A Word for Love
Daenerys studied the vaulted ceiling of the khal's tent, patterned squares of alternating sandsilk and horse leather. Now, as dawn began to seep through the tent's walls and the soft morning winds brought the scent of sweet grass and baked earth from the Dothraki Sea, Daenerys knew peace. It didn't matter that she was the last of a mighty line, that three hundred years of history rested on her shoulders. She was whole, and at peace. Rhaego moved within her, a lazy stirring of greeting. Her son's father too, shifted toward her in the paradoxical male state of sleep and arousal. Daenerys made a soft sound in her throat, rolling over to face him. Rough, warm hands grazed over her shoulders, down her back, then grasped her naked buttocks.
"Rise to greet the morning, my sun and stars," she whispered in Dothraki, kissing the generous fullness of his lower lip, hidden in the plush forest of his beard. Brown eyes opened to meet her own violet, gentleness and humor warm there. It was true what Doreah told her. Outside the tent, he was the terrible Khal Drogo, whose braid had never been cut. But within these cloth walls, he was utterly hers. His hips rolled toward her, bringing the evidence of his arousal to her attention.
"I have risen to greet you, moon of my life." his deep bass voice vibrated against her chest.
Daenerys's lips curved in a sultry smile. Her body tingled and softened, preparing for him. Her fingers gently grazed over his strong features, the broad, flat planes of forehead, cheekbone and jaw, the sculpted ridges of brow, nose and mouth and the full softness of his beard and flowing black hair. Hungry to touch him, her fingers continued their restless exploration of his back and chest, heavy with muscle and peppered with scars. She draped a leg over his hip in invitation.
Drogo nudged the blunt tip of himself to her entrance in a gentle pulsing movement that made her gasp. She was not the only student to the arts of love. Drogo had proven to be an apt student, softening the Dothraki's usual violence to patient gentleness. Together they had spent many pleasurable hours lost in the secrets of each other. Daenerys sought his mouth as he entered her, tasting the faint tang of his favorite sweet red wine and her own musk and salt taste. The changes pregnancy wrought on her body only whetted his appetite for her. Rhaego, the stallion who would mount the world, their hope and future, mingled blood and immortality, cradled between them as Drogo moved inside her. Glowing points of pleasure spread and built, she broke the seal of his mouth to cry out. His hardness reached the mouth of her womb with each gliding stroke.
"Dany Ares," he whispered, in the strange Dothraki lilt of her name.
Daenerys rolled astride and rode him to completion, pleasure battering her like the hooves of horses. She lay sprawled atop him, her silver blond hair cloaking them both. Rigid and still inside her, he watched her with the starving dark eyes of a hungry shadowcat. A heartbeat later and she was beneath him, watching the golden light of dawn gild the sweat dewed on his skin. Her bronze warrior, burnished by the sun. Her husband set a hard pace of deep, pounding thrusts looking much like a stallion himself, veins bulging, nostril flared, the heave of sweat soaked muscle.
Daenerys felt the tide build again and she arched with him as they surged together into the throbbing sun of pleasure. She loved the feeling of power when he found his release, helpless in his need for her. She loved his hot seed filling her womb and trickling down her thighs. The heavy musk of sex hung in the air, mingling with the smells of the grasslands and the cloying incense her maids burned. Drogo pulled free from her and gathered her in an embrace. The sun had fully risen, the day was beginning. Daenerys wanted to cling to this moment, relishing this fleeting moment of peace.
"I love you," she said in the Common Tongue of her birth. There were no words for it in Dothraki, nor would he understand them. He grunted in question. She shook her head, combing his hair from his brow.
"You are my sun and stars," she said. He smiled, his teeth startlingly white against his black beard and copper skin.
"And you, the moon of my life."
She savored his last lingering kiss before he rose and began to dress. She stretched languorously as the cool wind ran its hands over her, drying the sweat. At last, she rose and laid out her usual riding habit, a leather vest, and loose sandsilk pants slung low over her pregnant belly. Occasionally, she would dart a glance at Drogo as he dressed. She loved to watch the play of muscle and tendon under his velvet skin as he moved, and the swift, graceful quality of his movements, suited both to the swing of a horse's gait and the deadly spin and thrust of the arakh. It was a game of sorts between them, of hunter and prey, who could catch the other sneaking an admiring glance.
