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You Have Shining Eyes

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Doreah is waiting with the others while the khaleesi deals with the slavers.  The wayward knights go with her, Missandei goes with her, but – no.  There is no need for Doreah there.  (Of the essential attendants, she’s only a bit jealous.)

Instead she and Kovarro keep watch: someone needs especially to stay with Rhaegal and Viserion, she tells herself, and no others have proved themselves equal to the task.  Kovarro stays with her, at least symbolically, she is still dangerous in the eyes of some (Ser Jorah, always Ser Jorah) and it is necessary (so she intuits).  She sits on her hands to keep herself from fidgeting with her old loose pants and her new-made silk top and the bracelet jangling on her wrist, she glances from the dragons to the sky and then back again.  When they burst out shrieking, almost in unison, she springs up to comfort them, singing nonsense songs that they seem to like; she cannot know, but it is at this moment that Drogon has set his would-be master aflame.

When they are readying to leave, Kovarro appears behind her and lays a hand on her shoulder.  Without preamble, he hands her the reigns to a horse, a beautiful soft-gold mare, and it takes her breath away.  Not because of the horse’s beauty, but because nobody gives a horse, an easy escape, to a girl under guard, to a thief and a liar.  It is the last little piece of forgiveness, the forgiveness from everyone and not just from Daenerys.

“She is yours,” Kovarro says, the words coming out rough and heavily accented.  He places hands on her waist, lifts her to the saddle, and offers her an oddly soft smile.  (He is perhaps an older brother to her, she thinks.  There is none of the ungainly seduction she has experienced so many times over, none of the hands attempting to wander, there is just – friendship?)

She is not so accustomed to riding as some of the others, of course, but she finds the rhythm quickly.  They ride out behind Daenerys, her Queensguard and her new scribe, they ride out surrounded by her newly-won soldiers.  Nobody speaks the whole ride to their new camp, and Doreah spends the entire time imagining what transpired and staring with increasing lust at her queen’s back, her silver-blonde hair catching the light of the setting sun.  (Of those who got to witness Daenerys’ triumph, she is only a bit jealous.)

The fires are already lit and the tents pitched by the time Daenerys’ retinue dismounts.  Her knights and bloodriders tether the horses (Kovarro tends to Doreah’s), she stands looking almost bewildered in the firelight for only a split second before Doreah runs to her and (caution be damned) kisses her with almost crushing need.

She knows there are dozens of pairs of eyes on them – she can feel the heat of them as much as that of the fires – but all she is truly aware of is the weight of her queen in her arms.  Dany squeals happily against Doreah’s lips, rises on her toes and gets tipped back simultaneously, and it’s almost perfect.

“Khaleesi,” Doreah breathes once she’s lifted the other woman back up.

“Doreah,” Dany pants, looking plainly stunned.  It takes her a minute to collect herself, a minute that Doreah spends straightening her own clothes and hair with a demure expression.  Once she has collected herself, all she whispers is, “I love you,” smiling up from under her eyelashes.

Doreah echoes it, soft and reverent, before she turns her own smile wry and adds, “I should let you tend to your new army.  You have much to do, I imagine.”

Dany nods resignedly, but soon she’s cupping Doreah’s cheek and whispering, “Is it too much to ask you to wait up for me?”

“Of course not,” Doreah says.  “I was going to insist on it, I want to hear every last detail.”

They exchange another kiss before they part, this one lingering and gentle and not at all knee-weakening like the first, then like a couple of blushing children they dart off in their opposite directions, Daenerys going to see to her people, Doreah going to see to her queen’s dragons for want of something better to do (it keeps her away from prying eyes, and though she doesn’t imagine anyone will say a thing, she doesn’t exactly fancy being glared at by Ser Jorah for an hour). 

Finally Dany steps in, somehow remarkably unruffled.  Doreah is sprawled out amongst the furs, hair fanned out behind her, pillows arranged strategically; suddenly, she sees herself as she might look through the khaleesi’s eyes and worries she is too much, too obvious.

(She isn’t, of course; Dany has to work to keep from letting her jaw drop.  Even knowing every little secret of Doreah’s body, she is still awed by the sight of it: the curve of her hip alone, peeking out from the furs so alluringly, is enough to inspire ballads.)

“I waited,” Doreah murmurs, shifting and in the process baring her breast casually.

“I see that,” Dany says, blinking rapidly.  At a loss for further words, she crosses to sit beside the other woman and pull off her boots.  Doreah props herself up on one arm, kisses Dany’s throat, giggles.

“My conquering heroine,” she coos.

Daenerys blushes prettily, turning after a moment to capture Doreah’s lips with her own.  “I suppose I am, aren’t I?” she laughs, seeming almost shocked by her own cheery arrogance.

Without further hesitation, Doreah’s hands find the fastenings of Dany’s dress and begin tugging at them.  “I’m proud of you,” she declares.  “You did something truly great today.”

“I could not have done it without you,” Dany whispers, shrugging to allow her clothes to be pulled off.

