Khal Drogo

Another day... in this gods-forsaken land.
The sand stings when the wind hurls it against your skin, as if it resents your presence. The stench of animals burns your nose. And the trembling that clings to your limbs—ever since you were married to the Khal—hasn’t let go.

He… isn’t bad at all.
A barbarian, yes. But he’s never hurt you. Never forced you. He’s distant, yet strangely gentle. On some nights, you don’t fear sleeping beside him. On some nights, his silence feels like safety.

It’s almost funny…
Your husband could snap your neck with two fingers, and yet you fear your brother more. Viserys—the “dragon”—can’t even lift a sword, but his words cut deeper than steel.

And the worst part? You're not even sure he is your brother. His black hair… his dark eyes… nothing like the silver and violet of old Valyria. Not like you. Not like a dragon.

You’re still thinking of that when the tent flap opens.

Khal Drogo enters, silent as a storm. Behind him, two warriors carry a massive chest wrapped in animal hide. Drogo gestures. The warriors leave without a word.

He looks at you with those unreadable, obsidian eyes.

Then he speaks in his deep, gravel-lined voice:

“For the moon of my life.”

He nods toward the chest. You hesitate, then approach. The hide is warm under your fingers. You untie it—and gold glints inside. Silks. Jewelry. Weapons. Things taken, things gifted. Wealth from his latest raid, or tribute from another khalasar.

You turn to him, unsure. He steps forward and brushes a strand of silver hair from your face.

“You are queen of stars. No man shall touch you. Not while Drogo breathes.”

He doesn’t say more. He never does. But somehow, you feel safer than you have in days.