Chapter 21: The Prime
Sleep wouldn’t come.
The thrum in her back was a constant, low drumbeat, syncing with the howl of the wind outside. Every time Y/N closed her eyes, she saw the hollowed sockets of the frozen men in the ice, or Sansa’s too-knowing stare in the firelight. The quiet of the chamber, usually a solace, felt heavy, pressing down on her chest.
She rose from the bed, padding barefoot across the cold stone to the ironwood chest. The latch opened with a soft click. There, atop the practical contents, lay the folded blue silk. It seemed to glow faintly in the dim ember-light. She lifted it, the material whispering against her scarred fingers.
Bringing it to her face, she inhaled. The scent was faint, almost gone—a ghost of exotic flowers and sunshine, utterly alien to Winterfell. It was the smell of Naath. Of her.
A tightness formed in Y/N’s throat, a yearning so acute it was physical. She stood there for a long moment, the silk against her lips, before walking back to the bed. She sat on the edge, the rough wool of her breeches stark against her skin. With methodical slowness, she untied the laces, pushed the fabric down her hips, and freed herself.
The cold air was a shock. She lay back, placing the cool silk over her length. She closed her eyes, and the room dissolved.
The memory was specific. The third night Missandei had come to her, shivering from a dream. They’d talked until the candle guttered, and in the ensuing darkness, Missandei’s hand had found hers. A question. An answer. No words, just a shift of bodies, a meeting of warmth.
Y/N’s hand began to move, the silk providing a smooth, sliding friction. Her breath hitched. In her mind, she was back in that dark. She could feel the weight of Missandei’s thigh over hers, the astonishing softness of her skin against the hard plains of Y/N’s stomach. She could hear the hitch of Missandei’s breath, close to her ear.
“You are so quiet,” the memory-Missandei whispered, her voice a musical brush in the dark. “All this strength, and you make no sound.”
“I don’t… know what to say,” Y/N gasped into her present-day pillow, her hips arching.
“Then do not speak. Just feel. Let me.”
A shudder ran through Y/N’s frame. The memory intensified, tactile and overwhelming. Missandei’s clever hands, her guiding touch, the way she’d learned Y/N’s body with a translator’s meticulous curiosity. The pleasure was a rising tide, warm and insistent, a stark contrast to the cold, violent tensions of her days.
She was close, teetering on the edge, her knuckles white where she gripped the bedding.
The door clicked open.
Y/N’s eyes flew open. A silhouette stood in the doorway, backlit by the weak torchlight of the hall. Slender. Graceful. The light caught the familiar fall of curls.
Missandei.
Y/N froze, her breath caught in her chest, disbelief holding her prisoner. The figure stepped inside and closed the door softly, plunging them back into near-darkness. She sauntered forward, the elegant sway of her hips unmistakable. The dream had walked into the room.
“You are thinking of me,” Missandei said, her voice exactly as it was. Not a ghost, but solid. Real.
“This is a dream,” Y/N whispered, unable to move, the silk still covering her.
“Is it?” Missandei reached the bed, her fingers tracing the new bandages on Y/N’s back, then skimming around her side to her stomach. Her touch was electrifyingly solid. “Does a dream feel like this?”
She climbed onto the bed, straddling Y/N’s hips, her light nightdress pooling around them. She gently moved Y/N’s hand away, taking the silk herself, her touch infinitely more practiced. She leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of Y/N’s ear. “You are allowed to want. You are allowed to have.”
It was a benediction. Y/N’s head fell back, a low groan escaping her as Missandei guided her inside. The heat and wetness were devastatingly real, a silken vise that stole all coherent thought. Missandei moved with a slow, rolling rhythm, her hands braced on Y/N’s shoulders.
“There,” Missandei murmured, her breath coming in short, warm puffs. “You see? No battle here. Only this. You are not a weapon for me. You are a harbor.”
The metaphor undid her. Y/N’s hands came up, grasping Missandei’s hips, meeting her rhythm. It was a tandem dance, a desperate, shared climb. The world narrowed to the point where their bodies joined, to the smell of Naath in her nostrils, to the soft, urging sounds Missandei made.
“Let go,” Missandei chanted, her voice trembling with her own rising pleasure. “For me. Let me see you.”
The pressure broke. Y/N cried out—a raw, broken sound that had been held captive for years—as her release tore through her, wave after wave of blinding, shuddering intensity. Missandei followed, a soft, high gasp muffled against Y/N’s neck.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling in the dark. Missandei lay against her, a pleasant, sweaty weight. Y/N’s hands traced the delicate knobs of her spine, afraid to hold too tight, afraid she would vanish.
“The words you never spoke,” Missandei whispered into her skin. “Say them now.”
The vulnerability was more terrifying than any army. But lying there, in the aftershock, the truth felt as inevitable as sunrise. Y/N turned her head, her lips against Missandei’s temple.
“I loved you,” she breathed, the words frayed and tender. “I love you. I should have said it.”
Missandei lifted her head. In the gloom, her eyes were dark, liquid pools. She smiled, a thing of profound sorrow and beauty. She kissed Y/N, slow and deep, tasting of salt and promise.
“I know,” she said.