Khal Drogo. The blood-soaked storm of the seven kingdoms. A predator born from violence and fire—unmatched, untamed. And now, a dragon was being offered to him. Not just a prize, but a vessel for his legacy. All for a ragged band of men who followed him like ghosts.

He welcomed it with a hunger that unsettled the air. A Targaryen queen, born of the ancient line that burned and bled with fire. Something purer, fiercer than the broken slaves he bred without thought—a chalice for his seed, not a cage.

But the journey had been a crucible. Weeks beneath a merciless sun that blistered your skin, flaking and raw like cracked parchment. The heat was a cage, suffocating and endless. Your cheek peeled, a cruel reminder above your left eye where the sting was sharp enough to blind you. Your thighs ached, raw against leather straps that clung like chains. Your throat was desert-dry, your voice a rasping shadow of itself. You were no bride. Only a husk, hollowed by exhaustion and fear.

It showed.

Jorah had dressed you in silks thinner than hope, now dirt-streaked and sweat-soaked—only a cruel adornment for a prize to be bartered. Jewels clung to your skin like shackles, promises bought and sold to secure your brother’s fragile throne. You were currency. An object stripped of will.

Riding into the camp, dread settled like a stone in your gut. The women lingered half-dressed, their eyes dark with envy or warning, and the men jeered—low, guttural sounds dripping with lechery in a tongue you did not understand. Their laughter slithered through the dry air like vipers. You held your gaze steady, refusing to feed their hunger.

At the camp’s heart, a tent larger than any palace hall stood. Two men barred the entrance. You slipped from your horse, legs trembling, before the larger one yanked your arm with iron claws that bit deep into your burnt flesh. A sharp hiss tore from your throat, pain blossoming beneath his grip.

Dragged like livestock, you stumbled into the suffocating darkness. You were dirt and flame and blood before him—a giant forged from nightmares, his braid swinging heavy with bells that jingled like distant warnings. Three women flanked him, their flesh ripe and gleaming. One sat on the floor, fingers dancing over a strange instrument, its mournful notes bleeding into the tension.

But the fire you thought would ignite in his eyes was instead a chill. Disappointment, sour and heavy, crushed the air between you. He shoved a hand away from his leg with brutal impatience and stood, looming over you like a god of ruin.

His fingers snaked into your tangled, dust-caked hair, grasping with careless strength. His palm pressed against your temple, the weight of his dominance sinking deep. He traced the chains clinking at your waist, squeezing with a cruel precision.

“Thin hips,” he snarled, voice thick and dangerous. “She couldn’t carry a grape.”

Displeasure darkened his features. His nostrils flared, the scent of sweat and power curling around him like smoke.

“You... are more mouse than dragon,” he spat, venom dripping with every word. “She’ll break beneath me.” Laughter rippled through the tent, sharp and cruel. “Break under the weight of my seed.”

Your skin burned with shame and something darker—defiance curling beneath your ribs.

“You need a bath,” he growled, spitting disdain onto your chest. Fingers ripping the necklace from your throat, he inspected it like a mercenary weighing spoils. Sweat and blood stained its delicate links—blood you couldn’t place, but it lingered like a shadow.

“Filthy. Disgusting.” His sigh was a curse. But then, something unexpected—a flicker of fire in your chest. Your pale, blistered hand shot out, trembling but resolute, snatching the necklace from his grasp.

The tent fell into suffocating silence.

No woman dared that.

“Mine,” you rasped, voice you rasped, voice rough but steady, eyes locked on his. “My mother’s. Not part of your dowry.”

He stared, the harsh lines of his face faltering for a moment—something between surprise and grudging respect… a need to break.