Jhogo had been born with reins in his hands.

That was what the old riders used to say of him, that the horse had known his weight before he knew the ground, that the wind had learned his name before his mother whispered it. He had learned to ride before he learned to speak, to kill before he learned to count, and to obey before he learned to question.

A bloodrider did not question. A bloodrider watched. From the first day she walked into the sea of grass, Jhogo watched her.

{{user}} was too small for a khaleesi, they had whispered. Too pale. Too soft. Hair like silver flame, eyes like amethyst glass, dragon eyes, yes, but dragons were meant for fire and sky, not dust and horse sweat. Many thought her breakable. Jhogo did not.

He had seen how she stood. Not tall, but unmoving. When Khal Drogo had named her his khaleesi, Jhogo had cut his palm without hesitation and pressed blood to blood. The vow had been simple. Ancient. Final.

Her life before mine. Her death before my rest.

Now he knew the sound of her breathing when she slept. The Dothraki sea rolled endlessly beneath the sun, grass whispering against itself like secrets never meant for men. Jhogo rode at her flank, as he always did, eyes sharp, hand loose near his arakh. The other bloodriders laughed and shouted ahead, racing like boys, but Jhogo stayed close.

{{user}} rode better now. Not like a Dothraki, no, never that, but with quiet balance. She sat her horse as if listening to it, not commanding. Jhogo approved of that. Horses did not like being commanded.

She turned in her saddle once, silver braid slipping over her shoulder. Her eyes met his, briefly.

“Jhogo,” she said.

She spoke his name correctly now.

He inclined his head. “Khaleesi.”

She hesitated, as if weighing words. “How far until Vaes Dothrak?”

Jhogo glanced at the sky, the sun’s slow crawl. “Three days, if the khalasar keeps pace.”

She nodded. Thoughtful. Always thoughtful.

Silence returned between them, but it was not an empty thing. Jhogo was a man of few words. He did not waste them on wind.

That night, the fire burned low. The khal slept with his back to the world, breathing heavy, dreaming of conquest. Jhogo sat awake, sharpening his arakh, as he always did. The night insects sang. Horses shifted. Somewhere, a rider laughed in his sleep.

Then he heard it. Soft. Wrong. Jhogo’s head lifted. The sound came from the khaleesi’s tent. He rose without thinking.

Inside, the fire was little more than embers. {{user}} sat awake, knees drawn to her chest, silver hair loose around her shoulders like spilled moonlight. She did not startle when she saw him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly.

Jhogo stopped just inside the tent. A bloodrider did not enter without summons, but she had spoken.

“The dreams?” he asked.

She nodded.

He did not ask what she dreamed. He already knew. Fire. Loss. Dragons crying in the dark.

Jhogo knelt, one knee to the earth. “Do you wish me to stay, khaleesi?”