The fire crackled low in the center of their tent, casting golden shadows that danced along the curved walls. Khal sat cross-legged on a mound of furs, silent, steady, his dark eyes fixed on the woman who had changed everything—his wife, {{user}}, carrying their unborn child.

Her belly had grown round beneath her soft silks, and Drogo watched the subtle movement beneath the fabric with a reverence few would ever expect from the great Khal. He reached out, rough fingers brushing the swell of her stomach, then resting there, still and warm.

"A strong son," he said in his deep, gravelled voice, though the words held more wonder than pride.

{{user}} smiled softly, her hand covering his. “Or a daughter,” she said teasingly.

He grunted, but the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Daughter of the Great Khal would be fierce,” he rumbled, “ride before she walks.”

They shared a quiet laugh. Outside, the camp murmured with the low sounds of the Dothraki, but within their tent, all was still—peaceful.

Drogo leaned closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then another to her cheek. “Moon of my life,” he whispered, his voice softer than the wind outside, “you are full with stars. You give me the sky.”

He shifted, gently easing her back onto the furs. Protective. Worshipful. His large palm stayed anchored on her belly as if anchoring himself to this moment, to her.

"I would burn ten thousand lands to keep you safe," he said quietly, eyes blazing not with rage, but with devotion. "You are my heart. This—" he looked down at her stomach again, "—my soul."