song_of_ice | Duplicity Inbox

The cruise leaves her exhausted--not just physically, but mentally and emotionally, as well. Arguments, anger, the things she'd done once again. She was becoming more like a whore whenever the rulers of this world bade it, and that rankled. A queen chose her lovers, and whilst she had no intention of chaining herself down to one man again, this was verging on too much... and far too many.

Unlike Tumenalia, she isn't alone in her apartment. It's a pleasant change, and the dance between she and Clark is comfortable enough to remind her of her people. Yet it still makes her miss her people desperately. The banter, their faith in her, familiar mannerisms. It's on one of these days where that homesickness grows to be too much that she leaves her apartment to explore the city. The floors outside her elevator remain burnt and unfixed, but she's learned to ignore it now as she await the metal cage.

What she doesn't anticipate is another to be inside when the doors slide open. For a moment, she stands there, blankly looking at Jon. Then she's internally cursing, debating spinning around and foregoing this plan. And then--as the doors threaten to slide shut, she sighs and steps inside.

"Well met, wolf."

He has had time to sort everything in his head, but he still hadn't managed to do so. The events of the cruise had left him shifting between jealousy, rage and awe. It came in such rapid succession that it seemed like there were warring voices in his head, all of them with conflicting opinions about the woman who had stepped into the elevator.

Out of the ridiculous costume and back on familiar ground, he at least felt closer to himself than that night on the ship. It was likely aided by the presence of Anya, someone he hadn't expected to find but needed to push away the silence and cold of his apartment. Both Dany and Jon had done what they needed it seemed, though he was in no great hurry to tell her or to find out if she had formed a contract with Clark.

He isn't even certain how to greet her. Instead, he keeps his eyes fixed on the numbers lighting up in succession. They weren't any nearer to the ground and this would be an awkward descent filled with uncomfortable silence.

"Your grace."

He's not meeting her eyes. With a shake of the head, she steps closer to the back wall, maintaining a good distance between them. The doors slide shut, and seconds later, the elevator kicks back into motion.

She's in a dress again--a red dress... with not a lick of black to it. It goes against her instincts to embrace the darker colors, but she intends to stand out as she wanders the streets. If she's to act a Dominant, she needs to begin to grow a reputation, not only for her clothing she'll sell, but also her name amidst the citizens.

Folding her hands in front of her, she stares ahead at the door. Her hair is partly braided back, with a loop around her crown. What none know is that she wears pants and boots--practical, the both of them--beneath the skirts.

Down, down, down. It seems as if the box crawls. And with each passing second, the silence grows louder.

He doesn't know what to say to her or even what to think of this moment. Their argument still stung his pride and that she had seen him in his weakest moment left him shaken. There was a kindness in her that he hadn't seen before, pulled from her dragon rage and revealed when he had needed it. It was there and gone again as her anger took control, but not so short a time that he had forgotten or overlooked it.

She said nothing as well, leaving him to wonder if she even wished to address him. The cruise was barrier between them, rotting and souring the air. There was nothing that could make up for that moment, his pride and stubbornness having turned him into a man he wasn't, while she had come across as simply controlling.

It was all coming in a rush to him, quick images and words that echoed in his head, culminating in a screech as the elevator jarred to a stop, lurching beneath them. Jon stumbled, nearly falling forward. The doors sputtered, groaning as they tried to open, but only managing a crack. He could see a floor above them, showing they were stuck between levels.

He sighed, finally looking over at her. "We may be here a moment."

She does stumble, hand smacking against the wall in her bid to grip the rail. A brief flinch flashes across her face, sharp pain, but nothing like what she's faced before. No, what's more concerning--

"We're stuck?" Staring, arguably stupidly, at the cracked open door which clearly shows that they are, in fact, stuck, she shakes her head. The top of her hand throbs in time with her heart as she steps closer, glancing up, and then crouching down to look lower. "Is this common?"

Trapped. Suddenly, this box seems far smaller than it had a moment ago.

"Sometimes." He hadn't experienced it at the Wall, but he had seen others trapped as the gears had collected too much ice or froze during the night. It always took time to fix the elevator, leaving those who were standing in the cage hopping around in an effort to remain warm. He and Dany were at least inside and warm.

