...This looked far longer on paper, I swear. Long or short, this is a delightful cocktail (I hope) of fluff, sweetness and sex from Daenerys and Drogo. The wedding night, from a different point of view. Enjoy!

She was every bit as beautiful as he had been told, maybe more so. Strange, yes, but beautiful, with her silvery hair and moon-pale skin. Small, very small, her body an odd combination of coltish limbs and lithe woman's curves, all wrapped in flowing light-purple fabric that matched her eyes. Khal Drogo had never seen such eyes, at least not on anything human. They fascinated him, like her language, like her shy manner. She was like nothing he had ever seen before, and she was his.

He could not see her eyes now. She stood with her back to him, hair and dress rippling in the cool wind. The colours of the sky were beginning to shift, from the day's blue to sunset's palette of delicate oranges, purples and yellows, the stars beginning to show as the light dimmed. Good. They would need to witness this.

He lightly touched a lock of her hair, unbraided, un-oiled, seemingly untouched, yet lovely. He had never touched anything half so soft. His large hand wandered from her hair to her shoulder, left bare by the cut of the dress. She felt as rigid as stone to the touch, and she was trembling lightly, as though she were cold. Her skin felt warm to him, though, and the air still held some of the day's heat. Frowning slightly, he moved so that they might look upon one another's faces, for a time, at least. It was then that he saw the tears welling in her eyes, the wetness that shone on her cheeks, and understood.
She was scared. This woman, his wife, was afraid.
Of him?

As gently as he could, he brushed the tears from her face with his fingertips. Don't weep. Tonight we shall become as one beneath the stars, and you will be khaleesi alongside me. Of course there was no way he could say that to her; she would not understand him.

"No," he said instead, trying to convey all that needed to be said with that one word. His voice was low, but still she flinched.
And then she spoke. Her voice was deeper than he'd expected from one so small, her words fast-flowing and unintelligible. When he looked at her, she remained terrified, but expectant, as though she were waiting for something. Had she asked him a question?

He shook his head, and repeated the only word he had, carefully slipping the pins from her dress and removing it. She wore nothing beneath, and quickly moved her hands to cover her breasts, shaking and sobbing now more than ever. When he took hold of her wrist to move her hand away, she resisted, pulling against him. He would have persisted, but she fought hard, and he did not want to hurt her.
She is still so afraid.
Drogo reached out and gently cupped his new wife's face, his fingertips in her hairline, the heel of his hand at her chin. Her eyes widened, but this time she did not try to pull away. Good. He explored every inch of her face, the edges of cheekbone and jawline, the softness beneath her chin. He brushed the pad of his thumb over her quivering lips, resting there for a moment as if to still them. She had stopped crying. He ran a fingertip down the length of her nose, bridge to tip, and this brought the hint of a smile to her face. Encouraged, he shifted his attention down, past neck and shoulders, lingering a moment at her collarbones and the hollow of her throat. So soft, and so warm; she seemed to glow with warmth as though lit from within.

She stiffened once more as he made to touch the curve of a pale breast, but he guided her shielding palms to her sides, murmuring soothing words in his own tongue until she relaxed and submitted to the movement. Even then, he did not touch her where he truly wanted to. Not just yet. He took her by the shoulders and turned her so she faced away again. He could see her sharp shoulderblades, the suggestions of the bones in her spine. She's a little thing, so little. He rubbed her shoulders and back until she relaxed in his hands, relishing the feel of each muscle flexing beneath silken skin.

When she turned again, it was of her own free will. Her eyes were calm and steady, her face dry, her mouth still. This time she bared herself, hesitant but willing. At his first gentle touch, she shivered, but Khal Drogo knew it was not from fear this time. When his thumb and forefinger closed around a deep pink nipple, she gave a soft gasping cry, and that sound alone was enough to drive him near mad with desire. But he continued to merely touch her, until her cheeks were flushed and she was moaning quietly with every breath, all terror forgotten now.

When he touched her down between the thighs he found heat, wetness, soft, curly hair. She arched into the touch, pressing herself hard into his hand. Her eyes, that intriguing shade of purple, were alight, alive.

"No?" He queried. Her responding smile was radiant, displaying pearly teeth.

"Yes," she replied quietly. He knew so little of her language, yet he knew that word. He turned her again, slowly, and pulled her naked body close, feeling the soft curve of her backside flush against his legs. He carefully eased her down into the soft grass, kneeling, feeling the blades brush against his bare legs. Clearly they were doing the same to his wife's unprotected front, for she gave a breathless giggle, squirming where she lay beneath him. Drogo wrapped strong hands around her upper arms as he entered her, achingly slow at first. She was unbroken, which became clear when she cried out in undisguised pain at his entry. He persisted, murmuring for her to be calm, to be still. He knew that she could not understand his words, but she made an effort to keep still, as if she could sense what he wanted of her.

With each tentative, restrained stroke his arousal grew, in spite of her pained gasps. She held firm and submissive for him, and just when he was thinking he could no longer hold himself back, something inside of her gave, she screamed, in pain, pleasure, or both, tensing hard in his arms, whole body arching. She was warm inside, warmer than he would have believed, almost hot. His eyes closed as he rode her, as fiercely as he dared, lest she should break beneath him. Her moans and cries never ceased, pleasure and pain and fear rising from her throat as one, in unison with his strong, steady thrusts. His pace quickened as his pleasure mounted, shudders ripping through his body. As if in response, she tightened around him, and that was agony. It was only moments later that his pleasure peaked, and he held her tightly to him with an inarticulate cry as the both fell into the grass, spent.

It was full dark by then, the moon and stars gazing benevolently down upon them both. He lay looking up at the sky, and she lay atop him, sweating and trembling and sobbing all over again, but she stroked his face and pressed her warm, trembling lips to his in a shy kiss. He let her do so for a moment, before gently but firmly pushing her away so they could stand. Her legs shook beneath her for a moment, but she did not fall. She is stronger than I thought.

There was a little blood at the juncture of her soft, pale thighs. Virgin blood, her wetness, his seed. He had done this. They had done this. They were one now, as the stars looked down in witness.

-fin

Today I learned: The Dothraki have no word for "virgin". Really. I looked through a whole online dictionary for it. *sigh* The things I do for you people.

I'm still finding my feet in the world of smut, so concrit will likely be needed. Feedback of any kind would also be appreciated, and I'd like to hear prompts and requests too, if you have them, they keep the creative juices flowing.