~ Dany ~

'...and tell me, what is it we are to call you? The Father of Dragons?' Daario jests, his eyes sparkling with that same assumed wit I had almost forgotten. Mocking words from a mouth I used to find amusing, a mouth which used to please me. It does nothing now.

In fact, it seems odd to me that I ever desired him, had ever longed for him more than I longed for any other. Now, just like the day I told him goodbye, I feel nothing.

Now there is only Jon.

He stands beside me now; pale cheeks kissed red by the wind and sun, hair shining black and bright as a crow's wing, eyes dark and glittering with quiet fury.

At Daario's words, I stiffen, the heat creeping up my neck to my cheeks. It was insolence cloaked in jest and of course I could not let it stand. However before I have a chance to speak, Jon addresses him first.

'Your Grace,' Jon says, his stare levelled at Daario like a sword. 'You will call me Your Grace.'

There's a pause, where Daario glances briefly at me, before he lowers his head toward Jon.

'Of course, your grace,' he says, smiling. 'Forgive my impudence; we are little used to kings in the Bay of Dragons. My manners have long deserted me,' he looks at Jon with some mask of civility that I see through. That, of course, he knows I see through. If I had thought my mortification complete, however, I am mistaken,

'And what of queens?' Jon asks. 'Are you familiar with them?' There is an insinuation there that causes the breath to disappear entirely from my throat.

Daario smiles deeper. 'I used to be.'

I see Jon clench his jaw tight, a small tight smile settling over his mouth which appears more like a snarl.

'Kings are much the same,' he replies. I trust you'll become acquainted with the idea soon enough.' His tone is one of warning, and I see a glimmer of something like respect flash in Daario's eyes. 'Now, as I am not required, I have some work to attend to.' He turns to me. 'You know where to find me if you need me.'

With that he turns and strides purposefully from the room without looking back. Ser Davos follows close at his heel.

As I watch him go I consider following after him, to explain, to offer some words which may smooth away the discord, but I have learned that it is often best when his anger is left alone to cool.

Tyrion casts his eyes downward, guiltily.

'I would speak with Daario Naharis alone,' I tell the room.

Daario, apparently pleased by the idea, issues the command to his men with a look. Tyrion's expression tells me he finds the idea ill-advised, however I am in no mood for his advice now. I emphasise my command with a nod. 

As the footsteps fade and the great wooden doors are pulled closed with a thunderous boom, Daario watches me closely, covetously. The silence stretches on some moments before he speaks.

'Well, at least he is not a perfumed aristocrat,' he remarks, knowingly.

'You should not have come here.'

'No?' He begins to walk towards me. 'I had thought to find you happier. Have you not achieved all you dreamed of? Your enemies are dead, your throne is won, your alliances are... flourishing?'

'I am quite happy, I assure you...'

He raises an eyebrow. 'Then why do you not smile?'

I give him an accusatory glare which he only laughs off.

'Gods, you do look exquisite,' he sighs, 'more exquisite than my memory afforded me. When he reaches out to touch me I pull back, issuing him with a look of warning.

He lowers his hand but his gaze is boldly direct, hunger lighting the pale blue with sparks of desire. Not so long ago that look of promise would have stirred my insides, set my heart aflame, but I can find no home for it now. It feels unwelcome; he feels like a stranger. Our shared intimacy like old bones, cold and lifeless.

'Answer my question,' I demand.

Another sigh. 'As soon as I heard you'd married another, I had no choice but to come to you.'

I have to try hard not to roll my eyes as I turn from him toward the fireplace. 'Strange, for I am certain you told my husband you had only this moment heard of our marriage?'

'Well, I could not very well tell him my true intentions now, could I?' When I turn to give him another glare, he merely shrugs.

'Then I advise you not to tell them to me either,' I warn.

'Daenerys, please... Have I not stayed away long enough? Have I not done all that you asked of me? You would not let me fight for you; would not let me help you win back this cold windswept land, would not let me worship you. Gods, I feel as though I am in exile yet have committed no crime.' His voice is a plea. 'You cannot think I have let go of you? Surely you have not let go of—.'

'Enough!' My voice echoes around the room, silencing him. 'All of that... is in the past. I have let you go.'