"It happens. The gears can break or something stuck between them. It will take time for someone to come to fix it." There was no saying how long they would be trapped here. Unless he could somehow manage to open the doors...

"I could maybe pry the doors open, but we would need to climb out."

She pushes back up to her feet. Sometimes, he says. That's not reassuring to hear that it happens at all, though why should she be surprised? Honestly, she's likely fortunately for this to be the first--and that she's not alone with it.

Exhaling through her nose, she raps her knuckles against the metal door.

"Do you think you can?" It's not asked sarcastically as she looks at him. Fortunately, this distraction is enough to ward off the random thoughts about what they've done to one another in this place. "I suppose it's worth trying. Should I tug on the opposite side?"

"At least enough that we can squeeze through." He hesitated at the idea of her pulling the other side. He didn't doubt that she was capable, but the doors would be heavy, likely too much for him as well. "You might need to save your strength for pulling yourself up. I mean no disrespect, but there is a chance I won't be able to hold them open for long. If we can only get one of us out, better that it be you. You are small enough you can slip through."

He inspected the doors, placing his hands on either side. He knelt, offering her a step so that she could use him to get leverage. Taking a deep breath, he pushed at the doors, pulling them backwards. His muscles screamed at the strain, his strength barely able to open it wide enough for one of them.

His face turned crimson as he struggled, holding his breath as he waited for her to climb out.

A warrior would physically be stronger. She doesn't take what he says personally, only as a truth. Where her strength sat was in willpower, and that's where it would remain, today. Hers dictated she not step on him or leave him in this space by himself. Before she can protest, however, he's already straining to pull the doors open.

And he does. She won't waste his efforts, not when it means she might find them a way to free him next. So she carefully places one foot on him. A hand on the door for leverage as she uses him as a stepping stone, pressing her weight against him as she reaches higher for the floor. "All right?"

Because she's using that strength to pull herself up. It takes an effort--there's nothing to grip on the flooring, but if she presses a foot against the door, it gives her some slippery leverage to pull herself up until, after another mini-eternity, she pulls herself through the small space and onto a floor.

She doesn't wait before spinning around, her head visible as she looks through the space between floor and elevator. There's clear concern there.

"There's nothing out here to use on the door."

She's light on him despite what she might worry. Compared to the strain of the doors, he barely notices the pressure of her body against his leg. His chest is tight as he continues pushing the doors, feeling them ready to fall back and lock into place. If he could manage to push them a bit further, it would hold them and he could pull himself up.

He gave a small groan, straining further as sweat began to gather on his palms. Just as they finally fell back, locking into place, his hands slide, catching on something metal and sharp.

"SEVEN HELLS!" Already his palm was wet with blood. It was hard to tell, but there was a deep gash there. Even flexing his hand a little, more blood poured free. He couldn't feel anything, save for the screaming of nerves. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the injury, hoisting himself up the floor, struggling not to let his hold slide.

But when his hold does slide, she's gripping his wrists and tugging, teeth grinding as she uses the wall to press her feet against for leverage. His roar still echoes, like a wolf wounded; she tries to push it to the back of her mind. It wouldn't do to become distracted. Not when the floor is already smeared in blood.

It's a struggle, as Dany's unused to tugging on anything as hard, save the spear the Sons of the Harpy stabbed Drogon with back in Meereen. Not an impossible thing, though, for he does eventually follow. And she's back on her feet, breaths a little more ragged as she goes to help pull him up to his.

"We need something to wrap it." She's about to tug at his shirt, hesitates, then lifts his arm to press his palm to his chest. "Keep it above your heart. Come on."

The stairwell's there and they'll go back to her apartment.

His mind is stuck somewhere between dizziness and pain, it doesn't even register in his head that she is trying to remove his shirt until she has already abandoned the idea. He pressed his palm against his chest, staunching the blood as much as possible. His chest and shirt become damp instantly, sticking against his skin with a sickly copper scent.

"It isn't going to kill me." There was that, at least. He hadn't taken the time to inspect the wound, but he suffered far worse and survived. He was too much of a warrior to fret over a cut on his hand, preferring to continue and get back upstairs.

