They have not been carrying many things, little save what is needed, but settling themselves into Xaro Xhoan Doxos' estate is still a time-consuming process, one that gets many of Daenerys' people cranky. This place does not suit the Dothraki, who seem and feel at odds with the overwrought splendor, and this is no home to Daenerys. She does not take comfort in the stone walls or decadence beyond the comfort of having found shelter and respite. The invitations she finds herself denied and then bombarded with unnerve her, the flattery sits uncomfortably with her.

Irri does not belong here: she is like most of the khalasar in that way. She is distrustful of this foreign city, though she will appear to trust if her khaleesi says so. Jorah paces the halls with a suspicious look on his face; he is distrustful of everyone. Daenerys reads it as protectiveness, Doreah as overprotective paranoia. (Dany also doesn't see the way Jorah looks at her, or she pretends not to, while Doreah very much does and bristles at it. Jorah sees Daenerys as an idea.)

It is, just as before, Doreah's to teach the necessary coquetries, the necessary ways of engaging these strangers. This society is not hers, but it is close to the one she was taught to ingratiate herself to.

Irri has become suspicious, too, of what goes on in the khaleesi's bed; more than once she's caught looking askance at the other women, and though Daenerys smiles and brushes it off, Doreah has come to raise her eyebrows right back.

"Is something the matter, Irri?" she always asks.

"Nothing," Irri always says in return, but they all know it's never nothing.

They make ready the gifts that have been given: most, not all, for the Mother of Dragons, shows of esteem that have not yet worn thin.

"Men like to talk about other men when they're happy," Dany giggles as they prepare, reciting her handmaid's teachings, and Irri pulls a face, doubtful.

"What do you want of her, Khaleesi?" she asks under her breath.

"She knows," Daenerys shrugs.

Doreah is to do nothing she does not want, it has been said between them. Tease and play, certainly, but these strangers are not entitled to her body if she does not want to give it.

She doesn't. Her body is already in thrall, it is known.

They help Dany into her new dress, Irri waves them off to the party. Both Dany and Doreah bat their eyelashes every which way at the party guests; they do not speak, but they bat their eyelashes at each other, too, when nobody else will care. They smile and socialize and play along.

Daenerys disappears for hours, and Doreah blinks sweetly at more and more of the guests. To her surprise, she feels her heart in her throat more acutely the longer her khaleesi is gone; her nerves heighten when she sees Xaro is disappeared as well, when she sees Jorah stalk off, and she tries in vain to tamp it down. Her smile grows wider, more playful, more fake; she bestows parting kisses on a pair of merchants who have monopolized her for half an hour or more.

She can't make sense of what she's feeling, and she's not sure she wants to.

The girls keep separate quarters here (it is only fitting) and Doreah thinks perhaps she ought to use hers tonight. She is less needed here, she suspects. It was easier to pretend out in the sand and sun.

She's pulling the braids from her hair, avoiding her own gaze in the mirror, when there comes a knock at the door and a soft voice calling out, "My lady?"

Quickly, Doreah is at the door, wide-eyed. "I am no lady, Khaleesi," she hisses, ushering the blonde in. she is afraid, tonight more than before, of ruining things simply by being here, by continuing to be with Dany in these ways they cannot explain.

Daenerys shakes her head, eyes almost glistening. "But you are," she whispers. "You are my lady, Doreah."

She throws her arms around the other girl's waist, sighing loudly; Doreah knows in this moment that something is weighing on both of them tonight, though she cannot know what. She buries her face in Dany's hair, her eyes shutting, and they stand like this for minutes and minutes.

What are they? Ought it to matter?

Finally, Doreah brushes a hand down Dany's cheek; her expression softens, she swallows her worries and puts her lips to Dany's.

"My lady," Daenerys repeats.

"Your lady," Doreah echoes, feeling the words fall off of her tongue.

"Mine," Dany murmurs, insistent and gentle all at once.

Doreah nods slowly. "I am yours, my queen, of course."

"And I yours," Dany adds, barely audible. She wants to have, but to be had at the same time; she wants to willingly give herself, or to make it known that she has, and to know it is willingly returned.

Another nod, more hesitant and almost awed. "Khaleesi," Doreah says, filling the air between them.

Without another word, Daenerys falls to her knees. She hikes Doreah's skirt up, asking with wide eyes, "May I take you, my lady?"

Tentatively, Doreah threads fingers in the other girl's hair. "Please, Dany," she whispers.

A willing reversal.

Drawing a breath, Dany nudges Doreah's knees a bit farther apart and buries her face in her handmaid's sex. She has certainly learned, Doreah notes; she is intent and tender all at once.

Doreah can count on her hands the times she's had this done to her: daughters of the pleasure houses, no matter how skilled, are rarely given such pleasure without strings.

"Your Grace," she murmurs, tugging at a handful of blonde hair gently. She is teaching herself the Westerosi addresses, or trying to normalize them amongst the others; many of the khalasar may never learn but it is important to her to belong to any of the worlds Daenerys finds herself in, however she can.

The longer Dany works, the more acutely she feels her own longing beginning to grow: more than anything, though, she needs this, the taste of Doreah in her mouth and the soft moans falling from Doreah's lips.

"Gods, Dany," she sighs, letting her head fall against the wall heavily. "Right there, I –"

She interrupts herself with a groan as she bucks against her queen's mouth; she can sense release beginning in her belly, and Daenerys' tongue on her clit, licking with purpose, makes her bite back an absolute wail and grip the other girl's pale shoulders.

Daenerys hums against Doreah's sex, her eyes shut tightly; her fingers press into Doreah's hips as if to urge her on.

"Yes," the brunette cries. "Yes, Khaleesi, please."

She is a good queen, attentive to the needs of others, and it's not long before she's bringing Doreah to orgasm, shrieking with abandon.

She about collapses once she's come, falling into Dany's lap and snuggling close, and Dany wraps arms around her loosely and smiles.

"Thank you," she says against Doreah's hair.

Doreah just laughs. "I'd think I should be the one thanking you," she replies.

"In a way," Dany murmurs, a shadow crossing her face. "No matter. I'm glad you're pleased."

She'd like to think she knows that expression, or at least knows to worry upon seeing it. "Is everything all right, Dany?" she asks carefully.

"I hope so," Daenerys says quietly. "Shall we retire? I don't want to talk just now."

"Of course," Doreah says, climbing to her feet and pulling the blonde up with her. "Whatever you need."

Dany wipes at her mouth, then goes to kiss Doreah's cheek lightly. "Thank you, moon of my life."