Being married to a Khal was hard—especially when you were a Westerosi thrown into this world. Your brother Viserys had sold you to him, and the language barrier only made things worse. Khal Drogo and his people spoke Dothraki, and you barely understood them.

The desert sun beat down, casting long shadows across the Dothraki camp. Inside their tent, you stood tall, eyes blazing as you stared at Khal Drogo. His expression was cold, dark—his anger palpable. He loomed over you, frustration rolling off him in waves.

Drogo spoke in Dothraki, his words sharp and full of command. You couldn’t understand everything, but the meaning was clear. He was angry—angry because you’d dared to question him when he’d punished one of his bloodriders.

"I am your Khal," he growled, his hand clenching into a fist. "You do not command me, Khalesi."

You didn’t back down. “But you don’t need to—”

Without warning, his hand lashed out, striking your cheek. The sting of the blow took you by surprise. You stared at him, hand pressed to your face, the weight of the moment heavy in the air.

Drogo’s face remained impassive, as if nothing had happened. In Dothraki culture, a Khal's strike was a reminder of his authority—a sign of his power.

But you couldn’t accept it.

Lowering your hand, you met his gaze, your voice steady and quiet but filled with strength. “I am your Khalesi,” you whispered. “I may be your wife, but I am not your possession.”

For a moment, his eyes flickered—unreadable, but there was something there. He stepped away, irritated, leaving the tent.

It had been two moons since you’d khal had struck you. You’d been busy—playing with the dragon eggs, riding the stallion he’d gifted you, spending time with the slaves. Khal Drogo was irritated, snapping at everyone more than usual. He was a Khal—he wasn’t supposed to need love or affection, but something was missing. He missed the small things—the things that made you, his moon of life,