It would likely need stitches though. Just the feel of it made it clear. "Have you ever sewn a wound shut before?" If she didn't, he would. He knew enough to at least close it.

He follows her up the stairs, staggering a little from the blood loss.

It could, if Mirri Maz Duur were still alive. No telling if any other witch or warlock in this realm would think to cause him harm in the same way. Clenching her jaw at the thought, she ducks beneath his good arm and loops hers around his waist. Already, his shirt looks wet.

"I've learned that and more." The door is easy to shove open, with hand and foot. The stairs... well, there's a few floors, still, and it seems ages, each step a precarious one. "An infected wound is part of what killed my husband."

He threatens to wobble, so her arm tightens, the other looping around his front. She fists his shirt, nails scraping against his back.

"One of his men spoke against me. He walked straight into the arakh, which cut his chest." If she speaks, perhaps he'll focus on her story. Or, he's too far gone to remember a sliver of it. "I'd asked a witch in the village our khalasar sacked to heal him."

He doesn't object to her presence or help. His legs felt heavy against the stairs and he's exhausted, both by the earlier exertion and from the loss of blood. He wasn't about to perish from this, as he asserted, but she wasn't wrong to worry. He wouldn't object to her help here or later, his pride didn't bruise at her caring.

"I'm sorry." A standard response, but he didn't know what else to offer. Saying the wound wouldn't get infected between here and her apartment would dismiss what she suffered and he was too tired to tease her with his safety. And honestly, he had no desire to risk fate. He did that every day and there was no Red Woman here to help him.

It was almost as though she were practically carrying him. When finally they reached her floor, he wanted to simply slide to the floor and rest.

"Why did he walk into the arakh?" He was listening enough to catch that, though he isn't sure he heard right. "She didn't heal him?"

"It's been years." Comes her response. She doesn't tell him to seek his pity, or to hear apologies in things he had no part in. "My point is I've learned."

How to stitch. Perhaps no to heal as well as someone with years of practice, but enough to make a difference with this. It was just like stitching a dress, in any case. Just the medium was skin.

She's most his weight on her, and he's far heavier than he looks. There comes no complaint, though the more steps they climb, the more strained her voice becomes. Adrenaline's not worn off completely, so whilst this is tiring, she's still able to pull him to her door.

"Pride, maybe? Like I said, the Dothrak spoke out against me, and in turn, him. I was his khaleesi, and I carried his son." Her hand is tinged crimson as she pushes her apartment door open, a smear on the handle. "She played her part in murdering my family. His wound became infected, and she promised to return him to me. I believed her. It cost him his life and the life of our son, because she used blood magic.

"Come and sit."

He collapsed against the couch, giving a soft, inaudible groan. Only when he was finally sitting down did he pull back his hand, letting him get a better look. His skin was a mixture of brown and crimson, stained by his blood. The gash along his palm was deep and every move and flex made it sing in agony. With a bandage and stitches, it should recover, but it wasn't pretty to look at and would be enough to cause more alarm than it should.

It was a sad tale and he only had a glimpse of it before when they met at Dragonstone. Losing her son, he couldn't imagine that the pain was so easy to stomach after it happened. The way she spoke of it now, it left him wondering how much she masked behind her steely facade.

"I never faced a Dothrahki blade, but I was shot with arrows when I was fleeing back to the Wall after staying with the Freefolk." That compared to this seemed far greater, but it was from hindsight.

"It will need to be cleaned first so we can see how deep it goes."

Years made it easier to speak of this. Her advisors know of her inability to have children--which causes far more pain than a distant memory ever could. More like a story dusted off from a terrible book. Not her reality anymore. Drogo wasn't her home, despite how she'd come to love him in time.

She's already fetching a towel and water before he tells her to clean it. A sink with a faucet is a convenience she doesn't take for granted as she fills a bowl, returning only when she's wrung out a soaked towel.

"There's nothing impressive about the blade itself--it's the handler who makes it far more dangerous." Ser Jorah and Barristan made their blades just as dangerous. Less fluidity to the way they handled it versus a Dothraki. More discipline. "Let me see."

Whether he cooperates or not, she's setting the bowl atop her coffee table and sitting beside him, a leg tucked under her bottom as she reaches for his hand.

