope haunted him all night. He slept ill, and the next morning saw him even more troubled and brooding than before.
When he went out to take some air he met Daario. That whistling and gleaming bastard obviously slept well. He was on his way to refectory and dragged reluctant Jorah along. They ate like they slept, and Daario all but wore Jorah out with all the remarks, innuendos and promises, that made the faint shadow of hope less and less of a shadow. Daario spoke as if that was a sure thing, a done deal, and, sooner than he cared to admit it to himself, Jorah was sold and even allowed Daario to drag him to a bathhouse.
It was not until much later, the moment when he was handed his shirt, clean, dry and carefully mended, that he came to his senses. He traced the stitches on the sleeve where the cut had been. That cut and that wound – that was love he understood. To serve, to protect and advise, to lay his bloodied sword at her feet and catch an occasional favourable glance, to kill, to die if need be. But sneaking into her chamber at night to spy on the most private moments in hope of snatching some action, even if she felt something for him, as Daario claimed… Now, in cold blood, without Daario carelessly prattling nearby, the idea turned his stomach. He dressed and went to speak with Daario; the young man was nowhere to be found, but a maid said that he must be in the Queen's chamber, though it was not yet sunset.
When Jorah knocked on the door, Daario greeted him with the dirtiest of smiles: "A-ha! A bit early. Impatient, are we?"
"Not at all. I just came to tell you that I call the whole thing off. It's disgusting, disrespectful… I… I cannot do it."
Right at this instant they both heard light steps approaching from around the corner of the corridor. It was a dead end, and Jorah could not just leave. Daario cursed under his breath, whispered: "Too late for that, Ser!", and pushed Jorah into the chamber. He dragged Jorah behind some curtains and hissed: "You don't want her to be embarrassed, do you? Stay here and for the life of yours don't make a sound. It all could have turned out quite well for you, but as you are so stupid, and stubborn, and bloody noble…"
Daario's hushed words were cut short. Daenerys entered the room with the softest rustle of silk and delicate jingle of jewelry on her wrists. Daario greeted her with a gasp and shielded his eyes as if blinded by the Sun and then fell on his knees, bowing to the ground, only to smirk and wink at her after brushing her shoe with his lips. Daenerys laughed; she loved all these stupid charming things Daario did, she loved the way he made her laugh. He might have been shallow, but, oh, was he charming. He led her to the bed, threw all the pillows on the floor with a wide sweep, poured her some wine, offered fruit and sweets, and chatted, and chatted, and chatted, complimenting her dress, her hair, her smile, her scent and more, and more, and more. Soon both empty goblets fell on the floor with a clank, followed by her dress and his shirt, and the sounds of kisses, soft moans and heavy breathing filled the chamber.
Jorah was in hell. He could not make his presence known and embarrass her, he could not leave, he could not even move to put his hands over his ears. He was forced to stay still and listen. He hated himself for trying to see through between the curtains. Each sight he caught was an exquisite torture: a perfect pale breast, her arms thrown around Daario's neck, Daario's fingers running through her silver hair. And if Jorah couldn't see much after all, he could hear everything. Gods, this man was a talker! Daenerys seemed to enjoy it, though; she laughed, and moaned, and commanded more sweet nothings. Why do women love the chatty ones so much? Daario gradually raised his voice, and Jorah understood that that was for his sake. Obviously, the scoundrel decided to go through with his disgusting plan.
By now they moved onto the luxurious carpet on the floor. Daario clearly knew what he was doing, running his palms all over her body, worshipping every curve, planting a kiss or two right where she needed, and then moving further, licking, nipping, playfully using his teeth. And then it began. When his fingers were busy buried deeply in her wet heat and his thumb gently rubbed her sensitive pearl, he growled against her neck: "Oh, Khaleesi!"
Struggling for breath Jorah froze behind his curtain, thunderstruck, as Daenerys gasped and arched her back with a moan loud as never before.
"W…w…why would you call me that?"
"You liked it, didn't you? I can tell. Oh, the way you squeezed my fingers!"
"Don't ever call me that!"
"Why not, Khaleesi? You let me do what I do best, so that's what I do, arouse and pleasure. And even if arousing you this much takes pretending to be someone else… I'm game!"
"What do you mean?.. Oh, don't stop, more!.."
"My feelings for you, my Queen, made me very… perceptive and observant. I treasure everything that can bring your pleasure to new heights, and I noticed that…"
"Out with it, for Gods' sake… but don't stop!"
"I won't spell it out just yet, my Queen, or you perhaps will have my head on a spike by morning. I'll just try something, and there will be no need to explain."
"Curse you!" Daenerys panted helplessly under his ministrations. Daario reached for the table, dipped his finger in a small bowl of honey and gently touched both her nipples, then brought his finger to her lips, offering to lick it. The taste of honey worked wonders; Daenerys moaned and sighed "Oh, yes!", grabbing his hair and pulling him closer to her breasts. Daario greedily licked the sweetness off her nipples with a low growl and reached for more, now trailing his honeyed finger down to her stomach and lower. Licking and nipping his way down, he rumbled:
"I feel like I am a bear…"
Daenerys cried out and all but melted under his lips.
