The Witcher and the Dragon Queen Daenerys by bbbeto on DeviantArt (original) (raw)

Geralt of Rivia's boots hit the cobblestone street with a dull thud, the dust of a world not his own swirling around him. The space-time portal spat him out into chaos, a cacophony of distant clashes and panicked screams echoing through the ancient city. The buildings around him were a blend of grandeur and decay, the grandeur a testament to its former glory, the decay a harsh reminder of the tumult that had taken hold.

War had painted the air with the acrid scent of smoke and fear. Geralt's eyes narrowed, scanning the unfamiliar surroundings, as he drew his silver sword with a practiced ease that spoke of battles won and battles lost. The streets were narrow, twisting and turning like a labyrinth, designed to confuse invaders. But to Geralt, they whispered of a civil war that had torn this place asunder.

The witcher's instincts took over as he moved through the shadows, dodging the desperate and the dying. His heart was a steady drum in his chest, his senses heightened. He could feel the tension coiled in the air, thick and palpable, a silent scream of the city's suffering. His eyes fell upon a group of figures, huddled together in the flickering light of a torch. Their garments were torn, their eyes wide with terror, as they whispered to each other in a language he hadn't heard before.

Approaching them, he spoke in a calm, commanding voice that had soothed beasts and silenced bards. "What is this place?" he asked, his words carrying the weight of his past, of battles fought and lives lost. The nearest figure, a young man with dirt-smudged cheeks, startled at the sound of the foreign tongue but managed to choke out a response. "Meereen," he said, his voice trembling. "The Sons of Harpy..." he trailed off, glancing nervously over his shoulder as if expecting an attack at any moment.

The name meant nothing to Geralt, but the fear in the man's voice was universal. He pressed for more information, his eyes scanning the shadows for any signs of danger. "The Sons of Harpy," he repeated, "who are they?" The young man's eyes grew rounder, his voice barely a murmur. "They fight the dragon queen," he whispered, "the slavers, they want their city back." The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of a hidden war raging in the heart of this once-great metropolis.

The witcher's gaze sharpened. He had no love for slavers, nor for the chaos that the Sons of Harpy brought with them. He needed to find their leaders, to understand the true face of this rebellion. Moving swiftly, he followed the trail of whispers and shadows, each step bringing him closer to his prey. His keen ears picked up the distinctive sound of the Sons' weapons, a chilling harmony of steel and malice. He found a mask, discarded in the aftermath of a skirmish, its gold paint chipped and marred by the sweat of fear. It was all he needed to conceal his identity for now, using the enemy's tactic against them.

Geralt navigated through the city's underbelly, his witcher instincts guiding him through the labyrinthine streets. He encountered pockets of resistance, each wearing the same terrifying mask, but none were a match for his unparalleled skills. With surgical precision, he finally found and executed the leaders of the Sons of Harpy, leaving them sprawled in the dust, their secrets laid bare for the queen's soldiers to find.

When the deed was done, he emerged from the shadows, the mask in his hand a trophy of his silent victory. He sought an audience with the queen, the mysterious Daenerys Targaryen. The journey to her palace was fraught with tension, the air thick with whispers of the foreigner who had dared to challenge the Sons of Harpy. Upon reaching the grand halls, he was met with suspicion and awe. He tossed the mask at the queen's feet and announced his deed. "You can investigate," he told her, his eyes unflinching, "you'll find their bodies where I left them."

Daenerys, intrigued by this stoic figure, listened as he spoke of his hunt. Her eyes searched his, looking for deceit or hidden motives. But all she saw was a man driven by his own code, untainted by the politics that had wrested her city apart. After a moment of contemplation, she nodded. "You've proven yourself," she said, her voice carrying the authority of a ruler. "Your tale will be told, witcher. And I would hear more of it."

Later, after long hours of conversation, she invited him to join her on a journey to a nearby river that passed through her palace. It was a peace offering, a chance to escape the claustrophobic tension of the city and find a moment of respite. The river's gentle flow promised a temporary reprieve from the clamor of war. As they rode together, the sun breaking through the clouds to cast a golden light upon their path, Geralt felt the beginnings of a bond forming. The dragon queen had seen his strength, his resolve, and perhaps even a glimpse of his weary heart. The river's banks grew closer, whispering of an alliance that could change the tides of battle and shape the destiny of a kingdom.