"Aye, I suppose so." He hasn't thought very much of it. His skill with a sword was a necessity, not something he felt much pride for. He got better with each battle he was in, but even still, he didn't consider it. Ramsay Bolton had made a comment about how the North spoke of his skill, but was that real or simply another means to try and throw him off of his confidence? "We don't have much of a choice about what we need to learn to survive."

He doesn't hesitate to show her his hand. She wasn't the sort who would be squeamish and likely not by blood. He smirked, remembering the words of someone else. 'Girls see more blood than boys do.' "It's stopped bleeding unless I move it." He told her, careful to keep his palm still.

"Do queens make a habit of healing warriors?" It was an attempt to tease, something light to take their mind off of his injury and to try to push through the pain.

"No, we don't. That's the way of it." She wanted to change that. She would. No more wheel. No more trampling the smallfolk. "Dothraki are different. They enjoy their battles. On my wedding day, Drogo sat beside me and laughed as his men fought over a woman. To the death."

No less than three deaths is a boring affair. She shakes her head, dragging the towel up his wrist to clean away the rivulets trailing down it. Up to the heel of his palm, carefully around the wound. The towel is rinsed in the bowl of water each time it becomes saturated, until she's wringing it as dry as she can to wrap tightly around his palm.

"I wouldn't know what other queens occupy themselves with." She's lost enough people to battle to ignore some perceived notion of a queen's behavior. "I'll need to find some thread."

"Freefolk women never choose a man unless he steals them. They're fierce warriors and won't respect anyone beneath them." Though Ygritte had made an exception for him, he supposed. He hadn't stolen her, not really. Her choice of lover had been strange to the rest, but she had always chosen her own way, stubbornly refusing to heed any other advice. No different than Daenerys.

He watched as the water was tinged with pink and slowly turned to crimson. A bowl of blood, as red as Melisandre's hair. How many times was he going to come away with only a wound? He was running out of luck to test.

He nodded, pressing the towel against the wound. "It didn't reach the bone." There was that, at least. "Do you have thread here?" Maybe it was better they came to her apartment rather than his, he had nothing to prepare for this situation.

"I'm sure my khalasar would appreciate them." Power. That's what won Drogo to respect her... insofar as a man like him could respect his property. "Is that what you prefer?"

She doesn't know why she asks him that. He's gentle, so much so that she imagines he'd prefer a gentler lady to court and win over. Nothing like a fiercer thing to knock him over and claim him. It's why they'll likely never see eye to eye on most things; they clash every which way, bickering over stupid things, important things, everything.

She's up on her feet, mulling over that when he asks her about having some thread.

"I may have some to spare." Her tone's dry, an equally dry smile spared him over her shoulder. She's walking past a number of different outfits in different phases of creation. Flippantly, as she lifts open a box and rifles through her belongings, she says, "Perhaps I should charge you, seeing as I'm stitching you something."

He is a bit surprised to hear the question, as he never really thought of what he wanted, though he suspected the answer long before this moment. "Fire? A warrior princess, maybe? Not a lady that sits in her tower brushing her hair." Daintiness had its place, but he wanted a woman who could argue with him or felt she had enough strength that she could face whatever threats they might come across.

He didn't need to be knocked over the head and carried off, but he wanted someone that would argue with him and maybe get their opinion through his thick head. He didn't mind the bickering with Daenerys, only when it dissolved as it had on the cruise.

"Ygritte was a Free woman. She was good with a bow and was said to be kissed by fire because her hair was so red." Dany told him of Drogo, it seemed fair to give something back about the woman he had loved before. "She died when the Freefolk tried to breach the Wall."

The pain is less evident in his voice. Enough time had passed to let him digest the loss, but the traces were still buried deep in his heart. "I freed you from the elevator. I think I earned your stitching." He returned, just as dry and with just as dry a smile.

"Do warrior princesses even exist?" A woman with fire. She's not turning to look at him now, but there's no mistaking the way her heart seems to jump to her throat. "Perhaps you'd been born centuries too late. One of Aegon's sisterwives might've been more to your liking."

