Another request (=

You come reluctantly to meet her, because do not fear war but the ocean is strange to you, and Westeros as far as the stars. An army for a woman.

A fool would accept and so, Khal Drogo or not, you must be a fool.

Perhaps it is her innocence that draws you to her; she is young but not too young, older than some of the women in your khalasar who have already begun to service men. If she were born Dothraki, she would be no different.

But if she were born Dothraki, she would not look as she does, pale and soft with long hair that shines like the centre of the sun, white and blinding. You cannot help but look at her, touch her hair; she is foreign, fragile.

You feel her tears against the calluses on your hands and you fuck her harder.

Every time you enter her, you can't believe it could feel any better; her body writhing as it is impaled by yours, her smooth white skin a complete opposite to your darkness, your war-torn hands and chest.

The first time she comes to you willingly, faces you as she pushes down on your cock and does not cry, you prove yourself wrong.

No – she proves you wrong, your tiny fragile delicate with iron in her bones and fire in her veins.

You know that she is the dragon her brother (that disgusting, scheming rat whose neck you would break in an instant if you did not know she still loves him) can never be, when she coughs, almost gags, and yet forces the rest of the heart into her tiny mouth.

Blood drips from her mouth, down her body. Her lips are stained – and not just her lips, but the pale skin of her face. Her eyes are wild, like those of an animal, burning fierce and crazed, and she could not speak a word now if she needed to –

She is beautiful.

And you promise her everything; her Iron Throne, her Seven Kingdoms, for she cannot deserve any less. You promise and you know that you will not stop till you hand the world to her and your son.

It's not a serious wound.

You cannot understand why she is concerned, why she calls the witch-woman to help you.

You are a warrior.

You are Khal Drogo.

And you are dying, the woman whispers to you.

No.

The Dark Stallion takes you quietly, its rider a not-man with an empty skull and soft, sonorous words that hum with kindness and rest (you are so weary, so tired, and your body means nothing because you cannot feel itand you are too busy watching her tears and hearing her screams to care-)

And just as your spirit is about to surrender, as all do, to the Great Stallion, a sense of wrongness sweeps you by and pulls you, as if by a metal rope, back-

But nothing connects, you are in your human flesh and you love her but this is too much.

End it, you order the witch-woman whore who killed your son (for you felt his spirit leave instead, quiet and confused and so young) for you to return like this.

She does not seem to hear the words you try to force from your unresponsive mouth, but smiles as though she hears you somewhere else, in the depths of her mind.

"And now you understand, Khal Drogo," the witch whispers in your ear.

End it, you shout to Ser Jorah, the knight of Westeros. End it and keep her safe (but do not touch her no man can touch her she is mine).

He frowns slightly, but then shrugs his shoulders in dismissal and you know that no one can hear you.

But you try once more, because you must.

My love, you whisper as she weeps. End it.

For half a day you think that she cannot hear you, that she does not understand.

But then you feel her mouth around your cock, you feel her try and you would give anything to show her but you can't.

She is still crying as she pushes the pillow into your face and you love her more than ever.