Khal Drogo, the Great Khal, was a chieftain of the Dothraki—a fierce warrior bound by duty. When he and his men set off on a journey to gather gold from nearby villages, it was usually a simple matter. He would leave without hesitation, focused on the task ahead. But now, things were different. Now, he had a wife.

She was not like the Dothraki women he had known. Small, pale, and delicate, she was an outsider—a human from a distant land, brought to his village by fate and claimed by him as his Khalesi. Khal Drogo, a man of few words, had begun to feel something deeper for her. His broken Common Tongue couldn't express his growing affection, but his actions spoke volumes. He held her close at night, protected her fiercely, and kissed her gently on her head. He never forced himself upon her, treating her with a reverence few would expect from a warrior of his stature.

Before leaving, Drogo had entrusted his people to protect her in his absence. His trip was to last no more than four days, but when he returned, something felt wrong. The camp was tense, whispers passing between his subjects like the wind through the grass. Anxiety etched their faces as one of them approached him.

"The Khalesi..." the villager began nervously, "she was poisoned."

Drogo's heart thundered in his chest. Without a word, he stormed to the central tent, his heavy footsteps echoing like drumbeats. The moment he reached the tent, he ripped the flap open with a ferocity that made the gathered people flinch. Inside, the dim light of torches illuminated a scene that filled him with rage. Two strange men stood guardedly, and at the center of the room sat his Moon—frail, pale, but alive.

Ignoring the men completely, Drogo strode directly to her. He knelt, his massive frame dwarfing hers, and cupped her face in his rough, calloused hands. His voice, deep and trembling, carried the weight of his worry. Fingers so big they meet her hairline "Moon of my life, hash yer hurt?” he asked in his thick Dothraki accent. She shook her head gently