Upon arriving, they dismounted, and the queen's retinue retreated, leaving them alone in a moment of quiet. The air was cool and damp, the scent of the river's embrace a sweet reprieve from the city's acrid stench. Without a word, they both began to undress, their eyes never leaving each other. She just took of her boots to walk at the river's borders, but the Witcher had other plans, fully undressing himself, after seeing the inviting waters. The queen's gaze lingered on his toned physique, marred by battles and shaped by countless years of danger. He returned the favor, admiring her beauty that was both regal and fierce, although she wasn't not nearly enough as undressed as he was.

Geralt waded into the water, the coolness a shock to his skin after the heat of the day. He watched as Daenerys hovered at the water's edge, her toes just skimming the surface. He could see the conflict in her eyes, the fear of the unknown mingling with curiosity. He beckoned her with a knowing smile, a silent challenge that spoke of his growing attraction to her. She stepped in, her movements tentative, and he felt a thrill at her vulnerability. He didn't hesitate, pulling her closer to him until the water engulfed them both.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she playfully splashed water at him. He caught her wrist, pulling her closer, his grip firm but gentle. She didn't resist, instead leaning in, her smile growing wider. "You're bold," she murmured, the sound of her voice sending a shiver down his spine. He pulled her against him, feeling the heat of her body pressing into his own. "This could be seen as aggression," she slyly added, her breath warm against his neck as she felt his exposed bulge pressed against her belly.

He looked into her eyes, his own filled with a hunger that was more than just physical. "Is that a problem?" he whispered, the tension between them palpable. She didn't reply, instead leaning in to kiss him, her lips soft and demanding. The kiss grew deeper, their bodies melding together in the cool embrace of the river. Their passion grew, unspoken and unyielding, a silent declaration of their desire.

The witcher took control, his hands strong and sure as they explored her curves. He knelt her, a silent request that she eagerly accepted. She sank to her knees in the riverbed, the water swirling around them, a symbol of their union. Her eyes never left his as she took him in her mouth, her movements deliberate and skilled. The pleasure that shot through him was intense, a reminder that in this moment, he was not a tool of war but a man with desires.

Their love-making was primal and unbridled, a manifestation of their shared hunger for something more than power or duty. In the water, with the gentle sounds of the river as their soundtrack, they found a connection that transcended their roles. For in this moment, she was not a queen, and he wasn't a killer. They were simply two people, caught up in the throes of passion, enveloped in each other's arms.

The world outside the riverbank ceased to exist, and the battle for Meereen was forgotten. Time slowed to a crawl, each sensation amplified, each touch a promise of a future neither of them had ever dared to dream of.

Geralt pulled back from a kiss, his eyes smoldering with desire. He gently lifted Daenerys onto a nearby rock, the warm stone a striking contrast to the cool water. He knelt before her, his eyes never leaving hers as he lowered his head to kiss her again, this time along the soft skin of her inner thighs. His tongue traced a fiery path upward, and she gasped as he found her center. The sensation was overwhelming, and she threw her head back, her fists clenching in his hair as he tasted her, devoured her, and she felt as if she was going mad with pleasure. He took his time, exploring every inch of her with a focus that spoke of his expertise. Her legs quivered and her toes contorted as she begged for more, her voice a desperate plea that echoed through the quiet gorge.

With a growl, he stood, pulling her into his arms. They waded back into the river, the water up to their waists, the current gentle and caressing around them. The moment was right, and he knew it. He positioned her against the rock, her back arched and her breasts glistening with water droplets in the dappled sunlight. He entered her with a slow, deliberate thrust, and she cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. The feeling was exquisite, a perfect blend of pain and pleasure that only he could provide. He began to move, his rhythm as steady as the heartbeat that pounded in her ears. Each stroke was a declaration, a promise of protection and passion that resonated deep within her.

Daenerys' breath hitched as she felt the first waves of climax crash over her. She tightened around him, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. The water churned around them as he pumped vigorously, their bodies moving as one in the primal dance of union. He could feel her muscles contracting, her orgasm building, and he knew he was close. With one final, powerful thrust, they reached the peak together, their cries of ecstasy mingling with the whispers of the river.

Spent and panting, they collapsed into each other's arms, the water lapping at their skin as they floated in the gentle embrace of the river. As their breathing slowed, she whispered, "Stay with me, Geralt. Be king by my side." Her voice was soft, her eyes filled with a longing that mirrored his own. But he knew the truth, even as he wanted nothing more than to give in to the temptation. "I can't," he murmured against her neck, his voice thick with regret. "My path is not one of thrones and crowns."