"Imagine, how eager would a bear be to take my place. I bet he would be even better. More passionate. What do you think?"
"I… I wouldn't know. I just know I want more."
"You'd like to be all covered in honey, head to toe, so that he would lick you clean with his strong hot tongue. It would take hours… hours of being outstretched here completely naked, exposed, submitting to a greedy, lustful wild beast… which I am sure he is, deep, deep down, despite his knightly airs. Given certain circumstances, all men are."
All burning, shivering, and soaking wet Daenerys panted: "What are you talking about?!"
"I am talking about my Queen's pleasure. I want my Queen to cry out in ecstasy at the top of her royal lungs, as I help her act out her secret fantasy that obviously excites her so much."
"I really will have your head on a spike!" It was all too clear that Daenerys didn't mean it, she was just trying to gain at least some control, but hopelessly failed. Daario saw everything right through and only chuckled:
"So, this bear…"
"Oh Gods!"
"Were he here now, pleasuring you with his mouth as I am, his strong hard fingertips of a warrior caressing your nipples, your perfect firm maiden breasts, so small in his big hands, his beard tickling your inner thigh, his devoted heart pounding in his chest like a drum, his Valyrian steel-hard manhood aching for your wetness, what would you say to him, what would you have him do? And don't pretend that you don't know who I am talking about!"
Daenerys squeezed her eyes shut, bit her lip and, covering her burning cheeks with her hands, whispered:
"Make me yours…"
"Louder, your Grace! I don't think he can hear you!"
"Make me yours!.."
With a wicked lustful grin, still deliberately teasing her with the most intimate kisses, Daario dropped the name: "…Jorah!"
Consumed with shame but utterly helpless, Daenerys panted:
"Make me yours, Jorah!"
Jorah bit his lips bloody to suppress a groan, torn apart by raging desire and the sense of decorum.
"Come on, what's with this girl talk? Spell what you really want, your Grace!" Daario jerked her thighs up and buried his face between them.
"Jorah, oh Jorah, fuck me, my bear, fuck me hard!"
Lowering her on a pile of hastily gathered pillows, Daario replaced his tongue with his fingers again, his lips and beard all wet and glistening in lamp light: "That's my… Queen!" He moved to kiss her eyelids shut and at the same time reached for the curtain Jorah was dying behind, drew it open and beckoned him, as if saying: "That's your cue, Ser. Now or never!"
Unable to resist, shivering all over, his blood boiling, Jorah fell to his knees beside her, but all he dared was taking her hand and fervently kissing her fingertips. The instant she felt the second pair of lips on her she snapped her eyes wide open and gasped, and panted:
"You! Here! Now? Oh Gods, you heard everything! Daario, I will burn you alive!"
Daario chuckled softly against her mound, and murmured, his words muffled by her delicate flesh: "Oh, the gratitude of a Targaryen! Look him right in the eye, my Queen, and tell him that you didn't mean what you said. I was there. My fingers and my tongue are ready to testify."
With a smile Daario withdrew a little to blow on her swollen sex as if it was a dying ember to be rekindled and then immediately covered it with his hot and wet skillful lips again. Daenerys writhed beneath him, burning, panting and whimpering, lost to everything but his tongue. Daario stopped and growled against her skin: "Well? Well?"
Flushed as she were, her cheeks now turned almost crimson, and she finally panted: "Yes, yes, yes, I meant every word!"
Daario pressed his lips against her for the last time and asked with a smirk: "Care to take my place, Ser? Come, the Queen commands."
"Do you really, my Queen?" the husky words were the first Jorah spoke in the hour filled with unbearable torment that he wouldn't have missed for the world. He licked his parched lips, his broad chest covered with soaking wet shirt rapidly rising and falling, his heart ready to stop, should her answer be a "No", but Daenerys, giddy with desire, cheeks burning, only sighed: "Yes! I do!"
The love, and the passion, and the hunger built up over the years left him speechless, and he just tried to look deep into her eyes, seeking more proof of the fact that all this was for real, not a dream and not a cruel joke. But there she was, inviting him, not only with her parted lips, outstretched arms and eyes gleaming with desire, but with her words, loud and clear.
From an ordinary woman that would have been begging, from their Queen it was an order: "Come here, my bear, don't make me wait anymore." She was well past delicate touches and chaste closed lips, so their first kiss was raw, savage and fierce, beyond anything he ever dared to dream of. Once more she was walking into a pyre, but this time she took his hand and led him with her, and he followed, obedient as her slave he was, ready and willing to be consumed, come what may.
He broke the kiss to struggle with his clothes and ended up ripping his shirt. Daenerys moaned at his impatience, urging him to hurry – and that blessed moment Jorah remembered that they were not alone and glared at Daario, who was leisurely stretched out on the pillows beside them.
But Daario with a biggest grin leaned in and whispered: "No way I am leaving now, brother! I made it happen, I am watching!"