Daenerys stretched again, knowing that the arch of her back showed her breasts and the ripe bulge of her belly to their best advantage. A toss of her head brought a cascade of silver blond hair over her shoulder. She felt the warm prickle of Drogo's gaze and swiveled to catch his eye. It was the Dothraki custom for the khal to darken the eye sockets with kohl, to make them more fearsome to their enemies. Drogo's brown eyes blazed from their kohl, moving hungrily along her form. Mine, his eyes said. Yours, hers answered. Halfway through lacing his leather pants, she saw his manhood swell. Daenerys grinned and turned to dress. She had won today.
They broke their fast on dates, mangoes and oranges with horns of wine. Melancholy trickled through her. The moment of peace she felt on waking was so fleeting, the oblivion she found in Drogo's embrace even more so. She was Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen—the very last of her house. The land across the Narrow Sea called her, called her to the Iron Throne her ancestors had forged with dragonfire using the swords of their slain enemies. For Rhaego, she thought, the Iron Throne is his birthright. With Drogo's khalasar at his back, there was no one who could stand in the way of the stallion who mounts the world. If only he would agree . . .
Drogo sat cross-legged on the woven mats covering the ground at the foot of the bed and spread his hair over his shoulder. One of Daenerys's favorite morning rituals was braiding his hair. It was so thick and black, glossy like a stallion's tail with flashes of blue among the sable strands. Several quiet moments passed as she worked, listening to the stirrings of the camp outside. Tents were being dismantled and packed, horses saddled, and pack animals loaded. Drogo's bloodriders waited outside with his red and Daenerys's silver.
"There is something I am wanting for our son, khal," she said in careful Dothraki. Drogo's head cocked slightly, gold roundels anchored in his beard.
"What is it, khaleesi?"
"Across the sea is an . . . an iron chair that belongs to Rhaego."
"The stallion who mounts the world has no need of iron chairs."
"The world is his people. There are many dirts across the sea. The dirt where I am from."
"Not dirt. Land," he corrected with a faint smile, "the world ends at the salt water. No horse can ride on the poison water."
"There are wooden horses that can carry him across the water and-"
"Let's speak no more of wooden horses or iron chairs." Daenerys mouth firmed, as her fingers wove his braid.
"It's not a chair. It's a . . ." she gave up and said the Common word, "throne."
"Throne," Drogo repeated, enjoying the taste of the new word. As he taught her Dothraki, so she had been teaching him the Common Tongue. He said it would be useful if the men of the Free Cities tried to cheat him. Daenerys finished braiding, tying the small silver bells to the tail. Another Dothraki custom. The warriors wore bells in their braids so their enemies could hear them coming and tremble.
"A place for a king to sit." She leaned close so her breath warmed his ear and tickled his shoulder with the tail of his braid.
"Or a queen?" she grinned. Drogo chuckled.
He turned, bracing his hands on her knees. The scar that slashed through his eyebrow caught the light and shone silver. Khal Drogo was not a man to shy away from a fight he thought was his. It was her task to convince him that the Iron Throne was worth taking. Gold and men and prestige would not sway him. His khalasar was forty thousand strong, with at least as many slaves and the plunder of a thousand cities. Illyrio said that most lords were lucky to command half that number. Drogo's fierce mien was tender, his supple mouth turned up in a gentle smile.
"A king has no need for a chair to sit on. Only a horse." His kiss was brief but thorough, and Daenerys was left to watch him stride from the tent, the silver bells attached to his braid tinkling faintly with each step.
It was only later, as she saw him bristling with fury, swearing promises by everything he held sacred to do what no other khal had done before him that she realized maybe there were words in Dothraki for love.
A/N: I have fallen in love with Game of Thrones, and Drogo/Dany in particular. Love the show, love the book, and had to get this plot bunny out before it drove me crazy! :)
Tell me what you think!