Her grip on him tightened, her nails biting into his skin. "But you could," she insisted, her voice gaining strength. "You could help me bring peace to the realm. You could rule with me." He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of her words, the seductive allure of a future filled with power and love. But he knew his place in the world was not as a king, not as a conqueror.

"I wish I could," he said, his voice heavy with the burden of his past. "But I am a witcher. My destiny is not here, with you." She leaned back, searching his face for any sign of doubt, any hint that he could be swayed. But all she found was resolve, the unyielding steel of a man who knew his fate.

Daenerys swallowed hard, the reality of his words sinking in. "I order you to stay," she said, her voice a desperate command that had bent the wills of men and beasts. But he only shook his head, his eyes filled with a gentle sadness.

"Even if I wanted to, I can't," he said, his voice firm. "The world calls me elsewhere, and my duty is to answer." He kissed her then, a kiss filled with the promise of what could never be. They held each other close, their bodies in unity in the river's embrace, as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

Daenerys finally understood, the realization sinking in like a cold knife to the heart. She had felt something in him that she hadn't expected, something beyond the power and the legend. She had felt a man who had loved her, but was bound by a fate that surpassed the borders of her world. With a tremble in her voice, she whispered, "One more time, before you go then."

They made love again, their passion fueled by the bittersweet knowledge that it would be their last. The river water washed over them, the silent witness to their lust filled union, as the sun kissed the horizon, bathing the world in a warm, orange glow. Their movements grew urgent, their bodies speaking a language that transcended words. They climaxed together, a quiet shout of love and sorrow that echoed through the gorge.

As they lay on the riverbank, their bodies still together, the air grew colder. Geralt felt the familiar pull of the portal, the fabric of reality stretching to form a gateway to yet another world. He kissed her forehead, his eyes filled with regret. "It's time," he murmured, the words a benediction and a goodbye.

The portal shimmered into existence, a circular frame of swirling colors in the banks of the river. Daenerys stared at it in wonder, her hand reaching out to touch the unstable surface. "It's real," she breathed, her voice filled with awe.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "As real as the stories you told me of surviving being bathed in fire," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He helped her to her feet, his hands lingering on her body as if memorizing every curve. He quickly dressed putting on his armor, his movements efficient despite the pain in his heart.

"Geralt," she whispered, her voice a plea that tugged at his soul. He turned to face her, his expression a mask of stoic resolve. He knew that if he lingered, he might never leave. He might give in to the temptation of a life with her, a life that he had never allowed himself to dream of.

He leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a final, lingering kiss. He felt the heat of her, the desperation in her grip, and he knew that this was a memory he would carry with him forever. When he pulled away, he saw the tears in her eyes, and his heart felt as if it would shatter.

With one last look that spoke of his love, he stepped into the portal. The colors swirled around him, and he felt the tug of the void. He didn't look back, afraid that if he did, he would lose the strength to go on. The last thing he heard was her sobbing, her voice echoing through the ages as the portal snapped shut behind him.

Daenerys stood there, naked and alone, her body trembling with the aftershocks of their passion. The river flowed on, indifferent to her heartache, as she watched the spot where he had disappeared. The reality of his departure hit her like a physical blow, leaving her gasping for breath, she was alone again.

The witcher was gone, leaving only a memory and the cold embrace of the river. She knew she had to return to her city, to her war, to her destiny. But for a brief, shining moment, she had been loved by a man from another world, a man whose very existence was a testament to the wonder and the pain of life.

As she dressed and returned to her palace, her eyes fell upon the mask that had once belonged to the Sons of Harpy's leader. It lay discarded near her throne, a symbol of the chaos he had brought and the order he had tremendously helped restore. She picked it up, feeling the weight of its significance.

Her heart was a battleground, torn between the lover she had found and the throne she had to claim. With a deep breath, she turned away from the mask, her steps heavy with the knowledge that her path was one of fire and blood.

The story of their encounter would be whispered in the shadows, a legend of a witcher and a dragon queen whose destinies had intertwined for a brief, fiery moment before the cold hands of fate had torn them apart. But in the quiet of her chamber, she would always remember the gentle touch of a man who had loved her passionately.