His eyes narrow with hurt first, then something else, something darker. He stares at me for many moments before he speaks again. When he does his voice is incredulous.

'You care for him,' he says. It is not a question. 'You care for this northern bastard who calls himself king.'

'He is a king.'

'By whose proclamation? His own? His people?'

'By mine!' I fire. 'And you will afford him the respect you afford me.'

Very slowly acceptance bleeds into his glittering blue eyes. 'Very well, Khaleesi,' he says quietly. 'Very well.'

I take a deep breath before speaking again, my voice calmer, temper cooling.

'Now, please tell me you did not come all this way; that you did not abandon the city I left in your charge, for the sole notion that my words to you in Meereen were anything other than sincere?'

He smiles, sadly. 'I hoped that they were. I hoped to find miserable in your marriage and desperately waiting for me to return to you, it's true. But no, it was not the reason I came. I'm here because I have a gift for you.'

'A Gift?'

He nods.

'And this gift required you to deliver it to me yourself?'

'In fact, it did.'

'Then where is it?' With a sigh, I look around the room. 'This gift of yours.'

'It is still on the ship, I thought we might ride to the harbour together, for I think it better that you are alone when you... when I present it to you.'

I frown, perplexed. 'Nonsense, have them bring it here. I will not ride with you to the harbour, Daario.'

He lets out a soft sigh and closes the distance between us again, reaching out to take hold of my hand. 'Daenerys, please. I ask that you trust me in this. There is a reason I did not bring it to you here - a reason I had to deliver it in person. All of which will become clear to you, I promise. Has your trust in me disappeared so completely? Do not tell me you doubt my motives? My loyalty?' He lowers himself to his knee before me. 'For that would be the worst of all injuries. My sword is still yours, my queen. My life is still yours.' He does not tell me that his heart is still mine and I am glad of it. 'Tell me you believe this?' He says, looking pained by the idea of my thinking otherwise. It causes one corner of my heart to bloom with the echo of him.

'I believe you,' I say softly. The relief floods into his eyes, gratitude too, as he presses his lips to my hand. 'Very well, I shall ride out with you.'

He nods, before slowly rising to his feet again. 'Then I propose we go now,' he says, a degree of urgency in his tone now. 'For it unsettles me to leave it there unattended.'

oOo

Tyrion had given me another of his glances. Another suggestion that this too was an ill-advised idea, that this too was something he would argue against given the opportunity.

But I had not given him the opportunity.
Especially given Jon's knowledge of Daario's very existence had been informed solely by Tyrion's inability for discretion. In fact, I placed the blame for Jon's latest brood firmly upon his shoulders.

If this ride with Daario would anger Jon further, then I would simply have to deal with later, after.

Missandei rides slightly behind Daario and I, my Queensguard a little behind her. Daario had left his men to rest off their sea journey, choosing instead to travel alone with us the short distance to the harbour. It does not take him long to raise the subject of our recent request to the Meereenese consul.

'It is the numbers which bother them - or lack of. How are they to plan for an influx of Westerosi when you've given them no idea of how many to expect?' He looks at me, questioning. 'Is there to be a hundred? A thousand? A hundred thousand?'

The consul; a selection of noblemen and women chosen by the people to sit upon a council of equals. All approved because they had been amongst those who had celebrated the end of the trade which had made many of them rich. Approved too because they had not stood against my regime.

But Daario had reported whispers moving through some pockets of Meereenese society, pockets which longed, it seemed, to return it to its former glory.

Whispers that I commanded he silence.

And so Consul members had been removed and new ones selected. Yet a majority still resisted the idea of more change, and so they had abstained from voting on the resettlement requests.  I understood it, for an unprecedented surge in the population of any city —not to mention one which had faced the turmoil Meereen had —could not be taken lightly.

Addressing Daario's question, I keep my tone even and my eyes on the road ahead.

'Our council is drawing up the notices now. Until we have heard back from the people we cannot attribute numbers.' It was my choice to keep the great threat beyond the wall a secret from the people. What good would it do to tell them of such a horror?