Thread retrieved, with a needle as well, she's across the room again. This reminds her of the last time he'd been here, when she'd fetched wine and rode him on her couch. She doesn't get him wine this time, but whiskey. Something she'd tried at the bar and hated, but others seemed to enjoy. He'll get a healthy dose of it in a glass. The last thing she does is light a candle, rolling the needle in the flame.

The skirts of her dress part, revealing dark grey pants as she settles beside him again, pushing the glass into his good hand. She's threading the needle next, holding it between her lips as she returns to his hand, pulling the towel away to clean it up again and wipe any new blood seeping from the wound.

And then it's to work, threading his hand with an intense concentration, as careful with her stitches as she might've been on an outfit she created.

"Seems you like the fire. When did you meet her?" More careful dabbing at blood. There's the hint of a smile dancing on her lips. "Just me? If I remember things correctly, you took that freedom for yourself, as well."

"Among the Freefolk and maybe across the Narrow Sea?" But no, he hadn't really met any women like Ygritte or Daenerys before, not until he came here. The different worlds allowed him to learn more than he might have if he had stayed in Westeros, not simply about women but himself and the way others lived. "I'm not Targaryen. I wouldn't have been enough for them." Dragons lay with dragons. He knew the stories well enough to know there was something mystical about it.

"What does a dragon queen prefer?" Her, Aegon's sister-wives, they likely needed more than a swordsman and obstinate Northern king. He was less concerned what Visenya and Rhaenys might have wanted, but Daenerys? It was difficult to predict her.

It is hard to forget his last visit to her apartment. He feels less out of place than before, but there is no removing his heightened senses at being close to her again, sitting in a place where they had ridden each other to the heights of pleasure. Even with the sting of his hand, he could still remember how the couch had scratched against his buttocks and the waist band of his pants cut into his waist.

She's beautiful, her style reminding him of what she wore when they met on Dragonstone. The red suited her, though he had always preferred the black tunics she had worn. He flinches at the taste of whiskey, giving an obvious look of distaste. It was worse than the ale at the Wall.

He watches her face rather than her work with the needle, letting his tired eyes scan over her features. She was softer, thoughtful. He liked her best this way, he thought. It was somewhere quiet to rest, something to help soothe away the sting on his palm.

"I went beyond the Wall with Lord Commander Mormont to learn what we could about the army of the dead. I joined a scouting team and we caught a few Wildlings, Ygritte was among them. I spared her life and when she later escaped, she and her men captured me in turn. I stayed in the Freefolk camp to gather information about their coming attack on the Wall." It was...complicated. "I did, but I don't need to repay myself for anything."

Edited 2018-11-02 05:49 (UTC)

"I'd not seen any." That wasn't to discount the women she did meet, though. Kinvara might've been warrior-like, were she not a priestess. Missandei is quiet,
and it was not to be confused with weakness as her Master once mistook it for. "Not outwardly, but many hold that strength within. I think that counts more."

Not for her, not a queen. She needed to be strong and loud when warranted--not necessarily verbally, but through her actions as well. It all banked on her peoples' survival.

She doesn't expect him to turn the question back on her. What does she prefer? Not something she's entertained. Not when she conquered the slaver cities, and certainly not when she'd struggled to rule. So what does she want? No man like Drogo, who believed another person was his property. No man like Daario either, who loved the idea of a lover with so much power. Drogo's strength and willingness to protect his family were traits she'd want--same as Daario's loyalty and playfulness.

"Someone who sees me." For all her faults and strengths, seeing beyond her status as a queen and the Mother of Dragons. A companion, her equal. Quietly, she snorts, lips twisting. It's not amusement, not bitterness either. There was simply no time for considering these things, let alone look for someone like that. "There are no more dragons in the world for them, were they still alive. Keep drinking that."

There's no need to see his expression to know he dislikes the whiskey. The smell of it's enough of a threat to make her eyes water in commiseration.

But what's this talk about the dead again? Before she's forced to comment, he continues on about Ygritte, his girl kissed by fire.

Kind of him to spare her. Not so kind to spy. Funny that he mentions spying and Mormont and spies... She looks up. Something flickers in her eyes; a moment of missing a man so familiar, so loyal. "Ser Jorah's father?"

[action] post-cruise from hell

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