Doreah laughs disbelievingly.  “Flatterer,” she chides, like she always does.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” Dany asks.  She meets her lover’s eyes with all the sincerity in the world.  “You taught me how to take control of – of anything, really.”

Doreah arches an eyebrow.  “I did,” she muses.  It’s true, though she’d never thought of it so before.

“You did,” Dany echoes.  “You know I’d wanted to give up?  I couldn’t see out of it, it all seemed so horrible and bleak.”  Her voice falters.  She has confessed this to no one.  “You gave me the hope I needed.”

“As you gave it to me,” Doreah murmurs, stunned.  “As you have given it to countless others, as you will give it to countless more.  You have done great things, Daenerys Stormborn.”  She brushes strands of blonde hair away from the other girl’s throat, hovering there as if to kiss the sensitive skin.

Daenerys reaches up, lays a hand over Doreah’s.  “I do not do them alone,” she murmurs insistently.

They sit in silence a moment, listening to each other’s breathing and feeling the rise and fall of each other’s chests, and finally Doreah says, in routine, “I am yours and you are mine.”

“I am yours and you are mine,” Daenerys echoes.  She tips her head, silently begging Doreah for that implied further attention; Doreah presses her lips to her lover’s pale throat with every reverence.

No words are spoken for a time, but they move as one, kissing in twelve different ways and tracing hands over each other’s skin.  Dany takes extra care with Doreah’s new scars, Doreah leans to draw her tongue over Dany’s nipple like she knows will get a reaction, and suddenly they’re fumbling for which of them will take control, their hands bumping together as they wrestle to share their love.

Carefully, Dany distracts her lover with momentary attentions to her clit, then eases her legs further apart; she moves to kneel over one of Doreah’s thighs, brushing flesh against flesh, tangles a hand in Doreah’s hair and kisses her enough to make her moan.

“You’re all right?” Daenerys whispers.

Doreah nods.  “So long as you start now,” she says, her voice strained.  She trails her fingertips over Dany’s inner thigh and higher still to encourage this, smiles weakly.

“Of course, my love,” the blonde murmurs, shifting her own hips carefully as she moves fingers against Doreah’s sex, all tender concentration.

It’s not long before Doreah starts to keen, the sounds seeming to come from a place altogether outside of her.  She strokes at her queen, but idly, more and more of a caressing tease than a proper effort as the sensations overtake her; the hand Daenerys is not moving between Doreah’s folds wraps around her waist to keep her from tipping all the way back.

“Seven he-e-ells, Khaleesi,” Doreah cries.  “Yes, there.”

Tempted though she is to move to press their hips together, slick heat against slick heat, or at least to drive her own against Doreah’s thigh more firmly, Daenerys instead follows commands, focusing her fingers right there until she feels the brunette come apart, body relaxing and mouth falling open in her ecstasies.

As the aftershocks subside, Dany eases Doreah back, smiling sweetly. The throbbing between her own legs is almost too much to bear now, but she is still not good at asking for reciprocation, even when it was so recently offered. 

Daenerys has finished Doreah several times since – everything, they’ve kissed until they’re short of breath and fallen asleep with their naked bodies tangled together.  But for all number of reasons, she hasn’t pushed to be finished in return.  All in time, but being brought to the brink like this is stirring a distinct and lately-neglected need.

She’s slipping a hand down to finish herself off, worrying her lip, when Doreah, who has fully recovered it seems, rolls onto her stomach and gazes up at her mischievously.  “I wouldn’t dream of letting you do that,” she whispers.  “Allow me.”

Doreah sits up, wraps her legs around her queen’s hips once more, slides fingers against her sex to wet them before slipping them inside.  “Please,” Daenerys pants. “Please, love, please.”

Doreah doesn’t say anything in return, just smiles with some mixture of coyness and affection; she moves forward to kiss Dany, moaning as their tongues meet.  It’s her turn to place a steadying hand at the blonde’s waist, hold her through every tremor.

She can tell when Dany is close – she knows the way her body shakes, the way her expression changes – and given all that led up to this, it is unsurprising that moment should happen quickly.  She concentrates her efforts thus, her thumb rubbing circles around the other woman’s clit even as her fingers move inside her, and she breathes out, “Come, my queen.”

With that, Daenerys’ head falls back, she lets out a string of what Doreah assumes is High Valyrian (though whether endearments or swear words is unclear, as she herself has perhaps four words of the language) and then outright wails, tightening around Doreah’s fingers and giving one last thrust of her hips.

It often takes longer for Daenerys to regain herself after orgasm, so Doreah takes it on herself to untangle their limbs and arrange her against the furs, then pull one over their bodies and cuddle up beside her, arm about her waist.

Finally, Dany turns her head to press a kiss to Doreah’s cheek, sweetly and innocently.  “That was – especially splendid, my goddess,” she whispers.  Both of them know exactly why, nothing more needs to be said on that.

“I could tell you thought so,” Doreah grins.  “I think anyone outside the tent might have heard too.”

“Let them,” Dany retorts, softening it with a giggle and another kiss.  “I am allowed my happiness as they are allowed theirs, and you make me quite happy, my lady.”