Jon's preference had been to warn them, to warn everyone, but soon seen the reason in making preparations quietly for a time. Of course, if this dead army began to move south, then all decisions would be taken from our hands. Daily reports from Castle Black, however, assured us we still had time.

'Your people across the Narrow Sea wish to see their queen again. They think you have forgotten them,' Daario informs me, changing the subject. 'Have you no plans for a visit? Perhaps they should also meet their king?'

I glance at him, askance. 'We plan to tour of the Seven Kingdoms first, then perhaps after that, we shall visit.' Would Jon even wish to visit those lands I had conquered across the sea? The people I had claimed as my own? Lands that were foreign to him? He had not particularly longed to come south...

As we pass the cliff face on the eastern side, Daario motions toward the men working below, toward the carts of stone containing dragonglass being pulled from the caves. It occurs to me that Jon is down there somewhere and that he may see me pass with Daario, and so I am keen not to linger, ensuring the retinue keeps moving ahead. I can see the harbour now, see the large white sail of the ship and the sigil of The Second Sons leashing back and forth in the wind.

'You are mining coal?' He asks. 'I did not know you possessed such quantities of it? Shall I discuss the import with the Consul? The taxes are good upon it this side of the season.'

'It is not coal,' I say.

He frowns and looks back at it.

'Zīrtys perzys - we are making weapons from it.' I tell him this because the less lies which block a path the easier it is to forge ahead.

'Weapons? I thought your war was over?'

'My brother once told me that keeping a throne is another war altogether,' I reply as I spur my heels into the horse and burst forward at pace, keen to reach the harbour before the sun sinks any further into the horizon.

oOo

Daario moves to help me down from the saddle and as he settles me on the small dusty rise at the end of the harbour he lets his gaze linger far too long upon my face, that same unwelcome longing making me tense and uneasy. I smooth my gloved hands over my coat and look at the ship instead. The harbour is not the main harbour, that is situated on the western side of the island and used for the docking of goods and travellers.

This smaller port — quaint and closer to the castle itself — was used mainly for our own fleet and visitors, fishing boats which served the castle kitchens, and a selected number of merchant ships departing east for the Free Cities. As such it was manned only by a small harbour master's dwelling and around ten men, who having seen us approach from a distance had paused their tasks to greet us.

'Your grace, we did not know to expect you,' says an elderly man in an accent not unlike Ser Davos. 'Can we get you and your guests some hot broth? Some ale?' He looks faintly nervous, unsure whether to lift his head and meet my eye, or keep it lowered to the dock.

I go toward him and shake my head. 'No, thank you. We shall not burden you too —we have come only to retrieve something from the ship. Please, go back about your business.' I gesture to him to go on, and he nods, shooing his men back into action. They move quick to obey, returning at once to folding the large trawling nets laid out upon the dock. The air smells briny and alive, the stench of fish innards and salt pungent and thick around us. My stomach lurches slightly.

When I turn to Daario, expectant, he nods and immediately begins toward the ship. We travel the small dock in silence until we reach the wooden gangway where Daario stops and turns. With his head he makes a gesture to Missandei and my men who stand a little way behind me, waiting.

'You may wish to consider coming aboard alone, Khaleesi,' he says, a little hesitant in his manner.

I roll my eyes. 'Is that so?'

He reaches to his hip and unhooks the arakh and places it down upon the pier, the stretches out his arm. 'Command your men search me.'

'Your ship could be filled bow to stern with weapons to hurt me,' I point out. 'It is not my concern.'

'Then what is?' He asks, his eyes glinting again, flirtatious.

I raise an eyebrow. If Jon were to hear about such a thing, that I had been alone with Daario - aboard a ship whilst Missandei and my guard waited ashore.

No. I would not. He knew as well as I did why I would not.

He shrugs a little, then nods. 'Very well, your grace. In which case, all aboard.' He boards first, taking the unsteady wooden gangway in three quick strides while I board behind him, slower and more carefully, gripping hard of the wooden ropes on either side as I move across it.

As I look down the slits of the wood allow a glimpse of the oily black water below, which lashes and tilts and causes my stomach to quake again slightly. Without warning the nausea rises quick, flooding my tongue with something hot and bitter. I bring my hand to my mouth and swallow hard, reaching out with my other to take Daario's hand so that he can pull me quickly over the last section of the walkway. The sickness does not subside and so I rush to the opposite edge of the deck and lean over it, preparing to empty my stomach into the thick greasy depths below. It is Missandei's touch I feel upon my shoulder a few moments later.

