Blood of the Dragon
Khal Drogo sat with his bloodriders enjoying a horn of fermented mare's milk as the sun rode into the sea. Cohollo made a crude jest of a passing woman and Drogo shared in their laughter. The night deepened, the stars appearing like holes in a tent. A cool breeze teased the grass of the Sea, bringing him snatches of children's laughter and voices raised in argument. At the center of the khalasar sat his own tent, along with his bloodriders and the tent of Jorah the Andal, a respected warrior and friend of the khaleesi. The khaleesi's brother, Khal Rhaggat, slept in a tent near the rim of the camp with the slaves. With any fortunate wind, Drogo thought, a rival kahl would attack and rid them of such annoyance.
Out of the tail of his eye, he saw Irri, Jaqiri and Doreah slip from his tent. His blood, already warm from the drink, began to boil. His kahleesi awaited him. He drained the horn and rose. Qotho whose tongue was always loose when drink flowed, called after him, "Ride the dragon girl well, blood of my blood!"
"I never lose a race," Drogo growled, misliking the hot feeling in his chest. It felt like anger, but not of himself, but for her.
Tossing the horn aside, he shrugged his braid over one shoulder and ducked beneath the lintel of his tent. A fire throbbed like a heart in the pit in the center, washing the walls in the colors of the sun. Furs and carpets lay strewn across the ground. Without looking at her, he stepped to the basin and splashed water on his face, rinsing the rancid aftertaste from his mouth. The tepid water cooled his fevered skin, sluicing down the swells and clefts of muscle. The touch of her gaze, however, seemed to burn him, blazing trails of fire as they moved over him. His hands moved swiftly, unbuckling the golden medallions from around waist, unlacing his vest and pants. Soon he was naked, his cock jutting out stiff and ready.
Drogo turned to find his khaleesi curled in a ball on their bed. Huddled and small, cowering. Anger thundered through him. The people across the water held strange ways. Horses were not ashamed to join, why would men be any different? What more did she want of him? He mounted her only in the privacy of their tent, he did not stray from their bed, he even anointed himself with oil bought from pleasure houses in the Free Cities before entering her. He did so now, a few hard strokes stiffening him even further. His hunger for the tight haven of her body gnawed at his loins.
No, it was not her shyness that angered him.
It was her eyes.
Those strange eyes the color of the shards of purple stone the magisters in the Free Cities gifted him. Amethysts they were called. Drogo had long thought her a maegi with magic in her blood. Those eyes saw all. They saw the truth of his need. Exotic beauties he had in droves, pleasure slaves, maids and princesses. Yet Dany Ares of the Dragon Tent was the one he wed.
Drogo sat beside her, those eyes following him, wide and guileless in a face more delicate than any he'd ever seen. She wore the apron she'd worn to their wedding, finer than sandsilk the same pale color of her eyes. He could see the sweet full lines of her through it. Drogo moved behind her, reaching for her hips, quivering in eagerness for that first sweet plunge.
"No!" Dany Ares said, pushing away his hands. The anger sharpened. He would not have her tears, her choked gasps of pain. Not this night! He grabbed again, rucking up the hem.
"No!" she said, louder and firmer. Her hand moved, fingers curved in a claw, as if to rake his cheek. Drogo caught her wrist and held.
"Tonight I would look upon your face," she stuttered in clumsy Dothraki.
Drogo stilled, suddenly uncertain. To have those eyes piercing him as he pierced her body, face twisted in pain . . . His khaleesi's hand shook off his limp grip and touched his cheek. Those delicate fingers stroking his skin made the fire burn and crackle in him. Soft palms curved on his shoulders with gentle pressure. She moved and he sank back, the furs tickling his skin.
Dany Ares straddled his hips, a soft cry leaving her lips as she took him inside her. Her amethyst eyes were locked with his and Drogo slid his hands over the curves of her rocking hips, the ripe swell of her breasts through the soft cloth. Drogo's eyes narrowed to catlike slits as the pleasure burned and built. Tight inner muscle clasped him in feverish pulses, her breathing raw and ragged.
Her silver hair tickled his chest and belly as she surged up and down, up and down. Her fingernails kneaded his ridged belly like kitten's claws. The wave crested over her in a long, delicious shudder. The root of his manhood was bathed in her juice, dripping like a ripe peach. Drogo surged up, sharing the gasps of her breath as he moved inside her. The ride was hot and slick and smooth, like the glide of oil, like the blade of his arakh slaked in blood.
His khaleesi, his mate, his Dany Ares. Her brother, Khal Rhaggat, fool though he was, said the blood of a dragon ran in their veins. This gave them the silver hair and purple eyes they shared. Who but the blood of the dragon would ride a khal to her pleasure like a horse tamer rides a stallion? They shared breath and gaze and pleasure as they rocked together into completion.
Drogo tugged at her apron, seeking the pale flesh beneath, so smooth and white. Dany Ares writhed against him as she shed it, and his male flesh hardened within her. Warm breath smelling of cinnamon fluttered over his face as she groaned. Dany Ares clutched his shoulders, breasts brushing his chest. Drogo caught her cries with his lips, an island of peace among pounding muscle.
"Dany Ares," he whispered as he found his pleasure.
Her eyes saw in dawning discovery.
But his eyes saw too.
"Drogo, my sun and stars," she said.
A/N: My take on the night Dany decided to take control in the bedroom. I wondered what he was thinking. Tell me what you think!