'Khaleesi, are you well?' Her voice is panicked and her eyes wide.

'Yes,' I nod, pressing my hand to my stomach which tilts and yawns but slowly begins to calm. I had heard tell of those who developed sudden seasickness; of those who had sailed for many years only to find themselves all at once with an aversion to it. It seems I am to count myself among the afflicted. 'I'm well, yes. I shall be keen to be back on land.' With the words I eye Daario, whose brow is creased with concern, but who nods and bids we follow him through a narrow door beside where a ladder leads to the upper deck.

Inside the closed quarters of the ship the stench is worse. Not only brine and salt, but mildew too, and the sickness rears its head once more. I will it gone as I watch Daario use a key hung from a chain around his neck to open a small padlock on a hatch on the floor.

'You cannot mean for the queen to go down there?' Missandei asks him, horrified.

Daario pulls open the hatch and gives me a pointed look. 'The Queen who flies dragons through the sky and burns armies to the ground?' He asks. 'Yes, I suppose I did think she might be able to withstand the cargo hold of a merchant ship for a few moments.'

Missandei looks at me as I look at him, as I wonder what on earth sort of game this is. Wondering too what sort of gift is kept in the cargo hold of a merchant ship.

There is a moment then, where a small inkling of cold doubt slithers into my mind that perhaps this is a trap. That perhaps my enemies across the narrow sea have dissuaded his loyalty from me. That he means to kill me here.

But then it is gone. The doubt. The cold.

He has given me no reason to doubt his loyalty.  As I glance across the space at Rakharo and Jhogo - Narravo and Aggo guarding the quay outside - I know too that Daario is also far too clever to attempt such an act here.

'I will go into the hold,' I say before indicating for him to descend first. Rakharo goes next, then Jhogo. I move to the hatch last and bid Missandei stay above. The ladder is slippery and precarious and twice I almost lose my footing only to have Daario catch and steady me.

Below the stench is almost unbearable. It is ale and dirt and sweat and rot and I bring my hand to my mouth as the bile rises once more.

'Please tell me what sort of gift smells like this?' I glare at him. A great cat perhaps, like those I'd seen in Daznak's Pit.

There's a grave look in Daario's eye but he says nothing.

The hold is formed of several large cages, each of which is stacked full with boxes and barrels; fagots of steel; barrels of nails; lead and salt; kegs of ale, water, and wine. Daario goes directly to the end of the hold, to another narrow door, where he unlocks a second padlock from the same keychain and waits. When I'm close he moves to pull open the door wide.

I gasp quietly at the sight revealed before me.

Sitting on the straw-covered floor, the stench of human waste emanating all around him, is a man. Polished and clean I am certain the similarities would be more obvious. But Daario's gift is dirty; hair lank, beard full, clothes torn and soiled.

But it does not matter. For still I know him. Had searched the seven kingdoms and beyond for him.

He is the man who killed my father.

The Kingslayer's golden hand is no longer gilded in Lannister gold. It has been replaced instead by a crude stick narrowed at its end.

He lifts his head to meet my eye; a flashing green gaze which is familiar. The look is not what I expect — there is no rage or hatred there. Only despair. Only something which looks like... grief?

'You can see why I did not wish to bring it to the castle,' says Daario quietly, close to my ear. 'The dwarf will not take it too well, I do not expect.'

I cannot speak, my breath quick and hot. Many moments pass, hundreds of them I'm certain.

'Tell me what you wish done with him, your grace, and it shall be done.' Daario's voice is gentle, not at all urgent. 'I can remove his head before you and take the body back to Meereen —ensure it is never found. He will never know.'

Tyrion. He means that Tyrion will never know.

My heart hammers in my chest, rage simmering beneath my skin, cold and hot all at once.

Tyrion would never know.

I wait until it passes; the fury I have come to know so well, and let out a deep quiet breath.

Then, with my eyes still fixed upon The Kingslayer, I give the order.